Big 10: Death Songs

Everything dies. Innocence, dreams, friends and colleagues, family members, ourselves. There are suicides, abortions, murders. Upbeat death songs, teenage death songs, religious death songs, accidental death songs and reflective death songs. These are the cream of the crop, though. The top ten songs about death.

10. The Show Must Go On – Queen – http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4ADh8Fs3YdU
Queen put out their last album in October of 1991. Freddie Mercury was dead less than a month later. Because of the crushing deterioration of AIDS, Brian May doubted Freddie could even sing this song in the studio. Legend says Mercury nailed it in one take after a shot of vodka. The lyrics are startlingly emotive and vulnerable, especially for a Queen song, making it clear that it was always intended to be Freddie’s swan song. Although never directly articulated, the imminence of death is clear in every bold, meaningful chorus that Freddie belts out, desperate to get the final word in before the curtain falls. Not surprisingly, this one was voted the most popular funeral song in all of Europe not too long ago.

9. Candle in the Wind – Elton John - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Uvux60fqNU8
Although originally penned for Marilyn Monroe, this song didn’t really get huge until Elton tweaked it a bit and sang it at Princess Diana’s funeral. Lyrically, this one stands out because of its imagery. The lost, exploited girl with no anchor, adrift in a sea of celebrity, resonates with the image of Princess Di so clearly that Elton’s 1997 version of the song became the biggest-selling single of all-time. It’s really just a eulogy in a song—a tribute that nearly rivals its subject in beauty and grace. A pretty song, and like the best funerals, you get a sense of closure when it’s over.

8. Arc of Time – Bright Eyes - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yj3B0dWrcTE
The one thing that puts this song in stark contrast to the first two, is how surprisingly upbeat it is. Hand claps punctuate the already meaningful drumline, and by the final verse Conor Oberst sounds positively joyous. First time I’ve ever heard someone sing “You will die, die, die, die” and not questioned their hormone levels. And while the melody is catchy, like many Bright Eyes tunes the lyrics are the main draw. Conor Oberst’s message is clear: death’s presence is out of our hands, but our reaction to it is not. The choice to embrace it or run from it is our own. At first glance, this song could even be considered Christian, but really in my opinion the song is about finding your own salvation and clinging to it before death comes. Which, as Oberst kindly reiterates, is swift indeed.

7. Ocean Breathes Salty – Modest Mouse – http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZE-ML-BAAfY
The fifteen minutes I spent listening to this song, watching the video, and reading the lyrics got me approximately nowhere. Talking with Logan and Levi though, I’m getting a much more fleshed-out opinion. I believe it’s about two lovers, one very Christian and morally-centered, and the other a much more cynical Atheist. The Christian has died, and the other one is filled with bitterness at the loss. He’s torn between standing for his beliefs and hoping to see his lover in the afterlife. The guitar is haunting; a solid wall of somberness. Wah-wahs weave between Isaac Brock’s frustrated lyrics, and the listener is left pondering the same questions about the afterlife that plague the singer.

6. Keep Me in Your Heart – Warren Zevon – http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y7NQjLZvw44
Months away from dying of inoperable cancer, Zevon put out his final album The Wind to say goodbye. Everybody from Billy Bob Thornton to Tom Petty and Bruce Springsteen helped him with it, and it was the biggest success of his career. This track is a look inside to a man who’s made his peace with his own death. It’s noble and dignified and just generally awesome. The music is Zevon’s standard folk rock, and it’s the lyrics that propel it so high. He reminds us that it’s the little things we end up missing about a person after their gone, and the importance to love in the moment. Plus it made an amazing appearance in Boston Legal when Michael J. Fox’s character (who’s dying of lung cancer, coincidentally) is about to leave the show.

5. Eleanor Rigby – The Beatles – http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k9Itt02QOO0
The Beatles’ classic about loneliness and the consequences of never being with your true love rolls in at number five. It’s a sweeping orchestral epic, if a 2:11 song can ever be considered epic, and there’s over 60 cover versions out there to prove just how relatable it is. The lyrics are desolate and for the most part unforgiving: Both Eleanor Rigby and Father McKenzie need somebody to love—but don’t meet up until Father McKenzie is conducting Eleanor’s funeral. And there’s the string arrangement, which is brilliant and probably responsible for the song’s insane popularity. Just listening to the music without lyrics is cool enough—it already sounds like a lonely funeral dirge—but add Paul’s lyrics and you have one of the greatest songs of all-time. It’s down so low because at heart it’s a loneliness song, but it surprised me just how often death and loneliness go hand in hand.

4. All Things Must Pass – George Harrison - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vm_N3bjqlr4
George says this song reflects how the ‘essence of the soul’ is the only thing that resists change. “None of life’s strings can last,” he sings. Released almost immediately after The Beatles broke up, Harrison sings to the thousands of fans across the world who’re crushed to learn their favorite band had split. The lyrics are somehow depressing and uplifting at the same time, again harkening back to George’s stated quest “to achieve duality of all things.” Crazy what doing drugs in India will make you think. However, bursts of brass and Harrison’s ever-present guitar make the song anything but crazy. Instead it’s one steady, beautiful march. I don’t think it was until Paul McCartney sang this at George’s funeral though, that it gained immortality.

