bruce beds a classic car

Sometimes my musical myopia astounds me. Seeing as I long ago hypnotized myself into thinking I’m an authority of some kind in all things rock (I’m wrong, of course; New York tends to humble the prideful), I’ve become that asshole who utters inanities such as this without batting an eyelash:

“Bruce Springsteen? Ehhh. I mean, I guess his quiet, contemplative stuff deserves attention. Nebraska's 'State Trooper' (1982) is admittedly flawless, as is ‘I’m On Fire.’ A few other tracks warrant repeat listens. Vocally, he did some interesting things on ‘Streets Of Philadelphia,’ what with that chopped, restrained delivery. e.e. cummings probably would have appreciated Bruce’s curious line breaks. Very poetic. His louder cuts, though--all those bombastic, 4/4, arena anthems--bore the hell outta me. ‘Glory Days’ and ‘Born To Run’ receive far too much credit from the listening community, seeing as both are oversimplified rock songs tailored for mass consumption. Spare me the blue-collar, bolt-turning sentiment, Bruce.”

(I’m not this eloquent, of course. In truth, it comes out like this:)

“Bruce? Not a big fan. I like ‘I’m On Fire’ and ‘State Trooper.’ Spare me the rest.”

Satisfied with Me, and Myself, and My Smug Analysis Of Bruce’s Merits And Demerits, I pronounce my verdict with the finality of a--well, a sentencing. And why wouldn’t I? I’m right. Bruce gets the ol’ Side Thumb.

Then, as tends to happen, I encounter a track/album that negates all my original premises; now there's a foot in my mouth, and it don't taste none too good. So it goes. (Note to KP: Glad you picked up on KV. Rock star.)

that track/
was Pink Cadillac

Holy Jamole! Have you people heard this thing? Bruce freakin’ nails it! Rock and roll never sounded so good!

There I was, fine-toothing my music collection so that I might assemble a listenable, digestible playlist for Friday’s DJ set, when I rediscovered this slumbering ox. (I'd previously dismissed it as a Paint By Numbers snoozefest.) What a track! Never even made it onto a proper record, if you can believe it. Instead, the song was shoved off to the B-Side of “Dancing In The Dark,” Bruce’s most successful single off Born In The U.S.A. (1984).

Other day, I found myself in my friend Lucas’ room. We were sharing tunes, as is our custom.

Me: “Lucas, I’m going nuts over Springsteen’s ‘Pink Cadillac.’ The rhythm section is mindblowing.”
Lucas: “Oh man! Great song! Play it now!”

So I did. We bobbed and nodded and smiled and said things like “Damn!” and "Yes!”

Lucas: “Dude, have you ever considered that this song might be all about sex? Think about it…”

So we listened to a few lyrics. Even looked ‘em all up online. I still wasn’t convinced.

Me: “Eh, you may be overreaching here. I get the whole car-as-sex metaphor, but it seems a little forced in this case. I think he was talking about soda fountain, poodle skirt, Make-Out Point America. I mean, ‘Waving to the girls/Spending all my money on a Saturday night?’ That’s pretty ambiguous. A pink Cadillac would fit into that whole scheme. You know, kind of like a Pleasantville vibe, or something. Maybe I’m wrong, but…”

We reached no resolution.

Then I went home, listened up some more, revisited the lyrics. Here they are:

You may think I'm foolish
For the foolish things I do
You may wonder how come I love you
When you get on my nerves like you do
Well baby you know you bug me
There ain't no secret 'bout that
Well come on over here and hug me
Baby I'll spill the facts
Well honey it ain't your money
'Cause baby I got plenty of that
I love you for your pink Cadillac
Crushed velvet seats
Riding in the back
Oozing down the street
Waving to the girls
Feeling out of sight
Spending all my money
On a Saturday night
Honey I just wonder what you do there in back
Of your pink Cadillac
Pink Cadillac

