"The Authority Song" by Jimmy Eat World

I've been rather lucky and visited many nooks and cranies our world has to offer. I was surprised in a Las Vegas coffee shop by a vociferous Spainiard. I've felt the singular joy of having my wife mistaken for a local who's lost her umbrella in Oslo. I've been to the top of Mt. Fuji with two Britons and a Canadian in tow. I've toured the Sydney Olympic village with three swingin' chicks: one German, one Hungarian, and the third from Orange County, California. I've even told an anti-American, earthquake-rattled, Japanese railroad worker too busy to tell me when the train from Hiroshima would arrive to go f*ck himself.

Regardless.

No matter where I go, through happenstance conversation, geographical pride, or (evidently) tell-tale snippets of twang, these folks all learn one thing sooner or later. I'm from Indiana.

Indiana. On the banks of the Wabash, far away. Home of Colonel Harland Sanders of Kentucky Fried Chicken, and the intrepid midwestern troubadour, John Mellencamp. I've long felt that if the 19th state should ever desire to change its official song - which despite what you've heard from Jim Nabors isn't "Back Home Again" - it should go with "Authority Song" by Mellencamp. Sure, we'll trade allusions to bucolic upbringings for lines like "You don't need no strength/ you need to grow up, son," but I'm sure folk in the Crossroads of America would gladly put a hand over heart for JCM's lyrics. So, one might imagine my delight to hear Jimmy Eat World throw something called "The Authority Song" onto Bleed American.

* * *

There's a degree of songs in the world that are quite simply fun. When one hears them, they elicit nothing but unbridled - and usually beer-infested - joy. "The Authority Song" is one such number. Much is owed to the ringing Ah-ah-ahhs and Do-I-I-I-uh-I-hi's. Seriously, what is it about the overtly and overly girly voice that makes a sucker of me?

The beer song comes in many varieties. In college you might have heard it pumping via duel pianos. More likely it'll come through the overpriced and underused equipment of a washed-up cover band. No matter the context or conveyance, the beer song is stuck right in the wheelhouse of every red-blooded American. "The Authority Song" is no different. The simplistically loping guitar line underscores a song that instantly begs white men everywhere to move not only their hips but shoulders. It's a beer song through and through. Pretension and obtuse lyrics are far, far away. Hell, it ends with Jim Adkins repeatedly asking, "I don't seem obvious, do I?"

The formula is simple: Guy. Girl. Bar. Done deal. All this and he pronounces it core-ter instead of qwour-ter.

What's not to love...especially if you're drunk?

Die, All Right! by The Hives

Lagom.

It's a funny little word from a funny little land. According to these outdoorsy knitters (6:10), you're unlikely to hear it anywhere but their universal healthcare infused, beautiful people laden Scandinavian kingdom. That's because the philosophy of lagom - roughly the happily accepted idea that all is well when things are good, and not necessarily great - exists only in one language and one place.

Sweden.

I've been there, and can attest that the Swedes are quite happy at present to be happy. They're officially neutral these days (70 wars in one 100 year stretch must have worn them out). The weather isn't as cold or as bad as we perceive. They really do make smashing meatballs (see above). And whatever music they love, they f*ckin' love it. Beyond that, it's all about what maintains the everpresent and everpleasant lagom.

All that makes The Hives such an anomaly.

Don't get me wrong. I'm pretty certain this Swedish quintet is selling the sizzle as made manifest in this all too scrumptious declaration scrolling on MTV-sized video screens, "The Hives are law. You are crime." Add to that the contrived black and white motif and the Mick Jagger infused gesticulations of a frontman that calls himself Howlin' Pelle Almqvist, and we're pretty certain that some of the appeal lies in the presentation.

The majority of Veni Vedi Vicious kept the Hives true to form as the tip of the spear on the revitalization of garage rock. With originals like "The Hives-Declare Guerre Nucleaire," "Statecontrol," and "Main Offender" and a cover of Jerry Butler's "Find Another Girl" (whose original version sounds like The Ventures backing Sammy Davis, Jr.) it's hard to ignore the brazen contrast of modern showmanship yet loyalty to roots stretching back decades.

So, I guess it's in this hell-fire stage presence mixing with molotov cocktails of civility that we get The Hives. They'll pump their fists on stage, but they'll make sure there's a pinky extended.

Don't try to understand it. It's lagom.