3. Dead! – My Chemical Romance – http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8HfbmVHP4sY
One of the rules on these lists is one song per artist. If there’s ever been a time to break that rule it was looking at My Chemical Romance. Welcome To The Black Parade is a modern rock opera; an all-around strong piece of music. And it’s a concept album about death! Kinda! Alas, I picked just one track. In my opinion, the most death-centric (ok, that’s kind of a cop-out. I mean, look at the title) jam on the album. From the tasty guitar solo in the opening to the epic la-la’s at the end, this song dominates every second it’s playing. It isn’t bashful about the message that frankly, no one cares if you die. Being confronted with that fact might be just depressing enough to make you kill yourself to end it early. “If life ain’t just a joke, then why are we laughing?”

2. Tears in Heaven – Eric Clapton - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AscPOozwYA8&feature=related
Conor Clapton was in pre-school when he fell 53 stories to his death in New York in 1991. Overcome with grief and regret—mostly due to himself being a terrible father—Eric Clapton withdrew into his own world. He emerged the next year with this moving ballad worth three Grammies and a place as one of the best death songs in history. Classic Clapton fretwork compliments unguarded (and rightfully legendary) lyrics: “Would you know my name / If I saw you in heaven?” Listening to the song is one thing, but listening to it and imagining the pain Clapton had to feel knowing his heroin and alcohol addictions obliterated his shots at being a decent dad is tough to fathom. It adds so much weight to an already heavy jam.

and number one…

1. Don’t Fear the Reaper – Blue Oyster Cult - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZdXfkkyI1nQ
I don’t even really feel like I have to justify this song because the lyrics already do such an amazing job: “The door was open and the wind appeared / The candles blew and then disappeared / The curtains flew and then He appeared.” That’s some spooky stuff. Not to mention it’s graced by one of the most recognizable guitar riffs in rock history. Seriously, this song has it all: death incarnate, haunting background vocals, and a face-melting guitar solo. I guess, come to think of it, there IS one thing wrong with this song.  Needs more cowbell.

Cheers.

Always protect the oxen.

Butterflies aren’t something I get anymore. For me, they’re reserved to memories of coming back in from recess and propping up the library’s pillows next to the cute girl before Mrs. Cole resumes Where The Red Fern Grows. Or praying that the Oregon Trail team I named after the members of N*Sync didn’t die of dysentery before I could get Lauren Nichols’ attention.

Justin killed a bear that weighed 3400 pounds, but was only able to carry 13 pounds.

It took awhile before I could differentiate between the good butterflies and the ones that suddenly plunge my stomach thirty flights after imagining skin scraping pavement. I guess that’s your mind’s early warning mechanism. Being with girls is like grinding your face against asphalt. In fact, I guess part of me assumed I’d outgrown them with my custom-made Hulk pajamas. When I felt them again, the good kind, I couldn’t even place the sensation at first. It was like finding an old toy you use to play with when you were little. It looks and feels the same, but you’re not quite sure what to do with it—the nostalgia plays tricks on you.

I thought new-found cynicism killed the butterflies. Turns out, it was the departure of surprise. They’re rooted in fear stemming from the unexpected; the old “that which we do not know.” The fear isn’t bad though. Not the kind I feel, at least. It’s true my sense of anticipation is demolished—and that legitimately scares me—but it is fun to just feel them again. They remind me of when my only concern was whether I would be first pick or second pick… when snacks were plenty and math was simple. Back then, everything was easier. Now it’s just fun to kick back and coast. That seems to be your forte.

I pretty much live for music. One of my biggest regrets in life is not being a musician. Music’s always been a driving force in me growing up. I learned my geography from Buffett and my history from Joel. To me, though it’s depressing to think that we’ll never hear some of our favorite bands. Our would-be favorite songs sometimes never reach our ears. And while the internet boasts godsends like Pandora radio and iTunes Genius feature to do miracle work to narrow that gap, they can only do so much. Out of my three favorite bands right now, The Strokes, Ben Folds Five, and Hot Hot Heat, I haven’t known of any of them for longer than a year.

That’s why it’s so exciting for me to discover a new band or song I love. In this giant game of reverse minesweeper, to me, that’s one more hit. I’m hoping I can get some help from you guys. Can you do me a favor and post your favorite obscure song or band? I promise I’ll check ‘em out.

Cheers.

Borington-Bear, crucified cats, and porcelain presents.

**originally posted on April 13th on my myspace page**

8:03 PM (Mountain Standard Time): Nolan and I decide to have some Mexican food because Easter’s a special day. We discuss how we need to make a fun night out of this, because fun nights are running out quicker than Medicare. *zing!* Jazlyn keeps us entertained with her texts though, and talk turns serious when Nolan and I discuss how we’re basically accountability buddies. I’m going to need him on speed dial on those rainy, Oregon mornings when the snooze button is more tempting than Brooklyn Decker covered in melted Swedish fish.

8:13 PM: It isn’t much of a party. While Nolan and I can always manufacture fun, it’s easier with more people on the assembly line. Lance is the missing link. We pick him up at the gym… Kinda. He has to walk a little bit because I’m a quasi-tard and can’t figure out how to get into the gym’s parking lot.