Well now way back in the Bible
Temptations always come along
There's always somebody tempting
Somebody into doing something they know is wrong
Well they tempt you, man, with silver
And they tempt you, sir, with gold
And they tempt you with the pleasures
That the flesh does surely hold
They say Eve tempted Adam with an apple
But man I ain't going for that
I know it was her pink Cadillac
(^^^^^!)
Crushed velvet seats
Riding in the back
Oozing down the street
Waving to the girls
Feeling out of sight
Spending all my money
On a Saturday night
Honey I just wonder what it feels like in the back
Of your pink Cadillac
Now some folks say it's too big
And uses too much gas
Some folks say it's too old
And that it goes too fast
But my love is bigger than a Honda
It's bigger than a Subaru
Hey man there's only one thing
And one car that will do
Anyway we don't have to drive it
Honey we can park it out in back
And have a party in your pink Cadillac

I was wrong, obviously. Bruce, like Marc Bolan before him, uses the car as a metaphor for sex Sex SEX. (For an equally entertaining automobile-as-woman song, check out T Rex’s “Jeepster.”)

My question:

Is the whole band in on it? In other words, before the E Street Band laid down “Pink Cadillac," did Bruce offer, “Hey, Max (Weinberg, the only E Street Bander I know), I’ve written another song; it's about sex. On the surface, though, it'll be about an old Cadillac. Whaddya think?” Is that how it went down?

The other options, of course, are these:

1) Band recognizes what he’s doing, lyrically speaking, but there’s no discussion about it. They lay down the track, Bruce lays down the vocal, everybody goes home. No questions asked.

2) Band doesn’t pick up on the bald-faced double entendres, just as the three other members of Joy Division didn't pick up on Ian Curtis' blatant cries for help when they cut Closer (1980). (Curtis committed suicide shortly after the final tracks were laid down. Even a cursory inspection of his lyrics suggests a man in crisis.)

3) Mike has been wrong all along; there ARE no double entendres. This song is about a vehicle. (Hiiiiighly doubtful, though, considering the crotchal pyrotechnics Bruce displays in the attached vid (below)).

If you don’t own the studio version of this track, acquire it NOW. Steal it, buy it, borrow it. Raunchy rock at it's finest.

netflix 1, mike 0

I’ve always been a few years behind the culture curve.

Probably won’t surprise any of you that I was the last of my friends to acquire a cell phone. My current phone lacks a plastic protector for the battery, which dislodges when I slam the flip too quickly. (I lost that little plastic piece on the day I walked the length of Manhattan. <--Click the link.) Sometimes the screen goes inexplicably white. No clue how to silence the phone, so I’m forced to settle for vibrate when I’m at church. An iPhone it ain’t.

During my epic roadtrip with Travis Brooks at the tail end of 2005 (Chicago, New York, Baltimore, Miami, Key West, New Orleans, Nashville, Louisville, Muncie), he introduced me to MySpace, YouTube and Wikipedia, three websites which I had never even heard of. Frightening, no? Old people with dust covers on their couches are more internet-savvy than I.

In keeping with the Mike-Is-Woefully-Behind-The-Times theme, I should probably explain my latest venture. Back in the fall, recognizing my own ignoramity in all matters film (my friends are all buffs), I converted to this dude known as “Netflix,” a keen, magical samaritan who teams with the United States Postal Service to deliver movies to my place of residence. Perhaps you’ve heard of him. I immediately set out to defeat Netflix at his own game, scarfing films at blitzkrieg rates in hopes of getting the best bang for my $8.99/month buck. By my calculations, I’d be able to get in 7+ movies per month, assuming I watched them the day they arrived and popped them in a mailbox the following morning.

It all started out so smoothly. In those first weeks, I viewed a number of classics--The Godfather, Psycho, Raging Bull--that I’d never gotten around to renting. Rosemary’s Baby, too. That was a good one. Since this marked my first committed foray into the medium, I consumed these films with an enthusiasm bordering on psychosis. See, I’ve never been a movie guy. Music guy, yes. Literature guy, absolutely. Painting, sure. Film, though, has always been my artistic Achilles Heel. I’ve never even seen The Goonies, which makes some people very angry.

