Burnin' Love

I'm positive we all have very vivid memories of Wednesday, October 8, 2008, when I first discussed the video to Blue Oyster Cult's "Burnin' For You". 

Since Pete Holmes talked to him about his insane performances at Sing Sing prison, I've been listening to Dave Hill's podcast (The Goddamn Dave Hill Show - the Malcolm Gladwell from March 18 is a good introduction) and following him on Twitter. Yesterday, he wrote a fun piece on the BOC video:

It has everything a summer rock jam should: sweet guitar solos, killer harmonies, bombastic drums and throbbing bass; you can even hear the band members’ mustaches if you listen closely enough. These weren’t boys playing rock & roll — these were goddamn men. In fact, I heard a rumor that Buck Dharma and the guys all tried to go clean-shaven once and those mustaches grew back within a half-hour.

As hinted in the title, “Burnin’ for You” is about a guy who totally wants to get with some chick and hopefully have consensual intercourse with her at some point, a reliable topic if you’re looking to write one of the greatest summer rock jams of all time. But what sets “Burnin’ for You” apart from all the other songs about that stuff is that the guy in question doesn’t even have a home or anything, only he’s such a badass he seriously doesn’t give a fuck — all he cares about is boning this chick, which is awesome.

What makes “Burnin’ for You” even better is the video Blue Öyster Cult made to go with it. It starts off with all five of the band members walking out onto this graffiti-covered stretch of cement under a bridge at night and every one of them is just like, “I’m in Blue Öyster Cult — fuck you.” Then, once they start playing the song, a bunch of street toughs show up to watch them, only the band is rocking so hard they don’t even fucking notice. Meanwhile, the guy I was talking about earlier is just driving around town looking for this chick in this sweet old car that I’m guessing he probably lives in.

About halfway through the song, the chick, who is totally hot in a 1981 sort of way, shows up under the bridge too. Lead BÖC dude Buck Dharma notices her for like a second, but then he’s all like, “I would totally make out with her, but I can’t because I’m about to rip one of the sweetest guitar solos ever in like two seconds.”  Then, from out of nowhere, the dude in the car shows up under the bridge too, before bursting into flames right there in the driver’s seat because by that point his boner is totally out of control. And even though the fucking guy is burning to death right behind them in his car, the guys in Blue Öyster Cult are like, “Hey, we can’t worry about that shit right now — we’re in the middle of playing one of the greatest songs of all time.” But just when you think the guy in the car is toast, he suddenly shows up right next to that chick and you breath a sigh of relief as you realize the guy melting inside the car is just a mannequin or something.

When the video ends, all the guys in Blue Öyster Cult just stand there looking awesome and the hot chick is just stumbling around in front of them all alone like she’s kind of hammered but still having a pretty good time. But get this — the dude from before is nowhere to be found. I’m guessing he was just like, “Great — first I don’t have a home and now my car is completely torched. I’m getting the fuck outta here before any more crazy shit happens.”
Holy shit, this song is fucking awesome.

Let's Go Crazy With Copyright Claims

Hey does anybody remember that time in New Orleans when we saw that great cover band? It's probably pretty hazy, but maybe you remember reading about it on this blog? Maybe it inspired you to visit that very same bar and experience it for yourself?

Well, if it was up to Prince, you never would have enjoyed that and you would have no memory of it.

This is to notify you that, as a result of a third-party notification by Prince claiming that the material is infringing, we have removed or disabled access to the material that appeared at http://www.vimeo.com/10049679.

If you believe that your material has been removed or disabled by mistake or misidentification, please provide VIMEO's Copyright Agent with a written counter-notification containing at least the following information (please confirm these requirements with your legal counsel or see Section 512(g)(3) of the U.S. Copyright Act, 17 U.S.C. 512(g)(3), for more information):

Hey Prince, 7 is a good song and you've made a few other good ones and you can play the guitar real fast but you're pretty much an overrated psychopath.

Five Years: Hot And Bothered

You thought that last one was grumpy? Well, grump-a-grump-grump, this one is a grump trump!

Don't let the grumpiness scare you. These two pieces are memorable for at least the following reasons:

1. I reconnected with Bar on this trip. We hadn't been in contact since more or less right after we met, on the first day of orientation at grad school.

2. Thank God I saw "Layer Cake" instead of "Crash" at the theater.

3. Deleted Scene: As I just mentioned, I ate a grilled cheese sandwich featuring green chilies for the first time on this trip.

4. The absolute strangest comment was left in response to part one. An anonymous man really wanted to chime in with his thoughts on wheeled luggage, and the art of luggage in general.

