This Day Won't Last at All

"The Authority Song" by Jimmy Eat World

2009-09-16T22:25:00.003-04:00

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

2009-09-08T21:26:00.001-04:00

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

2009-09-03T22:01:00.001-04:00

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

2006-06-07T22:44:00.000-04:00

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

2006-06-05T22:53:00.000-04:00

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

2006-02-16T07:47:00.000-05:00

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

2006-01-31T18:51:00.000-05:00

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?

5'9" + 165 lbs.= All Heart

2006-01-24T11:10:00.000-05:00

In the unending cavalcade of gut-wrenching maladies to befall the Purdue University basketball team, they have now lost their fifth of five starters with the dismissal of Korey Spates. Mother of God, what are we to do?

It's not too unlikely that Coach Matt Painter would try and fill the vacated roster spot with a walk-on player. Keady pulled it off last year bringing Charles Davis over from the football squad to offer fans something to cheer for, even if Chuck never put up the big numbers. So I have to do it. I have to pull the old, "Put me in, Coach," idea out of the deep freeze.

True, I've not played competitive basketball (the kind with coaches and fully robed referees) since 1996 when I suited up for my grade school's high school team (technically it's the parish's team, but you can do those things in CYO). I've never been the double-double threat as my rebounds usually dwarf my point totals. But Painter doesn't need the scoring power (well he actually does need it, desperately), but rather from the recent exploits of all Purdue athletes, the Boilers need someone whose been kicked around a bit by life yet managed never to fight back with violence or DUI's. Painter needs the plucky floor general who's also good at getting his homework in on time.

It'll only be a year, Coach. I'll enroll for some graduate work and be the mentor/walk-on that every team desires. I've got a smooth natural shooting motion, know how to bounce-pass (a dying art) and I can hit a conservative 75% of my free throws. Hell, put me on the bench just to shoot technicals. Think of the tens of people that will come out to see me standing shoulder-to-waist with Paul Davis and Marco Killingsworth.

Hack-a-Shaq, freak play, whatever, I'm game for it, Coach. I'll even buy my own shoes.

Blog & Roll (Part 2)

2006-01-19T17:49:00.000-05:00

How far is too far?

At what point do we as cosumers of art and music cut the cord and stop supporting certain pieces of art solely because of the artist behind it? It's been debated, most likely, since the first primordial inceptions of art itself. From Salvador Dali rolling around in his own filth to John Lennon espousing that the Beatles were more popular than Jesus, folks have never taken lightly to an artist's own proclivities circumventing his art. Yet, who doesn't love listening to The White Album while pondering Dream of Venus?

Dali's art is still dismissed quite quickly merely for his scatological samplings, and I'm sure some Americans still steamroll any Beatles LP's they can get their evangelical hands upon. Yet, those censures are based on activities that neither harmed nor, in honesty, hurt anyone (other than maybe the artists themselves). However, another case has arisen (sadly multiple times) that really begs how far we are willing to support an individual whose unacceptability is universally accepted.

Gary Glitter was a 1970's glam rock face most remembered (somewhat) for "Rock & Roll (Part 2)," the "hey" song most often heard at any sporting event. Without seeing Herr Glitter's checkbook, it's safe to assume that this wag has been able to subsist post 1976 sherely on the royalties that the NFL, NBA, etc. have laid in his lap, but it's Gary's other lap exploits that prompt this entry.

Gare-bear has been in trouble numerous times for incidences of child pornography and committing obscene acts with underage females in Southeast Asia. Fleeing the UK after serving time for the pornography charges, Gary set up shop in Vietnam and Thailand. Thank goodness he was able to steer free of any location known as the Graceland for pedophiles.

Without having met his Glitterness, I still feel no shame in asserting that Gary is not healthy for society at large. At the very least, he's a ridiculous scar on human hairlines. I also feel a strong faith in the Vietnamese judicial system in its ability to bring Glitter once more to justice. (No truth to the rumor that the Vietnamese Department of Justice's motto is Latin for "Hey, we're no Laos.") Either way, it's a matter of time before Gary ends up in whatever replaced the Hanoi Hilton.

Yet, I would venture a guess that if I were to head toward any NBA, NFL, or NHL outlet I might still hear the public performance of "Rock & Roll (Part 2)." Why is this? We continue to support this scab so that the Brewers and the Lakers can treat fans to a rhythmic choral escapade. Can't we pull the plug on just one piece of hackneyed schlock rock to appease the multitudes of exploited children in the world.