8:22 PM: How many well-behaved slightly-nerdy kids does it take to come up with a fun idea? More than three apparently.

8:27 PM: A joke turns into a mission, as we decide to randomly follow cars for as long as we can. Once they reach their destination, we do the slow drive-by before speeding off as fast as Sascha (my decade old purple Camry) will allow.
8:35 PM: This is turning out better than expected. You can almost see the light bulb and the gnawing panic during that moment of realization that they’re being followed. We debate the legality of what we’re doing.

8:41 PM: A promising group of girls in a sporty red car (we also discuss how easily our lingo becomes associated with the Dahmers and Bundy’s of the world) pull into their driveway and drop someone off. They literally stay there for ten or fifteen minutes, causing us to give up.

8:50 PM: We meet out match. A dirty Suburu Hatchback with a bike mounted to the top and wildlife license plates gives us the runaround for quite a while. The car’s plain appearance encourages Lance to name him Mr. Boring: “‘with my boring license plates that aren’t even normal. I don’t even speak English I’m so boring’,” he drawls.

8:52 PM: Mr. Borington (as we’ve taken to calling him) tries to give us the slip in a dead end. Instead, we park in front of the entrance/exit and wait for his next move. The Mexican Standoff lasts almost a full minute, and Borington (he’s lost honorific privileges at this point) pretends to pull into a driveway. We pretend to buy it, and park nearby out of sight.

8:55 PM: Now Borington is tailing us, as we leave just seconds before him. No doubt he’s taking my license plates and calling me in. Well played, Borington.

9:00 PM: We shake him and wind up behind him, thanks to my expert maneuvering. Borington Bear (as I’ve taken to calling him) is in our sights once more. Eager to put a face on my white whale, I pass him on Central. He’s a normal-looking college-aged cyclist who looks a little scared. He won’t make eye contact. I try to slow down and get behind him, but he won’t let me. So I go slower. So does he. By this time we’re going five to ten miles below the speed limit on Central and I’m getting nervous. Borington Bear will not let me get behind him again. So I slip in front of him and go even slower, daring him to pass me. Traffic streams by on the left, as the three of us duel with Borington Bear. Finally, we reach an intersection and I decide to see if he’ll follow me. How much does Peter Borington-Bear (his final name) love the thrill of the chase? He doesn’t take the bait though, and as we turn and loop around to follow him again, we see him pull into Blockbuster. Followed by a cop. Touché, PBB. You win this round. We take a side street and slink into the night.

9:33 PM: After decided the group needs more estrogen, we meet up with MacKenzie and Kylie. MacKenzie’s idea of a good meeting place is Zimmerman Park. Nolan and I agree it’s a better meeting place for a Satanic worship group. MacKy finally agree to take my car, though we’re not totally sure if it’s been tabbed by the cops.

9:57 PM: Rehashing the Borington story for the girls is the main highlight. Everyone freaks out when I drive past the Police Department, and I search for justification that we’re not going to get arrested by pointing to a gang of gangbangers bangin’ down the street. I point out that they’re not getting arrested, so what’re we worrying about? Several of them stop and turn, one points at me, and I realized my loud voice has carried over to them. Part of me thinks this was my plan all along, and the other part hits the gas pedal and gets out of Dodge before they gat us.

10:28 PM: Somewhere in the conversation, the Crucified Cat crops up. Neither Kenzie nor Kylie has seen it, but Kylie thinks it’s a hoax. I almost driving up a one-way the fun way, and we spot the ill-lit stoop. Kylie covers up her bawk-bawking by saying she thinks there’s an alarm that goes off. Kenzie has more courage and walks up the steps. If you’ve ever seen the Crucified Cat, you can imagine her reaction. It was nearly as bad as Dustin and mine. She sprints around the corner to the car and for some reason singles ME out to be pissed at. Upon reflection, I wonder if the cat is risen, what with yesterday being Easter and all…

11:10 PM: MacKy heads back to Kylie’s house and we drop off Nolan after I fail to convince him to skip class tomorrow and hang out with us longer. Some accountability buddy I am. It’s down to Lance and me.

11:15 PM: Leaving Nolan’s street we notice a toilet someone has set out for the garbage man the next morning. “Wouldn’t it be a great idea…” Yes, it would. I try to lift the toilet, and the water inside spills all over my feet. I freak OUT. “ABORT MISSION! ABORT MISSION!” I yell, and we peel away as the house’s garage door opens.

11:20 PM: Thoughts keep returning to that can, as if it was placed there for the singular purpose of us stealing it. We call Anders, and surprisingly he’s in, so we swing by and pick him up. The only question that remains is where to put it.

11:33 PM: A target is proving to be hard to pick. Both Lance and Anders want to put it on a church, but I don’t wanna make a religious statement. Ideally, it would be somewhere public. Somewhere funny. Then it hits us before we know it. Naples and Ahoy.

11:59 PM: The house on Naples and Ahoy has gotten more than its share of underwear in its mailbox. It’s a rite of passage among our friends. Well tonight they’re going to get a little more.

12:23 AM: Conquering the toilet proves simple. Lance drains the water, and Anders bags it up. The porcelain present is loaded.