5. Deleted Scene: The book I was reading was short stories by Julie Orringer: "How to Breathe Underwater". I bought it after reading that Nick Hornby liked it.

6. I got an insane amount of site traffic from lonely hotel guests searching for the titles of the porn movies listed. I can't really blame them for researching the films online. If you're going to throw down $14 for a rented movie, you should try to make sure it's a good choice.

7. Deleted Scene: I went to find a place for dinner one night. I started walking down Route 66, figuring it's a hugely famous highway and therefore a taco shop or something yummy would show itself promptly. After walking and walking, I finally found a place.


I had a chili cheese dog. I should have bought a T-shirt - they were pretty dope. This establishment was featured as a drug deal spot in an episode of "Breaking Bad", which is also pretty dope.

8. Note how heavy I lay on the grumpiness and symbolism in the last sentence. DO YOU GET IT, GUYS? MY GIRLFRIEND BROKE UP WITH ME AND I WAS SAD.

9. The title for these posts were also the title of a planned detective movie (or TV series?) by my pals Floyd and Jack Serpentine.

Okay, enough. Please enjoy:


Dry Heat - Part One

SATURDAY

This is the second consecutive trip in which I have been randomly screened by airport security. After passing through successfully, I sit and watch as others are pulled aside. No one is nonchalant. They shoot flabbergasted looks toward their traveling companions.

"Oh my God, me?! Selma, look! They think little old me could be a terrorist!"
"For gosh sakes! That Latino man just went right through!"
"Look! He's making me spread my arms like I might have a weapon!"

One man finishes the screen and walks toward the seats to my left. A woman his age and a teenage girl are waiting for him. He is speaking in a foreign language - East Europe sounding. Maybe they are from Strawberry Hill, across the river. I listen to him speak, wondering if it's profound or useless chatter. If he was speaking English, I would assuredly be mocking his words. Since it is Russian or Croatian or else, I give him the benefit of the doubt.

The mother begins to assemble lunch. Empty paper cups appear from her carry-on bag. Hen House lunchmeat, possibly bologna, definitely smelly. Bread. One half gallon of milk. She builds modest sandwiches and hands one to her daughter and husband; she pours the milk. I consider the logistics required for their rushed meal - I calculate the odds of a resulting foodborne illness. Is there an ice pack in the bag? What are they doing with the leftovers?

The flight is Southwest. I am among the last to board, but get a decent isle seat next to a thin woman with a book - an ideal neighbor. The first short story in my new book is about death. The second is about low self-esteem. The third is about death and guilt. This trip will not be relaxing.

I do not want to stop my session mid-story, so I close the book as the plane descends. Almost by mistake, I catch a glimpse through the window at the earth below. There are mountains, and for a moment I am shocked. I have not seen mountains in more than five years. This is my first trip to New Mexico. I've never been near it. The airport floor is brick, or, more precisely, has been fashioned to look like red brick. Wheeled luggage clicks relentlessly. I want a word with the architect.

It will be hours before my room is available. The clerk stores my luggage, and his associate gives me directions to the old town district. I turn right and walk to Lomas. I turn left and walk for about 15 minutes. It is hot but I don't care - this is what people mean when they say, "It's a dry heat." I picture myself as a local, tanned after a few days in this sun. I am the bassist from Albuquerque's own The Shins.

Hispanics are gathered in the quad of Old Town. A nearby church has something to do with the celebration. Music plays over a PA as a man in the gazebo sings. He looks like bullfighter, minus the cape; he sings different songs in Spanish. They sound the same to me. I sit on a restaurant patio and eat flat chicken enchiladas. I can't see the entertainer from here, but I can see much of the crowd, and I can hear him all too well. He makes very brief conversation with the crowd between each song: he has been here many years in a row, his family has come from Dallas to see him today, he is happy to be here. I pay after sopapillas, looking at photos under the glass at the cashier's stand. John Kerry is in two of them. Gloria Estefan is in one. These should all be on the wall.

I make a lap in Old Town. Some shops sell jewelry. Others sell jewelry. A few even sell jewelry. He is still singing - the man's voice is tireless. This is why they keep asking him back.

The museums are on my way back to the hotel. I choose the natural history museum. It is a mistake.

I walk through neighborhoods on the return trip - the multitude of law offices on Lomas (immigration?) were not nice enough to see twice. The Shins are in my head. I can't relate to their lyrics - I do not smell the engine grease and mint the wind is blending. I don't smell anything. I am suddenly aware that I don't hear anything, either. No dogs bark. No lawnmowers run. Even the breeze can't be bothered to make a sound. It's three o'clock on a Saturday but quiet like a snowstorm. I consider if desert is an insulant, like snow. I reject the hypothesis.

