Of Tumblr Redesigns and Athlete-Musician Parallels

You want my blog to be familiar. You want it to have a face you can reliably identify as Blurry Eyes. But I keep changing the theme and the colors and the overall mood of the place. STOP you might be saying. Let it be. Let it breathe.

I resist your need for familiarity and ease of use. Part of it is the sheer size of visual variety offered by Tumblr and its hidden, off-to-the-side “recent themes.” Part of it is my confident belief that there’s some better design out there, some better fitting header photo, some truer face. By “confident belief” I mean of course “disappointment” in what I’ve done so far.

So I start over. Again and again. Sometimes ten times in the same endless night. Sometimes, exhaustion sets in and I throw up my non-web-designing-hands and let the CSS just sit there unfinished, orange on yellow, Futura up against Georgia, that awful picture of the apartment building brought back again from the dead.

Speaking of resurrections, might my old stomping grounds (circa ‘08) welcome me back? Although I don’t expect my old friend Mike to make his way back west from central Minnesota’s Gomorrah-like hold, it wouldn’t be Rocco’s Pizza without him. I am being intentionally over-vague. Mare Winningham knows.

High speed segue!

Making connections between basketball players and pop culture representatives is a risky pursuit. I recall misguided attempts to connect Gilbert Arenas to Gil Scott-Heron or Mark Madsen to George Harrison. Because the deserved street cool (or, more likely, randomly assigned internet rep) of athletes is transitory and often based on obscure facts that are forgotten faster than the fourth best show of a mid-90s NBC Must-See TV Thursday comedy block. They’re athletes. Their pursuits are physical. They’re not here to make hook-heavy music or create lasting catch phrases or resonate in bit part roles in classic 90s comedies. But writers and rappers and rockers and actors and, in a way, bloggers are here to create ideas and make artistic impressions. Our physical pursuits are not as interesting.

Which is all to say, I wish I had been the one to say “If the Walkmen were a basketball player, they’d be Tyson Chandler.” Wow, that’s a good one. Jealousy rages through my thinking parts and is absent from my emotional sections. Stereogum’s Tom Breihan came up with this idea and elaborated beautifully:

“If the Walkmen were a basketball player, they’d be Tyson Chandler: Charming, erudite, handsome, and smooth, but not flashy or self-aggrandizing. Like Chandler, they bring a fundamental intensity to just about everything they do. Chandler has his muscular low-post moves, and the Walkmen have drummer Matt Barrick, who never overwhelms the songs he plays on but who hits harder than just about anyone else in indie rock. And like Chandler, the Walkmen had to keep working for a long time before it started to dawn on people that they were as good as they are. So here’s hoping that Heaven, the Walkmen’s seventh album and quite possibly the best, works as the Walkmen’s equivalent to the 2011 NBA Finals — the moment where the world at large realizes that the Walkmen aren’t just strong and dependable, but that they’re one of the best indie bands we’ve got.”

Excellent work, Tom. You see, Tyson Chandler’s qualities - workmanlike reliability, subtle presence, handsomeness - apply to his game AND to his various intersections with the pop culture. Sure, we may find out one day that dude is a huge Waka Flocka fan or that he regularly private-tweets George R.R. Martin but that won’t change the fact that he doesn’t let you down, that he makes you want to honor him not for this game or that season but for his lanky muscled body of work. Tyson Chandler can be analogized in the same way that Metta World Peace or even LeBron James cannot. He knows not to show off. He knows not to bore us.

And the Walkmen? Practice has made them nearly perfect. Greatness (in the form of stellar execution and profound career development) has followed them. Many mistake their early song The Rat as a precocious spit of genius never to move from mouth to street again. No. It’s a very nice song, probably their best but in the same ballpark - the same sport, the same team - as another half dozen they’ve put out over the years. I will have a list for you in due time. Until then, stream their new album (this week only).

14 Trips on 4 Trains and 6 Planes… and who are the 20 Missing Friends?

The last 36 hours for me have been about as weird as any time I can remember:

I’ve been to 5 airports in 3 states. I missed flights in 2 of those states but I blame the airlines. I was on 6 flights, all of them seeming to be exactly 1 hour and 15 minutes long. They were all Southwest Airlines flights and, even though there’s no assigned seating on Southwest, I somehow made it so that I sat in the next-to-last row on the left, on the aisle, for every flight but the last one, for which I sat by the window in the next-to-last row on the left. More on that experience later.

I rode all 4 lines (Red, Yellow, Blue, and Green) of Portland’s Light Rail System. I traveled in every possible direction - all 8 of them. I lost my iPhone on either the Red or the Blue Line. My Macbook’s power source broke down around the same time, leaving me unable to communicate.