12:37 AM: Just plunking the toilet on their driveway isn’t flashy enough. We have to TAUNT them. The three of us hit up Wal-Mart for sidewalk chalk and liquid courage On the way to the target, we plan. I’ll write the note; Lance and Anders will jettison the package.

12:49 AM:

1:10 AM: I crawl into bed. What a fantastic night.

Had to get that out while it was still simmering in my mind.

One Battle of the Songs, a Big Ten, and Dustin up soon!

Cheers.

The tide that binds.

Mmmm, it’s just past midnight and a blank text document lies before me. Time to channel my inner-Carrie Bradshaw.

It’s easy to point out flaws in others. Biting words fall like icicles from a roof. And yet, putting ourselves under the microscope proves much more daunting. Often times the familiar haze of self-regard blinds us to our own faults, and man, it’s awkward once the smoke clears and you see yourself in a new light. There is some reason, inexplicable to me, for my inability to maintain a consistent friendship. Doesn’t matter who, and it doesn’t matter how close I am to them. We’ll always ebb and flow. Some people who don’t know me take this personally. Sorry. It’s not you, it’s me. Someone once told me that the key to friendships was not being with people long enough to get sick of them. Then again, that person lied to me almost every time they opened their mouth. My point is, please don’t be offended by an unanswered text or ‘hello’. People change. They’re always changing, for better or worse. The real challenge to friendship is knowing when to get off the ride and rest awhile.

This wishy-washiness may also explain why I can’t seem to start a relationship. The asshole in me attributes this to getting bored with particular girls over time, but the honest part of me (funny how the two almost never seem to agree) thinks that maybe I’m just too scared. Scared of convincing myself she’s right for me, and then getting bored. I’m not being a martyr by distancing myself from them, but I’m certainly not doing anyone any favors. Do I deep down honestly think I would get bored of them? No, that’s called a defense mechanism. Ask Mr. Darwin. The problem is I like girls too much to not care, and not caring’s what stops me in the end.

I came to an epiphany the other night. Well, not so much an epiphany but a distillation/culmination of the values I believe in. I believe in right and wrong. The gray area exists, but only to make things more dramatic. When faced with a choice, you can do the right thing, or the wrong thing. Now getting into doing the right thing for the wrong reasons, etc. isn’t the crux of the issue. You make a choice. Eventually it will be clear to you—hopefully before the consequences set in, but often we’re not as fortunate—whether that choice was the right one or not. The difference, in my mind, between the hero and the villain in any work is pretty simple. Ask Joseph Campbell. The hero isn’t perfect. He makes mistakes through his own weakness. He grows. When faced with the same choice again, the hero reverses course. Becomes noble. Repents. The villain is the coward who makes the same destructive mistake over and over again because he’s just not strong enough to overcome.

Cheers.

A peek into the glorious, rainy future.

**originally posted on March 8th**

Ah, spring break. When reckless collegiate sinners flock to sun-drenched beaches to guzzle beer and enjoy a respite from guzzling beer elsewhere. And kids my age generally either A) spend the break in social networking-induced coma or B) spend it off in some overhyped touristy area reeking of middle-agedness. Surely someone as mod as myself could duck these usual pitfalls, right?

Right you are, Ken. I spent my break driving to Eugene, Oregon to scope out the place where, in all probability, I will spend the next four years of my life.

With Nolan the Goose to my Maverick, we packed up my stepdad’s Toyota Tundra and ate up the 1000 miles to U of O for three days. The trip held all the hijinks I could want: pretending we were locked out of the truck until Nolan freaked out, giving Nolan the wrong directions to see what would happen if we missed our turn off, and making Nolan drive for a 30 minutes around campus to look for a parking spot close enough to not cause any trouble for my bum knee. Surprisingly, Nolan got pissed at me on multiple occassions. Some guys just don’t have a sense of humor, I guess. He seemed to think he was playing the Gus to my Shawn, which I guess I sort of reinforced by encouraging a nervous boyfriend to make a move on his girlfriend–in song. Across the empty middle of the Eugene mall, I sang loudly, “You gotta MAN UP / And make a move / You know she wants it / *falsetto* kiss her!” They got up and left.

As for the campus itself, I love it. It’s green and beautiful and fresh. It was like sneaking upstairs on Christmas Eve and seeing your new bike. You’re tingling with excitement until the reality sets in: you’re not going to get to ride that monster for at least eight more hours. That’s how I feel. I feel like I just want to mesh into that lifestyle of hip, coffee-drinking, witty, irreverent urbanites. But I can’t, I’m not ready.

I’m not ready to cut that goofy padawan ponytail just yet. How do I know? Three big annoying reasons. My little sisters. I missed them. They helped me realized that I have a lot of ground to cover, a lot of loose ends to tie-up, before I leave. I mean, I missed my whole family–including my mom’s “suggestions” (which are really just directives disguised as questions: Don’t you think you should brush off your car? Shouldn’t you pick up your room?) but I wasn’t expecting to miss my sisters as much as I did. Don’t get me wrong, I love them immeasurably, but the crying and the screaming and the fighting? It’s not something you miss. I dunno how my Dad does it.

Cheers.

Pop, lock, and drop. And not the good kind.