Downtown features a handful of tall office buildings, almost all of which are named for banks. They are squatting, hiding behind the mountains that circle the city, apologetic for their non-adobe abilities, a tall man between yourself and the movie screen.

My hotel room faces south. I can see baseball stadium lights a few miles away. Every time I look at them in the next few days, I will think, "You hear that, folks? He said, 'Go 'Topes!'".

I'm too late to see Crash, so I decide to see Layer Cake. The movie ticket costs $9.25, and my $.75 of change goes to a charity that seems to be supported by a smiling black and white photo of The Rock. I start on two generous scoops of Dreyer's rocky road ice cream - my dinner - as the trailers begin. Later, The Rolling Stones' "Gimme Shelter" is used perfectly. If I could show everyone this scene, they would understand why I was disappointed with Garden State's use of "Caring is Creepy".

My walk home takes me past the bus station. A vagrant is yelling at a better-dressed man who wants the bus to take him away from the situation. Two uniformed policemen watch from twenty yards away.

1 comments:

Anonymous said...

Don't blame the architect. Wheeled luggage sucks. It's automatically heavier, has less interior space, and is hard to stuff into overhead compartments, because it has to be at least semi-rigid. It just generally slows you down. Think more about what you really need to take with you and save weight. Lighter is better and faster.

Dry Heat - Part Two

SUNDAY

I want to get a nice late breakfast before the conference starts at noon. I walk around downtown - nothing is open. I abandon the morning constitutional and eat at my hotel.

The conference room is crowded. The panel of experts is seated, and their tables form a U, facing the Powerpoint display. Myself and the riff-raff are behind them, squeezed next to one another, chairbacks against the wall. I am among the last to arrive, so I have a poor view of the screen. The woman that is seated to my right has an even worse angle. She compensates by leaning into my personal space whenever she feels like seeing what the speaker is reading. She is the exact opposite of the woman I sat next to on the flight to Albuquerque. She's constantly fidgeting, and preferring both the standard leg bounce and the unconventional lateral knee touch - the latter performed as if there is an invisible Thighmaster in her crotch.

I meet Nathan and Julie in the hotel bar shortly after 5:00. I knew they were inside after seeing their large truck in the parking lot, loaded for their cross-country drive. The bed is packed high, and a blue tarp covers everything but part of a bicycle frame. I think of the Joads.

We enjoy beer as we wait for our food to arrive - we're on a patio off Central Ave, also known as Route 66. I am three feet from the neighboring table, where a bikerish woman is straddling a bikerish man. My boss walks by on the sidewalk, and I say hello. She approaches our table and sits down. Damn. A best friend, his wife, a liter of Sam Adams Summer, a warm evening on the Route 66 patio, my supervisor. One of these things is not like the other. It's over soon, and I show Nathan and Julie the theater's ice cream selection before they drive further west.

The hotel has HBO. Unlike the host cities of my last two conferences, Albuquerque does not sponsor a hotel channel that features local restaurants, museums, and landmarks. I take this as another bad sign.

MONDAY

For the past handful of years, I've tried to surround myself with my favorite things during my birthday. I listen to my all-time favorite albums, I watch my favorite movie, I bathe in my favorite champagne. This year, I battle my peers for complimentary bagels and muffins before sitting through plenary and breakout sessions.

A well-dressed, gray-haired gentleman sits a few seats down from me during the opening presentation. The speaker tells an anecdote involving Senator Robert Dole for some reason - a reporter asks Mr. Dole if it's effeminizing to be second fiddle to his newly elected wife. She pushes him away from the microphone and says, "Move over, cupcake, I'll take this one!" The crowd laughs, starved for something resembling humor.

"Heh heh. Savoir fare..." the man says creepily.

A speaker uses the phrase, "Not sure if the juice is worth the squeeze," and I try to think if I've been previously exposed to that wording.

There is a reception at 6:00 with a cash bar, appetizers, and a mariachi band. Why would a culture that lives in such a warm climate choose to uniform their bands in restrictive suits? Barbara, a friend from grad school that I found earlier that day, tells them it's my birthday. They ask me to stand as they play "Happy Birthday". The pacing of the mariachi version is far superior to our slow, pained, American chorus.

Later that night, Barbara and I try to find alcohol. A hotel shuttle driver takes us to Seven-Eleven, where we purchase two bottles of Yellow Tail. We drink the cabernet and catch up on the past two years of each other's lives. There are about a dozen adult films available for rent through the hotel, including Swallowing Shanks, Cream on my Face, Hot Young Snatch, and Hairless Honeydrippers. $13.99 is greater than our curiosity.

