No one should be completely invulnerable. Several days ago, I sat on my bamboo throne being fed peeled grapes by two beautiful women both resembling Catherine Zeta-Jones and realized at that moment that I was unequivocally bulletproof, nothing could touch me.
No one could justify looking me in the eye.
But what fun is that?
So for those of you who've ever wanted to get me in your crosshairs and take me out, I bestow upon you...
The 10 Most Personally Embarrassing Musical Concessions
10. Neil Diamond
I can't even really explain this one. I'm not usually pro-sequined jackets, balding feathered hair or mellowdramatic anthems, but when that overblown crooner begs me to dry my eye, I have no choice but to comply with his commands.
Honestly, I'm worried that I'm gay for Neil Diamond.
Crap. What if Neil Diamond's "got the way to soothe me"...
Or... what if Cracklin' Neil's "got the way to make me happy"?
What was up with all of Neil Diamond's best lyrics involving someone having "the way"?
09. Sassy Girl-Pop.
So just last week I figured out what Fergie's "London Bridge" was. At the risk of my mom or my sister reading this blog, I will not describe what Fergie's "London Bridge" pertains to, but suffice it to say, it's worse than I originally thought.
That being said, I find myself kinda hoping it comes on the radio or plays inside the roller rink I've been frequenting lately.
Why?
Because it's sassy.
I love strong girls acting like men are completely useless to them. Good for Gwen for not hollering back at fellas not deserving of being hollered back at. And good for P!nk for angrily replacing the "i" in her anme with an exclamation mark.
It should be noted that Gwen and P!ink are both married, but that doesn't stop the gloriously erotic theater of headstrong singers.
08. Really sad sappy acoustic love songs.
If most American girls or my friend Chris Gerfin instilled musical talent into John Cusack and asked him to write an album full of songs, I'm sure Cuscak would make a wonderful album.
I imagine he might compare his girlfriend's body to a wonderland or perhaps wax pitiful on how he was having a bad day and how the camera don't lie.
I have a friend named Rickie.* S he's got pirate tattoos fighting for space with the scabs all over her body. She also seems to barf a lot. Anyway, she thinks she's wicked mean and tough, but she also really loves Barry Manilow songs and anything sappy and gay.
I never gave her as much grief for this characteristic as I did for all her other strange peccadillos because I kinda agreed with her leanings.
07. Americana.
I love songs about going to the movies with a girl on your arm. I love songs about apple trees and baseball. I love songs that take place on railroad tracks, farms, drive-ins and dive-bars. That's Americana.
I want to make very clear that when I talk about my soft spot for Americana, I am not including Tobey Keith's ignorant ass in this discussion. Tobey Keith and his songs about sticking a cowboy boot in the ass of the jihad is not what I mean when I talk about Americana.
Oh, and also, John Mellencamp has recently been put on the probation in the Americana club for wrecklessly cooperating with the Ford motor Company's newest POPaganda campaign to co-opt images of Katrina victims, the Vietnam War, factory workers and old Cougar himself sittin' in his pickup.
God, is there any way Tobey and Cougar could just make a porno lying on a bed with American flag sheets, and be done with it?
Anyway, huzzah to apple pies and grandmas.
06. Pro Women Anthems.
I love men as much as the next guy. Well, maybe not the next guy. The next guy might be a homosexual guy and he probably loves men more than me. I bet it's safe to say that I love men as much as the next heterosexual guy, but they just don't celebrate their gender as well as the women do.
Whether it be "Hollaback Girl", X-Tina's "Calling All Girls" anthem, "I Am Woman, Hear Me Roar" or "(You Make Me Feel Like A) Natural Woman", there are just too many great lady songs to ignore.
The problem is, when I sing these songs out loud, I get worried looks from the people around me.
Especially when I do it on he train, or naked standing from the balcony of my terrace.
05. Songs About High School.
I'm not over it.
There. I said it. I'm not over high school. I wish I were still there. I wish I remembered the combination to my locker and pined after the same enchanting girl without ever talking to her for four friggin' years. I wish I had a bad haircut and baggy jeans. I wish I had a bookbag that held like, nine textbooks in it and I wish I still had Huskie Pride. I wish my Hawaiian shirts still fit and my car was still owned by mom.
And you know who feels my pain?
Blink 182 feels my pain. You know who else? Good Charlotte and The All-American Rejects and Simple Plan, you jerks! Why don't you just leave us alone so we can go back to a time where the nectar was sweet.
I would also like to mention "College Jamz" as an add-on to my guilty pleasure about high school. For some reason, I hate college favorites like Dave Matthews and Dashboard Confessional, but Blink 182 and The Wallflowers are perfectly acceptable. Go figure.