Lights Out for Darker Skies by British Sea Power

When your uninsulated, paper walls aren't separating you from your neighbors there's one place to go: Deo Deo.

For about 1000 Yen you can pick up a pair of pleather-bound, over the ears headphones. At least you could when you were a mere expatriated chap forging out an adulthood in Fukuyama.

Oh, what a decade can do to some plastic and wires.

Those same headphones are now withering, still technologically sound but the general appearance is a bit embarrassing. For over a year, they've left tiny bits of black on your ears so your listening doth not disturb the latest episode of Ace of Cakes. Two nights ago you went to strap them on and one aural muff simply fell completely off. It might be time for a new pair...or a new metaphor.

* * *

Practically a decade ago I was awash in new music. College will do that to you. Summerteeth pushed me fully into my post-punk days and the ethereal Reinhold Messner allowed me to accept the unexpected. Frankinatra, a now-defunct pre-blog website, was still piping out the likes of Beulah and the Magnetic Fields on its mix tapes, while frequent trips to a used record - yes the 33 1/3 kind - store on the third floor of Caspa made me regret not owning a turntable while I sifted yet again through the myriad of CD's from the Jayhawks and Velvet Underground.

Music came easily. And went.

* * *

"Lights Out for Darker Skies" is a microcosmic sample of my current musical pursuits. I can hear the influence of multiple decades from the on-again, off-again lead guitar melodies to the post-modern mash-up of hyphenated genres. At times flirting with an OK Computer-esque use of movements but falling reliably back into the verse-chorus-verse realm of the Pixies, it's got a bit for everyone. And just for good measure, BSP throws in the obtuse lyric hither and yon

Welcome for the day or stay forever,
There's things which we all need to navigate
Daisy chains of lights around the city now,
They glow but never quite illuminate,
So dance like sparks from the muzzle

Wishy washy grasps of the present. Homages to the band name. Unsafe electrical practices. Some might begin to agree with those in snarkademia and think this is just an also-ran amalgam of indie rock. But there's something here.

I think I was finally sold at the four-minute mark where I was willing to muddle through something as flirtatiously trite as "We walked under neon skies" to hear the disparate players frenetically coalesce to remind me, "Hey now, now. Oh the future's bright."

Feel the return of those Brit-pop/Manchester/Cure-ish guitar riffs and I've found a song to like for no other reason than it sounds good in my ears.

Hey now now. Oh the future's bright.

* * *

It's a 2007 weekday evening, sometime between 6:30 and 7:00 and Marketplace is on NPR. They've used some bump music that sounds incredibly familiar, but a quick glance at the website and visit to the iStore proves that what's old is new again and what you thought was, was not, but is.

Time to strap on those feeble, old headphones and realize that despite your fading musical relevance, providence is bringing you good music albeit through listener-supported radio and not the hip kid in ENG 409.

Misplaced Modifier

Last week two men, Desmond Turner and James Stewart, entered a house in an impoverished and overrun neighborhood on the east side of Indianapolis and left having murdered seven members of a blended family. This neighborhood is mere minutes from where I grew up, went to school, and delivered newspapers all through college. I drive through this neighborhood at least once a week and have traversed it twice today. The crime itself has been readily categorized as the worst murder case to befall Indianapolis in decades. The horrific details made their way to national news. In fact, I was in Washington, D.C. when the events unfolded and had to watch a hometown tragedy from a detached position.

Through what appears to be police work par excellence, both suspects were apprehended and in custody in 48 hours. The city was able to breath a sigh of relief, but cold comfort really with seven funerals, trials, and numerous questions that may or may not go unanswered are still on the horizon.

On Tuesday June 6, Marion county prosecutor Carl Brizzi held a press conference to announce his decision to definitely seek a death penalty for Turner and leave the option open for Stewart. Brizzi has multiple witnesses, eye- witnesses and even further accomplices to help him build his case against what is turning out to be two men with little or no regard for human life. Details of the investigation were released in a probable cause affidavit that will chill any reader with its precise details while at the same time reassure citizens that Brizzi’s case looks rock solid against the two men. Yet, Brizzi turned a phrase in his press conference that immediately got my ire. He noted that these crimes were, “a cowardly act. An act of terrorism.”

Hold the phone. Terrorism?