TUESDAY

Tuesday lasts forever. Eventually, I am in a hotel bar with Barbara's female peers. The British-sounding one looks at me.

"Why do men ask 'Do you swallow'?"

It is unprovoked and accusatory, but at least we are not talking about risk ratios. The other girls talk about feelings of power/submission/control. I give my opinion, which I adopted from Loveline's Adam Carolla.

"It has little to do with power. It's more flattering. It shows that you're not disgusted. I don't care what you do, just don't seem incredibly disgusted by the process."

I'm sure she doesn't hear any of this.

WEDNESDAY

I am waiting for a cab to the airport. I'm tired of feeling cold in the hotel, especially because it's so warm outside. I stand on the sidewalk by the entrance. There is an abundance of shade, but I want to spend my last minutes in the sun. The dry heat is nice, but it feels like there is something missing.

Five Years: Oklahoma City Thunder

I mentioned the prolonged grumpy period that I dragged this blog through. The archives indicate my grumpy period (very similar to Picasso's Blue Period) ran from May 7, 2005, when my girlfriend broke up with me, to January 1, 2006, when Gav and I ate Triple Whoppers to celebrate the new year. ("More sticks in '06!" Gav shouted as he came home from HyVee with a bounty of frozen mozzarella sticks. What a year that was.)

In July 2005, a few months into the grumpiness, Matt and I trekked south to the Oklahoma City suburbs to visit our fine pal Brian. Matt's father had passed away that spring; I'm not sure why he put up with my mood when he had reason to be much more upset. It could be because we're friends.

Here is what happened that weekend, with my grumpy postscript, and some photographic aids taken much later.



Oklahoma City Recap




"You promised me a fight."
"Just wait."

Brian had not yet spent an evening at J.R.'s Bar and Grill without witnessing violence. A half hour later, bareknuckled fisticuffs erupted in the parking lot of, stretching Brian's streak to record lengths. Watching from a distance was bittersweet. I appreciated the insanity of the roadhouse, but it was now clear that the Friday night police response time to the southern outskirts of Oklahoma City was poor. If the motorcyclists or the would-be frat boys (as in, they would be frat boys if they could get in to the community college up the road) inside had a problem with me, I'd be square in the middle of a vicious cockfight.

There had been precisely one non-country-western song performed by J.R.'s karaokists, and Matt wanted me to sing the second. Prior to our arrival, I had planned to sing "Nothing Compares 2 U", but the roguish atmosphere intimidated me. Imagine my surprise when the younger set danced and cheered my rendition of the Spice Girl's "Wannabe", and I escaped J.R.'s without a scratch.

We bought great, cheap seats for the OKC Redhawks game Saturday afternoon. The ticket girl was reading the new Harry Potter book - she didn't yet know who the half-blood price was yet, and believe me, I asked. On the way to the stadium that night, the three of us took a denim short census. Within 20 minutes, we counted twelve adult males sporting jean shorts. Fair enough, Oklahoma City, fair enough. Maybe we all jumped off that bandwagon a little too hastily.

A fat boy raced a skinny girl during one inning break. The fat kid put on the oversized uniform more quickly than the girl, who especially struggled with the pants.

MATT: Congratulations, you peaked. Enjoy life.

The Redhawks' effort that night was lacking, but ours was not. After enjoying fine Boddington's and Guinness', we headed to the Wormy Dog Saloon. There was a steep cover charge, yet the bar was packed, presumably to hear the live band. To my surprise, I did not hate them - it was a huge upgrade from the previous night's country karaoke, and the band even pulled off sweet covers of "Sittin' on the Dock of the Bay" and Reel Big Fish's "Beer".

MATT: I guarantee you we are the smartest people in this bar.

Several beers and shots later, that fact might have changed. One of the attractive women directly in front of was showing plentiful cleavage, but our view was obscured by an Asian male.

MATT (to me): Look, I'm sorry that tidal wave killed all those people. Now move.

On the way home, we pepper Patrick, our cabbie, with curiosity. A different cab driver had once told Brian and Matt that he had driven Britney Spears and Justin Timberlake - we asked Patrick about his famous fares. "The Riverdance guy," Patrick said, and we knew he wasn't lying.

Brian wasn't lying, either. "I left my apartment keys in the car," he said, referring to the cruising sedan parked downtown. We climb back in with our man Patrick to retrieve them.