04. Shakira.
Also Christina Aguilera, Kelly Clarkson and perhaps Rihanna.
Leave me alone.
03. Songs With the Name of My City or State In It.
Why is it when you're at a live concert and in the middle of a set the lead singer says "Hello [the name of your city]!" and the place goes apeshit? Everyone is guilty of it. I am so guilty of it that the bands no longer even have to step foot in my city, they just have to mention it.
Here's a quick list of the three places nearest to my heart:
Chicago.
"Sweet Home Chicago", "Chicago Slow Down", "Born In Chicago" by George Thorogood, "Chicago" (Frank Sinatra and the musical), "The Night Chicago Died", "Dear Chicago" by Ryan Adams, "She Was Hot" (The Rolling Stones mention Chicago), "South Bay Surfer" by The Beach Boys (they ask if we can hear the surfers in Chicago)...
Baltimore.
"Baltimore" by The Drifters, "Hungry Heart" (Bruce had a wife and kid in Baltimore, Jack), "Raining In Baltimore" by The Counting Crows, "Standing Outside A Broken Phone Booth With Change In My Hands" (a plane takes off from Baltimore and touches down on Bourbon Street), " Bright Future In Sales" by Fountains of Wayne.
Boston.
"Dirty Water" by The Standells, "Road Runner" by The Modern Lovers, "Back To Boston" by The Rosebuds, "Tessie" by The Dropkick Murphys who also did "Shipping Up To Boston", "More Than A Feeling", Smokin'", and "Don't Look Back" (all three by the band Boston), "Somerville" by The Pernice Brothers, and "Government Center". "Charlie On the MTA" by The Kingston Trio (thanks Liz).
Alright, you get the picture. I like my cities. Can you think of any from these three cities I've missed? I know there's many.
02. Musical Theater.
Pop. Six. Squish. Cicero. Lipshitz.
525,600 minutes.
I got... pshhh! Steamed heat.
TRADITION!
Into the woods... to grandmother's house!
Greased Lightenin'! Go Greased Lightenin'!
Look, you either know what these statements mean, or you don't. If you do, then I should have no difficulty explaining why I enjoy it all so. If you see the above lyrics as mere gibberish, then I'm fairly certain you'd make fun of me for liking it.
But I'm prepared to kill you for my freedom to enjoy musical theater. Do you hear me? I'll cut your heart out of your chest and dance like Twila Tharp all over it. I'm serious. You see how high I've ranked this concession?
Don't challenge me.
01. Screamo.
I've talked about "screamo" with some friends. Apparently, "Screamo" isn't what I originally thought it was. I thought it was emo songs with yelling (screaming) in it. Like, Jimmy Eat World is emo or pop or crap or whatever you wanna call it, but their song "Sweetness" has a lot of wild screaming in it. Same thing with Fallout Boy's "Of All the Gin Joints". These are emo-ish bands that scream.
"Screamo." Get it?
But that's not what "Screamo" is. Apparently "Screamo" is much harder and darker than Blink 182. So I shouldn't really be ranking "screamo" at #1 'cause I don't really like what "screamo" actually is. But I need to dub my yelling-emo something and now "screamo" is already taken.
"Yello"? No, that's a color.
"Blare-o"? Nah.
"Eem-scream"? How 'bout Eem-scream? "Eem" (like the beginning of "emo", and "scream"... 'cause that's what happens in these songs). Okay. Eemscream it is.
I totally (and guiltily) love EemScream.
Okay. End of list. My God, am I vulnerable. I feel so exposed and weak. I'm gonna need a little alone time now.
============================================================
* Rickie is a "she" (short for Erica) and I haven't talked to her in months. Does that still constitute friendship? I'm just trying to figure out if I had a friend Rickie who... or if I have a friend Rickie who...
Sunday, November 5, 2006
Friday, November 3, 2006
An Brief Instance of Raw Anger
I yelled at a civil servant yesterday because he couldn't find ketchup to put on his hotdog. I told him that no red-blooded Chicagoan would ever dare slap a naked hotdog with ketchup and leave it there in the bun to die. These are the words that came out of my mouth and at the time, they seemed absolutely justified.
I'm not so mad anymore and frankly, I wish I could get that 90 seconds of my life back.
* * * * *
I suppose it all started with a cutsie couple sharing a set of iPod earbuds waiting on the train. Back when I was a wee lad, the most annoying thing couples did was sink a hand into each other's rear pants pocket. I hope no one reading this ever did that. I hated watching couples walk down my high school hallway cupping each other's bottoms on their way to Chem. Lab.