**originally posted February 24th, 2009**

It was tied, 9-9. Shane had been doing his usual hit-from-everywhere-on-the-court thing. He brought the ball up and pulled up for a long three. I went to contest the shot, jumping as high as I could and putting my hand in front of his face. I thought I landed a little awkwardly. I heard a pop, then a crunch. Not knowing what happened, I went to get up and collapsed again.

“Call a doctor!” I screamed, pretty oblivious the fact that it wasn’t the 1800’s and doctors didn’t come to you anymore. Shane and someone else helped me off the court. I laid back on the grass, writhing, and Tyler unpopped the sides of my basketball pants.

Everyone let out a collective “Ohhhhh….” I rolled my torso back and forth, pretty much saying every swear word I’d ever heard. All I thought about was Thor at the game, doing the same thing under the basket. I did not want to tear my ACL and miss my senior tennis season.

“Call my mom,” I said. “259-2947.”

“I need…pain!” I said, completely losing sense. The boys laughed, and that kinda put me at ease.

“Dude, don’t look at your knee, k?” was Shane’s advice. I agreed that I wouldn’t, but that if it wasn’t too much trouble is the boys could take pictures of it with their cell phones so I could see what it looked like later on.
“I don’t wanna pass out,” I gasped. “I really don’t wanna pass out.” Nolan drove the car up to the court, and he and Lance loaded me into the back. It was then I first caught a glimpse of my knee and knew I should’ve listened to Shane. I freaked out.

The thing on the left is my kneecap.

“IS THAT MY KNEECAP?!?” I demanded at the huge bump protruding from the left side of my knee. “Oh my god…oh my god….” We met my mom driving off the park, and I told them not to let her see my knee—which of course was pretty unlikely. She told us what hospital to drive to, and I spent the next ten longest minutes of my life huddled in the back seat of Nolan’s car alternately swearing and grunting. I think Nolan hit every pothole he could find. Of course I’m kidding, but tell that to the bone jutting out of my knee.

We arrived at the emergency room, and Lance and Nolan tagteamed to help me into the building. The first thing I heard the secretary say was “that boy is in pain.” Really, lady? You’re a secretary at an emergency room, and you comment that a person is in pain?! Hate to know what she’d say if I had a gunshot wound: “Lynette, I think that boy is uncomfortable….”

They squeezed me into a tiny wheelchair, promising not to bend my knee. I heard another lady whisper, “I dunno how to do this!” I started laughing at how I’d rather have been in Kathy Bates’ hands circa Misery. Then she tried to put an icepack on my messed up knee. I shrugged her off and asked her for water, which she said they couldn’t give me in case I needed surgery. Then they bent my knee (never believe promises from ER) and started wheeling me towards the back. On the way, I distinctly remember asking every nurse how she was doing, if her day was going better. I wasn’t being a smartass, that’s just when I realized that my knee was in their hands and I should be as nice to them as possible.

They wheeled me into a room, and spent eternity preparing the bed for me. I remember lying on the bed, with my mom and dad both with me, as the nurses came in and prepped me.

“You’re going to feel a big poke,” a nurse said, as she jabbed me with her needle to hook me up to an IV. I thought to myself ‘that’s what he said’ and then realized that I wasn’t even on any medication yet: how could I be so out of it? Over the next 5 or 10 minutes, they gave me “15” morphine (I dunno how much they gave me, 15 CCs?), and also something to counteract the fact that the morphine was going to make me want to throw up. I thought about Civil War soldiers who were loaded up with morphine before being hacked to bits by a saw, and the lady in To Kill a Mockingbird who had a morphine addiction. The morphine made me feel like I do after a game of basketball during the summer. It made me really weak, and I felt flushed all over. I couldn’t help but think it didn’t do a damn thing for my knee though. It still felt like someone had slammed an ice pick into my knee and snapped the handle off. I remember asking the nurse if there were any hot 18-year-old girls in the same wing as me. Yeah, I was pretty doped up.

The doctor came in, and explained what had to be done: my leg was to be straightened out and the kneecap popped back in. That sounded easy enough. The nurse told me to count back from 60. 60…the doctor looked at me and nodded…59…he eased my leg out of my hands and into his…58…he straightened out my leg, and I wavered counting out my next number…57…I waited for the pop…56…still waiting…55…he let my leg down and looked at me.

“All done,” he smiled. I laughed out loud. It still hurt like nothing I’d ever felt before, but I could deal with it. After a brief scare where I thought it had re-dislocated, I was in my knee immobilizer and on crutches. I thanked Nolan and Lance again and again, and climbed in my mom’s car for home. Last night was not fun. I still can’t move my leg and the Vicodin doesn’t make much of a dent in the pain, but I could be worse. I’ve got my laptop, cell phone, TV remote, and a great collection of movies. So gimme a text or stop by and visit me. I’m not going anywhere.

Cheers.

Battle of the Songs IX

Full blog with links to music videos can be found in its original posting, here:  http://blogs.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=blog.ListAllCustom&friendId=28803745&swapped=true

1. Breakfast in America (Supertramp) vs. Breakfast at Tiffany’s (Deep Blue Something) – The most important meal of the day never tasted so bad. To be fair (or at least be transparent in my unfairness) I do not like either of these songs. Breakfast in America spawned in 1979, just before the world went all new wave and electro-pop. So tell me, just what exactly is a clarinet doing here? I learned playing clarinet wasn’t cool in the 8th grade, and I thought that was bad. Musically the song slogs through several abstract verses while launching into the pivotal “Ba ba da dum” chorus. Lyrical brilliance. On the other spectrum…*sigh* A perfect microcosm of 90’s alternative rock. Please just watch the video. Breakfast in America limps past Deep Blue Tools due to its merciful 2 and a half minute length. And I feel bad for Gymclass Heroes’ bastardization.

