tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3963283357331632062024-03-17T15:40:04.813-07:00this wreckageshort stories, music thoughts, medical trauma, and the rest.chriswreckagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13457541238496646702noreply@blogger.comBlogger269125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-396328335733163206.post-33359666452086599522024-02-22T13:19:00.000-08:002024-02-24T07:59:49.957-08:00The Raven<p style="text-align: center;"> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcQGS4UkF5Nv33PFU-SVkIPE7o65sGaTfwYSN8wb6Fs3mh6mvBqIiSpmd_bSGCppuTRpzKxUJNyp4UmxBnlL0r7VOB3ETvVHXmtH7bFFNlHmKRX7IotollIoktc2kTg50eylsR6UqRqFu3kQEfpxhbu8lWeuFeCsL36s1t8NG-XQEm6zCLO45umTCka4o/s1200/the%20raven.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcQGS4UkF5Nv33PFU-SVkIPE7o65sGaTfwYSN8wb6Fs3mh6mvBqIiSpmd_bSGCppuTRpzKxUJNyp4UmxBnlL0r7VOB3ETvVHXmtH7bFFNlHmKRX7IotollIoktc2kTg50eylsR6UqRqFu3kQEfpxhbu8lWeuFeCsL36s1t8NG-XQEm6zCLO45umTCka4o/s320/the%20raven.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Magnet School<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><i>The
Raven EP<o:p></o:p></i></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b>(Shifting Sounds)</b><b> </b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">Has it really been eight years
since <b>Magnet School</b>’s last album, 2016's <i>The Art of Telling Truth</i>? Wow!
Lucky for us, they’re still at it and have graced us with another
collection of cranking twin guitar majesty.
They have always reminded me of <b>Swervedriver</b>,
with the dual exploratory guitars that aren’t afraid to lock in with the potent
rhythm section and crank out some serious rock-n-roll. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">“The Raven” opens with an air raid
siren that acts as a clarion call to action. Once the guitars kick in atop a
beat full of stuttering nervous energy, “The Raven” jumps out as one of the
most rousing songs I’ve heard in eons.
It feels like a call to action like <b>New
Model Army</b>’s “Here Comes the War,” but with lyrics full of festering and
rotten imagery, it is more of a call for some kind of hex on a betrayer. The intensity of the instrumentation gives
the song an undeniable urgency that feels incredibly vital. There’s more turmoil ahead in “A
Conversation,” which is pushed forward by a bass-line that sounds like the rumbling
engine of a hot rod. It’s another song that
feels full of betrayal as the lyrics ruminate on the changing stories (misrepresentations? lies?) from conversations between the past
and the present. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">Magnet School are always reliable
with some devastatingly good instrumentals, and here we’re treated to “Dotted
Eighth,” which absolutely rips. The band
locks into a tightly wound riff and soon sparks begin to fly. Once the cool breeze of “Mayor of Greenpoint”
comes in, I envision hearing/seeing these songs live as part of an especially
hot encore and this is the slow burning set closer that builds to the exciting
conclusion, as well as the highlight of the set. This EP closes with a classy piano and
strings “Reprise” brief instrumental of “The Raven” – replacing the original’s
harrowing and menacing threats into a quiet and peaceful reflection. </span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">It was a long wait for these new
songs, but well worth it. Magnet School
have showed us that they set a high bar of quality control. Happy to have them back. Does this mean there’s more new music on the
near horizon?</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">(<a href="https://shiftingsounds.bandcamp.com/album/the-raven">https://shiftingsounds.bandcamp.com/album/the-raven</a>)<o:p></o:p></span></p></div><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/n9UUqyiTzsk" width="320" youtube-src-id="n9UUqyiTzsk"></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Magnet School "The Raven"</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><br /><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p>chriswreckagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13457541238496646702noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-396328335733163206.post-33883410523378462602024-01-15T14:52:00.000-08:002024-01-15T14:52:11.753-08:00Top 10 of 2023<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 5.05pt; margin-left: .5pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 5.05pt 0.5pt; text-indent: -0.5pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Top 10 of
2023</span></b><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">These choices below are an approximation of what I believe
my most listened to albums of 2023 have been. I feel like it’s been a great
year for music and that I have missed a lot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Once again, I am not ranking these.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>All of these releases helped bring me great joy throughout this past
difficult year.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPWMeL8dLEFt-8itE74cX_TihpIO5H5luH2SdJDwDl56mx5dSORqtXlxV_eySK2k953aFsfCRfTW_SL2NpCYPxaQnEdcCcpwEACfPMmNEVq-oxLKqkqzTCPMxEI9nAg3e_Z_UViFi5K54cCaE4svEY4gYQ0w0daJkzHCZY8a_E6zLT8DLBabhE9-2jDDg/s218/lost.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="218" data-original-width="218" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPWMeL8dLEFt-8itE74cX_TihpIO5H5luH2SdJDwDl56mx5dSORqtXlxV_eySK2k953aFsfCRfTW_SL2NpCYPxaQnEdcCcpwEACfPMmNEVq-oxLKqkqzTCPMxEI9nAg3e_Z_UViFi5K54cCaE4svEY4gYQ0w0daJkzHCZY8a_E6zLT8DLBabhE9-2jDDg/s1600/lost.jpg" width="218" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .05pt; margin-left: 17.3pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0.05pt 17.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Bleach Lab <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">In a Rush of Emptiness</i></span></b><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .05pt; margin-left: 17.3pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0.05pt 17.3pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i></b></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh0sPoqwhyJPIBproWjS9p5HuiSGpp0a1Iq9IU8lXFFo-B1-Wek_ap78hYyDdd4LmKGb7tB4X4eEOfEkT0Sv4MKW1q8PwnhOU8E7nC5Iarqxzo4UNyFVZ_8jJvyudXpHv5ktX1VICYUjHYL5pm7v5GsCdlmSY5z9oU2gRxmZY-h0NSIEDAWm07YwH-YPE/s700/you.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="700" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh0sPoqwhyJPIBproWjS9p5HuiSGpp0a1Iq9IU8lXFFo-B1-Wek_ap78hYyDdd4LmKGb7tB4X4eEOfEkT0Sv4MKW1q8PwnhOU8E7nC5Iarqxzo4UNyFVZ_8jJvyudXpHv5ktX1VICYUjHYL5pm7v5GsCdlmSY5z9oU2gRxmZY-h0NSIEDAWm07YwH-YPE/s320/you.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></i></b></span></div><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></i></b></span><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .05pt; margin-left: 17.3pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0.05pt 17.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><o:p>Flyying Colours <i>You Never Know</i> </o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .05pt; margin-left: 17.3pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0.05pt 17.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><o:p><br /></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.05pt 17.3pt; text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"></span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-wBPDajWr1KRAXotifPgvihlfyOw_VRpEMwNKDRESPXOA-HzwCFS07kYssdfbFGIn9JNGDT2FeZtzkSs-guvYhjzodhgcKNAzE48ZAwEigmw9TmQ82FlI3d3kEt0pYrDKQvV3nUzz1P_UunQ3FW9aTd0_IPrEViLEhUy91Jkuvs52XEIoYEi85_R6smk/s700/slow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="700" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-wBPDajWr1KRAXotifPgvihlfyOw_VRpEMwNKDRESPXOA-HzwCFS07kYssdfbFGIn9JNGDT2FeZtzkSs-guvYhjzodhgcKNAzE48ZAwEigmw9TmQ82FlI3d3kEt0pYrDKQvV3nUzz1P_UunQ3FW9aTd0_IPrEViLEhUy91Jkuvs52XEIoYEi85_R6smk/s320/slow.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .05pt; margin-left: 17.3pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0.05pt 17.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Fragile
Animals <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Slow Motion Burial</i></span></b><span style="font-size: 14pt; text-align: center;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmghNRtmO31HUQrtwvX81CdKNiDFNb6ypQgcXoi0HKSodt3vkpHcVmQKUK-LGq2Nhf8agmN1EQvJ6AwNhGRT-cb0hoOMs4jBnymkJIQkr3TjNhDQijLiVVrgruAtGSkI6CKgeLKqUXl480npZpvubPfFNwkI7MoWLEqaUQYySYlOks45OpOUmzbyaYBwM/s700/always.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="700" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmghNRtmO31HUQrtwvX81CdKNiDFNb6ypQgcXoi0HKSodt3vkpHcVmQKUK-LGq2Nhf8agmN1EQvJ6AwNhGRT-cb0hoOMs4jBnymkJIQkr3TjNhDQijLiVVrgruAtGSkI6CKgeLKqUXl480npZpvubPfFNwkI7MoWLEqaUQYySYlOks45OpOUmzbyaYBwM/s320/always.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .05pt; margin-left: 17.3pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0.05pt 17.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">The Julies <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Always & Always</i> </span></b><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 2.15pt 18.05pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2UnvKO5tSjIlN6zhwJmLpMu0ax9FEIv2_PEsfV4HUBK8Vlpgw4EwjuVOd7D7Z8zOAbqhoplhKwMp2Z3Bj9xdUxOKU1hjY1WmZYmHf0n1EQj6Virrhyfug1qEC3wDOcSEV-UcsRXOlfp18K1hpxwOIjehkRUB3kfbNu8ckjKup4WOhtzT1hIGZSnvPVPQ/s350/versions.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="350" data-original-width="350" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2UnvKO5tSjIlN6zhwJmLpMu0ax9FEIv2_PEsfV4HUBK8Vlpgw4EwjuVOd7D7Z8zOAbqhoplhKwMp2Z3Bj9xdUxOKU1hjY1WmZYmHf0n1EQj6Virrhyfug1qEC3wDOcSEV-UcsRXOlfp18K1hpxwOIjehkRUB3kfbNu8ckjKup4WOhtzT1hIGZSnvPVPQ/s320/versions.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .05pt; margin-left: 17.3pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0.05pt 17.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Lanterns on
the Lake <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Versions of Us</i> </span></b><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 2.2pt 18.05pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr85n4dwFxOGVahwIaBxTJalXi-fUfg3YMPureOM-CuH3V9h-6ETcjivz_lHTGH2NVNIJJTDzWILSp_1892Iuc_dwUsbfeyyJWMh2OMpcagJOXIPMULycKCimU0zUc_vBgwAIysnJ5OvDwnss-9F5HdopfHs6p47h2-JPgT8cVq-bMvnRoJNMc-urmxX0/s350/popism.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="350" data-original-width="350" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr85n4dwFxOGVahwIaBxTJalXi-fUfg3YMPureOM-CuH3V9h-6ETcjivz_lHTGH2NVNIJJTDzWILSp_1892Iuc_dwUsbfeyyJWMh2OMpcagJOXIPMULycKCimU0zUc_vBgwAIysnJ5OvDwnss-9F5HdopfHs6p47h2-JPgT8cVq-bMvnRoJNMc-urmxX0/s320/popism.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .05pt; margin-left: 17.3pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0.05pt 17.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">The Popguns
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Popism</i></span></b><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .05pt; margin-left: 17.3pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0.05pt 17.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br /></i></span></b></p>
<div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjErCd_7kXfhBz0kufm28d32lFvtMGnHGpJyR7aJSbi8DPMJaD7HlyNlCz2zvRa-ykg1oj2RP5NrwjPFOu9ZAQPDaE4-CAmzqBFpT0U7tBrNh18kisJGH6TVRkj_KzzREAMHrkLsFFuji8jNV6AEFQDOw1SaRYW4Mg6dl_XbZ_jWXNElnzHltTnNGo4Yt8/s700/she's%20green.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="700" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjErCd_7kXfhBz0kufm28d32lFvtMGnHGpJyR7aJSbi8DPMJaD7HlyNlCz2zvRa-ykg1oj2RP5NrwjPFOu9ZAQPDaE4-CAmzqBFpT0U7tBrNh18kisJGH6TVRkj_KzzREAMHrkLsFFuji8jNV6AEFQDOw1SaRYW4Mg6dl_XbZ_jWXNElnzHltTnNGo4Yt8/s320/she's%20green.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-size: 18.6667px;"><br /></span></div>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .05pt; margin-left: 17.3pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0.05pt 17.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">She’s Green