That's gross like backwash.
I still find that behavior nauseating, but I also see it less than I once did. What seems to have taken its place is sharing the earbuds from an iPod, in tandem Mmmmbop-ing together in public . This way, if you're dating, your mate can listen to what My Chemical Romance's drummer and bassist are doing while you check up on what the guitarist and vocals are up to.
Then later, like right before "Grey's Anatomy" starts, the two of you can like, totally compare notes on what your half of the song sounded like.
Christ. Why even bother hanging out?
Believe me when I say, I'd rather be single than listen to crappy music in mono.
I'm beginning to think that there are no females younger than 40 who like Bruce Springsteen. After simmering from my encounter with the iPod couple, I got into a conversation with a girl in one of my news media classes about Bruce and she didn't particularly care for him, citing only his video for "Dancing In the Dark" in her annoyance.
"All he does is yowl and dance like a white guy."
After pulling the pen out of my classmate's forehead, begging her not to press charges, I felt compelled to point out that Springsteen was a white guy and judging him based on this fact made about as much sense as taking Flavor-Flav to task for using slang in his lyrics.
I briefly dated a girl once who thought "Born To Run" was "Born To Be Wild". I don't mean she thought Steppenwolf was Bruce Springsteen, I mean she literally thought they were the same damn song.
I wasn't happy when she and I broke up, but in hindsight, I'm fairly certain that comment had a lot to do with our eventual demise.
My roommate Armin hailed from New Jersey which is to Springsteen what Mecca was to Allah and he outright despises Springsteen. And I know Armin is technically a guy, but anyone from Jersey who likes Bon Jovi more than Bruce might as well consider himself a woman.
So okay, girls don't like Bruce. Looks like I'm gonna have a bargaining chip when my wife starts asking to raise our kids whatever religion she wants to raise them.
"You want little Adam to be raised Wiccan? Okay, but I get to sing all of "The River" to him each night before bed. Deal?
Deal." *
And I'm calmer now than I was yesterday, but yesterday I tussled with my classmate and it ruffled my feathers. Before I could properly calm down, I had to go see my adviser to register for next semester's classes. Turns out, one of my required classes is only offered on Wednesday night, which is when 'Lost' is on. And if you've been paying attention, you know how much 'Lost' means to me each week.
I punctured my advisor's forehead with the same pen I pulled out of my classmate earlier. Apologizing profusely, I asked that my adviser just keep the pen so I would not hurt anyone else with it.
I was excused from my advisor's office and was so fearful of spying another "iPod couple" that I parked myself on the
5th floor cafeteria instead of going straight home.
Food will comfort me.
A walleyed gent from the janitorial division of Roosevelt University (Roo-U) walked in with a $10 bill.
The change machine in the cafeteria was broken causing Mr. Walleye to curse under his breath. Holding the bill in his hand, Mr. Walleye turns to the center of the cafeteria and loudly says, "anybody got change for a ten?"
There was no answer.
There was no answer mainly because I was the only other person in the cafeteria and I was so dumbfounded that I forgot to say something.
I wondered whether or not the affliction of having "googly-eyes" rendered him blind and unaware that there was only one other person he could be talking to without talking to himself. I feared that he was completely out of touch with reality and wondered if he saw many other people sitting in the cafeteria besides myself. Then I began wondering what filtration process Roo-U uses when hiring their custodial staff.
"Uh... I don't have change. Sorry."
Mr. Walleye turned to look at me ( Perhaps. It was hard to tell on account of his traveling eyeballs) as if he was unaware that I was in the room. I can't be sure, but I very well may have spooked him by speaking.
"Aw man. I can't believe this thing [the change machine] don't work. That's the story of my life, I tell you."
Mr. Walleye left without saying anything more, but returned a minute later with a handful of singles. Where did he get them so quickly, I wondered.
Standing at the rotating vending machine (the kind with sandwiches and apples, not Snickers and Cheetos), he began humming loudly. He wasn't a very skilled hummer (hummist?) and so I couldn't tell if it was Buddy Guy's "Born Under A Bad Sign" or Melissa Etheridge's "Come To My Window".
He rotated through the vending machine and hummed for what seemed like a week finally choosing F3: the hotdog.
If you've been paying attention since the beginning, you already knew he was gonna pick a hotdog. And if you already knew that, you also know what comes next, don't you?
Mr. Walleye reaches into the machine, yanks out a microwavable dog and actually "whoo-hoos" his accomplishment.
I wonder if this guy "woo-hooed" for my benefit, or if he "woo-hooed" because a "woo-hoo" was in his heart at that moment?