2. Lost (Coldplay) vs. You Found Me (The Fray) – “Lost” starts out heavy, baby, with strong thumping drums and powerful lyrics: “Just because I’m losing / Doesn’t mean I’m lost”. An organ contrasts very nicely with the percussion, and the addition of the guitar near the end of the chorus renders this song extremely effective melodically. Overall, the album Viva La Vida features an above-average effort by Chris Martin on vocals, but this song is one of the mediocre examples; it seems a bit like he phones this one in. “You Found Me” comes from a band that has at one point or another fallen into the pit of bands Matt frowns upon because all of their songs sound the same. Well, they slap me in the face with this one, and with their new album in general. Branching outside the tried-and-true conflicted piano jams, they evolve into a bonafide musical force around this songs 1:00 minute mark, incorporating more crunch than ever before. The lyrics are gloomy, the message disheartening, but there’s a greater feeling of meaning in here than in any of the Fray’s previous notables. Bonus points for being the driving force behind LOST’s Season Five teasers. Imitation is the most sincere form of flattery, and in that department Coldplay wins. It’s clear that The Fray are trying to brand themselves as the poor man’s Coldplay. In this instance, the edge goes to the new guys. “Lost” puts up a good fight, but succumbs to You Found Me over the long run.

3. Just Like Heaven (The Cure) vs. Gives You Hell (The All-American Rejects) – Another showdown between the decades, as Robert Smith’s hosstacular 80’s band enters the ring against Tyson Ritter’s powerpunkpop All-American Rejects. Even though “Heaven” came out 22 years ago, it almost seems more relevant today. The lyrics, distinctly about loving, and loving, and loving, and losing, hide behind a predominantly happy guitar riff and chord progression. There lie the similarities to “Hell”, which ticks off the prerequisite 3:30 seconds most radio-ready hits (and nearly all of AAR’s songs) seem to last. “Gives You Hell”, while very well-polished and glossy, easily carries the same force that “Heaven” does. The distinction lies in the intent. “Hell” force feeds you crunching riffs with no other meaning. Just Like Heaven has a power that comes almost like osmosis.

4. Heartbreaker (Pat Benatar) vs. Heartbreaker (Led Zeppelin) – Two rock anthems enter, one rock anthem leaves. It’s important to note that these aren’t the same song. Pat’s tune chronicles Pat being Pat, in a way that is exactly the same in all of her hits: a scorching lyric giving voice to tough feminism standing tall in front of simple, frill-free guitar grooves. Zep’s song features one of the most popular guitar riffs in classic rock history, both for its melody and for the relative ease it takes beginner guitarists to learn. The song, at about two minutes, is one of Zep’s shorter songs, and for that reason is usually coupled with “Livin’ Lovin’ Maid” on the radio. Robert Plant’s lyrics reflect a pathetic woefulness not usually seen: “One thing I do have on my mind, if you can clarify please do / It’s the way you call me by another guy’s name when I try to make love to you.” The start-stop rhythm Led Zeppelin employs works for a while, but kind of wears itself out. A quintessential Jimmy Page solo doesn’t make up for an otherwise middle-of-the-road jam, and Pat wins this one for the girls. Heartbreaker wins either way, but it’s Pat’s straightforward song that doesn’t try for the homerun, just the solid base hit, that takes it.

5. That’s Not My Name (The Ting Tings) vs. You Know My Name (Chris Cornell) – The opening notes of the upstart Ting Tings’ boppin’ jam let you know that two thing: First, you need to know who this band is, because they’re not going anywhere. And second, damn, what an unorthodoxly upbeat and awesome song! The British duo has more than a few things going for them. Lead singer/guitarist Katie White has totally got me crushing. She hits everything on my checklist: Sexy accent, and… well…. That’s about my checklist. Nevertheless, the song hits a wall about three minutes into its five minute span. It almost makes you just want to scream, “Well, what the hell is your name, then?!” A man can only take so much repetitive indie folkrock. On the other hand one can never get enough Daniel Craig, who definitely top 5’s my list of mancrushes. Because Chris Cornell’s song was the title song of Casino Royale, it carries a distinct inherent advantage. Easily the best Bond song since “Live and Let Die”, “Name” barrels through gritty, Ian Fleming-esque verses, to soar on an epic chorus. The brass section put punctuation marks on the song as a whole, and unfortunately The Ting Tings never had a fair shot at things. You Know My Name gets 00 status.

Cheers.

Keeping The Edge sharp in my mind.

I’d be lying if I said I had a rough childhood. Minus my parents’ painless divorce, (well, that’s unfair to say. Painless for ME, because I was too young to remember anything more than chopped up memories, like a drunken powerpoint presentation) I grew up with an idyllic family life in sheltered and safe Montana surburbia. I was equipped with everything a child could want to be happy: a basketball hoop, a trampoline, and a Nintendo 64. And yet, I spent most of my time out of the house at a nearby park where I could act out all my young fantasies.