I found myself wandering the deserted streets of near-downtown Portland at 2:00am, walking to kill time before a 6:00am flight, only to realize I had forgotten to eat since noon and, feeling more extreme hunger than I can ever remember, saw the beautiful beacon light of a Denny’s restaurant. I walked and walked and walked toward that Denny’s. I was going to have pancakes AND French toast AND ice cream. The walk seemed like it would never end. Denny’s never strayed from my sight line. I stared at that sign, making sure not to miss it. Now I haven’t been to Denny’s since 1992 but even I know they’re open all night. Not this one. Not the Denny’s that stood, electric light the only illumination in the empty city’s black sky. No, they were closed. Luckily, I found a 24-hour FedEx Office (nee Kinko’s) and they apparently starting selling gummy bears which saved me. since noon and was at that moment starving. ‘

I was in Portland for a job interview. The less said, the better. But I do have some other really good possibilities for jobs and, Jason and Ben - if you’re reading, your graduate school alma maters are among two of them. Do either of you have any pull with those institutions - the one up in Magic Mountain land (Jason) or the one near where Western Ave. turns into Los Feliz Blvd. (Ben)?

When I say the streets of Portland were deserted, I mean it. In an hour of walking, I saw maybe 4 cars and the only 2 people I saw were literally coming out from two different bushes on both sides of the same street, each bounding kangaroo-like in front of me, and retreating to darkness on the sides opposite their original bushes. Oh yeah - there was the weird lady at the 24-hour Kinko’s who seemed convinced I was an evildoer set to corrupt their crappy rental PCs when all I wanted to do was communicate with the world.

I also visited the best bookstore on the planet (Powell’s in Portland), ate the best berry scone (forgot the name but it’s the hippy coffee place at PDX), and, thanks to the goodness that is really out there in the world, I will be getting my iPhone back, courtesy of the man that found it on the train. He could have kept it (even if I somehow shut the phone off, he’d still have my amazing stored music collection) or sold it (an easy $300). But no - he called my contacts and tracked me down and sure I shouldn’t be too effusive with praise until I actually get it back in the mail like he promised but I think I just got good-samaritaned. I’ll figure out a suitable reward. Best Buy gift card? Portland rapid transit monthly pass? Vouchers for McDonald’s cherry pies? Some of my playlists?

More good news, to make me forget strange interviews and registered letters from the IRS: After I came home, I ventured to the Apple Store and they replaced my power adapter for free. Now, you might say: everybody with a 2009-2011 Macbook is eligible for a free adapter because of that little problem with the melting plastic and the small fires. But they had already given me my one free one. They broke the rules and sent me away happy. Now, if only they could work on the factories in China or how they’re somehow encouraging every app developer to create “mobile sites” that are completely opposite of how I want “mobile sites” to be.

Despite my visit to Powell’s and $20 expressly budgeted to Powell’s, I bought nothing there, choosing instead to read and reread every single damn word of the new airport-purchased issue of Dwell, with their 300 new designers worth mentioning or whatever it is they do and why did it take me this long to figure out that they do that every month?

I realize that it wasn’t that weird of a day and a half. But still… it was notable. What else? I sat next to religious zealot missionaries on the plane back to LA - a married couple from Reno. Between them, they ate 8 apples on a 1-hour flight. Plus, the woman laid out her plans to ask that one rich family for $20,000 so the parsonage could make a new school or some such thing. Why do churches get tax breaks? Never made sense to me.

Oh here’s something scary: On the plane when I was next to the zealots, I remembered I have 91 Facebook friends. I challenged myself to remember them all. I could only get to 71. (In order to more easily remember and avoid double-counting, I categorized the ones I could remember. It’s best I don’t share with you the categories. I won’t tell you the categories. I will never tell you the categories.

Still

She’s still at the hostel
He’s still at the airport
She’s still in the midst of it
He’s still in the baggage claim
She’s still keystroking down the bones
He’s still listening for the clues
In the words of little songs
As her cartilage is spared

And his bags were nearly packed
Small consolation given the fact
That his bags are just not here
And her room has piles
That once were stacks, now piles
But the words she wishes out
Won’t help the mess she’s in
She stops and falls asleep in the center
Of 27 notebooks and hundreds of loose pages
Two sweaters for a blanket
Dreaming of a picture where she’s still
Not waiting to get out of frame

The wind is hard and static
Not enough to wake her
Still form as it delivers the word
That he was at the wrong carousel
The bags were fifty feet away
Still spinning in a circle, all alone
Except for each other
He grabs them, holds and rolls them
To the bench where he waits
For a bus to a train to a train to a bus
To some footsteps and an address
Where she waits with love and notebooks
Where it’s noisy but it’s just as likely still

05.11.12

Tales of Celebrity Sightings Told in the Stylized Manner of Late 90s Short Fiction, #1 in a Series

Diminutive actor Seth Green sidles up to a Pasadena Nordstrom Rack sales associate in the men’s section and, in an unctuous tone normally reserved for Svengali pep talks, whisper-coos “Dude, do you have any linen pants?”, the word “linen” as sticky-resistant as the last gooey drop of 100% pure maple syrup yet to fall on a Sunday morning wedding-present-waffle-maker homemade waffle.