ME: Maybe we should have just broken a window.
PATRICK: Is there a window you could break? It might be cheaper.
ME: No, only the patio's sliding door. Hey - did anybody lock the sliding door? I didn't.
BRIAN: No.
MATT: No.
ME: We could climb up and get it that way!
BRIAN: No we can't.
MATT: Well...
PATRICK: I used to do things like that, back in my younger days...
ME: Let's do it! I've done it before at Lance's place! Let's do it!

Patrick made the U-turn, and soon we were studying the building's architecture. Breaking in to Lance's second story apartment was simply a matter of standing on the lower rail and reaching up to the second floor. This building had higher ceilings. Brian lived on the third floor. There was no chance of repeating the Lance method.

It's terribly difficult to describe the first attempt, but suffice to say it required more upper body strength / Jackie Chanesque abilities than I possessed, especially half-drunk at 2:00 in the morning. My first pull-up attempt fails; standing on a pitched roof overhang thingy 2.5 stories up, I ready myself for another try.

ME (to myself): Remember, you don't want to fall to your death while trying to break in to an apartment.

I axed the second attempt. We survey the situation again.

MATT: What if you stood on the rail and--
ME: I see where you're going with this, Matt.

Utilizing a nifty, undescribable move, I manage to reach the balcony's rail. I look back at my mates and gave Patrick a fist pump. "Thanks for believing in me, Patrick!" The door slides open, and I unlock the front door from the inside. Parody of happiness, arms around each other's shoulders, our triangle jumps clockwise as we shout stereotypically happy yeas. I've got an old text message from Matt is still on my cell phone. It reads, "I like the way my boner feels in the palm of your hand".

But this little dance is the gayest thing we've ever done.





We head over to the apartment pool to celebrate. After a brief period, a cop spoils the fun. He kicks us out of the pool and moves on to harass the similarly quiet group in the hot tub.

*

I woke up late Sunday morning. Earlier, I heard Matt open the front door a couple times before going back to sleep. I asked him where he went.

MATT: I went to my car to get the charger for my phone.
ME: Who were you going to call?
MATT (pauses):

God. I was going to call God...
...I was going to ask Him when the joke is going to be over...
...and if He thinks he's funny...
...and if He wants to fight.

It would be the funniest thing I've ever heard if it was a joke.

*

The janitor at work liked to talk. Because I drink water from a plastic KC Royals cup, he assumed I liked sports and would ask me about whatever game occurred the previous night. If it was up to him, the Royals would have re-signed Carlos Beltran AND brought Roger Clemens and Randy Johnson on board. It was a stupid idea and I hated the obligatory chats with him. Still, he didn't deserve to be stabbed to death last night by his 14 year-old stepson. He said something to me last week - something bad must have happened last weekend, because he said something vague about letting go, just trying to have a good time from now on. His new philosophy didn't last a week.

Ricky Gervais created and starred in the BBC's (the original version of) The Office. He was interviewed in The Guardian:

In among all of his theories about comedy, one that he won't accept is that it must always come out of a kind of darkness, the tears of a clown. I ask him if there have been times in his life when he has felt down; has he ever not wanted to get out of bed in the mornings?

He looks genuinely appalled at the idea. 'No. No depression. Oh God, no. I mean, when someone dies I cry. But I would never say: "What is the point of life?" I know there is no point to life. The point to life is having a laugh, getting on with everyone. Full stop.' He thinks about this a bit. 'I know how lucky I am. I don't allow stress. Being out of my comfort zone annoys me a bit; you know, if I have to drive a long way or something. Then I go: "Gervais. Your Dad used to hod-carry. Fucking grow up." That always tends to work.' He giggles to himself at this admonishment, at the idea of unhappiness, and, as ever, you cannot help but join in.

Five Years: Solitary Spider

The first showcased piece of The Very Best of Tornado Slide's Five Year Retrospective is a bit written September 5, 2006. Although it received only one approving comment (from Heather), I recall an additional kudo or two outside of the internet. Let's enjoy it once more:


Spidey Senseless

The first spider was unremarkable. It wasn't large, it wasn't small, it wasn't brown, and it certainly wasn't reclusive. It was Spider Edmund Hillary, the first to reach the second floor master bathroom ceiling. It clung there, and to the higher portions of the supporting walls. Showering did not disturb the spider, and neither did I. I respected its achievement, and left it alone. But my mind pestered him.

"Spider," my mind spoke, "I respect your achievement. You are the first. But surely you must see that this isn't the right niche for you. Do you see any food around? Any flies? Any sort of buzzing insect at all? Of course not. I keep a clean home, and you are only an exception. How are you going to sustain yourself?"