I don’t really know why I first connected with Edgerton. It was old; I was young. It was BIG, with long sloping hills lines with trees that became toothpicks during autumn. I was decidedly small, even for my age, already cognizant that I would have to win fights with my mouth, not my muscle. Its playground equipment was aged, splintered and dying. I was the energetic epitome of youthful exuberance. The park somehow became my home-away-from-home for me. It became my castle, my helicopter, my Millenium Falcon, my HQ, my sanctuary, my bunker. I longed for any time I could sprint the 150 yards from my house to the adventure it promised; a place where I did all my best 9-year-old philosophizing. Propped on the rusting monkey bars, I contemplated life’s major issues: Why didn’t girls gross me out anymore? Why was long division so confusing? Could James Bond beat Han Solo? What if no guns were allowed, Han had Chewie, and Bond could use gadgets?

As the Brady Bunch sang, though, autumn turns to winter, and then winter turns to spring. Things changed. Life in my comfort zone held no immunity. The Edge always seemed to be the backdrop for the seminal moments in my ever-changing adolescence.

My first real I’m-Gonna-Marry-Her crush was Kortney Kemmis. She lived across the park from me, and I exercised every possible opportunity I had to see her. She had a smile you had to watch through tinted glass and a giggle that made my heart do the uneven bars. I remember doing push-ups in the park–by myself–hoping she would notice me. Inevitably though, I realized she just wasn’t into fitness-minded 6th graders, and I had to move on. It also probably didn’t help that I almost drowned at her birthday party. But that’s a story for another blog. The park, though, was there to soften the blow of rejection and remind me that I could survive without girls. It would just be a lot more boring.

Edgerton’s grass also softened the blows in Little Guy Football, a sport which (to me) roughly amounted to oversized Lineman like Blake Loran pounding the stuffing out of me daily, to the point that the “WALKS” on my jersey was reduced to “WA K”. Some particularly vicious teammates took my new last name as a request, and never missed an opportunity to make me taste the lush grass.

The park was home to not just my lows, by my highs as well. Under the amber glow of the park’s lone, flickering streetlight, I planted my first awkward warm kiss on a girl. Electrified by the perfection of the moment, I told her I loved her and ran home, my heart thumping in my ears. My wingman Andrew wasn’t two steps behind me. And on a balmy spring day, as the wind blew cold and the sun shone warm, I got the news that I was a big brother standing on the basketball court.

I’m leaving Edgerton behind, and I’m certainly going to miss it. After all, you can never cut something that big out of your life without leaing a hole to heal. I’ll miss the late-night-hide-and-seeks that inevitably ended with the cops being called on us. I’ll miss carving my name in the benches every summer with Ben, making sure we left as indelible an impact on the park as it left on us. I’ll miss counting down the seconds on my cell phone to 3:15 AM, that magical moment when the sprinklers click on. But most of all, I’ll miss just being a teenager. The carefree days of growing up are almost over, and the time to be a man is inexorably approaching. I know I’ll be ready, but that doesn’t mean I won’t be scared. At the very least, I’m equipped with the memories, experience, and understanding the park gave me. I know a little bit more about life thanks to those sturdy swings and football fields. But I guess I’ll never know the answer to the great Bond/Solo debate….

Cheers.

(Almost) alliterative illiteracy.

**originally posted on February 2nd**

One thing I never inherited from my dad was his voracious reading appetite. My dad probably goes through two or three books a week, while I go through that many maybe in a month or two. And that’s during the school year. It’s not that I don’t like reading, because I do. In fact, when I’m engrossed in a good book, I can sit on my ass for hours on end until I’ve peeled back every last page. I love moments where I read a sentence, or the way the author phrased something, and lean back in my seat and think, “Wow. This guy knows what he’s doing.” But I don’t experience that often enough, and no, it’s not my fault. I’m passing the buck. I blame my environment for my literary laziness.

The digital age has reduced my attention span to just seconds longer than the time it takes Jared Lorenzento make me laugh. If the letters on the page of the book I’m reading aren’t singing, or dancing, or telling me witty one-liners, there’s a good chance I’m paying zero attention to it. Why would I immerse myself in a world that I play no part in? I’m never going to be able to save Gatsby, no matter how many times I read him. But RazzAdi and furstify and Paxt0n? Well, I CAN save them from zombies with the flick of my right joystick and a punch of the right trigger. Those three don’t dress as nice as Gat, but they’ll also be there to respawn with me and live another adventure. My point is, the lure of technology has superseded the lure of the book. For some people, reading is a slow, tiring process. By watching Lord of the Rings, you trim your time-expended down to “only” 9 hours. And you don’t have to think about ANYTHING that’s not in front of you. Who cares if the philosophical deeper meaning of a work is sailing (maybe it’s even whistling) above your head? That’s just fluff anyway, right?

I wish it wasn’t this way, because it’s easy to follow this train of thought and see a day where books are ancient relics of a culture more civilized. Imagine a world where Holden Caulfield, Boo Radley, and Arthur Dent are all redundant. Of course, no one will care. They’ll be too busy hooked up to their Holovision IVs, getting pumped full of precious attention-sustaining liquigel.