Now I can only see two logical reasons as to why Brizzi would have chosen these words to describe what is most certainly a cowardly act of the most heinous degree: a) he’s merely reflecting the liquid semantics of our cherished English language or b) he purposefully misused it for shock value.

In the Reconstruction South, southern sympathizers of the imposed northern forces were branded scallywags, a word that is now synonymous with any scoundrel, not just turncoats in Alabama. A troubled, oddly-built man used to walk up and down Arlington Ave. in Indianapolis – always clad in shorts – tearing down any garage sale or lost puppy sign posted on telephone poles. He was obviously unstable and quite an imposing presence. My family called him simply, “The Nazi.” Though he did wear jackboots, we never saw him profess any fascist ideals nor swear allegiance to the fatherland, nor ever claim to have been to Argentina. Throughout my youth, any individual purposefully set against the status quo or progress was quickly branded a “communist,” no matter what color his socks were.

Has terrorist mad the leap? Is it now a catchall for anyone we’d rather not have counted in our number? I hope not. One need look no further than Canada where officials unearthed a plot by 17 individuals to detonate a bomb larger than the one Timothy McVeigh set off in Oklahoma City and behead their prime minister in order to free all Muslim prisoners amongst other objectives. This happened hours ago. I think this example alone should preclude anyone from trying to forcibly evolve the nomenclature.

And it may seem academic, or bookish, or even down right snooty, but terrorism as it was used by Carl Brizzi does not mean what he intended it to mean. Terrorism is not defined by action as much as it is defined by intent. Those conspirators in Canada were not interested in killing people as an end, but as a means to coerce others into changing their beliefs, actions, or intent. Terrorism has at its root the desire to use force – often deadly force – as a means to impose the terrorist’s will. As counter-intuitive as terrorism is, it is what it is. I’m reminded of what David Letterman noted on September 17, 2001. “If you live to be a thousand years old, will that make any sense to you? Will that make any goddamned sense?”

Did Brizzi think he was shoring up his case against these two? I don’t think he needs to. According to the probable cause affidavit, Desmond Turner made public his intention to “kill everyone in the house” in order to rob them. Turner and Stewart killed people as do terrorists, but Turner had no agenda beyond sick greed. Turner is not the leader of a syndicate with revolution on their flag. Desmond Turner is a murderer. Thankfully, he is also behind bars and most likely will be for the rest of his life. We don’t have to reinvent our language because try as you might, what Turner and Stewart did still remains beyond words.

I very much doubt that Carl Brizzi was a victim of a language changing at the speed of Google. I also doubt that if Brizzi thinks something at the water cooler is hilarious he flashes up a quick LOL. I’d like to think Brizzi made a very poor choice of words for shock value, but he’s actually done this before. Why shock us? What is more shocking than three children face down on a bed murdered with an assault rifle? What is more shocking than a man who weeks earlier had confided in a friend that he was interested in turning his life around only to end up going on a murderous wild goose chase for a rumored safe full of money? Did anyone really need to have the severity and hopelessness of this murder driven home by calling some recidivist low-life a terrorist?

Yet still Brizzi branded Turner and Stewart terrorists, as he did with Terrance Anderson, a man who murdered two men in June 2005. (In fairness, Brizzi called Anderson an “urban terrorist.”) This misplaced, willy-nilly name calling for mere shock value flies in the face of Brizzi’s personal stance on the war on terror outlined on his website. Nowhere in his plan to fight terrorism does Brizzi address street level criminals and old-fashioned sons of Cain. The closest he comes is promising to deal swiftly with those who have false identification or make fake terrorist threats. Curious. Do us all a favor, Mr. Brizzi. Call these men what they are, murderers. Update your website while you’re at it.

I’m willing to let English evolve further, but we’re still not ready to label any rapscallion a terrorist yet. As of today, that word is still more concrete than clay. It’ll happen though, I’m sure. If you don’t believe me just remember that in 1945 Nazis were on trial for crimes against humanity. By 1995, Nazis wouldn’t serve you soup if they damn well pleased.

What a world.

Eddie Cheever: Necessary Idiot

Role playing time. Let’s imagine you’re Marco Andretti, fabled scion of racing royalty, headline grabbing teenage darling, and IRL driver with the skills and performance to fend off whatever open-wheeled Kournikova curse might be lurking around the next chicane. Now, plop yourself into the well-dampened course at Watkins Glen. Did I mention you’re running the fastest laps on the track and mere minutes from putting that humbling Sam Hornish defeat in the Indy 500 fully behind you? In a word, you are an 800 horsepower stud ready to usurp Danica Patrick and earn your own deodorant deal.