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wisteria</i> </span></b><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 2.2pt 18.05pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkouqa-ZXkjAe9sRM8_ZIao4bF8BdLiz9Q4Q-NyXgsRPla1GG0aKzzYojiz0erPSWX_wLUdrkIX-V8_dD24qDiBR9u8-Zueq8RfYQdN0RbWYbo9savFdwmHQj3aCyA1pktL5BwuN4KCXVSZQlGtCKUdYui6NSskMn_fFVX73i90tPDggjz3Pn1cuHgXh4/s700/everything.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="700" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkouqa-ZXkjAe9sRM8_ZIao4bF8BdLiz9Q4Q-NyXgsRPla1GG0aKzzYojiz0erPSWX_wLUdrkIX-V8_dD24qDiBR9u8-Zueq8RfYQdN0RbWYbo9savFdwmHQj3aCyA1pktL5BwuN4KCXVSZQlGtCKUdYui6NSskMn_fFVX73i90tPDggjz3Pn1cuHgXh4/s320/everything.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .05pt; margin-left: 17.3pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0.05pt 17.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Slowdive <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Everything is Alive </i></span></b><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 2.15pt 18.05pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhliC_9ijcUw66sAnzFEU_HhHrg2o2erIQtgHX7Doj3UnSuTwuRuI8zRsqSiXaP9ppsJ7Ueuk3v-8aRFfki79nrv2n5h1LRXw6Ew_oNSxKq0hDzPpzLvK8bjP9g3spKALCFexuO2XcvFW0Rhb_ElAVu07vydndfoo6JQVO0gRYyMpMqEJnMreQDRgDPUuk/s700/lines.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="700" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhliC_9ijcUw66sAnzFEU_HhHrg2o2erIQtgHX7Doj3UnSuTwuRuI8zRsqSiXaP9ppsJ7Ueuk3v-8aRFfki79nrv2n5h1LRXw6Ew_oNSxKq0hDzPpzLvK8bjP9g3spKALCFexuO2XcvFW0Rhb_ElAVu07vydndfoo6JQVO0gRYyMpMqEJnMreQDRgDPUuk/s320/lines.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .05pt; margin-left: 17.3pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0.05pt 17.3pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Soft
Science <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lines</i></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.05pt 17.3pt; text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"></span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9hP2qdPE0bzg8Z56XnqHh0btXnEjB3vVJezPtaTLsstERWqEvVwPzZ3gltLRi8XIDiolzW73xovbJ7186EUkqZF1zYa2-stMGa40nDSoTD655THqK5IRMMrdk_BlGB-DlyTYFx38w2bqgcpTsCv_IAcokuVbMfS9MOYYFzMlT1fvGl1Q8Tf0VASPKpo8/s700/sun.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="700" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9hP2qdPE0bzg8Z56XnqHh0btXnEjB3vVJezPtaTLsstERWqEvVwPzZ3gltLRi8XIDiolzW73xovbJ7186EUkqZF1zYa2-stMGa40nDSoTD655THqK5IRMMrdk_BlGB-DlyTYFx38w2bqgcpTsCv_IAcokuVbMfS9MOYYFzMlT1fvGl1Q8Tf0VASPKpo8/s320/sun.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></b></div><p></p>
<h1 style="margin-left: 17.3pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;">UJU
</span><i>The Sun is in Our Eyes</i></span><o:p></o:p></h1><div><span style="font-size: small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div><span style="font-size: small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div><span style="font-size: small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div><span style="font-size: small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div><span style="font-size: small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div><span style="font-size: small;"><i><br /></i></span></div>chriswreckagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13457541238496646702noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-396328335733163206.post-74820979616752033512023-11-12T11:34:00.000-08:002023-11-12T11:41:29.195-08:00POPISM<p style="text-align: center;"> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAVuqZwcqJdyT2QTgcuwvb3Nzse9bFsyt98XhzVDdNhRXvhZ2fV8aDj7QDpq56IRZzDcjd0bLRHhpMjWuQxkGOClQFsWL6mcUB8sCcsLzlolEzS9bUd1QE4zAl8txnBT3we62kVqaZ7_FPLvEbZu29IvCRnRn0-8F-__2xhnnKN70lnBbUEUqSo-P6P_o/s700/popism.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="700" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAVuqZwcqJdyT2QTgcuwvb3Nzse9bFsyt98XhzVDdNhRXvhZ2fV8aDj7QDpq56IRZzDcjd0bLRHhpMjWuQxkGOClQFsWL6mcUB8sCcsLzlolEzS9bUd1QE4zAl8txnBT3we62kVqaZ7_FPLvEbZu29IvCRnRn0-8F-__2xhnnKN70lnBbUEUqSo-P6P_o/s320/popism.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">The Popguns</span></b><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">
are such a jewel. I feel like this EP
should be getting worldwide hit buzz, because every song here is exciting, fresh,
bright, thought provoking and essential.
Pretty much every year, like so many others, I make a list of my
favorite albums – or most listened to albums.
This is a four song EP that clocks in at less than twelve minutes, but
it is easily my most listened to release this year. Every single time I put it on the player, I
listen to it at least twice, if not three or four times. Talk about leaving an audience wanting more. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">“Caesar,” has a yearning chorus that
is so goddamn pretty that it sends shivers down my spine. <b>Wendy
Pickles</b>’ mellifluous voice continues to be so charming that it took me
several listens before I realized that she’s singing about the irreversible
damages of climate change brought on by short-sighted greed. Of course, this sobering message is delivered
inside a brilliant and beautiful package.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">Similarly, “Dirty London” takes a
glance at monuments marking England’s far reaching history of Imperialism and
weighs the pros and cons of the privileges earned from some disturbing history
(“Now you see / how the hurt is just a page of history / how the end will
justify the means”). It’s a heavy
subject that is delivered with a wicked combination of grinding bass and
scratchy guitar stabs. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">“Red Cocoon” comes on as a breezy
love song. Sparks flying between a pair
out on an all-night bender? It’s funny, because this song could easily be
the feature song with its bouncy bass and suburb guitar leads, but it’s
not!</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">This all too brief EP closes with a
fun punky anthem named “Indie Rock Goddess.”
Talk about leaving us wanting more!
This song abruptly ends just before it reaches two minutes, yet it’s
pounding beat and Wendy’s commanding vocal will definitely imprint itself into
your consciousness.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">It’s wonderful to have the Popguns as our wonderful little indie pop secret, but I feel like they should be one of
those bands that get much higher recognition.
I feel like we’re taking them for granted. Please check them out.</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">(<a href="https://thepopguns.bandcamp.com/album/popism">https://thepopguns.bandcamp.com/album/popism</a>)<o:p></o:p></span></p></div><br /> </div><br /> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/8ePtq1aXwsQ" width="320" youtube-src-id="8ePtq1aXwsQ"></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>The Popguns "Dirty London"</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><br /><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p>chriswreckagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13457541238496646702noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-396328335733163206.post-1191736817653623902023-11-07T15:41:00.025-08:002023-11-07T20:38:54.683-08:00Candidate<p style="text-align: center;"> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuETok0uUIVc7WHq8Tj4PIsfRgXQSY9nMUyPyrT9EkHVEjPz_l-D_MkY2mjUPJkhFvM56Qq-3bWlW2stZkK7HdZk_VsCo0HBZeF7eRHKjBL7NxrzwylN6YkLKQlZxMTL80TuU8_7SIJ86z4Ro1HmP8XPkc6ChKOD-Stftd7ki0CICwFXOz3fz5nz7MLcc/s391/rails.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="391" data-original-width="290" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuETok0uUIVc7WHq8Tj4PIsfRgXQSY9nMUyPyrT9EkHVEjPz_l-D_MkY2mjUPJkhFvM56Qq-3bWlW2stZkK7HdZk_VsCo0HBZeF7eRHKjBL7NxrzwylN6YkLKQlZxMTL80TuU8_7SIJ86z4Ro1HmP8XPkc6ChKOD-Stftd7ki0CICwFXOz3fz5nz7MLcc/s320/rails.jpg" width="237" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 14.2667px;">During my last extended hospital stay for brain surgery, I experienced a lot of disturbing hallucinations. I think I was mostly unconscious during these times, in my mind, I was convinced that I was being held captive by alternately two separate underground terrorist groups who for various reasons wanted me to pay for my alleged betrayal to their respective causes. Despite not being able to walk, I managed to avoid capture for long periods of time by riding the rails all over the U.S. Despite these situations all being imaginary, I found solace in forgoing my fight and flight instincts and giving up. I allowed the hospital worker terrorist group to capture me for their surgical experiments and the military terrorist group to capture and imprison me for my beliefs.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 14.2667px;">It was all incredibly scary and I have had a difficult time putting these imaginary battles behind me. However, the idea of giving up has continued to feel like a great decision – one that gains more and more appeal as time progresses. In one of those hallucinations, I was trapped, so I simply laid down and tried to sleep. I was done trying to find ways to allude my potential captors. In reality, I am also finished with trying to find ways to continue to survive. My long time fight against <b>VHL</b> (<b>Von Hippel Lindau</b>) has found me at a stalemate, yet it is a very precarious position. I have lasted longer than I ever thought, and I am tired.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 14.2667px;">I am fully aware that millions, if not billions of people have much more difficult struggles which they handle with strength and grace. In addition, I am fully aware that there are some people close to me who are in crisis. I understand crisis and am absolutely out of energy to deal with it. This is about me losing the desire to fight anymore. VHL is a relentless and endless genetic syndrome and I am done with trying to navigate the unforgiving bureaucracy of health coverage in its many forms. It is not enough that my health continues to decline, but that I constantly have to prove to faceless entities that I am broken. There is a lot of paperwork necessary to prove that I am "sick," and most of it is insanely repetitive and incredibly inadequate. I find it all discouraging and exhausting, which is why I am too tired to fight anymore. I have fought very hard for a long time to live as normally as possible and not allow my medical asides to be anything more than an occasional distraction, which is why trying to convince others that I'm unwell is so awful.. I want to rest. I want to crumple up all of the forms, pile it up, and climb atop and rest.</span></p><div><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 14.2667px;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 14.2667px;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 14.2667px;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 14.2667px;"><br /></span></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p></div><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p>chriswreckagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13457541238496646702noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-396328335733163206.post-31347393990972313942023-10-10T19:26:00.005-07:002023-10-11T09:30:18.170-07:00Lines<p style="text-align: center;"> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCdBi4cOOLELFmTabl6Ks6gE5TMPOoac6UwSi4eh79BcQDfCpkDq7U8TO6hk2WEGfrfcyWUUEOiHUux0FTJLvkzwIc41YEyYiZ0ggFdugWKhL0P9WJyKFLYvZFDo2qg_pV4n5rapRWkiaEMxQjkxQssPX9WOG0A79Ur2wKuItnq2t2nzKeAgBEkSKypXk/s700/lines.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="700" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCdBi4cOOLELFmTabl6Ks6gE5TMPOoac6UwSi4eh79BcQDfCpkDq7U8TO6hk2WEGfrfcyWUUEOiHUux0FTJLvkzwIc41YEyYiZ0ggFdugWKhL0P9WJyKFLYvZFDo2qg_pV4n5rapRWkiaEMxQjkxQssPX9WOG0A79Ur2wKuItnq2t2nzKeAgBEkSKypXk/s320/lines.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Soft Science<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><i>Lines<o:p></o:p></i></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b>(Shelflife)</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="background: white; color: #333333; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 107%;">Ever since I was lucky enough to find <b>Soft Science</b>’s debut album, <i>High and Lows</i>, in 2011, I have been
unabashedly in love. Their fourth album,
<i>Lines</i>, has now been out for about a
month and it only affirms my continuing passion for their music. The occasion has also provided me with the
unnecessary excuse to go back and listen closely to their previous
offerings. What I’ve learned with this
re-discovery tour is that they are actually better than I remembered, and that
what I wrote about their second LP, 2014’s <i>Detour</i>:
“in a subtle way they have tightened all the unnoticed loose screws and
polished the surface,” amazingly holds true!