The young male sales associate - shockingly, shorter than the elfin ginger-haired character actor - confidently responds, “Sure, let me show you what we’ve got.” The two of them then walk to a quiet corner of the store, stridently military-stepping through the narrow tiled aisles, like Jack in the Beanstalk through a hotel china shop (the sales associate) and a toddler through an ant farm (Green).

Ten minutes later, the chimney-sweep-sized Greg the Bunny co-creator and occasional Entourage substitute-guest-appearer is spotted in the checkout line clutching two packaged dress shirts and no pants, linen or otherwise. He appears confused, yet hopeful.

(end stylized story)

Further details:
Date of sighting: May 12, 2012
Exact location: Nordstrom Rack, Pasadena, CA (Hastings Village Shopping Center)
Likelihood that person spotted was actually the celebrity being discussed: 52%
Amount of embellishment in storytelling: 18%
Detail that is almost certainly true: The linen pants question
Detail that is almost certainly false: That Seth Green, even as a toddler, could fit inside an ant farm

Photo Math

Moodymann putting on his rollerskates

Divided by

Will Shortz playing ping pong

Plus

Mary Timony on a porch with a bird

Equals

Humphrey Bogart on a bicycle at a soundstage

(Photo credits: Moodymann-unknown Shortz-unknown Timony-Megan Holmes Bogart-unknown)

The Legend of DJ Swoop

In the long ago spring of 2011, I found myself at a crossroads. Ahead of me was a vast unknown prairie, where future home and future job could be visible if not for the dusty lateral winds blinding my vision. Behind me were abrupt endings and hard-worked-for beginnings. Nowhere in my body did I hold the desire to start over. To my left were ne’er-do-wells and seldom-seens, sledding down hills of puffy regret, cheered on by men, women, and children wearing actual parkas and exhaling actual (visible) air. To my right, I saw saints and den mothers, heroines and night porters, all walking in a straight line until they neared the very intersection in which I stood, at which point they retreated backwards.

In new unemployment, I repelled zombies and stayed blind to possibilities, for none (zombies, possibilities) would get near me. It was on the third Thursday morning of this new, new reality that I was introduced to DJ Swoop.

I’ve spoken of the DJ that is more a creator than a selector, more a producer than a voice. Today, I speak of the voice, the one who selects, spins, and speaks. The radio DJ. And on this particular day, I speak of the greatest radio DJ there ever was, DJ Swoop.

Swoop’s reign over the radio universe lasted, as far as I can tell, one semester. Eighteen shows, for two hours each. He had the Thursday 12noon to 2pm gig at KSPC, the radio station of the Claremont Colleges in Claremont, CA. Based on the station’s playlist archives, he first appeared on air on January 27, 2011, opening his debut with The Tallest Man On Earth’s King of Spain. Less than four months later, on May 12, he played his final cut, Elliot Smith’s Twilight. That’s going out in style.

DJ Swoop had his idiosyncrasies. He’d mix in four-song sets by the same artist in the middle of a typical one-song per artist show. These included bands I’d never heard much of before but would grow to love (WHY?) or like (Lovers), bands I knew well and appreciated (Velvet Underground, Beach House), and bands whose shrill arrangements and shriller vocals should never be allowed near flugelhorns or xylophones (Beirut). He LOVED to play the band Starfucker and truly got a kick out of explaining - rather than saying - the band’s name to his audience. “That last band… their name…. I can’t really say it… but it rhymes…. with Cartrucker. Heh-heh.”

What I haven’t given you yet is a sense of DJ Swoop’s voice. His Facebook page reveals that he was a 2010 high school graduate from a tony part of Connecticut. This makes him a college freshman during his time on the radio, which makes sense with KSPC being a college station. I would reveal his actual first and last name, his major and which college in the consortium he attended (and still attends). But that would make me someone who reveals personal information about a teenager less than half my age and that would make me way creepier than I really am.

But he wasn’t just any 18-year old from the east coast dropped down in the leafy foothills of Claremont, CA. He was the most socially awkward, vocally hesitant, and absurdly shy person you’ve ever heard make a vocation (or a hobby) as a public speaker. Of course, to someone who once was a shy awkward 18-year old, to someone like me, these are extremely endearing qualities.