Days passed, and I grew more concerned. "Spider," I thought, "this is becoming absurd. Why don't you feel the need to sew a web? Even given the unlikely event of a fly intruder, you are unprepared. The fly would circle around your position on the wall, mocking you. Where are your instincts? Aren't you getting hungry?"

Seven days into the ordeal, a breakthrough -- the spider moved to a much lower position on the west wall, flanking the toilet. The bathroom was still devoid of any silky webs, but it was clear that the adventureous arachnid was planning something.

Another day went by.

And another.

And he died.

But not before giving birth to two more spiders.

One tiny spider took to the corner of Shower and West Wall, while its sibling stayed at Door Frame and North Wall -- a spot located just above his mother's dead body. Upon discovery, both had already built pathetically small, uncomplicated webs, and were perched among the invisible strands, hovering a few centimeters above the white linoleum.

Still, without so much as a single ant in the environment, the webs remained bare. The first spider disappeared after two days, dead -- or, in the spirit of his mother, exploring uncharted territory.

The second remains in place, without food for nearly a week now. Perhaps it is as optimistic as ever, sure that an insect will be trapped any moment now, anticipating the deadly dance that will ensue, and the succulent meal that will result. Still, it would be easy to forgive a gloomier mindset. The young spider lives in a strange world, dark for all but 30 minutes a day, the only other sentient occupant a six-foot-tall mammal, its deceased mother's shriveling corpse always within view, an ominous harbinger of a likely and terrible future.

Five Years

This is my 835th blog post, posted just minutes prior to my five-year blogiversary.

I do not know what else to say about this thing. Many of my friends read it, and some do not. I accept that fact, but it has taken me time to realize that some people, very unlike myself, have no interest in reading everything their friends (or particularly intriguing acquaintances and strangers) have ever typed.

It started ambitiously, writing something every day, which meant a lot of complaining about television or current events. At times, it's focused on happenings at bars with friends, or the fluctuations of my dating career. It definitely suffered through a prolonged grumpy period -- more prolonged than I would have guessed before actually going back and reading it. Now, I guess, it is mostly a place for me to share my vacation tales, complain about work or the drive to work, and indulge in occasional (very occasional) photos of the cat.

Five years is a pretty long time. It's hard to find things in life that you continue to like after five years. I continue to like this blog. Looking back, I'm somewhat shocked at how much I like this blog.

Knowing this momentous date was approaching, I took the time to read all of my archives. While doing so, I re-labeled every post; you will now find a list of labels or tags or whatever in the right sidebar.

One of those labels is "the very best of Tornado Slide". (I always liked it when bands used a variation instead of simply saying "Greatest Hits".) In the next however many days I choose, we'll be looking back at some of the very best Tornado Slide has offered over the years. In most cases, these will be posts that generated the most positive feedback, either publicly in the comments section or privately via whispered praise from friends.

Thank you all for that feedback, and for reading.




I would like to start the proceedings with some very brief zingers that went largely unnoted in the past:

Mylanta Experience - August 14, 2008

I got a free dinner at a mediocre Italian restaurant. You know the type -- where they serve their dishes "family style"? You know, because it's fun! It's just like when you used to eat ravioli back in the old country, with your mom and dad and your kooky Nana Maggiano! But seriously folks, here's my thought on family-style dining: "You're eating all my mashed potatoes, dick."

Coast to Coast - June 26, 2007

It's strange to think that I write you now, blocks away from the Atlantic Ocean, when I began this month on the Pacific Coast. But in another way, it makes sense ending the month in New Jersey, since I started June Slippery When Wet.

A Motorcar, (Definitely) Maybe A Jaguar - March 23, 2009

A guy cut me off this evening as I was entering the turnpike.

He was driving a Jaguar.

His assigned license plate was POO 101.

That's JUSTICE, asshole.

A Nice Day For A Nice Wedding

The groom requested a blog shout-out, so I guess this is a shout-out.

Corinne and Ted's reception was probably the best reception I've ever attended. Is that because there was no garter toss? Or because they served a malbec? Or because I knew and liked 75% of the people there? Yes. Yes it was.

When you don't know how to respond to the bluegrass band,
you put your hand where your rodeo belt buckle would be
and perform an impromptu Lasso Dance.

Both halves of the happy couple have been featured on this blog. For example:

"That's so gross! I'm such a queen about that sort of stuff."

--Willie, gay cast member of MTV's The Real World: Philadelphia, reacting to a roommate's scabies infection

"Like anal sex isn't gross..."