They continue to refine.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="background: white; color: #333333; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 107%;">Lines</span></i><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="background: white; color: #333333; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 107%;"> plays like a legendary band’s best of/singles
collection. Their dreamy songs here lean
more towards radio ready pop singles (is that a thing anymore?), and personally, I think that’s their
biggest strength. With their urgent and
endlessly catchy song “Still,” my favorite song from their 2018 third album, <i>Maps</i>, Soft Science found the key to what
sounds like effortless greatness. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="background: white; color: #333333; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 107%;">The melodic lead guitar line to “Grip,”
along with the insistent bassline and <b>Katie
Haley</b>’s perfect vocals, get me wanting to dance and completely lose myself
in the amazing sounds. It continues on
from there. “Deceiver” is like a favorite
single I swear I already knew upon first listen (is that a cowbell?). All three pre-LP singles are here: the buzzing
“Sadness,” the rumbling, almost <b>House of
Love</b>-like (Butterfly cover) “Kerosene,” and my early favorite “True,” with
its words of betrayal.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="background: white; color: #333333; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 107%;">With each album, Soft Science have included
more keyboards which, instead of distracting or compromising their sound, has
emphasized and enhanced what they already do well. Somehow it has made their sound both more
spacious and dense at the same time.
Songs like the heavy opener “Low” and its matching bookending closer
“Polar,” along with the almost atonal saturation of “Stuck” and the dreamscape
of “Zeros,” all remind me a little bit of excellent Spanish indie poppers <b>Linda Guilala</b> and their psychedelic
overloads.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="background: white; color: #333333; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 107%;">It is incredibly satisfying to see Soft Science
getting so much attention for their new album!
Sadly, in this day and age, I don’t really know what that means. We can all create our own little media focus,
so I fully realize that I see Soft Science news, and most people likely do not. I hope this changes. I wish them great success and encouragement
to keep our lives filled with their great music. If you are not familiar with Soft Science and
their lovable music, I strongly urge you to check them out for yourself. All of their albums are a great place to
start. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="background: white; color: #333333; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="background: white; color: #333333; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 107%;">(</span><span class="MsoHyperlink"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="background: white; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 107%;"><a href="https://softscienceband.bandcamp.com/">https://softscienceband.bandcamp.com/</a></span></span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="background: white; color: #333333; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 107%;">)</span></p></div><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/aIZkBLP1acY" width="320" youtube-src-id="aIZkBLP1acY"></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Soft Science "True"</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><br /><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p>chriswreckagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13457541238496646702noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-396328335733163206.post-55396153052694017162023-10-04T09:16:00.000-07:002023-10-04T09:16:39.498-07:00Scars Still LInger<p style="text-align: center;"> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_QEpLq8sAL7vjlY6Jaa30ouUbHK8aySwuGRfQGy4OdUUNP9qKjLcxapWJYahiyeLDVgF_lRisZhcmHqcHfsebhiLZUp5Sw7dLcvfNdi8_nwsHkS2nJ-AbJq8wGSRuwdf0W5nacHV14GFkhwirSe5SlI7b9njAd27EM7eAcjlYL8o83DHALz8LNLPf3KA/s300/memories.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="300" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_QEpLq8sAL7vjlY6Jaa30ouUbHK8aySwuGRfQGy4OdUUNP9qKjLcxapWJYahiyeLDVgF_lRisZhcmHqcHfsebhiLZUp5Sw7dLcvfNdi8_nwsHkS2nJ-AbJq8wGSRuwdf0W5nacHV14GFkhwirSe5SlI7b9njAd27EM7eAcjlYL8o83DHALz8LNLPf3KA/s1600/memories.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Memories are strange things. Each of us observes and perceives things
differently, so shared memories can vary wildly. Plus those occurrences have differing
importance for each of us, so what might become a vivid memory for one
observant, will become a forgotten memory for another. It’s incomprehensible to me how memory works,
or in many cases, doesn’t work. Why do I
remember very specific information about one hit wonder Canadian band<b>, Glass Tiger</b>, who I regard as one of
the worst bands to ever have been professionally recorded, but can’t remember
if I took my daily medications this morning.
I’m sure this is likely a worrisome sign of my on-setting dementia. Why do some memories come flooding in with
amazing detail at random times, while others languish in obscurity just out of
reach? <o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: 10pt; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/Jx6_-urg5fo" width="320" youtube-src-id="Jx6_-urg5fo"></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: 10pt; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Glass Tiger "Don't Forget Me When I'm Gone"</i></span></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I’ve heard that most women who have
given birth, cannot recall exactly how painful the experience was. That would explain people who give birth more
than once, but something tells me that this is fiction created by some male, to
feel better about himself. During my
multiple hospital stays over the past 40 years or so, I have experienced some
pretty intense pain, and I can recall the experiences very clearly, if I choose
to. I generally do not choose to. If I ever find myself in similar situations
my fight and then flight mechanisms activate quickly. I’ve had some embarrassing scenes in recent
years because of my fear of re-experiencing medical pains from the past.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDnl1j0T9XomT6la_L5ldEDEtyutd779plMcP4l9i7XOiW_8sMe6zHzRoCpD9yB5mhWGLEhuxF3YrLd3CE1kz3qeXRabaXjv99mzwveZ0fkJEUraECj2HqqxXSN3_mNDMYWmZm0RRPX0oAZNEFPBQStB9ZZg5feS5YjNJlSDIHBTzRXno63136xSDCzBo/s327/scar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="154" data-original-width="327" height="151" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDnl1j0T9XomT6la_L5ldEDEtyutd779plMcP4l9i7XOiW_8sMe6zHzRoCpD9yB5mhWGLEhuxF3YrLd3CE1kz3qeXRabaXjv99mzwveZ0fkJEUraECj2HqqxXSN3_mNDMYWmZm0RRPX0oAZNEFPBQStB9ZZg5feS5YjNJlSDIHBTzRXno63136xSDCzBo/s320/scar.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The numbing of past pain for me has generally
occurred from emotional pain – not so much physical pain, although I do not
deny that they can be deeply intertwined.
However, like so many of us, I get those random late night memories
thinking about a past relationship that had run afoul years ago. Sometimes those memories are positive ones,
and those good memories can be tricky.
For example, this happened to me recently. I was looking back at a past relationship
fondly, and believe it or not, could not for the life of me, remember why the
relationship ended. In this case, the
very next day, I pulled some random papers from a file that had bits of past writing
inside, and there it was: evidence of why that particular relationship
failed. It astounded me that it all so
easily slipped my mind. There was plenty
of solid proof as to why that shit needed to end for both parties
involved. I feel like an idiot typing
this! I know, I know, but it’s these
lapses in memory that can get us into trouble. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Aren’t we supposed to learn from our experiences? Like the old example of a child burning their
fingers on a hot stove. Next time
they’ll know better. That gets socked
away into the memory banks, and for most of us, stays there forever. I wonder why our brains selectively choose
what memories to lock away for future reference, and what to discard. Obviously, some of us are better at learning
lessons from past mistakes, or remembering how to avoid pain. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I guess I’m a little stunned at
reading about a past failed relationship from the perspective of when it had
still been fresh, and discovering that I had pushed those negative feelings so
far aside that I wasn’t really certain of the validity of what I was reading. I
immediately began to make excuses. I
allowed the obvious: the failure part of the relationship was at least mine as
much as it was hers. I could only remember those good times – the comforting
times. I envisioned how we have both
changed over the past several years. Forgiveness
is one thing, but foolishness is another.
Light up that stove top! Maybe I
can stick my face on there. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: 10pt; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/97wvwuHUMCw" width="320" youtube-src-id="97wvwuHUMCw"></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: 10pt; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>David & David "Welcome to the Boomtown"</i></span></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I find memories, whether accurate or
not, incredibly important and endlessly intriguing. Memories are made up of all of our individual
experiences. I am fascinated by people’s
stories, or their collection of memories – scars and all. To me, these are what make us all unique and
interesting. Why does the memory of
first hearing <b>David & David</b>’s “Welcome
to the Boomtown” stick with me? Why do I
remember that more so than my high school graduation? Maybe one day that specific memory will serve
me. Maybe not, but it does tell a small
story about who I am and what I’m made of.
It’s these things that I want to know about others. It concerns me that I know fictional
characters from novels, television shows, or movies better than some people I’ve
known for thirty years. Why do so many
of us keep our experiences so close to the vest? I suppose that most of us simply don’t trust
each other with this personal information or we don’t care. Perhaps, if we were more willing to share our
memories with each other, we might collectively learn more life lessons. Or perhaps not.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></p></div><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p>chriswreckagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13457541238496646702noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-396328335733163206.post-61062426205673728862023-09-12T17:24:00.001-07:002023-09-18T09:59:04.784-07:00Into Nothing<p style="text-align: center;"> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4-e46pyAhnXbBJiufxuwYnYfeEFTGTeZ1fZxIpb7gRclTRqTIjGwIikCrqQmxSQyNFIjtw0pwwT-dXpv8Edg7DdELGgkCmzAGwK6rD5zQHKL7jiXuQPmRfsv5jQiJYKtX7Ta6QtEi1mtX1Y0gd5e1xMwHRUVvRr25Ijrhwk7WwvRYz9QBKvKl4JdUvEg/s700/tml.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="700" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4-e46pyAhnXbBJiufxuwYnYfeEFTGTeZ1fZxIpb7gRclTRqTIjGwIikCrqQmxSQyNFIjtw0pwwT-dXpv8Edg7DdELGgkCmzAGwK6rD5zQHKL7jiXuQPmRfsv5jQiJYKtX7Ta6QtEi1mtX1Y0gd5e1xMwHRUVvRr25Ijrhwk7WwvRYz9QBKvKl4JdUvEg/s320/tml.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Ten Million Lights<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><i>Into
Nothing<o:p></o:p></i></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b>(self-released)</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">The ultimatum. The word alone sends chills down my
spine. I guess I’m too wishy-washy. I don’t think in terms of all or nothing all
of the time. Not only do I shy away from
such definitive thought, but from people who think in such terms. I simply don’t get it. In some ways, I wish I did. However, ultimatums are relationship
sabotage. A restricted choice that
generally pits one person against another – as if one cannot accept both. I can understand an ultimatum in some
circumstances, but life is rarely so simple.
“Swaying,” the extended first song from <b>Ten Million Lights</b>’ new third LP<i>,
Into Nothing</i>, encapsulates frustration at being pinned down by restrictive
choices in a very relatable way. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">“Swaying” is perfectly titled, as it
has a swaying musical quality, especially the extended instrumental dreaminess
that makes up the final half of the song.
It shares a similar back and forth vibe to <b>Slowdive</b>’s early instrumental “Avalyn II.” The first half, more reminds me of the old
<b>Jane’s Addiction</b> song “Summertime Rolls.”
Despite the free-flowing swing of the music, there is a serious tension
built up in the verses that releases in the defiant chorus. When <b>Ryan
Carroll</b> spurts out a sneering “No way,” it is incredibly satisfying. One can sense a strong sarcasm as he sings “ooh,
what’s it gonna be / the red pill or the green?” </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">Into Nothing</span></i><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">
is full of strong and memorable choruses.