To hear DJ Swoop struggle with a public service announcement or mispronounce “Sufjan” or “Bon Iver” made you want to root for him. When he hesitated in the middle of a song ID as he pondered which song exactly it was that he played off of WHY?’s Eskimo Snow album, it wasn’t so much dead air as it was an oozing ravine of lava waiting to push itself out before the cute flighty Brazilian intern handed Swoop a list of campus events he would soon dread slogging through. He just wanted to make it to the next song. We all did. Because for every song he played, that would be a song he’d have to name: SONG TITLE, ARTIST, ALBUM, and LABEL. And in that little bit of information you could hear his love of music, of songs that shook him out of his freshman fears or his homesick longing. When an inscrutable title came DJ Swoop’s way, he recited it as a mystery to unravel. Band names were offered with a detached almost professional respect. Because band names were cool. Album names is where Swoop sometimes lost us. He didn’t give the same requisite pause that he gave between title and band. And often I’d have to decipher where the album name ended and the record label began. But he’d get it all out because it was important to do so.

Pause for a question: Why do college radio DJs ALWAYS give the name of the record label? This was true back in the record and CD days. It’s still true now. This isn’t true on other stations - commercial and otherwise. But on college stations, the record label is prized information that should be celebrated, often in more worshipful tones than the song itself. Not complaining., Just asking.

Little about the first half of 2011 was good for me. The ending of my job was not a clean break. There was a interminable illness (except it did have a terminus). There was a car issue (always a car issue). There was a dearth of good job options and the few that did bare their teeth bit me hard. There were deaths of loved ones and acquaintances. But for two hours once a week from March through May, I had DJ Swoop (I missed his first 6 or so shows; sadly, nothing is archived.)

DJ Swoop, I sincerely hope things are going well for you at your Claremont Colleges Consortium college. I’m sorry I wasn’t offered that job at your sister school. Thanks for the great music. In your honor, here’s a simulated recreation of a typical non-existent set of yours (minus the Beirut of course):

First something from… heh-heh…a band whose name I can’t say. Rhymes with “jar smucker” Heh-heh.

Next, I somehow missed the times you’d play 4 WHY? songs back to back. Maybe my life would have been a little bit easier if I became obsessed with them one year sooner.

Here’s some consortium math for you: (the first song above * the second song above) / -1 = this next song

You seemed to like them. I can’t remember them. But I’ll try.

And we’ll close with your Stairway your New Slang, your Daft Punk is Playing at My House:

Oh hell. I’m feeling celebratory. Some goddamn Beirut: (also - to hear DJ Swoop trying to smoothly say “The Flying Club Cup” was always a tension-filled minute)

P(r)o(ps)

I like:

Yoni Wolf’s Twitter. Dude has a lot to say. Being the best lyricist of his generation doesn’t seem to get in the way of tweets about kombucha, airport fish tacos, yoga, and the yearning for a “handy.” I’m not quite ready to start a Twitter account but if I do, Yoni’s the first semi-celebrity I’m following.

Tang. I’m drinking a gallon a day and nothing is slowing me down.

Cats. They never disappoint.

Laundry

For the first time since the first Bush administration, I’ve been frequenting laundromats lately. There are laundry facilities in my 3-unit apartment building (yes it’s odd to have a 3-unit building; the laundry room is where a 4th unit would be) but the inefficiency and unavailability of the single washer and dryer (each only 75 cents) have sent me elsewhere. (Psst - hey Janet. Not every day is laundry day.)

What I’ve noticed from my visits to modern laundromats (compared to those from 1991) is the following:

-One quarter to wash and one quarter to dry is no longer the going rate (not that I expected it to be; I’m not that out of touch). My preferred laundromat has three different sized washers ($1.25, $2.50, and, for when you want to go all-out commercial-industrial, $6.25). It’s still a quarter to dry but for exactly 7 minutes. The shortest drying cycle I’ve experienced required 5 quarters. So a weekly trip to the laundry can cost $20 a person easily.

-People washing their clothes in public have a clearer sense of purpose than anyone else we might run into, in our daily ventures into society; surgeons have less serious faces than laundromat-goers.

-People washing their clothes in public are extremely efficient multitaskers. I thought it came from sheer repetition but I noticed how efficient I became tending to five differently timed and temperatures loads of my own laundry during the second go-round of my laundromat renaissance

-I’m not the only one who thought of hauling my dirty clothes around in IKEA bags. Oh - this may be obvious to most people but I experienced a sense of great discovery when I figured out that putting the bag itself into the washer and dryer is a good way to get rid of its understandably unpleasant odor.

-My hometown, Long Beach, must have more laundromats per capita than any other city in the world, at least in the area bordered by Ximeno to the east, the Pacific Ocean to the south, Pacific Coast Highway to the north, and Pacific Avenue to the west (just wanted to overuse the word ‘Pacific’ there but the borders are pretty accurate) and they’re always busy.