Anyway, I watched a shitload of classic films. This went on for a couple months. Then Cool Hand Luke arrived. This was in January. Cool Hand Luke is still sitting on my shelf. I’m looking at it now. There’s actually a layer of dust on the surface of the envelope.

Netflix, you asshole. You knew my weaknesses. You knew this would happen. Now I’ve got a $40 film on my bookcase, which better be the best goddamn film I’ve ever seen. Probably won’t return it ‘til July. If it weren’t for jerkoffs like me, you wouldn’t be in business. Kiss my hairy keister.

i'm a hustler, baby...

...
Poker played a significant role in my life for nearly three years.

For a brief (1:33) video about the basics of Texas Hold ‘Em poker, click here. I don’t feel like typing it all out.

I first learned the subtleties of the game back in ’03 when Chris Moneymaker (his real name, if you can believe it) won the World Series of Poker and sparked a bit of a boom. For a few days that summer, I watched ESPN with rapturous attention while Moneymaker outlasted 838 opponents to pick up the $2,500,000 payout. (He gained entrance to the WSOP via a $39 satellite tournament in an online card room.)

Poker blew up that year for a few reasons:

1) Moneymaker (pic at left) is an Average Joe. Utterly unqualified for poker stardom, he was working as an accountant when he won the tourney. Casual viewers, sensing that the poker world ain’t as insular as, say, the darts world (a world in which luck doesn’t play a role), quickly adopted an “If Moneymaker can do it, why not me?” mentality and commenced weekly house games with their buddies, Eyes>>>Stomachs.

2) ESPN showed “hole” cards on camera for the first time. “Hole” cards--the two cards you’re dealt in Texas Hold ‘Em before any community cards are revealed--are the cards that determine one’s initial betting strategy. In previous years, ESPN did not advertise the players’ hands, meaning the viewer was allowed little insight into player posturing, betting patterns, etc. “Hole” cards wouldn’t be divulged until after completion of a hand, if at all (you’re forced to show them only if an opponent calls your final bet). In 2003, that all changed. The voyeuristic nature of the pocket cam added immeasurably to the viewing experience and allowed laymen to practice their poker decisionizing in real time.

3) Lon McCarren and Norman Chad, ESPN’s go-to guys for the tourney, are two of the raddest announcers around. Lon’s a bit of a nerd, though his banter is spot-on and never superfluous; Norman is a sexually ambiguous, always-witty snarker who maintains (and demonstrates) sharp knowledge of the game.

4) ESPN provided incisive, comprehensive coverage in ’03. They highlighted crucial hands and omitted quiet, unimportant lulls in chip movement, meaning that poker was--for all intents and purposes--visually interesting to a television audience. That’s a rarity.

Anyway, that was around the time I began to play. Poker appeals to me because I recognize it for what it is: An engaging, cerebral match of wits where intellect wins out over luck. (In the long haul, anyway.) As Matt Damon proclaims in Rounders, there’s a reason the same fellas tend to end up at the WSOP final table, year after year.

Poker is a skill game. The best poker players in the world (Daniel Negreanu immediately comes to mind) can often identify your “hole” cards within two or three rounds of betting. Think about that. There are 1,326 distinct combinations of “hole” cards in a standard, 52-card deck. Everyone at the table is dealt one of those 1,326 hands. Let’s say you’re protecting one of them. After a few rounds of betting, there's a good chance that the highly skilled player has determined--beyond much doubt--that you’re holding one of four (4) hands. He’s essentially eliminated the other 1,322 possibilities, thus putting himself in position to plunder. The mental acuity required to perform such a feat is downright staggering. On the other end of the spectrum, the novice poker player relies solely on “gut” instinct, and rarely (if ever) has any idea what cards his opponents are holding. Astigmatic, he’s usually too concerned with the strength of his own hand to care about the rest of the table.

Strong players base their conclusions on your stratagem, which is probably not as opaque and inpenetrable as you presume. Math, intuition and their knowledge of human behavioral tendencies lead them to your cards. If you bet $50 into a $150 pot, the seasoned veteran picks up on that number and sets to ruminating: “Why did he bet $50, and not $25? Why not $75?” Your $50 bet says something about you. (Or, more specifically, it speaks volumes about the strength of your hand.)