I’m particularly smitten with the <b>Beach
Boys</b>-esque vocal melodies of the twisted two minute curiosity that is “Irreverence.” “Lights Out” also shares an ‘oohing’ and ‘ahhing’
chorus, along with a stuttering guitar riff that feels very comfortable for
long time followers of this band. The
first single, “Snowdrift,” includes their usual subdued vocal approach, but has
an incredibly light musical touch that feels fresh and intriguing. My early favorite song is the melancholic “Wilder,”
which captures the stifled feeling of being absolutely overwhelmed by something as to become speechless. It includes a
dreamy rainy day reflection that I have always found incredibly alluring. The following song, “Shaky Man,” etches a
similar vibe as it finds acceptance in the changing of the season and needing
help. </span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">If you’re looking for crunchier
numbers, they are here in spades. The
rollicking “On with the Show” begins with <b>Russ
Ellis</b>’ lurking bassline and some serious buildup to another fantastic rousing
chorus. Likewise, “Burn it all Down,” achieves
exactly as the title suggests, while the urgent “Cherry Sun” has some serious
squalling guitar fills throughout. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">There is a bass-heavy murkiness in
the sound of <i>Into Nothing</i> that
reminds me of the old NW grunge days, and by that I mean before it became a
buzz word. There was a dark and shadowy
fear-laden NW indie rock sound that was equal parts no frills hard as nails
rock, <b>Led Zeppelin</b> wizardry, and
punk. “Hot Water,” the closing epic rocker, captures all of this and it sounds new and refreshing.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">(<a href="https://tenmillionlights.bandcamp.com/">https://tenmillionlights.bandcamp.com/</a>)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/6khN-SBhR7o" width="320" youtube-src-id="6khN-SBhR7o"></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Ten Million Lights "Lights Out"</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><br /><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span></p></div><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p>chriswreckagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13457541238496646702noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-396328335733163206.post-28546627980172980092023-08-24T13:11:00.001-07:002023-08-24T13:16:00.251-07:00Is it for Me?<p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyABvxwQU-4SR2ssdK-BDpoVgYednakLi_uLSMAdEcjQrCsUBFIR1UsKYBIbc8TzloQ4z4LeFlQbUQI83vwlKez7tND2qBhrxg6dEvWOX6_ZSYYfqgfk-2Ro8zC_IgnUUGnb5ZR66fUEBntVOfLractjlqLeiNSBqOSI2dxg8LIRC6WOixj8Fm-4hRgqQ/s292/people.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="173" data-original-width="292" height="173" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyABvxwQU-4SR2ssdK-BDpoVgYednakLi_uLSMAdEcjQrCsUBFIR1UsKYBIbc8TzloQ4z4LeFlQbUQI83vwlKez7tND2qBhrxg6dEvWOX6_ZSYYfqgfk-2Ro8zC_IgnUUGnb5ZR66fUEBntVOfLractjlqLeiNSBqOSI2dxg8LIRC6WOixj8Fm-4hRgqQ/s1600/people.jpg" width="292" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">Have you ever looked through <b>Facebook</b>’s “<i>People You May Know</i>” listings?
There are multiple levels of connections that come up: everything from
people you may not know at all, but who have a singular “friend” connection to
someone you have a hundred social media friends in common with to someone that you
actually know in person. Ed found these suggestions
fascinating as he would peruse through them, surprised to occasionally see
musicians from bands that he was a huge fan of as a kid being suggested,
because of mutual friends. Who would’ve
thought? He might get a suggestion for
someone that he went to high school with, who is already connected to all the same
former classmates that he is. Makes him
wonder why he didn’t get the friend request nod from that old acquaintance. Did he do something wrong all those years
ago? Are they still holding onto a
grudge? He wonders why he doesn’t send
the friend request himself. Probably out
of stubbornness. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">Every so often, he’ll see someone on
the list that he had forgotten about and memories crash his thoughts. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">Seeing Susan hit him like a ton of
bricks. Her profile picture was mostly
unrecognizable from how he remembered her.
Her style had changed significantly.
For a short period of time, she had been the center of his social
world. Now, she was a
cartoonist/satirist, who also made short lo-fi indie solo recordings, AND
worked as a software engineer in the Bay Area.
What he found most interesting is that she hit his “you may know” list –
not because of mutual friends from their brief shared past, but because of more
current shared music circles.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">Ed remembered her as tall, broad
shouldered, and always in control of the chaos around her. Susan was a force of nature! An art major who grew up on a small farm not
too far from the university they both attended.
She was more forward and outgoing than anyone he had ever met, a truly
magnetic individual. Everything seemed
fun for her, and she was fun to be around.
She was one of those rare people that could effortlessly connect with
just about anyone. Ed felt comfortable
around her and immediately opened up to her.
He was rarely that at ease with most of his longtime friends and
family. He recalled sharing an early
morning Illustration class with her one semester, and even though, he generally
slept in and often missed the class, she always seemed to like him, and thankfully
adopted him into her circle of friends.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">Susan had lived on campus in a four-person
room. Her and her roommates: Stacy, Tina
and Marcy were the best of friends. They were freshmen, and new to the school, except
for Tina, but it felt like those four had all known each other for years. Stacy, a business major, was a stunning blond
girl who took an immediate dislike to Ed and completely ignored his presence,
other than naming him “chump.” He kept
his distance, despite Susan’s invitations.
Tina was an art major, very reclusive, and a massive fan of both <b>Bauhaus</b> and <b>The Cure</b>. Ed shared her
music tastes, but Tina did not appreciate his penchant for singing along with
her beloved songs, especially when he changed the words. The music was all very serious to her. She taught him that ‘Tina’ was short for ‘Christina,’
and that it could be short for a variety of names. He had never thought about this before,
always assuming ‘Tina’ was a stand-alone name.
It reminded him that he never liked being called ‘Ed,’ because no one
took it seriously. It was always treated
like a joke name. He half-heartedly
tried to get people at his new school to call him ‘Edward,’ but no one did,
except for Marcy. Susan told him that
she went from being a ‘Sue’ in high school, to ‘Susan’ now. She pulled it off. No one ever called her ‘Sue.’ Ed especially hated the nickname of ‘Eddy,’
but when Susan started calling him ‘Eddy,’ his heart would skip a beat and
imaginary butterflies would spin around his head. Marcy reminded him of <b>Marcie</b> from <b>Peanuts</b>. It was a lazy comparison, but they kind of
looked the same. She was a
care-taker. If someone in the group was
sick, she took care of them. She took
care of the group all the time. In
retrospect, Ed could see how she was incredibly underappreciated and he felt
bad about that. Most of his regrets in
life stemmed from not fully appreciating people from his past. Taking them for granted. He wanted to be more like Susan, and always
leave a positive impression on people.
Maybe more of them would him a friend request.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidaEZ8jqsFoO0bV3Yu59Vw9rxSrFyEJmzd6HCp6H9b_toypnfTsXkgkls6jrwHY56AUh64B7kX_7uq-cXghCG59YN5lygLPNqiBbfMAFBrPeRFm6_Ay8mQjRahJACrseNC4EKmglMSAZkQrODUSt-kENHiXyRYK0GtQEAYXvfaGGMruDfUDR9lbkZrPFA/s162/marcie.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="162" data-original-width="129" height="162" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidaEZ8jqsFoO0bV3Yu59Vw9rxSrFyEJmzd6HCp6H9b_toypnfTsXkgkls6jrwHY56AUh64B7kX_7uq-cXghCG59YN5lygLPNqiBbfMAFBrPeRFm6_Ay8mQjRahJACrseNC4EKmglMSAZkQrODUSt-kENHiXyRYK0GtQEAYXvfaGGMruDfUDR9lbkZrPFA/s1600/marcie.jpg" width="129" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">Being friends with Susan always meant
you were going to be part of a group. She
grew up the youngest of many siblings.
Ed could not identify. He had one
much older brother, and craved isolation.
There were always guys hanging around this group of four young women. Because
they both were incredibly attractive, Susan and Stacy drew young men like bees
to honey, or moths to light. He wondered
what that would be like - constantly being sought out and getting
attention. It would seem annoying to Ed,
but Susan always welcomed the attention.
Stacy did not like it at all. She
often complained about it, but she didn’t try very hard to stop it, as her
audience were the guys who always hung around her. Tina drew her own admirers, who wore black
and wrote poetry, but she had a boyfriend named Jarrod. Marcy was always busy taking care of the
group. I was not the only person who
took her for granted.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">Besides Ed, the usual visitors to
what became known as “the Room,” were the two Dave’s, James, Dan and John, and,
of course, Jarrod who took no time before essentially moving into “the room.” Both Dave’s were tall and handsome and seemed
older. Dave B. was an outgoing black
man, who had a quick wit and a gregarious personality. Dave D. had a similar personality, was white,
had long dreadlocks, and wore tie-dye shirts and ragged ropes as bracelets
around his thick wrists. Ed did not know
what brought the Dave’s to college, other than to be campus legends. James had a goatee, always wore a sweater,
had an impressive deep bass of a voice, a talent for writing, and knew Susan
from their theatre class. Jarrod was a
loud, opinionated, quick witted, pop culture wizard, who was a creative writing
major. Ed liked these guys, but never
liked Dan and John. He found them both
off-putting. He didn’t trust them. Ed had
met them in a few of his classes that first semester. They had all been business majors. In fact, by the urging one of their
professors, they all shared a subscription to the <b><i>Wall Street Journal</i></b>. He quickly learned that he had no business
being a business major, so he adjusted his academic schedule beyond that first
semester. He wasn’t sure what he
disliked more – the classes or his classmates. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">Ed had always been a conscientious
student growing up. He always did his
homework and tried his best, eschewing any kind of social life in favor of
studying and being alone. He didn’t like
the unpredictability of other people. He
felt safe at home. His older brother was
the opposite, always out with his friends and his endless amount of girlfriends. If he wasn’t out, girls were climbing into
his second story bedroom window on a nightly basis. Ed couldn’t figure it out, because he
couldn’t get himself to talk to the girls at school. There was one girl, named Tracy, who lived
nearby, and clearly had a crush on Ed’s brother. She somehow had the nerve to come to his home
and talk to him. He was never home, so
Ed’s mom would invite her in, and she would sit uncomfortably in silence with
Ed, while he did his homework, and his mom, while she did whatever the hell she
did – balance the checkbook, or whatever.
His mom would ask Tracy questions about her life, and then eventually,
Ed would finish his homework and he and Tracy would hang out and listen to
music or watch TV. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">The thing is, he found he could talk
with her. It was easy. She was only a few years older than him, but
Ed thought of Tracy as an adult. She was
still a kid to his brother, who had no time for her. Tracy became a constant companion for
Ed. He really liked hanging out with her. He and his small group of neighborhood
friends would stop by and visit Tracy in her apartment on summer
afternoons. They would watch those
teenage slasher movies from the early 80s – the ones their parents wouldn’t let
them watch. They would all be as
obnoxious as they could, because they could get away with it, and Tracy would
pretend to be outraged. Ed never really
thought much about those short-lived interactions with Tracy. Never realized that she was always alone –
that a parent was never around. That
there was only a trashed couch and a TV on the floor as furnishings. He never really noticed that his mom would
always cook her food when Tracy would come to see his brother. He really didn’t notice when she stopped
coming over once the next school year began.
He just remembered how fun she was to be around and how easy she was to
get along with.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">After sophomore year of college,
almost everyone in Ed’s social circle - everyone who lived in or constantly
hung around “the room” - were either gone, planning to move out of the dorms, or
away. The living on campus thing was no
longer a requirement, so moving out felt like an obligation to most students. Ed applied to become a Resident Assistant as
a work study job and for free room. He
wasn’t ready to share a big home or dingy apartment with a bunch of other
people. As an RA, he would get a private
dorm room. He was used to dorm life. Both of the Dave’s had already disappeared
from school – truly becoming legends.
Tina graduated. Stacy was from
the area, so she would begin to commute to school from home. Marcy decided to attend school closer to her
home in the Midwest. James had
disappeared after freshman year. Jarrod
had set up life with some friends of his in a tiny apartment near campus and
Dan and John joined a fraternity and moved into that house. Susan, was planning on moving in to an old
farmhouse on her parents’ property that summer and talked about commuting the
45 minutes to school.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">That summer, Ed went back home to the
small coastal town he grew up. Went back
to work his old high school job and to forget about his crumbling school life
that hovered less than two hours away.
In August, he received a letter with no return address. The purple envelope was full of funny little
pictures and squiggly drawings. Curious,
he tore into the envelope. It was a
short note from Susan. She was moving into
the farmhouse on her parents’ property outside of McMinnville. Would he be interested in helping her move? She went on to write about her adventures
(lots of rivers and lakes and campsites) and how excited she was to finally
have a place of her own. She offered
that there would be beer and BBQ as encouragement to help her move. There was a silly looking map and drawing of
her new home. She closed by letting him
know that he was missed and loved. Ed
read that note over and over again. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">A week later, he was driving his
parent’s car toward the valley. It was
still early, but the heat was already quite intense. He thought about Susan. He didn’t know when he had developed such a
massive crush on her. His previous
crushes had developed quickly and he would agonize over them for long periods –
beating himself up for his inability to communicate. Susan simply started talking to him one day
in class, and he surprisingly kept his end of the conversation. Ever since then, he found himself following
her around as often as he could. She
seemed to like him, which confused and confounded him. He was not adept at reading signals. During his high school years, he was friends
with a girl from his Spanish Class. They
rode the same bus home from school most days.