Anyway, enjoy my photo above from my favorite laundromat. Besides its obvious appeal - the cool big industrial dryers, the way it demonstrates that ‘loiterer’ in Espanol is ‘vagabundos’ - I like the juxtaposition of the out-of-order dryer next to the very much in-order one spinning my very own towels and bed linens.

When no one’s reading: five songs I like (includes the story of my greatest regret)

I used to make lists of songs every few years…. then every year… then every week…. then every year again… then every decade… then every year…. then every half-year…. I recently considered making a list for the just-ended quarter-year.

Realizing I also wanted to write about songs that may have come out before 2012, I decided to do what I do here. On occasion (if I’m steadfast, once a week), in the guise of a list, I’ll give you five songs I think are particularly great. It’ll skew toward newer stuff. But then again there may be weeks when the list is all older stuff or all one particular artist I’ve been obsessing over.

I actually once had the discipline to make top 10 song lists every single week. This was back in 1984-1986 when I kept my legendary “graph paper diary.” Back then, I journalistically - that is to say, dryly - listed my top 10 songs and top 20 people each week. These entries were among others in which I simply stated what I did that day and with whom. (Note to 1980s nostalgists: This diary is proof that the life of an American teenager was surprisingly dull during the Reagan Years.) In my diary, there were no emotional outpourings. Humor was decidedly absent.

My top 10 song lists would clearly reflect whatever album I bought that week with my first job fast food money. Seven of my top 10 songs would be from the new Marshall Crenshaw album or the new Mink DeVille epic. One particularly tragic week saw 27% of the Rolling Stones’ Dirty Work make up 30% of the list. Freeway of Love by Aretha made it. Sure, those are some music legends but the Stones and the Queen of Soul have done better.

These days, it’s so much easier to listen to so much music. Sure, there are some drawbacks: you don’t get to spend as much time with individual artists or records. But you do get to hear a lot of different stuff and sometimes quantity is quality. Maybe not all the time but it sure beats trying to explain to myself what I liked about Harlem Shuffle.

5 Particularly Great Songs for the Week

BY TORPEDO OR CHRON’S - WHY? I’ll start with a song from an unjustly ignored (by me) album from 2008. I’ve written about them recently and intend to write a lot more soon, as I continue to lament that there is no word on a new album coming out anytime soon. For now, enjoy Yoni Wolf’s precise yet enigmatic lyrics and smart yet self-effacing delivery. Appreciate the musicianship of the entire band of streetwise misfits. Wonder about the likelihood of their being health food in hell.

DIET MOUNTAIN DEW - LANA DEL REY_ Everyone thinks she’s beautiful. Most agree that she’s got personality. Some begrudgingly respect her songs. Few think she’s truly talented. I’ll address each of these thoughts:

Beautiful? Yes. Hard to argue that.

Personality? Yes, it’s there. It’s got to be there, given her unique career trajectory. I couldn’t describe it though, which is totally okay.

Respect-worthy songs? Yes, for the most part. The song we have here and Video Games and Blue Jeans are all excellent. Some songs fail but never for lack of trying.

Talented Yes - in terms of voice, delivery, need for love masked by emotional detachment.

But my lists are about songs, not the people creating them.

Yes, careful reader, that last sentence was a blatant misrepresentation of how I write about music. I’m more than happy to discuss the people.

Back to the song: “Diet Mountain Dew. Baby, New York City.” Now, that’s the way to kick off a hook. Let’s be honest: No one has ever made DMD cool before. LDR made it so. At least it was cool the first time I heard this song. On repeated listens, I’ve had a tendency to substitute other five-syllable drinks for the maligned Pepsico product, adding new cities for effect: “Cherry Cola Slice. Baby, Kansas City” or “Kerns Mango Nectar. Baby, Albuquerque.” But if I’m thirsty AND in need of a caffeine pick-me-up AND it’s a hot day AND I want to lower my sugar intake, Diet Mountain Dew is the drink and the song I’ll go for.

And yes I do realize that the song isn’t really about the drink, that Diet Mountain Dew is code for a toxic relationship or some more general representation of unhealthy vices. I get that. I just wanted an excuse to make my reference to the late, lamented my Cherry Cola Slice, okay.

(pic courtesy of the absolutely amazing and thorough website usasoda)

WHEN NO ONE’S WATCHING - CRAIG FINN
I’m sure I’m not the only one wondering who Craig Finn is singing about here. The reference to “the stage” leads me to believe it’s a fellow musician, maybe someone from Finn’s old Twin Cities circuit. Or perhaps someone from the Brooklyn years? Dave Pirner? Matthew Friedberger? The guy from Les Savy Fav? It’s not Westerberg, is it? My theory could be wrong. The song could even be fictional. No matter what, the song is awesome. (This is the only version I could find; you may want to seek out the studio version if you have Spotify or a similar service.)