Say hello to Eddie Cheever. You remember Eddie. He put you nose first into a tire barrier earlier this year at St. Petersburg and no doubt leveled some smug, off-handed excuse for the undercutting. Well Eddie’s up to his old tricks again, and he’s ready to take out the frustrations of a lackluster day and cold tires on your NYSE car.

Kretch! You somehow find yourself skidding down yet another tire barrier and emerge from the fracas fist shaking and in 16th place. Adding insult to injury, you just wrecked your dad’s car thanks to a 48-year-old idiot who has still managed to do something neither you nor your dad has, win the Indianapolis 500. Ain’t that a pissah. Your official response, “If he says he didn’t know I was [alongside] he doesn’t belong in this series. Ridiculous.”

Your opinion is justifiable. Your nose just t-boned a stack of Firestones. You’re at the back of the pack. You’re mad. You’re also absolutely wrong about Eddie Cheever. The more ridiculous an idiot he is, the more the IRL needs him.

Ever since the dawn of man, life has been enriched by the presence of an enemy, a foil, a nemesis if you will. Stone age cave drawings depict men hunting great bison and mastodons, not reclining in front of a bookcase for a caveman family portrait. The oldest narrative, Gilgamesh, is rife with opposition for everyone’s favorite Sumerian giant. Call it good and evil or yin v. yang, but try to imagine the 1936 Berlin Olympic achievement of Jesse Owens without the backdrop of an emerging Nazi Germany and Hitler’s quest for a master race. Jump ahead to 1938 when Joe Louis pummeled Max Schmeling in a 124 second rematch even further at the heels of WWII. The miracle on ice, Seabiscuit v. War Admiral, and even IBM v. Apple are all born of the very human need to hate someone so much you’re willing to do whatever it takes to take them down.

That’s your cue, Mr. Cheever.

Eddie Cheever is the latest in a long line of knuckleheads that make our achievements all the sweeter. I myself have partaken in many battles of wit only to be smote by a wiry band of overcooked, overeducated blatherskites. Their victories were genuine, but any time my team was able to best them, even if finishing second to last, it was an event to behold. I was an eye witness to many great Purdue v. Indiana basketball matchups that were made doubly succulent when paired with a Gene Keady and Bob Knight tandem. Once Bobby got drummed down to Lubbock, the rivalry lost a bit of its sheen and the exit of Gene loomed in the offing.

The world needs bad guys because without them good guys would be nothing more than boring showoffs. I give you Michael Schumacher. Had Eddie Cheever not barreled recklessly into Marco yesterday we may have seen a nineteen-year-old on with the laurel wreath. However, fate wove a separate ending and the IRL (easily the dominant open-wheel circuit in the US) now has an authentic soap-opera feud that would make the cast of Dynasty jealous and the NASCAR execs weep with envy.

Scout needed Boo. Marco, you need Eddie.

He is an idiot though. No doubt about it.

The Lasting Effects of Dane Fife, aka The Slow, Agonizing Fall of Mike Davis

Being a non-Hoosier resident of Hoosierland (I'm Indiana born and bred but Purdue educated) I have what equates to a foreigner's perspective of the sad and now final demise of Coach Mike Davis. It's absolutley amazing to see the fire and furvor that Indiana basketball fans bring to Davis's doorstep. Soon enough Hoosiers will stop calling any social miscreant a terrorist for the much more maligning, "Screw you, ya no-good Davis."

It'll take only one viewing of Hoosiers or one chat session with John Wooden to understand that the state of Indiana has been loving the roundball quite possibly longer than any other locality. (The first draft of the Indiana constitution in 1816 had two amendments establishing a shot clock as "twelve shakes of a dog's hind leg," and setting the 3-point line as "no farther than the oldest resident of Harrison county can chuck a corn cob.") So when the hammer of the Hoosier ball fan falls, it falls hard.

Yet, Mike Davis is no martyr to hardcourt politics. Nor is he an underachieving victim of a success-hungry establishment.

"Would all IU coaches, past and present, please step forward if you've been to the Final Four in past ten years. Not so fast, Bobby."