Now that I’ve scared away all six of my followers with this confusing poker analysis, I’ll talk about myself. No one’s reading, anyway.

Here’s where I’ve played:

1) The LaGrange Country Club (IL) caddyshack.

2) The loft/attic in my buddy’s garage. (LaGrange.) He’d host bi-weekly poker parties. These usually entailed crumpled twenties, makeshift poker chips, domestic beer and violent cursing.

3) Lloyd’s Bar (Bandon, OR). Lloyd’s hosts a weekly Hold ‘Em tournament for caddies and locals. $25 to enter, plus the option to re-buy if you run out of chips in the first two hours of play. In the last four weeks of my first Bandon summer, I placed fourth, sixth, third, first. (There are 45-65 contestants, depending on the week.) That final payout was a smooth $1200 in cash. I’m awesome.

4) The Arcade Tavern (Bandon, OR). I wagered thousands of dollars at this place. They had a table set up in the back. We’d play $2/$4 limit games until 2 in the morning, five days a week.

5) Las Vegas. I bought in for $250 at the Bellagio (see pic) and sat down at a $4/$8 table. That $250 didn’t last long.

6) Online. At one point, I banned myself for one year from PokerRoom.com because I couldn’t stop playing. I’d swing $200-$500 a day, which just ain’t healthy for a person earning less than $50K a year. After a while, I had the good sense to nip it in the bud before grinding myself into financial straits.

7) Online (reprise). When I was unemployed and very nearly bankrupt about two months ago, I realized that I was gonna be $75 short on rent. Desperate, I transferred $25 from my checking to PokerStars.net and set out to earn the missing dollars. Four hours later I cashed out, $100 richer. A $125 check arrived in the mail at week's end. Haven’t played since.
...

an exercise in futility

Actual conversation with a woman buying golf clubs for her husband:

Me: “Hi there. Whatcha lookin’ for?”
WBGCFHH: “Oh, hello. Hi. My husband turns 50 on Wednesday. He wants to get into golf. I’m here to buy him some stuff to get started...you know, the basics. Poles and a bag--he’ll need a bag, right?--and some balls. Kind of to surprise him.”
Me: “A gift?”
WBGCFHH: “Yeah.”
Me: “Great. Has he ever played before?”
WBGCFHH: “I don’t think so. No--no, he hasn’t.”
Me: “Ok. As far as clubs go, you’re gonna want to start him off with something forgiving and easy to hit. I've got just the thing. Follow me.”
WBGCFHH (fingering a set of irons on the wall, then another set): “I’ve noticed that the metal part on these poles is smaller than the metal part on these poles. Why?”
Me: “Well, these CLUBS are smaller and sleeker because they’re for better players. People new to the game usually opt for fatter clubs. The part that actually strikes the ball is known as the clubface. The larger the clubface, the larger the “sweet spot.” This means that poorer players aren’t penalized very harshly for their errant shots. These puppies are easier to hit than the ones that look like tableware. Small clubfaces are for people who know what they’re doing.”
WBGCFHH: “Why are there so many?”
Me: “So many what?”
WBGCFHH: “So many poles. Can’t you unscrew the metal part at the bottom and switch it out?”
Me: “Switch it out?”
WBGCFHH: “Are these not the same? Why are there eight or nine of them, and not just one?”
Me: “Oh. Well, all these clubs are different. They perform different functions. Clubs come in varying degrees. By degrees, I mean the angle at which a club will project the ball into the air. See? (I demonstrate the difference between a 3-iron and a pitching wedge.) This means that the ball will fly at different heights when hit with different clubs.”
WBGCFHH: “Well, they should just put it all one one metal pole. That way, you’d save metal, and all you’d have to carry would be the big parts at the bottom. Then you could just screw ‘em on.”
Me: “Haha. Yes, they already developed that, actually, but it never caught on.”
WBGCFHH: “I should re-invent it.”
Me: “You should.”
WBGCFHH: “How are they different?”
Me: “Pardon me?”