COUNTRY DEATH SONG - VIOLENT FEMMES Speaking of the mid-1980s, I was a big Violent Femmes fan. I claimed (to anyone that would listen) that they invented punk rock. They did, as far as their weird little Midwestern corner was concerned. I saw them live in the summer of 1985 on a hot summer night. At the conclusion of the show, my friend John and I were invited to go skinny-dipping in a lake by my movie theater co-workers Kaari and Sarah. We thought about it. We considered it, alone and in tandem. We said no. I don’t know about John but saying no to naked swimming with two slightly-older college girls still stands as my life’s greatest regret. Yes, even more so than not saying something sooner to that woman outside the courthouse. Yes, even more than buying that McFlurry when I really didn’t have to.

Back to the Violent Femmes. In researching something about someone earlier this week, I came across a fascinating story about a 2007 feud between Brian Ritchie, the Femmes’ lanky standoffish bassist and Gordon Gano, the band’s brilliant gregarious pudgy songwriter/guitarist/singer. Seems that Ritchie didn’t like Gano selling the song Blister in the Sun to Wendy’s for a TV commercial promoting Wendy’s line of wretched baked potatoes. So the bassist put out a press release that began:

“For the fans who rightfully are complaining about the Wendy’s burger advertisement featuring Blister in the Sun Gordon Gano is the publisher of the song and Warners is the record company. When they agree to use it there’s nothing the rest of the band can do about it, because we don’t own the song or the recording. That’s showbiz.”

Okay, he doesn’t like the commercial. Considering that Gano was the principal songwriter and his voice and guitar dominate that punky little masturbation song, my thought is that he can sell the song if he wants to. It’s not like the Violent Femmes are millionaires. I saw Gano open up for American Music Club at a tiny bar in L.A. in 2008 and Gano - a truly nice man and still very talented musician - lugged his own equipment and appeared to only drink drinks that were free or purchased for him. In other words, the dude is not Mick Jagger, sleeping on 1,200-thread count Egyptian-cotton-lined-with-Malaysian-platinum sheets and subsisting on designer drug-infused chocolate cluster balls. Still, if Ritchie doesn’t like the use of the song in the commercial, that’s his call. His unhappiness is not the most unreasonable reaction I’ve ever heard. But there’s more:

“Therefore when you see dubious or in this case disgusting uses of our music you can thank the greed, insensitivity and poor taste of Gordon Gano. It is his karma that he lost his songwriting ability many years ago, probably due to his own lack of self-respect as his willingness to prostitute our songs demonstrates.”

Disgusting? Greed? Prostitute? Whoa. Hey! Bassist! That greedy tasteless whore was your meal ticket out of Milwaukee. He wrote Add It Up. Black Girls. Gone Daddy Gone. Girl Trouble (Up the Ass). He wrote all of Hallowed Ground. Pay him some respect. You say he lost his songwriting ability many years ago? Listen to 2009’s Under the Sun from Gano’s new band and tell me he still hasn’t got it. (Whatever you do, do NOT listen to Way That I Creep from the same ‘09 album. That song wouldn’t help Gano’s case.) Loss of ability aside, this press release is getting a little dramatic. Let’s continue.

Neither Gordon (vegetarian) nor me (gourmet) eat garbage like Wendy’s burgers. I can’t endorse them because I disagree with corporate food on culinary, political, health, economic and environmental grounds. However, I see my life’s work trivialized at the hands of my business partner over and over again, although I have raised my objections numerous times. As disgusted as you are I am more so.”

I’ve heard a story about Morrissey reading the Wall Street Journal on an airplane. I’ve witnessed Prince walking into a movie theater showing St. Elmo’s Fire. I’m aware of Paul Weller’s 2010 hairstyle. I’ve walked by Anthony Kiedis as he opened an umbrella; the drizzle that day in Santa Monica was so light you could say seven “Californications” between each raindrop. But I can confidently say that Brian Ritchie’s decision to use the parenthetical “gourmet” is the least rock-and-roll decision any musician has ever made.

He’s basically saying he protests the use of the song in a fast food commercial because he’s better than fast food. Sure, he gives a few more acceptable reasons but really it comes down to the bassist being more of a foodie than the guitarist/singer/songwriter. I’ve been to Milwaukee. A Wendy’s baked potato is in the upper half of the gourmet continuum there. (And here in LA too, I should add.)

The rest of the paragraph is just grandstanding and message-repeating. And then it -unlike this blog post - mercifully ends.