Exit, stage left. And Binsy.

Back when I was younger and more talented, I was something of an actor. You may have heard of some of my better works. Mystery At Shady Acres, anyone? How about when I was nominated for a Golden Globe for my role as the tortured Benjamin Scrimp in Eagle Cliffs’ A Christmas Carol? No? You haven’t seen that either? Well, then.

This story revolves around the last play I ever acted in. Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.

To be fair, I should never have even auditioned for this play. It was a musical. Any of you who’ve heard my voice can attest to the fact I sound similar to Michael J. Fox in the basketball scene in Teen Wolf, and believe it or not this was also the case when I was 13. Somehow they were short some extra roles though, and I garnered the role of the Magic Mirror. It was a pretty easy part; I spoke in couplets to the queen, telling her how fugly she was compared to Snow White, etc. Memorizing my lines was never tough for me, and because no one on the cast liked me, I was pretty isolated on the wings. No distractions to prevent me from missing my entrances. Also, Belinda the Costume Nazi had shot for the moon with my outfit. A bejeweled wooden frame outlined my boyish face—a face unblemished of facial hair for a good 5 more years. My tights were more looses, as she was unable to find any size that would cling to my chicken legs. My hands held the rectangular fence up, so my head could thrust through the center of the fabric stretching the length of the frame. This “fabric” was actually the strangely patterned, shiny fabric you find on mattresses. That’s right, MATT’s costume consisted of a MATTress cover. I was called many things: Matt the Magic Mattress. The Mattress King. Queerboy. (Some names were more clever than others, thanks MB.) Belinda was also a heavy chain smoker, so each hour spent in my costume was roughly equivalent to secondhand smoking a pack of cigs.

It never occurred to me to wonder what grievous crime I had committed to wind up looking like the offspring of Bobby Brady and a mattress locked in medieval stocks, a cloud of Nicotine constantly swirling around my head.

The first few shows we put on went smoothly, I came out, made an ass out of myself, got some laughs, and walked off the stage. Rinse, repeat. But on the last night, something horrible happened that irrevocably scarred me.

As I came out in the first act, I got the usual look-at-the-slaveboy-in-the-mattress-painting laughter that my appearance allowed when I first walked on stage. So far, so good. The queen gave me my prompt, I delivered my line. As she responded with her usual wicked retort, I suddenly heard a burst of laughter from the front row. I can still hear it. It started out like an explosion, than quickly guffawed it’s way to absurdity—he sounded like a first-rower at a Foxworthy concert. I tried to identify my assailant, but the lights burned my eyes as I looked outwards. My self-conscious preteen mind struggled to comprehend the laughter. Why was this assclown laughing? I’m sure I thought. I didn’t do anything funny. …On purpose. Oh, God. I did something wrong. What did I do wrong? God, why is this guy laughing? Seriously! What the hell! Oh, Christ. I’m going to ruin this entire play. Did she say her line? What was her line? What’s MY line? Shit, why did that guy LAUGH? Who does that? His mother should be taken out behind the auditorium and beaten with a sock full of marbles. Ok, this is bad. I’m pretty sure the play is still going on, and I don’t know what to say. Jesus, come ON! Who laughs like that?! He sounds like a carnie getting his toenails removed!

As the battle raged in my ADDesque mind, I became dimly aware that the Queen was burning a hole in my mattress. She said her line again, but for all I know it could’ve been for the twelfth time. I looked at her and said my line with a burst of relief. Whew. The scene continued and I scampered off stage as soon as I could. My mind kept running back there though. To the unidentified Man Who Laughed Inappropriately.

I’m convinced to this day that that man’s delayed sense of humor is the reason I’m no longer in acting. The fear of screwing up is still too great for me to get over, and a part of me will always remain a little self-conscious no matter how comfortable I get. I auditioned for one more play after Snow White, but I called the director afterwards and withdrew my name. I was out of the game for good.

There’s not much of a moral here, I’m afraid. Just a sad story of a boy who dreamt big but was cut down before his prime. Incidentally, I saw the video of the play some years later (yes, I do actually own a recorded copy of my most public failure! Jealous?) and it wasn’t nearly as bad as I remember. I still look like a ridiculous eight-year-old Mattress Mona Lisa—who completely forgot his line, I might add—but it wasn’t as epic a failure as it was in my head. My voice could shatter windows though. Prepubescence wasn’t kind to me.

On to my Top Friends!

Name: Binsy

*Yoda voice* The manlove is strong for this one.

Dude, Jake. Honestly, I wish I would’ve met you way before I did. ‘Cause every time I hang out with you I have a really fun time, and to be honest, we don’t hang out nearly enough. You’re a pretty cool person in almost every aspect I can think of. I wasn’t kidding when I said I was jealous of you in my earlier blog. On the outside you just seemed so laid back and cool, and when I got to know you I was surprised at how introspective and thoughtful you are. You are also the furthest person from a douche bag that I have ever met in my entire life. Plus, you’re a badass at golf.

How We Met: I’m sure we met through Taylor at some point or another.

Favorite Memory: “Naughty hottie with a body” Hahahaha! Also, your dad was hilarious on New Year’s Eve.

Cheers.