I think the "woo-hoo" was in his heart. I certainly hope it was.
But Mr. Walleye's happiness flitted away quickly as he began - dog in hand - opening the multitude of drawers affixed to a wall of the cafeteria.
"What? Oh, I don't believe this. You can't be serious. You. Cannot. Be. Serious."
I didn't really want to turn around. I couldn't imagine what he was looking for, but I was pretty certain I would be of no service to him.
"This can't be happening. This just can't be happening."
I pictured him turning into a werewolf.
He seemed appropriately frustrated but reasonably calm about the entire transformation. I wondered if the whole "werewolf" thing was why his eyes were googly.
"No ketchup! How can they give me a hotdog with no ketchup. That just ain't right."
And even up until this point, I was willing to ignore the crazy old janitor, despite my disappointment at living another day without witnessing a werewolf transformation. But then Mr. Walleye said something that my already angered mood would not allow me to ignore:
"You can't have a hotdog with no ketchup. This is Chicago, you know?"
If I were a cartoon, steam would have bolted from my ears.
And so the iPod coupling and a semester of TIVO'd episodes of 'Lost' and bloody pens and humming google-eyed janitors crescendoed into a blaze of beratement aimed at a man I don't know.
I turned my head enough to see the custodian and said, "If you're from Chicago, you'd put peppers and mustard and relish and onions and stuff on it. You'd have a pickle on the side and tomatoes. Ketchup is just about the only thing someone from Chicago wouldn't put on a hotdog. And what do you expect from a college cafeteria?"
I was on a roll now, so I continued.
"Why would there be leftover ketchup here? And if you found it, would you really want to use it?"
Mr. Walleye looked at me confused, a reaction I can't say I hold against him. He closed the empty drawer he was peering into in hopes of finding a spare ketchup packet and said, "Aw man, you don't know anything. Ketchup goes on everything. You just don't know."
And you know what? Mr. Walleye was right on. I don't know anything.
===============================================================
* I know, I know. You're taking issue with my kid being called "Little Adam". But fear not, if he is born bigger than me, I promise I won't call him that.
I'm not so mad anymore and frankly, I wish I could get that 90 seconds of my life back.
* * * * *
I suppose it all started with a cutsie couple sharing a set of iPod earbuds waiting on the train. Back when I was a wee lad, the most annoying thing couples did was sink a hand into each other's rear pants pocket. I hope no one reading this ever did that. I hated watching couples walk down my high school hallway cupping each other's bottoms on their way to Chem. Lab.
That's gross like backwash.
I still find that behavior nauseating, but I also see it less than I once did. What seems to have taken its place is sharing the earbuds from an iPod, in tandem Mmmmbop-ing together in public . This way, if you're dating, your mate can listen to what My Chemical Romance's drummer and bassist are doing while you check up on what the guitarist and vocals are up to.
Then later, like right before "Grey's Anatomy" starts, the two of you can like, totally compare notes on what your half of the song sounded like.
Christ. Why even bother hanging out?
Believe me when I say, I'd rather be single than listen to crappy music in mono.
I'm beginning to think that there are no females younger than 40 who like Bruce Springsteen. After simmering from my encounter with the iPod couple, I got into a conversation with a girl in one of my news media classes about Bruce and she didn't particularly care for him, citing only his video for "Dancing In the Dark" in her annoyance.
"All he does is yowl and dance like a white guy."
After pulling the pen out of my classmate's forehead, begging her not to press charges, I felt compelled to point out that Springsteen was a white guy and judging him based on this fact made about as much sense as taking Flavor-Flav to task for using slang in his lyrics.
I briefly dated a girl once who thought "Born To Run" was "Born To Be Wild". I don't mean she thought Steppenwolf was Bruce Springsteen, I mean she literally thought they were the same damn song.
I wasn't happy when she and I broke up, but in hindsight, I'm fairly certain that comment had a lot to do with our eventual demise.
My roommate Armin hailed from New Jersey which is to Springsteen what Mecca was to Allah and he outright despises Springsteen. And I know Armin is technically a guy, but anyone from Jersey who likes Bon Jovi more than Bruce might as well consider himself a woman.
So okay, girls don't like Bruce. Looks like I'm gonna have a bargaining chip when my wife starts asking to raise our kids whatever religion she wants to raise them.
"You want little Adam to be raised Wiccan? Okay, but I get to sing all of "The River" to him each night before bed. Deal?