Look, I believe there are valid environmental and ethical concerns when it comes to the U.S. fast food and meat industries. I also believe that musicians - all celebrities, major or minor - are allowed to have political opinions. But I think there’s more to this story. I really think Ritchie’s decision to even issue a press release over the entire Wendy’s matter was so he could tell anyone that would listen that he has more refined food tastes than Gordon Gano. Again, Brian: Gordon is the guitarist. Gordon is the singer. Gordon is the songwriter. You’re the bassist. No amount of Food Network viewing will change that. Everyone else, enjoy the most depressing great song ever written:

I just realized that Craig Finn’s song above mentions a Wendy. And that my blog includes a reference to a photograph of someone I know named Wendy (04-02-12), as well as a poem referencing a Wendy (04-07-12). And now my Wendy’s discussion here. Is there a deeper meaning to this Wendy’s confluence? No, all of it is a coincidence. Except for the poem which I wrote shortly after hearing the Finn song.

SPEAK LIKE A CHILD - THE STYLE COUNCIL
Speaking of Paul Weller, why does everyone only mention The Jam and not The Style Council when they talk about his former bands?

Oh and that haircut I was talking about?

All That Silence Will Allow

Jarvis Cocker called it hardcore
Nameless poets summed up lives in 240 lines or more
Grant Lee Phillips claimed devastation
Lee, Kim, and Thurston pined for Daydream Nation

Grant Lee recalled the Cumberland Gap
I was there, got there without a map
Lived in the hull of a ship of a town
Lived there until love let me down

Left for a 10-year walk in the park
Spent hours perfecting the top of the arc
Losers can someday be winners
Babies can become Berliners

Hold it as if the wind will rip it away
Because the wind will rip it away
And the guilty will pay but not nearly enough
I’m sorry you’re sleeping rough

For stories you had an appetite
Late skies gave way to blinding light
What the stories never gave you
Was a graceful exit, a proper ending
Sometimes the Englishman has the best tunes
And the astronaut must trundle through the ruins

They still remember Ted on Venice Beach
Ted held court; they came, they reached
Some days you hear a bird land on wet sand
Some nights you ignore the last breath of a dying man
Or you cover your ears to an alley brawl
We never play enough basketball

John made it to another year
He drops the needle down on Here, My Dear
The sun sets on January 1st
There’s precedent to fear the worst

Left the park walk to run into chaos
Found a raging river, still trying to cross
Atheists and celibates can become sinners
The heartbroken become Berliners

Your cat cries, wants to come in from the hall
You let her in as the sun ends it fall
She’s happy, she’s here
She’s bright-eyed, she’s dear

This is fiction - pulp, no pulp
This is hardcore, on location
This is what they promised
This is what you wanted
Your bird has flown
Christmas was hardcore but Christmas is over
Your cat’s asleep
Marvin’s just about given up
Tracy Chapman is thinking about transportation
Talking about a revelation
That the blood that was spilled
From every soldier and singer killed
Was an echo
Of another echo
Of a strange and ancient
Noise about to come out of her
And all that silence will allow

If our simple words and calculated crimes
Are no better than nursery rhymes
That’s more than satisfactory
That girl worked in a factory
Where they built jigsaw puzzles
From trees and stock photographs
At home she wrote paragraphs
Better than a book
She kept them to herself

11.14-15.11

We Need Love to Live in the Odalisque

If if if if
The Decemberists and
Frankie Beverly and Maze
Formed a supergroup
It would sound like you
It would feel like me
It would tour the earth
From next November
To the Spanish Civil War

If if if if
The Decemberists and
Frankie Beverly and Maze
Formed a supergroup
Their songs of love
Would be songs of loss
Like losing a satchel
To a floating breeze
As the sun offers mercy

If if if if
Mercy is the bagman’s wave
And love is the key
Then joy and pain are one and the same
And no one’s safe inside a whale
Not Jonah, not Wendy and the baby
You can’t find your way out the path
These are my heart songs
In dreams and barracuda
We’ll walk the cornfield all the way home

If if if if
The Decemberists and
Maze featuring Frankie Beverly
Formed a supergroup
Would Colin feel okay about
Letting Frank take lead on most of the songs?
If he insisted on singing his “fair share”
Would the rest of his crew
Have to stage an intervention
Like they did after The Crane Wife?

Assuming Maze had Frankie’s back
(and they would)
Colin wouldn’t stand a chance
But he’d love the songs
He’d love the love songs
They never feel wrong
Break even it up
Add it up
Until you see that the universe is ours

03.17.12

Berliners Postscript

Was a beautiful *
Was a beauty, it had eyes and arms
Burned out town *
Shell of its former
Coming to call her
Who’s going to *
That’s the question I hold
Take care of you *
Who will be, talk is free
And I was *
Right there with me
A proud, young man *
Holding hands
Because everybody knows
This is nowhere, the road to
Talk to me *
We said to the other
Then it shut itself down
Curtain closed on this town

04.02.12
*Asterisked lines are borrowed from the lyrics to the song Berliners by The Court and Spark

This Morning I Purged My Soul. It Was Anticlimactic

What I do is this: I push things under the bed as a form of storage.