They bonded over music and began to hang out a lot. He considered her one of his best friends,
but then after they went to see a movie one evening, she seemed upset with him,
and from then on they stopped hanging out.
He began to wonder, if they had been dating, without his knowledge. Had it been a real life version of <b><i>Some
Kind of Wonderful</i></b>? Whatever the case,
his realization was too late, not that he would have known how to address it
anyway.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjct67-JgS5SYXCHqbpQcvmJGKxH4qDZZtOqy3hrnhkZGrz6zZmgJ-sF0vQJD7qokUMO9U7mfwwyC2IN1i9iWmkRP_oO7kjPlDyrGJ8Nk1LjkcOUADT4_V5xyif0OcxzUIe5fyHTu9yhFs8uVPXV0KfRnT1J_F4VIinPW1YfgzGbTL8xI4EfehK4o_s4VA/s270/wonderful.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="270" data-original-width="187" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjct67-JgS5SYXCHqbpQcvmJGKxH4qDZZtOqy3hrnhkZGrz6zZmgJ-sF0vQJD7qokUMO9U7mfwwyC2IN1i9iWmkRP_oO7kjPlDyrGJ8Nk1LjkcOUADT4_V5xyif0OcxzUIe5fyHTu9yhFs8uVPXV0KfRnT1J_F4VIinPW1YfgzGbTL8xI4EfehK4o_s4VA/s1600/wonderful.jpg" width="187" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">Susan was different. Not only did he feel more relaxed and at ease
with her than anyone prior, but he thought she was the prettiest person he’d
ever met, and he was drawn to her. Her
casual nature was contagious. It
inspired her uncluttered style. Ed began
to feel sad and disappointed when he wasn’t around her. Now, he was on his way to visit her. Would they be alone, or would the usual
entourage be there? Butterflies flapped
intensely in his gut. He leaned back and
tried to lose himself in the music on the mix tape he had made her, and ended
up flying by the turn he needed to make to get to her place.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">Ed slammed on the brakes and skidded
to a stop. Then he simply started up
again along the empty two-lane highway.
He was embarrassed, even though no one was around on the country
highway. He continued forward until he
found a place to turn around and go back. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">The side road to Susan’s house was gravel. There was an incline up the road for about a
half mile with brown cut fields on both sides.
For the next half mile, the road descended into a valley of giant oak
trees, and the road curved around these before going back uphill. Finally, the road crested a final slope into
another open field. A dilapidated one
story house sat ahead under a pair of huge oaks. An unmown brown field lay directly behind the
house, followed by more trees and a forested hillside. There were four cars parked in front of the
house. He saw someone who looked like
James carrying a box from a pick-up truck to the house.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">Ed pulled into the circle shaped
space, trying not to block anyone in. He
climbed out and felt the hot sun on his skin and recoiled for a second. It was so bright that even his tightly
squinted eyes couldn’t keep his pupils protected. He stretched and turned toward the
house. Standing on the porch to the old
dilapidated and peeling house was Susan.
She stood tall in front of the open entrance. She was wearing pale blue overalls, with a
tight bright yellow t-shirt underneath. Her
long, straight, light brown hair was blowing smalls strands across her freckled
nose and big toothy grin. She waved and
called out to him. He stumbled his way
up the two steps onto the porch and she put her arms out to accept a hug. He obliged and held her uncomfortably tight
and perhaps a beat too long. He had
recently developed a habit of leaning his head onto the shoulder of whomever he
was embracing. He did this and he did
not want it to end. She smelled like
vanilla. </span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">She broke his embrace and directed
him to the open front door. “Come
inside! The gang’s all here!”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">Inside, James was standing near the
entryway over the box he had been carrying.
He waved at Ed; with a smirk on his face. To the right was a living space that had two
old couches pushed together to form on ‘L,’ framing a very large stone
fireplace. On each couch sat one of the
two Dave’s. Both were strumming and
picking away at acoustic guitars. Ed could
not tell what they were playing, if anything, nor could he decide if they had
each brought their instruments, which he thought was a little over the top.</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">“Sup?” both Dave’s groaned in
unison. Dave B. gave him a smile and a
creepy wink, before re-engaging with the fretboard. Ed, nodded, and turned back to Susan standing
in the doorway. “What can I do?”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">Susan asked James to put the box at
his feet in the kitchen, which was situated behind the big fireplace.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">“All that’s left is a few more boxes
in the pick-up, and another truckload at my parents’ place,” she replied,
before adding, “Thank you for coming!”</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">Ed turned to grab a box from the
pick-up outside. He felt eager and
energetic. He and James took turns
carrying the boxes into the house, and exchanging friendly quips. Susan directed them to various locations in
the two-bedroom house to put the boxes, and the two Dave’s squealed a terrible
rendition of <b>Janes Addiction</b>’s
signature song: “Jane Says” from the couches.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieP6ES9U4rKSnediVYUSN84y3N39Vxn3lhgLum4IMu_RrB48AJdMYVRwlyvbGIUnGkG7u_TzofeVCzD2mHSrUwmOivLu6zYpGK-abYh6PvNMm03WAfEuSrgIb88j9trdjxiNEX3tiFd5hIGFpzU2moPM8Jfs_C3_yx3zTKPHd9cInmfuIONe3JqRNJoPg/s254/henrys.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="198" data-original-width="254" height="198" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieP6ES9U4rKSnediVYUSN84y3N39Vxn3lhgLum4IMu_RrB48AJdMYVRwlyvbGIUnGkG7u_TzofeVCzD2mHSrUwmOivLu6zYpGK-abYh6PvNMm03WAfEuSrgIb88j9trdjxiNEX3tiFd5hIGFpzU2moPM8Jfs_C3_yx3zTKPHd9cInmfuIONe3JqRNJoPg/s1600/henrys.jpg" width="254" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">After the boxes had all been
unloaded, Susan offered everyone a beer.
She had two large ice chests full of bottles of <b>Henry Weinhard’s</b> beer.
Before he accepted one, he trotted outside into the sunshine to grab the
mix-tape he had put together for her.
She yelped with joy when he held it out for her, and then, immediately
put it into a cassette player she had already set up in the kitchen. He had designed the tape to start out fairly
quiet and then slowly build in intensity and volume. The intensity was meant to reflect his loneliness
and his internal war against his own crushing shyness, as well as his growing
feelings for her. As soon as the first
song hit, the two Dave’s both started to protest and complain about the
dourness of Ed’s musical tastes. They
both grabbed another beer and Dave B. began mimicking and mocking the vocals of
the first song. Ed kept his mouth shut,
feeling a tinge of embarrassment, and took a long pull on the cold bottle in
his hand. Most of its contents were
taken in that first drink. He was done
with being there. He wished that she
would save the tape for another time.</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">Susan giggled a soft protest to the
Dave’s, and then began putting together a plan for everyone to go up to her
parents’ place and retrieve the remainder of her things and bring them back to
unload. She figured one more pick-up
load would be enough. After that she
would BBQ up some beef patties and chicken. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">James and Ed slid into the cab of Susan’s
pick-up and she drove further up the gravel drive past a big field with what looked
like grape vines and toward a huge house behind them. She pointed out that her parents were going
into the wine business. They all went
inside. There were about twelve boxes
stacked up and ready just inside the door, and two big lamps with their shades
lying next to them. No one else seemed
to be around. The house was dark and
very cool. Ed liked the chill of the
air. None of the boxes were heavy and
they quickly hauled everything out to the back of the pick-up. Ed and James tried their best to tightly
wedge the lamps in so they would stay upright along the bumpy gravel
drive. Susan seemed to be comfortable
with their effort.</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">Back at Susan’s much smaller home, Ed
was relieved that the lamps survived the journey unscathed. He grabbed the necks of each, and carefully
walked them into the front room. He
noticed the Dave’s had shut off the mixtape, opened more beer, and were
murdering some song that he couldn’t quite place from their off-tone acoustics. The remainder of the boxes were brought in by
Ed, James and Susan upon her direction for which room. The Dave’s each had slowly stumbled outside,
each fully adorned in work attire – Dave D. even had put on gloves – and
brought in the remaining two lamp shades.</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">“Thanks a lot, you turds! I mean, my heroes,” Susan shouted at the Dave’s. “Appreciate the help!” she exclaimed, shaking
her head with a big smile on her face.
“I’ll start the coals.” She
walked out onto a back patio from a door off of the kitchen. There was a round table out there, a few
white plastic chairs, and a small charcoal cooker outside. Ed followed her out there and asked what else
she needed done. She asked him to pour
some charcoal from the giant red, white, and blue bag into the black grill. Several of the briquettes bounced around on
the ground beneath the grill. </span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">“I think I’m gonna head home,” Ed
summoned up the nerve to tell her. He
wasn’t feeling good about being there.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">“Aw, man, you don’t want to stay and
hang out?” she pleaded with him, as she motioned to the grill and towards the
music emanating from inside the house.
She smiled, and angled her lips to blow a strand of hair out of her
face. She looked a little exasperated
and mumbled “take me with you,” as she ducked back into the house – her home.</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">Ed would’ve gladly taken her with
him. Absolutely, anywhere she wanted to
go. Instead, she returned with a plate
with beef patties and a couple of boneless chicken breast fillets on a plate. She set the plate down and turned to stand in
front of him. She put both of her hands
on his slumped shoulders and looked him in the eyes and said, “thank you for
helping, and for the tape.” Then she put
both of her hands on his cheeks and closed in for a big sloppy kiss on his
lips. He was surprised and a little
alarmed. It was over before he knew what
was going on. Her kiss tasted like candy
blueberries – not like the salty kisses he had previously experienced. He stood there dumbfounded for a moment and
then reached in to hug her tightly, before turning to head through the
house. “Take care of yourself Eddy.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">Ed felt weak at the knees, and a
little blind, as he navigated his way from the bright sun of the patio to the
darkness inside. </span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">“Catch you guys later,” he shouted as
he hit the front doorway. He heard a few
voices respond with a resounding group “Yo!”</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">He numbly drove back home. It was a quiet 45 minutes or so, as he
decided not to turn on any music. He
felt overwhelmingly sad and wasn’t sure why.
<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 10pt;">When he returned to the small beach
community he grew up, he drove to a beach access, got out of the car, and
huddled into a pile of driftwood bunched up as far from the ocean as possible
while still being on the beach.</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 10pt;">He hid
there, protected from the vicious and chilly north wind.</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 10pt;">He liked the beach for his meditative
moments; because the beach was its own environment.</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 10pt;">The roaring of the waves and the constant
wind overwhelmed his senses.</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Sometimes
Ed would feel a little beaten up after hitting the beach.</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 10pt;">It was its own world.</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 10pt;">The fact, that he could only hear and feel
the sea and its contained ecosystem, helped him focus.</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">He brought a pad of paper and a
pen. He considered writing a letter to
Susan, but no words came to mind. He
thought the world of her, and ached for her attention. She was almost always in his thoughts. Everything reminded him of her. Ed felt inspired to be a better person in her
honor. He thought a lot about this. He admired the way she treated people,
seemingly without prejudgment, and so welcomingly. He strove for this. He always felt very good around her – very
comfortable, but he was never sure, if this was just how she treated
everyone. Was there a chance that she liked
him in a way that he liked her? Ed was
pretty sure that he was unlikeable. He
could not fathom how someone so vibrant, smart, funny and pretty could ever be
interested him beyond being a portion of her constant entourage.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">After the beach stop, Ed began
mentally beating himself up for not writing, or even starting the letter. He drove up and down Highway 101 cranking
music as loudly as he could. He cruised
by the old high school hot hang out spots and wasted as much time as he could
in an effort to squeeze out every bit of angst he was feeling, or until he was
tired, whichever came first.</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeiq-6WjBXEn31pLUzDe2dyj7d9KVJlEhLEmkcJvAkYas1wOl9MKT9JMpYJAlPFBD6dg5NpLtmPkWWFPkXVe8mL2YMH-oP_VYUJDApRnpW6Z_OxjdU7HaDPjhlxYxFKn2hugTs_KoSvpkfjCg6gtLxQE4mkKcOdHCE-w7bzM30RHPkFbeYjEhKj2zDemU/s259/nighttracks.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="194" data-original-width="259" height="194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeiq-6WjBXEn31pLUzDe2dyj7d9KVJlEhLEmkcJvAkYas1wOl9MKT9JMpYJAlPFBD6dg5NpLtmPkWWFPkXVe8mL2YMH-oP_VYUJDApRnpW6Z_OxjdU7HaDPjhlxYxFKn2hugTs_KoSvpkfjCg6gtLxQE4mkKcOdHCE-w7bzM30RHPkFbeYjEhKj2zDemU/s1600/nighttracks.jpg" width="259" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">That night, when he got back to his childhood
home. No one was there. His parents were out. He didn’t turn on any lights, and instead
turned on the old television before flopping face first onto the old orange
couch – the one he’d grown up watching TV from.