I don't know why this has gotten me so. The song is catchy; try to get anyone to deny that. The world, however, deserves better than cutting royalty checks to this guy.

I just hope that I might be at an NFL game next season cheering to some worthy pariah. What's that outcast, Pat Boone, up to?

Happy New Year: Your World is Changing

2006-01-01T13:14:00.000-05:00

I've been thinking about a quote I recently read in a news article about the now defunct James Dean Gallery in Gas City, Indiana. David Loehr, the owner of the museum devoted to the actor (also housing the largest private collection of James Dean artifacts), made a very telling point when he said, "Maybe it's just time to give up. And Jimmy is saying 'Enough is enough.'"

This fact hit me quite hard. I'm a devoted fan of the dead actor. Sure it began as adolescent hero worship, but I genuinely enjoy James Dean and everything about his James-Deanness. I've also relished my silent participation in a worldwide phenomenon. So to see the largest collector of James Dean artifacts (and I do mean artifacts such as actual movie costumes and hand-written postcards not just mugs, dolls, and clocks) fold up shop is a bit disheartening.

This closing came on the heels of the pitiful exhibition of Dean's three feature films' DVD release and the fiftieth anniversary of his death. When the news reports of low attendance, fortunes lost, lawsuits and every other depressing aspect hit the wires, Tom Griswold of the Bob and Tom show noted something to the effect of, "It's amazing. Every year he just keeps getting deader." That one really killed me.

Has it happened? Has James Dean lost his lock on the archetypical teenager? Is the epitome of post WWII cool actually passing away some fifty years after his first death? Moreover, would Dean even give a rip about any of this?

Dean's hometown of Fairmount, Indiana still trots out its Museum Days festival each September, but I haven't been since 1995. In fact, I only make a yearly pilgrimage each September 30 and when confronted by anthropologist/sociologist at Dean's gravesite in 2004 I strongly had to consider if I was merely phoning it in. The interesting conversation (we never exchanged names) brought me to very adult realizations about what the idea of James Dean means, and shockingly it had little to do with the guy six feet underneath me.

Perhaps Loehr is right and "Enough is enough." Time will tell whether or not teenage girls will fawn over Dean's looks and teenage boys will adopt his moody mantra, "Dream like you'll live forever. Live like you'll die tomorrow." Yet, if James Dean is to pass away from ethos to ether, who will take his spot? Are we seeing the dawning of an era where high schools will be full of River Phoenix tee-shirts? I don't get it.

Happy New Year.

Wiper Blades

2005-12-07T15:31:00.000-05:00

I can't really state this any clearer: my wiper blades suck.

This fact was no more evident than when I left work after an extended evening yesterday. It was well below freezing, and I had to wipe a dusting of snow from all windows of my car. (One disadvantage of my job is that I do have to park outside.) I then pulled from the parking lot with a somewhat cool engine and headed home.

Not a block out of work the windshield devolved into a crystaline mess, foggy and blurred. The wipers weren't doing anything to free up the unfolding road to my eyes. I was left with one pithy option: hit the spritz.

Needless to say it was a fleeting fix. The blue juice hit the glass giving me four euphoric seconds of sight only to be replaced with a furious bob-and-weave effort to find the appearing and disappearing windows to peek through. It was absolutely dangerous magnified by the fact that the road home is old, narrow, and well-traveled. I came close to seeking shelter by pulling into a cemetery and hoping to avoid a sudded outbreak of irony.

This being said, I can't begin to convey my need to get new wiper blades. It's a need that's been evident for over a year now. The current pair are flimsy thin little strips that would make German engineers weep. Ach du lieber!

Yet, this unwillingness to drop $18 on a new pair underscores a horrid personality flaw I trot out on occasions. No, I'm not cheap. In fact I try to enjoy the finest things my meager pay will allow. However, I will put off enjoying those things as much as possible. As the old joke will tell, want to know how much I procrastinate? I'll tell you later.

Freud would be pleased to know that I did pick this up from my parents, however it definitely is a nurture over nature germ. Pavlov quickly chimes in and notes that I've been so successful procrastinating (i.e. vacation plans, research papers, laundry for the honeymoon) that I'm conditioned to wait to the breaking point and most likely enjoy the rush of the madness. Either way though it's still a habit I'd love to shed.