The farther in I push things, the less likely it will be that I will ever need them. Things on the perimeter are more necessary and are often taken from and returned to the perimeter, making them more likely to have been seen in recent times.

So…

Two years and four months in the same apartment, with the same bed, well….it’ll create a little under-the-bed civilization, with the hardest to reach part right in the center being the true monument to uselessness, the realest proof that I can be a disorganized mess.

What do we find here? I will live-blog my late-night cleaning project.

I find:

-1- A picture of my 1995 girlfriend. She’s in bed (mine), under cover, eyes wide open, wholly unsurprised at being photographed. I took the picture. I don’t recall whether I stirred her from her sleep or whether her look of mock-surprise-turned-nonchalant-boredom was staged.
-2- A poem I wrote on December 2, 1987. It includes the line “I will not be a part of this fiasco.”

Pause.
So far the center-of-under-bed relics are impressively acceptable. Sure, the poem is awful but I was a kid! Sure, 1995 girlfriend is still most notable for saying the cruelest thing they has anyone has ever said to me. But still, I was expecting to find far worse.
End pause.

-3- A crazily scrawled 2002 tax form, a fine example of my trial-and-error method of tax preparation.
-4- A ticket stub for The King’s Speech. Kept by accident, not sentiment, though it wasn’t a bad film. So we have something from 2010 joining relics from 1987,1995, and 2002. That’s 4 decades just 4 findings deep.
-5- A letter about a check I bounced in 2007. Uh oh.
-6- My 1996 GRE scores. Oh yes. Self -esteem boost. 620 Verbal. Should have done better. 740 Math. Not bad. 730 Analytical. Disappointing. How could that be? Well, I retook it a year later (because I got reverse homesick) and somehow nailed a 640V/760M/800A which was more like it. (Tacked-on postscript. My 1988 GRE scores have been located : 540V/730M/720A. Looks like I got some verbal skills between ‘88 and ‘96. For this unexpected boost, I’d like to thank Chuck D., Leonard C., Liz P., my friend John P., and my cousin Sharif.

Break.
I’m surprised that I’ve mostly come across things that, while reasonably being things I should have kept, are not representative of the useless garbage I assumed would be under my bed. These keepsakes belong in drawers. Which is where they’re going.
End break.

-7- Disconnection notice from the Los Angeles Department of Water and Power. I wonder if I was able to make that payment by March 20, 2008. I think I was.
-8- A business card with a phone number on it from a person I had list contact with, mainly because I’d forgotten the person’s phone number and last name. I now possess this information.

Just one more thing - a question.
Why not scan and upload the picture of Wendy? Or the ticket stub or the GRE scores or the business card? Scanner doesn’t work. In fact, the printer needs new ink and the scanner is useless so I’m in the market for a new printer, what with my new freelance writing gig requiring A LOT of printing. If you a spare handy, send it my way. I don’t even need the USB cord.
End question.

-9- I wonder…do I have any miles on my American Airlines frequent flier program? Does American Airlines still exist? (Pause for research) I have zero miles and it still exists. Where did the miles ago?!
-10- A ridiculously high dental bill from January of 2009. Oh well. Sorry Emma. I just didn’t have the money then. Insurance didn’t cover it? Damn. How’s the practice?

That’s enough for one listless morning, one haggard night. I have Tang to make. I have iPhone cords to rubber-band.

Update, five days later:
I called the number (see #8). It no longer belongs to that person. I wrote to the comical email address provided on the card. It belongs to no one.

True or False

Today I purchased salt for the first time since 2006. True? False?

True. The last time I purchased salt I was living in Hollywood. I was buying groceries at Whole Foods in Hollywood in order to make dinner for Helena. It was our fourth date. We would have six more dates, for a total of 10. All occurring between August and October of ‘06.

As I remember, Helena did not need salt. I have, on occasion, required it. But not often enough to finish the container of salt until very recently. I replaced it today, around sunset, at the Dollar Tree in Bell Gardens, California. Don’t ask why.

Helena could have better appreciated my romantic dinner but in retrospect it wasn’t all that special. And it was put together in too much of a last-minute fashion.

We listened to her iTunes and not mine because I distinctly remember hearing Cake.

Whole Foods to Dollar Tree? The economy.

But somehow I feel more joy today.

Or do I? Whatever happened to Helena anyway?