He turned the channel to <b>WTBS</b>
for their weekend video show <b><i>Night Tracks</i></b>.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: 10pt; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/wTe4Pb4q8lg" width="320" youtube-src-id="wTe4Pb4q8lg"></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: 10pt; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Robyn Hitchcock & the Egyptians "So You Think You're in Love"</i></span></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">The first video he saw was a very
generic music video for <b>Robyn Hitchcock</b>’s
“So You Think You’re in Love.” The song
was okay, he thought, but didn’t hold a candle to the previous year’s acoustic
marvel <i>Eye</i>, or even his pseudo
commercial breakthrough <i>Queen Elvis </i>prior
to that. The second video was from <b>Toad the Wet Sprocket</b>. It was a video for a song named “Is it for
Me?” The video featured super saturated
sun-drenched images – bright for the eyes.
For some reason, he always liked that technique. The video also seemed to depict the band as a
rag tag bunch doing stuff around an old farmhouse. The singer, <b>Glen Phillips</b>, is dressed very much the same way as Susan had been
earlier. He was fully enthralled in the
music video for a song that he had zero interest. It all felt very familiar and now he was
pretty sure that he had developed a crush on the singer for Toad the Wet
Sprocket as well.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: 10pt; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/4LMhUvqZbhg" width="320" youtube-src-id="4LMhUvqZbhg"></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: 10pt; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Toad the Wet Sprocket "Is it for Me?"</i></span></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">Recovering from his trip down memory
lane, which had been brought on from looking at Susan’s Facebook profile
picture, Ed tried to interpret how she was doing now after all these years. Not easy from a small picture. She looked so different, but not so much due
to the passage of time. Her hair was now
styled carefully with bangs, and she wore a lot of eyeliner. He remembered her not wearing make-up when
they were at school together, or the last time he saw her at the farmhouse. </span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">Ed opened up Susan’s <b>Bandcamp</b> page to listen to her musical
offerings. He wanted so much to like her
acoustic indie pop sketches, but he decidedly did not. He listened to most of them, which were all
under two minutes each. He wanted to
become a fan and supporter of her music in the worst way, but it was not going
to happen. He went back to her Facebook
profile to look at some of her cartoons.
These were interesting, thought-provoking and occasionally scathing
towards her intended target. </span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">Nervously he clicked on the “Add
Friend” button. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">Thank you to Ken Grandlund for help unscrambling my writing.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></p></div><p style="text-align: center;"><br /> </p>chriswreckagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13457541238496646702noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-396328335733163206.post-72416451627370235442023-07-11T10:05:00.000-07:002023-07-11T10:05:36.244-07:00Song Stories: That Was Another Country<p><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="color: #333333; font-size: 10pt;">When Wil and I started the </span><i style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">This Wreckage</i><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="color: #333333; font-size: 10pt;"> ‘zine over 30 years ago now, the idea is that we would have people submit material that we would throw in each issue as is and put it out to the world.</span><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="color: #333333; font-size: 10pt;"> </span><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="color: #333333; font-size: 10pt;">What we didn’t realize going in is that most people do not want to actually share things like that.</span><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="color: #333333; font-size: 10pt;"> </span><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="color: #333333; font-size: 10pt;">We struggled in finding material to achieve our albeit ambitious goal of a monthly issue.</span><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="color: #333333; font-size: 10pt;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 14.2667px;">However, in a small way, I’d like to float out a similar request we used to do every issue, but with more of a singular focus. I am hoping that anyone who reads this would be willing to send some kind of story of a certain song that means something to them. This could mean a short story, an essay, a drawing, a photograph, a poem, a few words, I don’t know. One of my favorite things is to tie music to pretty much every waking minute of my life. It’s a problem really. There are hundreds of songs that evoke a lot of emotions for me for a variety of reasons based on their being nearby at the time. I absolutely love hearing and reading other people’s stories along these lines. I don’t care the genre, or the artist, or my personal history, if any, with the song, I find these stories endlessly fascinating.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 14.2667px;">I’m hoping to encourage any and every one who might be willing to send some of their stories to me via messenger, or via email: </span><a href="mailto:tangledrec@hotmail.com" style="color: #992211; text-decoration-line: none;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 14.2667px;">tangledrec@hotmail.com</span></a><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 14.2667px;">. I would like to share them here, on this site, if given the permission.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>-Chris G.</i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 14.2667px;">Please ask any questions you may have.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1uklBfpmJKN03UA_ReOlnSijQtaFkhpuQ8F3GKyXACat0pBRguQRTYsDeoBJlQpMq610P_JXe9v86JVaNqaI1-YX1h1KmppVHjvgsgoum1tRjHx5_qulpnTE_3j6EkcFVQKegTDG0kI9B7S670Vsoq9bQK-ybe5xDKtv36VRuG3cctSTKIKo6sCxawzc/s227/glow.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="222" data-original-width="227" height="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1uklBfpmJKN03UA_ReOlnSijQtaFkhpuQ8F3GKyXACat0pBRguQRTYsDeoBJlQpMq610P_JXe9v86JVaNqaI1-YX1h1KmppVHjvgsgoum1tRjHx5_qulpnTE_3j6EkcFVQKegTDG0kI9B7S670Vsoq9bQK-ybe5xDKtv36VRuG3cctSTKIKo6sCxawzc/s1600/glow.jpg" width="227" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">The very early 90s marked an intense
period of loss for me. I languished in
grief for a few years over the loss of friends, loss of love, health, and
potential. It took me a long time to
begin to pull out of the darkness. In
great part due to the constant flow of incredible music that I was discovering
during those years, I began to feel inspired and alive again. I think a lot of us form our tastes for
things during those formative early 20s years, at least it was that way for me,
especially with music. By that point, I
began to realize that I had a preference for female vocals with my “post modern”
rock music, but with a few exceptions, I was not a fan of the high pitched baby
voiced singers. Sure, I could make
excuses for the ones that were okay with me, but I could not truly determine
why some worked and some didn’t. I’m
sure most of it came down to the music behind the voice and THE SONGS! So, I loved and continue to love <b>The Sundays</b>, but most of what would
often get compared to them, I never got into.
For example, when US combo<b>, the
innocence mission</b>, were signed to major <b>A&M Records</b>, they were promoted as a US version of The Sundays,
or the next <b>10,000 Maniacs</b>. In 1991, I received an A&M Records promo
CD, which included a few innocence mission songs from their second LP, <i>Umbrella</i>. No matter how many times I listened to those
songs, I could not get into them. It’s
not that they were bad, it’s just that they had no hooks, or grit (even 10,000
Maniacs had some edge when they began], and <b>Karen Peris</b>’ baby-voiced vocals became off-putting. However, in 1995, I began hearing the
intriguing dreamy/warbly guitar sounds and high pitched vocals of “Bright As
Yellow,” on our local commercial “alternative” radio station. I could not get enough of that song. It possessed a similar dusty, airy and exotic
feel as <b>Mazzy Star</b>’s first single
“Halah,” which, of course, drew from the timeless voice of <b>Patsy Cline</b>. It was a pleasure
to hear repeatedly and an increasing addiction.</span></p><div>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">As I have mentioned prior, the
innocence mission’s third album<i>, Glow</i>,
is an amazing, inspired, and powerful triumph (previous article: <i><a href="https://chris-thiswreckage.blogspot.com/2012/04/bright-as-yellow.html" target="_blank">Bright As Yellow</a></i>). It is pretty, it contains catchy memorable
songs, has great performances, is immaculately produced and contains the song “That
Was Another Country,” one of the best distillations of <i>feeling</i> loss. The words,
seem to be looking back at joyous experiences from the past with the narrator’s
full gang of family of and friends, yet as early as the first verse we are
given a hint that everything may not be alright: “taking blankets to the bay /
It’s the same / And he was fine / and in the first place was around.” Then we
are taken down a road of the loss of innocence as in regards to life and death
and that perhaps this person was in crisis.
The chorus repeats: “are you alright” in a way that does not define if
the narrator was helpless in trying to save them, or if they’re regretful for
not asking that question when it was still possible. The music is wistful, full of life, and in
combination with the vocals devastating in its heartbreak, yet somehow overwhelmingly
life-affirming. Its ultimate conclusion:
“you are still my friend / you didn’t go out of my life” is one of comfort. As someone who aspires to write, and I mean
with talent, not in bulk like I do, I admire the ability of conveying so much
emotion and tangible visuals with such a minimum of words. “That Was Another Country” never ceases to
break my heart and fill me with a spine tingling desire to truly appreciate
this life we have.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">I did not continue to follow the
innocence mission’s later work, because it never struck me in the same
way. <i>Glow</i>
will live on in my small pantheon of prolific artists where I especially love
only one of their albums like <b>The
Darling Buds</b>’ <i>Erotica</i> and <b>The Cardigans</b>’ <i>Gran Turismo</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/5rwiUHFLbMA" width="320" youtube-src-id="5rwiUHFLbMA"></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>the innocence mission "that was another country"</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><p></p></div></div><p><br /></p>chriswreckagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13457541238496646702noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-396328335733163206.post-10245054439203914992023-06-17T15:30:00.001-07:002023-06-17T15:30:23.541-07:00Versions of Us<p style="text-align: center;"> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfWtVD4BbZPjZxb6zLNcs1N0hkDadlWxe1kwhnMQ0W8QLZgSNadT2X5P0dOOJzuwysJRp6gdlAhlmp4TXkwRKnKyWYXoY7c7KVPsXGhna4Xn4Utfaz5hNcMKi1jyV468xKlVrlnFmOCnANpb3V-y2WS-XevvE34kCkr4Pg2sWPy_bW3g3oFhfqTGHn/s700/versions.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="700" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfWtVD4BbZPjZxb6zLNcs1N0hkDadlWxe1kwhnMQ0W8QLZgSNadT2X5P0dOOJzuwysJRp6gdlAhlmp4TXkwRKnKyWYXoY7c7KVPsXGhna4Xn4Utfaz5hNcMKi1jyV468xKlVrlnFmOCnANpb3V-y2WS-XevvE34kCkr4Pg2sWPy_bW3g3oFhfqTGHn/s320/versions.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Lanterns on the Lake<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><i>Versions
of Us<o:p></o:p></i></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b>(Bella Union)</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">There are many contradictions in my
behavior and beliefs, but one I’ve only fully realized in recent years is how I
seem to have an incredibly strong sense of survival, despite often having a
desire to die. When I’ve been confronted
with some pretty catastrophic health issues over the years, I fight like
crazy! When things have been touch and
go, I come out gasping for air like someone who’s been under water for an
extreme length of time. Both doctors and
nurses have commented on my will to live and my willingness to fight. It’s funny to me, because they don’t see how
I react at some real minor inconveniences that can and often do completely shut
me down. If I receive mail of any kind
that involves forms, or when I am fumbling around too much with my hands, or
wobbly on my feet, or am dropping everything I try to hold or pick up, I think
to myself, how much I don’t want to keep on living. Every time I encounter debates involving
denial of facts and all reason, my response is to shut down. I’d rather die than deal with that shit. All of these things have become large factors
in my life these days, so I am worried that my fight – my will to survive is
declining. This is why the newest <b>Lanterns on the Lake</b> album, <i>Versions of Us</i>, is so important.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Lanterns on the Lake have been a
massive favorite of mine since their earliest self-released and packaged EPs, I
regard their debut album, 2011’s <i>Gracious Tide, Take Me Home</i>, as one of
the finest debuts of the 2000s, while their follow-up, 2013’s, <i>Until the Colours Run</i>, is an all-timer
for me (2013 #1 pick - see <i><a href="https://chris-thiswreckage.blogspot.com/2013/12/top-40-of-2013-5-to-1.html" target="_blank">here</a></i>). That LPs first single, “Another Tale from
Another English Town” is remarkable in its cinematic beauty and quiet, yet
bitter protest.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">There is a positivity that runs
through <i>Versions of Us</i> that strikes
like a kick to the ass to get in gear and <i>live</i>! We’re not talking about saccharine messages
of hope, but a well-worn reaction earned in the face of serious darkness. It’s striking, and I’m here for it. I, for one, am tired of all of the
negativity. I need to turn things around
and build up that life affirming resiliency again.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">This sense of positivity is
important, because singer <b>Hazel Wilde</b>
is reminding us that we can all collectively and individually learn from our
previous poor habits and assumptions and do better. “The Saboteur” spells this out in a very
straightforward way, in a very memorable chorus, which is heightened by <b>Paul Gregory</b>’s soaring guitar work: <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“Gripped to the past til our fingers
bleed<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Habit of a century<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">We’re going to turn this thing round
like you wouldn’t believe.”</span></i><i><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The first pre-LP single, “The Likes
of Us,” opens the album with a plea for positivity acceptance. It’s like Wilde is working out her new
strategy by accepting that she’s a “wreck,” but asking for all of us fellow
down trodden folks to let her have this, “all of these cynics and nihilists
couldn’t stop me from feeling this.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The second single, “String Theory,”
finds solace in the idea of a multiverse.