No, I fear no social stigma. I'm neither fat, drunk, nor a terrorist when I'm putting off the necessary, so I should be able to continue to flash my visage in public. Actually, I'm convinced of a need to change based upon seeing similar situations from the opposite side. I have, at times mind you, been prepared in advance for various situations and reveled in how swimmingly those events unfolded. These moments continue to irk at me every time I'm sifting through a basket of clean, yet unfolded, laundry in the morning. Still I know that asking me to do things in a timely and prepared manner would be like asking Dennis Hopper not to address me anyone as "Man."

There's 6 - 8 inches of snow forcast for the next 36 hours here at the crossroads of I-65, 69, 70, & 74. I'd like to think that I'll pick up a new set of wiper blades sometime tonight. Then again, I've promised the wife to put up the Christmas tree.

Frosted glass, here I come.

Retirement = Blonde Bombshell

2005-11-29T15:26:00.000-05:00

I've never been one to fall for get-rich-quick schemes. However, I am one to think up or discover get-rich-quick schemes with little effort. I knew a friend once who told me that he slugged through a dead-end job shortly after college when challenged by a fellow dead-end coworker to concoct a "Million Dollar Idea" every day. Ever since then I've had a flurry of million dollar ideas -the most embarrassing being an invention of a contained area, maybe the size of a closet, that you could put in shopping malls, hotel lobbies, casinos, whatever. This enclosed space would somehow -through use of aluminum foil and high powered antennae -concentrate cell phone signals so as to guarantee a clear connection. Turns out someone already beat me to this, sort of.

They're called phone booths.

Just last week though, I've uncovered another diamond in the economic rough. There exists a commodity, totally legal and readily available, that upon purchase nets me a 140% gain. Not too shabby for an amateur. Of course there is a risk of depreciation and the commodity is solely market driven, but I tell you what, the numbers check out.

Say for instance Ivan the Investor is at his local grocer and notices that one of the many products for sale carries the likeness of a dead yet still marketable celebrity. Ivan the Investor thinks nothing of this item as he has seen it on every visit for the past four years. But being the informed investor that Ivan is, his daily perusal of local media print drags an article about an increasing collectability of said grocery items. Ivan the Investor's interests are piqued.

A quick trip to eBay merits some information on how the open market is taking to this investment, and the numbers spell success. For instance, the item that Ivan can pick up for less than a dinner out is fetching between 40% and 80% above purchase value. Ivan the Investor is now met with a conundrum. Should I a) throw myself wholly to the market and become the repository for a multitude of items or b) let this obvious money maker pass me by?

On one hand, Ivan would have to hold on to the items for a prolonged time because the market has proven that things get better with age, but Ivan's wife isn't one for pack rats. Yet an everyday investment as easy as a trip to the grocery would be too easy to pass. Sure makes that 401(k) look like a bowl of cherries.

Hypothesis aside, I'm going for it. Don't begin to think that I plan on retiring young based on something between the butcher and chili beans, but this is definitely going to be more fun than any quarterly report I've read lately.

Monopoly and Riesling

2005-11-25T21:07:00.000-05:00

I can't recall the last time I even attempted to forge through a round of Monopoly, but as of this post-Thanksgiving evening that statement is now a fallacy. The short of it: my wife handed my ass to me wrapped up in St. Charles Place and a hotel.

Monopoly is such an incredibly American game thriving on capitalism, luck, wheeling and dealing. Our game this evening was no different. However, early on we realized that so many of our presconceived Monopolyisms had to be exorcised in order for the game to reach a level of purity that even the Parker Brothers would be appreciative of. Among these

We finally read the fine print about mortgaging properties. My Lord, it's incredibly similar to real life. How unfair.
We broke from the childhood tendancy to plop $500 in the middle of the board as a reward for the next roller to hit Free Parking. With all honesty, when was the last time someone ran up to a slumlord and said, "Through no more cosmic chance than a roll of the dice do you, sir, deserve this pile o' cash." It just doesn't happen, and it shan't happen again in our Monopoly universe.
No more of that, "Hurry up and roll" business that used to get you off the rental hook. If only banks could be fooled the same way opposing NFL teams are when you hurry to run a play before the red flag flies.
One final difference between the Monopoly of my past and the Monopoly of this evening, we were drinking wine.

The game progressed a bit more speedily than the last games I remember that have to have been more than fifteen years ago. That could be due to a myriad of reasons:

We're older and more deft at not tossing dice across a room
Through five plus years and $40,000 of university education I can work out faster the amount of change when I buy Marvin Gardens with a wad of yellow C-notes
There were two adults playing as opposed to twelve kids who are more than willing to cough up Boardwalk when one can't pay the rent on Baltic Avenue.