Nor is Mike Davis being run out by an uppity student body or his own team. No, Mike pretty much should have himself to blame, even though the blame never seems to find him.Yet, through all of this slow, and I do mean agonizingly slow demise, Indiana fans have only allowed their contempt and malevolence for Davis to fester. They see lackluster defensive performances in important Big Ten games and point the finger at Davis. They watch their Hurryin' Hoosiers lose at home on Saturday to league-leading Iowa (coached by New Castle and IU darling Steve Alford) and then phone in a close yet still loss-filled loss at Penn State this evening and thrust all blame on Davis. They've begun booing at Assembly Hall, threatening a "black-out" at home games, and who knows what else may have come had Davis not cut the cord.

However, what the IU fans are conveniently forgetting is that Davis didn't have too much to do with his initial hiring beyond saying yes to the university's offer. I don't recall him campaigning for the job after Knight was ignominiously drummed down to Lubbock. What I do recall is a ringing din of support for Davis from Dane Fife, Tom Coverdale, Jared Jeffries and the rest of the 2000-2001 IU basketball team. It was evident from the moment that Bob Knight lit out of Bloomington that the players held full sway over the coaching changes afoot. At that time, Fife and A. J. Moye had openly threatened to transfer and literally held the entire roster over the head of the IU administration. Two days after Knight's firing, Davis was labeled interim coach, and the full-time position followed. Dane, A.J., Coverdale and their ilk got their way and Coach Davis stepped into the record book.

Flash forward to tonight and Mike Davis is mumbling through another depressed post-game interview with terrorist hunter Don Fisher (have you heard this guy's sign off?) not willing to go into any detail about the story that was on both SI.com and SportingNews.com before the game had even ended. I only wonder if one of the PSU fans who had earlier been calling his buddies to watch him on TV hadn't grabbed wind of the impending bad news and blurted it out to Marko Killingsworth. Davis struggled through the interview and went off to the great awkward beyond.

So I'm sure tomorrow I'll wake to hear the horrendously obvious "I Told You So" screed of Bob Kravitz in the Indianapolis Star slapping against my front door, delivered by a grown man with what seems to be an army of four-year-old paperboys. The local powers that be will say good riddance to Mike Davis, and talk will erupt of Kevin Stallings, Steve Alford, or even Dane Fife stepping in to resurrect the ghosts of Branch McCracken. Yet two truths emerge: 1) Indiana fans will only be happy with someone named Bob, Bobby, Robert, Robert Montgomery, The General or any form of Knight, with or without the K, and sadly 2) if you're looking for anyone, anyone at all to blame for the past dismal seasons, each one promising to be Mike Davis's last, those Hoosiers need not toss blame any further than those players who may have spoke a bit too loudly back in September 2000.

Money on the Brain

Lately I've fallen into a bit of a troubling habit. I'm nuts about my money.

A good friend of mine once opined, "Why worry about what you don't have?" Truer words are rarely spoken. I got paid somewhere around 12:01am today, and no more than ten hours later I had written four checks, made two online payments, made a transfer to savings (God be praised), and bought a tankful of gas to bring my checking account balance down to 35% of what it had been when the almighty direct deposit took hold.

I'm doing things right. I contribute to my retirement plan. I stow away 10% of my take-home pay. I pay my bills on time, and my credit score shows it. In the past twelve months my score has skyrocketed solidly into the "Good" range, having ascended 11 points in 12 months.

However, it's the fact that I can readily rattle off these financial statistics that's a tad scary.

Want to know how much my retirement plan will return this year? Just over 12%. Not bad, but it was over 17% the day before. I've paid an average of $32.23 for cellular phone coverage over the past twelve months, and don't even get me started on my student loan.

Being "in-touch" with one's money is essential, especially in this world of debit cards and automatic payments. However, being consumed with one's money and updating one spreadsheet, Microsoft Money, and checking the bank's website at least once a day might be excessive. In life I'm the farthest from type-A you can find this side of hippie, yet with money I'm Gordon Gekko.

In the shower, money pops into my head. Driving to work, the same. Luckily I'm not actually worrying about money. My wife and I are quite lucky in that we are able to save money, pay our bills on time, and enjoy a fine lifestyle. I just know that deep in my heart I'm thinking about money too often. I'm not even thinking about exciting things. Rather I'm just going over the things I've already done and working through the same formulas I already enjoy.

Now, I'm faced with new connundrum: I'm thinking about thinking about money. What am I to do?