The notion that there are an infinite number of us progressing through
time pleases her, knowing that at least one of those versions is having a great
time. It’s kind of funny, but there’s an
urgency to this song that is incredibly infectious and hopeful, like witnessing
an especially epic sunrise.</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Lanterns on the Lake, with their
swelling surges of sound, have always had the ability to create spine-tingling
moments that tap into hidden and unspeakable emotions that make one’s face
contort to hold back the flood. This
album is no exception, and here we find them perhaps more accessible than ever
before. The previously mentioned singles
are upbeat, concise, and with a driving beat from <b>Radiohead</b>’s <b>Philip Selway</b>,
songs like “String Theory,” sound crucial and exciting. Elsewhere, “Real Life” is as close to a
catchy pop song that they’ve ever attempted, and it creates an especially spine
tingling moment during the bridge, once Gregory’s guitar melds with <b>Angela Chan</b>’s searing violin. I honestly cannot get enough of it. “Rich Girls” is another stunner with its warm
buzzing organ hum, low end bass, a stuttering beat, and the rousing chorus that
absolutely soars, as Wilde clings to her goal of positivity, even if she has to
fake it.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Hazel Wilde’s lyrics have always been
excellent. Here they feel more
conversational than ever before. Perhaps
she’s writing these affirmations to herself, yet they come of more like an
evolving conversation with an old friend.
There’s a humor and humility (“And your guru tries to help / Keeps
telling me to love myself / But he can’t stand me either”) here that is
familiar and trusting.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">This fifth album is already one of my
favorites! Increasingly, with each album
release Lanterns on the Lake unveil, there are stories about how the making of
that new album almost didn’t happen, because of various issues. They have continuously lost members through
the years, yet they keep on going and remaining remarkably vital. I am thankful that they remain steadfast and
keep this amazing music coming. Whenever
I hear someone say “there’s no good music anymore,” I think of artists like
this, and laugh to myself about how ridiculous that notion is.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">(<span class="MsoHyperlink"><a href="https://www.lanternsonthelake.com/">https://www.lanternsonthelake.com</a></span>)</span></p></div><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/3b3xfp5f_nQ" width="320" youtube-src-id="3b3xfp5f_nQ"></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Lanterns on the Lake "String Theory"</i></span></div><br /><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p>chriswreckagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13457541238496646702noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-396328335733163206.post-73885185723421640702023-05-28T09:06:00.000-07:002023-05-28T09:06:28.942-07:00Unreadable Communication<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMPaV9a6nSlmQpYhy9IY_loIX_OK0ui56bbI8GOAVx06e02uLWMs3wvsK49kjrX4quK5U8cyn-6qDaCYBMd0LH32mZkGiIR2uN_m3DeWjn1Jc6jwT2l07Hs6FJR6YUy8DE3UzFlAeMKTKotwEgfyU594BeSyubjY7rZFGdcwKgMw1YGWAfOL43BQaI/s220/cuckoo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="217" data-original-width="220" height="217" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMPaV9a6nSlmQpYhy9IY_loIX_OK0ui56bbI8GOAVx06e02uLWMs3wvsK49kjrX4quK5U8cyn-6qDaCYBMd0LH32mZkGiIR2uN_m3DeWjn1Jc6jwT2l07Hs6FJR6YUy8DE3UzFlAeMKTKotwEgfyU594BeSyubjY7rZFGdcwKgMw1YGWAfOL43BQaI/s1600/cuckoo.jpg" width="220" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">He sat down on a chair off to the
left side of the room, hoping not too many people would stand in front of his
view of the stage. He could no longer
stand for hours on end at concerts, now that he was older - probably the oldest
person in the room. He was getting used
to that fact, but it didn’t really bother him.
It was simply an observation, though sometimes it did make him <i>feel</i> old. He always found it fascinating to overhear
some of the conversations in the small club.
His favorites were when an old song from the 80s or 90s would be played
pre-show, listening to some young guy explain the history of that song or the
artist to his bored date. Sadly, he knew
the history, because he was that kind of music nerd and had lived it. He sometimes had to resist the urge to bore
both of these youngsters with the actual facts.
This was getting increasingly rarer.
He didn’t care anymore about that stuff and isn’t sure why he ever did. He could hear his droning voice sometimes
spouting statistics about such and such and it was hard to believe how
fatiguing it made him feel.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhUF27glKQjGNdtVJf-PVENzfglwexJ_Go3znW40idzfXN--twPsiY2m7h-L06AAxBDfchpHRakq4nWaRuH_9WDP4vrKLN7cUaSucu6CN9eIus18hQZA_vGT97X5hVBEWDbaBxwdICgLjcKRJBXcTT7dasIaqujth9MAVYnDCKEOf71wRC8fIY3stn/s253/maxrnr.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="253" data-original-width="199" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhUF27glKQjGNdtVJf-PVENzfglwexJ_Go3znW40idzfXN--twPsiY2m7h-L06AAxBDfchpHRakq4nWaRuH_9WDP4vrKLN7cUaSucu6CN9eIus18hQZA_vGT97X5hVBEWDbaBxwdICgLjcKRJBXcTT7dasIaqujth9MAVYnDCKEOf71wRC8fIY3stn/s1600/maxrnr.png" width="199" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">When he was coming of age in the
early 90s, he always wanted to belong to something. He always felt he lacked conviction. He would read <b><i>Maximum Rock-N-Roll</i></b> and a
ton of punk ‘zines. He learned all about
straight edge, and how pretty much everyone is a “sellout.” In a way, he wanted to believe all of the
punk dogma, or ethos that was in vogue at the time, so he could lose himself in
the scene. He desired a cause. He was outraged by a lot of things, but saw
too many things in greys as opposed to blacks and whites. Instead, all of the rules and regulations
bemused him. It all felt like the same
kind of thoughts that they were supposedly rebelling against. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">In the 80s and 90s, selling out was a
massive betrayal. The thing about lesser
known music, is that the early consumers become very attached to <i>their</i> music. If said artist achieved any notoriety outside
of their original small scene, it was considered a money grab and a complete betrayal. It never made sense to him. He would try to muster up outrage when a <i>Husker Du</i> signed with a major label, but
their music was still essentially the same and most people still didn’t know
who they were. The rules seemed random
to him and counterproductive. Did these
people (or <i>scenester</i>s) really not
want their beloved bands to succeed or earn money? Did they really want them to live in poverty
eternally? As we know now, signing to a
major label or licensing a song to an ad campaign does not ensure a financial
windfall, or even a reason to quit a day job, and with the evening of the
playing field due to technology, almost no one can actually earn money selling
music. Sellout is no longer a
thing. Younger people now consider all
past music the same, while some of us older folks still hold grudges against Top
40 bands versus our underground favorites.
To a 25 year old, there’s no difference in streaming a song by Florida
punk band <b>Spoke</b>, or <b>Glenn Fry</b>’s “You Belong to the City.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqn3AtuqpNlsLVjlgF_abO0iC21ypPn6nHcQw2AHHFlSnzaR8IXQLdiMOr-lABpGIMyNO_a1GdqHBHjEM2wBFhfWWlNaSmUQ4saRyzzYIx4P3-3aQvVyJ_dJ7_dlFhoCLx4ae-pc0djpkcX5Q4nbq_Y04yHr20J0K3Nw_hnXHOj3AXtuaFbuKccERh/s173/comicbookguy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="144" data-original-width="173" height="144" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqn3AtuqpNlsLVjlgF_abO0iC21ypPn6nHcQw2AHHFlSnzaR8IXQLdiMOr-lABpGIMyNO_a1GdqHBHjEM2wBFhfWWlNaSmUQ4saRyzzYIx4P3-3aQvVyJ_dJ7_dlFhoCLx4ae-pc0djpkcX5Q4nbq_Y04yHr20J0K3Nw_hnXHOj3AXtuaFbuKccERh/s1600/comicbookguy.jpg" width="173" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />He was always regular. Though he was fluent with all things goth,
punk, industrial, noise, post-punk, and college rock growing up, he never
gravitated to a particular scene. He
never adopted the regulation costume, or changed out his friends based on their
music tastes. Probably the closest he
came to a look, was by being his record nerd self and wearing old Levi’s and
cheaply made concert T-shirts almost exclusively. His hair was a wreck – stringy and in the way
of his face – a little like <b>Thurston
Moore</b> from <b>Sonic Youth</b>, but he
was built more like <b>Black Francis</b>
from the <b>Pixies</b>. However, neither of these things were
conscious choices – it just happened, because all of his time and money went
into finding new music, working to earn money to buy music. He never had the drive to try to become a
full on punk rocker or anything else, because he liked too much of the other
stuff and the punk culture at that time (late 80s – early 90s) didn’t allow for
outside interests. You needed to look
and live like a punk, not just listen to punk.
He wasn’t aware of a music nerd scene, until he reached his
mid-twenties, but soon discovered that that scene horrified him most of
all! There was just as much a feeling of
superiority within. A lot of these
people reminded him of <b>Comic Book Guy</b>
from the <b>Simpsons</b>. They were the type who would look down their
noses at others who were unaware that Australian band, <b>The Church</b>, had had five albums before having a hit single in the
US in 1988, for example. It was a club
of one-upmanship, and often times about collecting and not about the actual
enjoyment of the music.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoWghquZBtMmpmhNrcP59TtLMegNHdjkkh7x1BKT2ujfqGtc3fa9tbP6dWRbKN4lH-S-8IUpI2iGzXs77O0dHeX-YrXsEt0LESKFXU1jEXS3p8D1acPzX9CdcQFNfl4ksSWW5sUmeyXfiFB_2_H3Qg0Sm1VNqc32b0u3OOTtznmSlaTCr6gy6DDUdP/s600/under.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="582" data-original-width="600" height="310" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoWghquZBtMmpmhNrcP59TtLMegNHdjkkh7x1BKT2ujfqGtc3fa9tbP6dWRbKN4lH-S-8IUpI2iGzXs77O0dHeX-YrXsEt0LESKFXU1jEXS3p8D1acPzX9CdcQFNfl4ksSWW5sUmeyXfiFB_2_H3Qg0Sm1VNqc32b0u3OOTtznmSlaTCr6gy6DDUdP/s320/under.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">By the late 90s, not much had
changed. He lived in a shitty apartment
and paycheck to paycheck, but his costume had not changed. Some of the old T-Shirts were still in
circulation - holes and all! His
supervisor had taken him aside one time to urge him to start dressing in more
appropriate office attire. He struggled
to do that too. He didn’t fit in
anywhere! He was himself, but was looked
down upon when he went to see most of the bands he liked, as well as at his
job, or at places like golf courses. He
nearly always felt like a walking contradiction. When he was in his 40s, he went to see <b>The Jesus and Mary Chain</b> perform a best
of set, and was wearing a brightly colored golf shirt, while everyone else had
teased hair, creepers, and black clothing.