--Corinne, reacting to Willie's comment

and, courtesy of Ted:

I thought we had an unspoken agreement. I would never make fun of Dan's cutesy-but-impotent word twist challenges, and he would never make fun of Blue Oyster Cult on his blog. Well, all bets are off. Don't pretend that you didn't know about how much I love that video, Dan. Everybody knows it. Everybody who is anybody!

Ok, so maybe I've never told anybody that I liked that video. Maybe I was watching VH1 classic one night, all alone, drinking gin right out of the bottle. Maybe that video came on, and I thought to myself, "That video is cool! That dude Caught On Fire!" It doesn't matter. People should know things about me, even if I don't specifically say those things out loud.

Incidentally

I am #1 for "Snoopy Incident". I haven't been this proud since that Googler found me by searching for "I felt a nice penis slide into me".

Lady Business

This reminded me of this.

The Archives: Personal Nirvana

A Tornado Slide first: I am reprinting an archived post.

In New York, my young friend Dave pondered if anyone could have really cared about Nirvana. He was being serious. Taken aback, I informed him that Nirvana was my first favorite band (because really, who would have risen to that position prior to Nirvana? Firehouse? The Arc Angels?), and my favorite band of all time.

Dave can't comprehend what that music meant to those who lived through it. Hopefully, this hastily-written memoir will enlighten him. It is reprinted without edits -- the only change is the addition of the "Seasons in the Sun" performance that inspired it all. (It was missing from the original post because we couldn't find junk on YouTube back in 2005. Thanks, progress.)

* * *

Saturday, January 08, 2005
We Had Joy, We Had Fun, We Had Nirvana

I spent the majority of Wednesday (my snow day) pouring over the contents of the Nirvana box set, With the Lights Out. I read the full color booklet, listened to some of disc 3 (In Utero demos with alternate lyrics!!) while cooking dinner, and watched the DVD. The DVD features a lot of rocking out in Krist's mom's house, some live performances, and a few early videos. The DVD is essentially the fourth and final disc of the box set, and ends with a Nirvana cover of Seasons in the Sun -- studio footage with Kurt on drums, Dave on the bass, and Krist on guitar.

The reason I started this post was to convey their recording of Seasons in the Sun, but after staring at the screen for a few minutes and browsing through the Nirvana Fan Club site for another 30, I still have no idea how to explain it. The three of them are just fucking around, Kurt casually singing, casually altering lyrics, behind the drumset, Krist and Dave looking back at him (when Krist isn't looking down at his axe, struggling to play the notes in order) -- just a perfect, throwaway, early-nineties moment in a tiny room, imperfectly playing a sweet, wistful, seventies hit.

Goodbye Papa please pray for me
I was the black sheep of the family

This post is not going well. How can it? I can't possibly explain it. I can't possibly explain exactly why I spent the majority of the day -- up to the moment I fell asleep -- thinking "I miss Nirvana". You can't know how much I liked Nirvana, and I can't know why I liked Nirvana so much.

A framed picture of a rubber duck hangs between the two surround sound speakers on my back wall. Prior to that, it was stuffed into my files. Prior to that, it was taped to the inside of my high school locker. Prior to that, it was artwork within the liner notes of Incesticide.

I have no idea what struck me before Nevermind, but after I dubbed by brother's copy, that was it. My tape was clear, with some yellow on it, Memorex, 90 minutes. It belonged to my walkmanesque Memorex personal cassette player. I listened to it every day on the bus, to and from school. I listened to it, particularly Drain You, over and over again on the ride home from a field trip - the first and only field trip we ever took out of the state, to a cave and a salt flat in Oklahoma; I was in the seventh grade, and I was wearing sunglasses. The tinted lenses allowed me to stare at the girl I had a crush on with zero repercussions -- she would look at me a few times, but I just kept looking straight ahead at her, confident that my hideous yet effective sunglasses would shield my obsession.

In a passionate kiss
From my mouth to yours
Sloppy lips to lips
You're my vitamins
I'm like you

(Except that, in my youth, my dubbed tape with no liner notes -- not that it really matters, even the liner notes didn't have all the lyrics -- I thought the last part was "I like you".)

I listened to it on the tractor -- I was on the 80 acres surrounding my home, and I remember Mrs. Mies waving as the bus drove by, so it must have been one of the days I was kept home from school so I could help plant wheat, which makes sense because then I would have been on the smaller tractor, the one that makes less noise because it's not as big as the 1066. The larger tractor was so loud that it was pointless to wear headphones; even at the highest volume you could barely hear what song was playing, and I suspected that listening to headphones at their highest volume was likely bad for my hearing (although that didn't seem to stop my father from ordering me to work on the loudest tractor in the world). So, I must of been on the 686, and I know I was listening to Bleach, because I the memory is connected to Love Buzz. I learned from my new box set that Love Buzz was actually a cover song -- Shocking Blue, a band from the Netherlands of all places, wrote it -- and part of my youth was a white lie.