WBGCFHH: “The poles--clubs--how are they different? This one is longer than this other one, and the heavy part at the end isn’t as--fat and clunky.”
Me: “Oh. Well, they vary by degrees, as I was saying, and by length. That's standard. Clubs with a very low degree--say, 9 degrees--are longer in the shaft and used when you want to hit it low and far. Clubs with a very high degree--this one in my hand is a 49 degree wedge--are shorter in the shaft and used to pop the ball up in the air. It's all science. The longer irons--the ones that propel the ball the furthest--tend to have less bulk at the clubface. That's just the way it is. It's science. I don't mess with science.”
WBGCFHH: “How much is a collection of these clubs? $75? $100?
Me: “No, no. They start at $399. The premier sets on the wall sell for $1299. It’s an expensive game.”
WBGCFHH: “I’ll say!”
Me: “Yeah.”
WBGCFHH (walking to the rack of fairway woods): “And then there’s these. What’s up with these? These don’t look like those.” (She gestures back to the wall of iron sets.)
Me: “No, you’re right. These are woods. Woods are used for hitting the ball a long way.”
WBGCFHH: “Why?”
Me (confused): “Well, sometimes you want to hit it a long way. These clubs have the most meat behind the face--the most muscle--so there’s more of a wallop at impact. Plus, they’re much easier to hit than many of the irons you just saw.”
WBGCFHH: “Do all golfers have the metal ones and these ones?”
Me: “Irons and woods? Yes. I’ve met only one man who carried nothing but irons, and he was a bit eccentric. Plus, he wasn’t a very good player.”
WBGCFHH: “So what do I buy?”
Me: “I wouldn’t buy anything yet. Have your hubby come in. We’ll get him fitted for a set.”
WBGCFHH: “Gosh, you really know what you’re doing.”
Me: “Not really, but I’m getting there.”
WBGCFHH: “I’ll bring him in.”
Me: “See you soon.”
...

mike contemplates his navel

[ed. 10/28/09: Tonight, to my stunned dismay, I learned that most of the population does not know what it means to "contemplate one's navel." Selfishly speaking, that's a problem; if my readers don't recognize the phrase, the following entry A) makes no sense and B) alienates you from my blog in a damn hurry, since you're sure to miss the humor and tag me a narcissistic asshole.

So, without further ado, here's a link that might offer up a few explanations:

>>CLICK HERE<<]

My navel is a circular, concave indentation in my abdominal region, centered equidistantly between my xyphoid process and the ventral tip of my pubis. It's also known as a belly button.

Today, my navel serves me no purpose; once, though, it allowed me to siphon nutrients and whatnot from my mother when I occupied her uterus, or so they tell me. I'm not entirely sure where these nutrients traveled once they passed thru the umbilical and into my navel, nor do I understand biological science in any capacity, but I DO know that without a navel, I'd be one of two things: 1) Not alive, on account of my not getting any nutrients, or 2) an alien. (Aliens are probably navel-less.) (Czech model Karolina Kurkova's dubious, wholly inconspicuous stomach marking may or may not be a navel. See pic here. Karolina is an exception to the rule...or, she is an alien.)

In the first Ace Ventura film, Jim Carrey allowed a pet bird to pick seeds from his navel. Not sure why I told you that, other than the fact that a navel was involved.

It seems as if the size and depth of one's navel depends, proportionally, on one's body weight...at least, that's been my experience. When I ran 50+ miles a week and sported a well-defined abdominal region, my navel was scarcely a navel, since there was nowhere for it to burrow. (At the time, I had 6-8% body fat.) Now that I'm five years and twenty pounds removed from college, my navel has excavated further and further into my belly (or, more accurately, my belly has risen to greet me), to the point where now I might be able to pour a small thimbleful of liquid into my navel without spillage.

Once, when I was young, I remember finding some small fuzzy stuff in my navel, which I now know to be lint. The lint was a dull brown color, and--as you'd expect--quite small. Strange. How'd it get in there?
...