Deal." *
And I'm calmer now than I was yesterday, but yesterday I tussled with my classmate and it ruffled my feathers. Before I could properly calm down, I had to go see my adviser to register for next semester's classes. Turns out, one of my required classes is only offered on Wednesday night, which is when 'Lost' is on. And if you've been paying attention, you know how much 'Lost' means to me each week.
I punctured my advisor's forehead with the same pen I pulled out of my classmate earlier. Apologizing profusely, I asked that my adviser just keep the pen so I would not hurt anyone else with it.
I was excused from my advisor's office and was so fearful of spying another "iPod couple" that I parked myself on the
5th floor cafeteria instead of going straight home.
Food will comfort me.
A walleyed gent from the janitorial division of Roosevelt University (Roo-U) walked in with a $10 bill.
The change machine in the cafeteria was broken causing Mr. Walleye to curse under his breath. Holding the bill in his hand, Mr. Walleye turns to the center of the cafeteria and loudly says, "anybody got change for a ten?"
There was no answer.
There was no answer mainly because I was the only other person in the cafeteria and I was so dumbfounded that I forgot to say something.
I wondered whether or not the affliction of having "googly-eyes" rendered him blind and unaware that there was only one other person he could be talking to without talking to himself. I feared that he was completely out of touch with reality and wondered if he saw many other people sitting in the cafeteria besides myself. Then I began wondering what filtration process Roo-U uses when hiring their custodial staff.
"Uh... I don't have change. Sorry."
Mr. Walleye turned to look at me ( Perhaps. It was hard to tell on account of his traveling eyeballs) as if he was unaware that I was in the room. I can't be sure, but I very well may have spooked him by speaking.
"Aw man. I can't believe this thing [the change machine] don't work. That's the story of my life, I tell you."
Mr. Walleye left without saying anything more, but returned a minute later with a handful of singles. Where did he get them so quickly, I wondered.
Standing at the rotating vending machine (the kind with sandwiches and apples, not Snickers and Cheetos), he began humming loudly. He wasn't a very skilled hummer (hummist?) and so I couldn't tell if it was Buddy Guy's "Born Under A Bad Sign" or Melissa Etheridge's "Come To My Window".
He rotated through the vending machine and hummed for what seemed like a week finally choosing F3: the hotdog.
If you've been paying attention since the beginning, you already knew he was gonna pick a hotdog. And if you already knew that, you also know what comes next, don't you?
Mr. Walleye reaches into the machine, yanks out a microwavable dog and actually "whoo-hoos" his accomplishment.
I wonder if this guy "woo-hooed" for my benefit, or if he "woo-hooed" because a "woo-hoo" was in his heart at that moment?
I think the "woo-hoo" was in his heart. I certainly hope it was.
But Mr. Walleye's happiness flitted away quickly as he began - dog in hand - opening the multitude of drawers affixed to a wall of the cafeteria.
"What? Oh, I don't believe this. You can't be serious. You. Cannot. Be. Serious."
I didn't really want to turn around. I couldn't imagine what he was looking for, but I was pretty certain I would be of no service to him.
"This can't be happening. This just can't be happening."
I pictured him turning into a werewolf.
He seemed appropriately frustrated but reasonably calm about the entire transformation. I wondered if the whole "werewolf" thing was why his eyes were googly.
"No ketchup! How can they give me a hotdog with no ketchup. That just ain't right."
And even up until this point, I was willing to ignore the crazy old janitor, despite my disappointment at living another day without witnessing a werewolf transformation. But then Mr. Walleye said something that my already angered mood would not allow me to ignore:
"You can't have a hotdog with no ketchup. This is Chicago, you know?"
If I were a cartoon, steam would have bolted from my ears.
And so the iPod coupling and a semester of TIVO'd episodes of 'Lost' and bloody pens and humming google-eyed janitors crescendoed into a blaze of beratement aimed at a man I don't know.
I turned my head enough to see the custodian and said, "If you're from Chicago, you'd put peppers and mustard and relish and onions and stuff on it. You'd have a pickle on the side and tomatoes. Ketchup is just about the only thing someone from Chicago wouldn't put on a hotdog. And what do you expect from a college cafeteria?"
I was on a roll now, so I continued.
"Why would there be leftover ketchup here? And if you found it, would you really want to use it?"
Mr. Walleye looked at me confused, a reaction I can't say I hold against him. He closed the empty drawer he was peering into in hopes of finding a spare ketchup packet and said, "Aw man, you don't know anything. Ketchup goes on everything. You just don't know."
And you know what? Mr. Walleye was right on. I don't know anything.
===============================================================
* I know, I know. You're taking issue with my kid being called "Little Adam". But fear not, if he is born bigger than me, I promise I won't call him that.
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