In Utero was released when I was a freshman in high school; coincidentally, I bought it on the same day that I borrowed a Blind Melon album from Danelle. In those days I rode shotgun in my brother's '79 Cutlass -- those familiar with the Oldsmobile line will recall that particular model did not feature a CD player, so we had to wait to get home until we listened to it. I put in the Blind Melon album when my brother wasn't looking and pressed play. "It sounds like Blind Melon," he said. Then we switched to the real deal; after hearing Rape Me, he brought the other stereo upstairs so he could play Smells Like Teen Spirit at the same time as Rape Me, to prove to me and to himself that it was the same riff at different speeds.

A bootlegged live album was taken when my house was robbed. I called the store I bought CDs from to ask if it had been sold to them that day. It had not. She explained that they would need a case number from the police -- that's how this sort of thing usually works. I looked around to see what else had been stolen.

Kurt died at some point due to a shotgun blast. (I have always opted against renting the movies and reading the books that debate murder versus suicide. In the end, it matters, but it doesn't matter.) Where was I? I don't remember. For me, his death was cemented the next morning at Shawn's locker; Simmons was there, too. Shawn and I had once made a little dance routine to Son of a Gun.

The sun shines in the bedroom
When we play
The raining always starts
When you go away

Joe was on my baseball team around that time, so I guess he died in Spring (a Google search confirms it was April). (I believe this must also have been the season that Joe hit three dingers in one game, and accepted an intentional walk later in the season when we face that team again. The three home run game by Joe remains the most inexplicable display of power I have ever seen, and will hold that slot until I witness one of those grandmother-overcome-with-adrenaline-lifts-car-to-save-the-baby-underneath events, and that intentional walk had to be the greatest and strangest feeling Joe G. had ever felt and has felt since.) I told him a kid at my school had killed himself, and he asked if it was because Kurt did. He said there were kids across the country committing suicide just because Cobain died. He thought it was unbelievable. I did not.

My heart-shaped box set adventure was Wednesday - on Thursday, the memories of junior high were put on hold, back to work. I picked up the two women in my carpool and drove us to our cubicles. But it was okay, because In Utero was playing on my car stereo, 30% louder than I had any right to subject my passengers to.

Ecto-plasma, Ecto-skeletal
Obituary every birthday
Your scent is still here in my place of recovery!

3 comments:

Anonymous said...

Man, you are in the wrong line of work. I demand that you become a writer before you waste away on a phone in a cubicle somewhere, trying to explain to people that they will not get West Nile from hookers.

I remember I was at school when I heard of Kurt's death. I was in 12th grade--I think it was technically after school (the line between class time and free time became blurred by spring of senior year), and I was putzing around in a classroom with some friends waiting for baseball practice. It was a teacher who told me (this probably sounds strange, but this was the same teacher who taught us how to make homemade beer, showed us that we could drink hydrochloric acid if it was diluted, and eventually got fired for giving students makeshift tattoos). I fell speechless. I think the early 90's grunge/alternative scene had as big an effect on me as anything I've ever encountered musically and stylistically. This probably explains my lasting fondness for dissonance, flannel and heroin.

I feel cheated by Kurt's death, whether it was suicide or murder.

Is it better to burn out or to fade away? [-jeff.]


dn said...

Let you forget Kurt's (alleged) suicide note, "I don't have the passion anymore and so remember, its better to burn out than to fade away."

Thanks for the compliment re: my writing, but I think there's some work to be done before I am a novelist. In the meantime, I will save lives.


Anonymous said...

on new year's eve, i went to a party-type thing at a really nice hotel in cleveland with some friends. more than half the crowd was in tuxedos, so it's safe to say that we were out of place. in one of the rooms, there was a casino set up. so, we were playing at a craps table when i heard some guy behind me say "i would never waste money on the nirvana box set." as if it were a reflex, i immediately turned and said "that's the dumbest fuc*in' comment i've heard all night." as you can imagine, i received some strange looks from a crowd whose average age was ~40. but, i felt it had to be said. kurt cobain and layne staley/jerry cantrell defined a 4-5 year period of my youth, and i'll be damned if i'm going to let some tux-wearing, mini-cooper-driving moron tarnish that.
-Paul