I was most amazed at the confluence of adult tendencies that crept into the gameplay. I held back on buying more houses for fear of being cash-strapped should I land on the damn B&O Railroad for a tenth time! (Seriously, how many times can I roll snake eyes?) Money flowed in and out so easily, and by the time I was sitting in the lush green properties of Pennsylvania, North Carolina, and Pacific I was just praying that I had got enough dough to get me to Go/Payday. Replace the $75 luxury tax with the annual, yet always unexpected, license plates and registration and you've got yourself a metaphor.

"Oh life, I got to encounter for the millionth time the reality of experience and to forge in the smithy of my soul enough money to avoid another cash advance on the Discover card."

-James Joyce The Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man Living in an Economy Where the FED Keeps Raising Interest Rates

Throughout all of my playing though one thing was clear: my wife had her teeth in me and was not going to relent. She already makes more money than me in real life (a point I cheer not curse, mind you), and she has an amazing propensity for never landing on Tennessee and my meager flea-infested hotels. I suffered through lap after lap while she kept ending up in triple-double jail only to roll a 7 to escape my snare on the corner. Damn you, Community Chest!

I did have one glimmer of hope when a chance landing on Chance allowed me to bypass the murders' row of Park Place and Boardwalk only to forfeit my $200 for yet another landing of those infernal railroads. By that point there was only one option remaining, mortgage the utilities and pour the wine.

Who builds an empire on Water Works?

In the end, I cheer the reemergance of Monopoly into our cadre of games we pull out when absent friends and random free days merit a desperation for activity. I only hope Colonel Mustard and Miss Scarlet enjoy the riesling as much as I do.

Randy Scouse Git

2005-11-22T17:17:00.000-05:00

Now I won't even begin to act like I know who Ian Rush is, but I do know that some of the best memories I have are of two English friends, one from Manchester the other Brighton, doing their impression of some legendary British commercial for milk that involved name dropping little scousers who loved Ian Rush.

It's one of those things that you've seen so many times in an interpreted inarnation that you have no desire to see the original for fear of a let down. Other items to add to this list include

The infamous "Raymond and Ass" bit from the long defunct Jon Stewart Show.
The "Royale with cheese" exchange between Vincent and Jules in Pulp Fiction
Boo Radley

How did that tower of 20th century American literature get into the list, you ask. Easily. It all has to do with a woman.

She was my freshman English teacher, and for the most part she was quite handy at what she did. We were mostly engaged in class, held in our pubescent haze by a 26 year old teacher. We tromped through A Tale of Two Cities and forged onward to To Kill a Mockingbird. Our teacher was in no way deterred by the fact that most of us had read the novel, and so she soldiered forward. Who knew that it would in a tragic "curtain pulling" moment.

The novel really is a stalwart classic, and a literary one hit wonder to boot. It's hard to imagine someone as crafty as Harper Lee being lumped in with Tommy Tutone, but I feel the comparison is justified. (No truth to the rumor that Harper Lee's phone number on the small island she (yes, Harper Lee is a woman) inhabits is 867-5309). However, I was never too locked in on the racial misgivings of 1930's Alabama as much as I was mesmerized by the character of Boo Radley. He's for all intents and purposes a tangible, although unrecognizable bogey man in the town and county of Maycomb.

I first encountered Boo in 1990 when a literary exhortation on unseasonably hot weather turned into my sixth grade teacher reading the entire novel to us. Overnight this guy had classes of 12 year olds teeming with excitement. We begged older siblings not to reveal any plot details, nor to reveal what the hell mockingbirds had to do with Scout, Jem, and Atticus. Nevertheless, I locked myself into my desk daily all the while imagining what the mythical Boo must look like.

Fate intervened and I was getting a cast sawed off of my arm after a nasty, and I mean nasty, skateboarding incident the day the movie was shown. (Do not begin to suppose that I am or have ever been a skater though. We all have the skateboard phase, and Vision Street Wear was too appealing to ignore.) Therefore, I never saw the Gregory Peck tour de' force that most people love and still leaves me wanting more. Again, I never saw what director Robert Mulligan thought of ole' Boo.

Flash forward three years and I'm locked in another classroom watching Gregory Peck peck about the classroom as all of Maycomb's second class citizenry stand to see him walk out. My tongue salivates with pensive anticipation to see the denouement. Scout and Jem get attacked. Sheriff Heck Tate strongarms Atticus into exporting a lie that Bob Ewell fell on his knife. And at last we see him, pasty and wan, smearing his sweat against Jem's bedroom wall. With God as my witness, the mental image I'd carved of Boo Radley matched the man I saw on the screen. I can feel those goosebumps even now.

She had to do it.

I don't know if it was smarmy know-it-all-ism or even harmless trivia, but my teacher who I'd otherwise enjoyed to that point pipes up with, "You know who that is, don't you?"

A chorus of muted mumbles follows as I fumble out, "No." She hears me and in one of those twists of two letter words that make Scrabble-smiths giddy my teacher thinks I'm in someway begging to know the actor's name. What I really meant to say was, "No! You're about to crush a childhood dream. There is no Easter Bunny and Boo Radley will someday end up in Gone in 60 Seconds. (Although he's been in other better flicks)"

The producers of SportsCenter choose the first highlight no matter what the online poll results dictate.
The NBA player reminding your grade school not to do drugs would never dunk for you, even if his ankles were taped. Cop out.
The wizard is very real, and very human. Just pull back the curtain, Toto.

She tells me.

I'm crushed. I don't really care that it's him. I just care that he's no longer Boo Radley, but rather a man playing Boo Radley. I could have spit in her face. Sadly she pulls out the life lesson book and reminds me to be careful what I wish for. Pointless.

Kids need the bogey man. Scout needed Boo Radley before, and she has Arthur Radley now.

It's never fun to pull back the curtain.

Try a literary quote. Those seem to keep 'em coming back.

2005-11-21T23:35:00.000-05:00

"It was a bad time."
First line of Going After Cacciato by Tim O'Brien.

It's really not that bad. I'm serious.

However, I did have to make my foray into the world of blogs because I can't stand not to any longer. What's so incredibly sad is not that I feel compelled to blog, yet that I felt more compelled to come up with some overtly clever blog name. Therefore, I give you This Day Won't Last at All, an homage to the greatest Canadian band I've heard from lately, Plumtree.

http://www.endearing.com/artists/plumtree.html

Take that, Loverboy.

Here's why Plumtree deserves more listens than they're getting these days (and it's also a blatant chance for me to show off my blog-bulleting)

They were the first indie band that I fully threw myself toward
They're so indie they're not indie, nor will they be worried about pegging themselves as such.
They're uninterested in blog-waxing wags trying to suppose whether Plumtree's indie or not indie because they're too busy rocking.
Even though they've been kaput since 2000, people still blog that they are "rocking" albeit a symbolic, yet lasting, rocking.
They seamlessly wrote the soundtrack to that night, and any adult male who was ever 22 knows about that night, in their song "Tonight's Not Alright."

That song, "Tonight's Not Alright" is a shining example of a perfect song. "What's a perfect song?" they ask. Perfection can be reached when after multiple listens one is sure that there is absolutely nothing to be added to the song to improve it, nor is there one iota that one should remove or diminish. Ipso facto "Tonight's Not Alright" is perfect.

The cardiac drum intro resonates with that hint of DIY yet floors the listener with precision as tight as a, well, you know. We climb aboard the verse in time for Carla to remind us, "It kinda makes sense," only to have our storyteller trip that reassurance with an inability to "make head or tail of it." I dare not toss out any idea of simplicity, yet I have always imagined the four members of Plumtree standing on stage in a graceful reverence to the unfolding song, almost knowing that what they're about to play for the hundreth time might be catching someone on that night. Wishful projection at its finest.

The guitar sound is one easily faked in duplication, yet so pristeenly unique (and yes, I'm quite aware that one cannot qualify anything's "uniqueness" yet the merits of this four minute slice of heaven allow for such heresy) that I only wish I could have met my one-quarter of Plumtree before their disbanding. By now we're locked firmly in the song and even now I'm somewhat bittersweet knowing that the greatest moments are yet to come as is the end.

The song progresses into a second verse that ends with this delicate, yearning walk-down the fretboard that must be heard to be worshipped for the rock deity it is. From there the perfect specimen moves to its logical yet always surprising end.

Syncopation. Grasping the intangible. Somehow cutting into a timeless psyche that teleports me even at this moment when I'm forced to butcher the song outloud as I've lent out my only copy of the album to a trustworthy fan who would give me his firstborn should he somehow sully the disc. It truly is worth laying your hands upon.

I love "Tonight's Not Alright."

-FCI

This Day Won't Last at All

2005-11-21T23:10:00.000-05:00

"'Cause it takes the two of us
to screw this whole thing up.
Yeah, it takes the two of us
to screw this whole thing up."

Regards to Catriona, Carla, Lynette, and Amanda