He felt awkward, and judged, but he imagined that he was one of the only
ones there who knew and owned the Mary Chain’s entire catalogue and had been a
fan since before they were included on the <b><i>Some Kind of Wonderful</i></b> soundtrack.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUCudgNSzShivTM2mXwIcyP0I3Apw7MZUIlYLVlKK7AAdf6ks4NPl55DHZK4UErRiRNDkoTXpzRdz15Mf1G8jt7JF0p7vNEfl0VuYBPjMZeqcmSIabwH934ojRc7NZ8uh1zEEf4JBbpvgIv9Hn5vEKn-GKw9iw_4wXw-2_VDscLstObnftYxOUrQFZ/s355/wonderful.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="355" data-original-width="354" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUCudgNSzShivTM2mXwIcyP0I3Apw7MZUIlYLVlKK7AAdf6ks4NPl55DHZK4UErRiRNDkoTXpzRdz15Mf1G8jt7JF0p7vNEfl0VuYBPjMZeqcmSIabwH934ojRc7NZ8uh1zEEf4JBbpvgIv9Hn5vEKn-GKw9iw_4wXw-2_VDscLstObnftYxOUrQFZ/s320/wonderful.jpg" width="319" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">His inability to commit to anything
extended into every aspect of his life.
He wanted to feel faithful to something spiritual, or to a cause, and
especially to a significant other, but was never able to genuinely do it. It wasn’t in him. He felt that he was incapable of change. He had seen his friends change completely when
falling for someone romantically, when they were all young, and it never felt
right to him. Although most of his
closest friends did find fantastic partners eventually. When someone would commit to a band or genre
in his teen years, all others would become off limits. Back in the 80s, for whatever reason, no one
was allowed to cross music allegiances.
This is not really true, but there was always the risk of being labelled
a sellout or be outcasted by your friend group, if you were a <b>Christian Death</b> fan and then started
listening to <b>Metallica</b>, and wearing
their gear. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">He was often mystified by his
attractions. He encountered beautiful
girls/women every day, but he could only conjure up a few in his memory that
made him especially attracted, conflicted, nervous, itchy, and bonkers. He could never quite figure out that rare
allure. It had to be something more than
lust, but what else could it be, he wondered?
He remembered early crushes going back to his first memories. He used to have dreams about his first grade
teacher, and he remembered watching <b>West
Side Story</b> with his Mom on TV as a toddler, and making fun of the movie,
but going silent every time <b>Natalie Wood</b>
was on screen. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHkzi-O3QvvpO1pNtxagFEWO4DJ-EMvLpjYcE0r_It-BS1hwsgINP9saOv9WRtHajiNkPSi_g57ZGx_r5sZYN6JAnnSWmNT-JwPXVyfz4T6u0nXcXZYhovFHDhO85uM8mDhogR26l0c0Uw_-cwFBu3vKilGnKnWk5aPsTT5frr6q_ga1BKrtfgSCYp/s499/natalie%20wood.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="396" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHkzi-O3QvvpO1pNtxagFEWO4DJ-EMvLpjYcE0r_It-BS1hwsgINP9saOv9WRtHajiNkPSi_g57ZGx_r5sZYN6JAnnSWmNT-JwPXVyfz4T6u0nXcXZYhovFHDhO85uM8mDhogR26l0c0Uw_-cwFBu3vKilGnKnWk5aPsTT5frr6q_ga1BKrtfgSCYp/s320/natalie%20wood.jpg" width="254" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">During the late 90s, his favorite record
store, <b>Ozone</b>, where he spent hours
on end, over five or so years, nerding out over their inventory. This was the place that he would pick up all
of those essential early 90s UK <b>shoegaze</b>
EP releases. He would load up on US
indie 7” singles from labels like <b>Slumberland</b>
and <b>Pop Narcotic</b>, as well as punk
singles and compilations – looking for the next <b>Husker Du</b> or <b>Jawbreaker</b>
to fill that void in his life, or the latest <b>Sarah Records</b> releases. They
had it all! And by 1998, they had an
employee who reminded him of a little of Natalie Wood. He could never forget walking into Ozone Records
on a Saturday and seeing the newest single at the time from long-time favorite <b>Buffalo Tom</b>, “Wiser,” which she was
playing loudly in the store and dancing and singing along behind the
counter. He nearly fainted on the
spot. Could there possibly be a woman
for him? Someone he wouldn’t have to
give up his identity for? Someone who he
could play records with and have it be meaningful for both? He felt his knees
buckle.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> <br /><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7Jya0l95MsxAOwEdIyD1yMg3C0gkUj3j7e6gFG-W72YTM_EfilYmXupujjWpVy_R4YtbHTd7zC-cs1Y2eBNhlCJ8I2tuTsGhqJiuy7rZI1kLWyNlufIuI5t2qTqz45nDB9vWQKqhVOawKArrHKpC1ajXQ09YCIlL_6ZVOGzQx0-UG8fy_iFspjICi/s238/wiser.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="211" data-original-width="238" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7Jya0l95MsxAOwEdIyD1yMg3C0gkUj3j7e6gFG-W72YTM_EfilYmXupujjWpVy_R4YtbHTd7zC-cs1Y2eBNhlCJ8I2tuTsGhqJiuy7rZI1kLWyNlufIuI5t2qTqz45nDB9vWQKqhVOawKArrHKpC1ajXQ09YCIlL_6ZVOGzQx0-UG8fy_iFspjICi/s1600/wiser.jpg" width="238" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“Shoegaze” was a derogatory term created
by the British music press, indicating that the bands lacked any kind of stage
presence. However, these bands were
varied and exciting to him! These bands
all seemed to be music fans. Their music
elicited all kinds of differing greats from the past and were infused with an
energy unlike anything he had ever heard.
He appreciated that they seemingly weren’t bands made up of cocky
bastards. What the press disparaged them
for, he felt was a strength. A lot of
these bands excited his imagination as they somehow merged all of the things he
loved about music into affordable and frequent four song EPs.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The first band had finished their
set. He decided that they had been
pretty good, and reminded him of the Lo-Fi indie singles he started buying in
the mid-90s. They were apparently
local. He briefly thought back to the
old Portland music scene, which he rarely found inspiring, but commonly
offensive. His favorites were generally
brought to his attention via indie labels from elsewhere. This band had brought a devoted following of
friends and family. He was happy for
them, despite being a five-piece stuffed to a small portion at the front of the
stage. The other two bands’ equipment
was ready to go behind them. He
considered standing up to buy something from the merch table or a beer at the
bar, but instead chose to stay in his chair.
The danger of losing it was too great.
This was his first post <b>Covid</b>
show. Everything felt strange, but it
was great to see live music again.
There’s an anger to live rock-n-roll that always fed him in a way he
didn’t understand.</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The floor in front of the stage
opened up. In his younger years,
pre-Covid, he would’ve made his move to be close to the stage, but now, despite
his back and butt hurting from the terrible chair, he stayed there. He knew that standing would likely lead to
him collapsing. He was already
embarrassed enough by his appearance or existence, and he was there by himself.</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">There she was, he thought, as a chill
rushed through his entire body. Across
the room. He would never forget her,
even after all of these years. In a
black dress that draped down to her knees.
She had dark hair that still didn’t quite reach her shoulders. Seemingly only a few years older, while the
past 25 had been rough on him. He looked
like a grizzled world war veteran and grandfather, who ate all of the leftovers,
all of the time. She still looked like a
young woman who could be in a new band or working in a hip record store. She was swaying back and forth to a song,
over the PA, he didn’t recognize, but that reminded him of an eighties synth
duo. A younger version of her stood in
front of her sipping from a pint of beer.
Her daughter looked like a teenager, but must’ve been over
twenty-one. He remembered how he used to
sneak glances at her over the top of the records he was holding up for further
inspection, while trying to drum up the nerve to talk to her. He always hoped that one of his amazing
purchases would spark a connection. He
began to wonder what her life had been like over the last lifetime. He assumed that it had been much better
without him in it.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/OSQWH_B5em8" width="320" youtube-src-id="OSQWH_B5em8"></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Buffalo Tom "Wiser"</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><br /><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></p></div><p><br /></p>chriswreckagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13457541238496646702noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-396328335733163206.post-32465814647511886662023-04-03T12:58:00.004-07:002023-04-03T12:59:33.839-07:00Promised You A Miracle<p style="text-align: center;"> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiraF4b35QvQcEtW4j8vLiA5LsSngjtowcasFf5Dg8geQTpxUHIZDZmJz0aIiKct4gqWOrhCgPZIOmfQvUG365mb8yKX6HSqnOXRyqYUjnpgbZx3HVC5FbCbFuQp893oeowhrQnXoVq4A1gNhKRNUrjDMQc1GZbclnAx87r4s9MEqW_LEnv9d0FtNJ1/s403/Briscoe_Right_to_Counsel.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="302" data-original-width="403" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiraF4b35QvQcEtW4j8vLiA5LsSngjtowcasFf5Dg8geQTpxUHIZDZmJz0aIiKct4gqWOrhCgPZIOmfQvUG365mb8yKX6HSqnOXRyqYUjnpgbZx3HVC5FbCbFuQp893oeowhrQnXoVq4A1gNhKRNUrjDMQc1GZbclnAx87r4s9MEqW_LEnv9d0FtNJ1/s320/Briscoe_Right_to_Counsel.webp" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">He flopped back over onto his left
side and let out a loud frustrated groan.
He thought he had gotten past getting pissed off when trying and failing
to sleep. After not being able to sleep
for most of his life, he had finally let it go and accepted it. He had learned to get out of bed, instead of
fighting sleep, and try to be productive, or just zone out to the overnight
news broadcasts to try to relax. It was
the spiraling thought. It was his
biggest sleep enemy. Some sort of
dreadful anxious notion that would repeat in his mind endlessly, keeping him
from sleep and making him agitated.
Generally, when he was younger, these were about trying to solve some problem
at school – not wanting to fall behind, or having to deal with a classmate for
some reason. Then it became work shit
and sleep became that much more difficult – especially having a job that was
never resolved – just a constant continuing cycle of chaos where no sense of
accomplishment could ever be felt. Yet,
he had begun to feel better, once he realized that if he just accepted
sleeplessness as a part of his life. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">The futility of it all is what made
him so upset. It all reminded him of his
past experience with the Pain Management Clinic and the resulting overnight
sleep study. The bizarre study that took
place on a Friday night one summer, where he was expected to go to sleep at
about 7 in the evening. They hooked
about 500 wires to him and left him in a lightless room, with nothing to
do. According to the unbelievably
handsome doctor who he consulted with the following morning, he did actually
sleep some, but stayed in the first phase of sleep the entire time. This is a phase, where the sleeper’s mind is
still semi-conscious and they have incredibly vivid visions or dreams. This phase normally lasts for less than ten
minutes, but he laughed as he told Charles that he stayed there much of the
night and never delved into the next phase.
He said, that it’s actually more tiring than not sleeping, again with a
chuckle, as he looked to be practicing his golf grip on the pointer in his tan
hands. That was it! Charles didn’t ask any questions either! It was like six am on a sunny summer Saturday
morning, he probably had a tee time too.
The good looking sleep doctor wrote him a prescription for <b>Ambien</b>, which Chuck had tried in the
past and for which it had long lost any effectiveness.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">Charles laughed to himself as he
thought about the old Pain Management Clinic.
It had all started when his normal headaches were becoming so intense
that he was struggling to function. It
was a few months after his kidney transplant, and his transplant doctor thought
the PMC might be able to help him. The
clinic was designed to address chronic pain from different angles. A patient was set up with a medical doctor to
direct each case, a physical therapist, and a psychiatrist. I met my team and they immediately referred
me to a headache specialist who looked way too much like the early <b>Law & Order</b> detective <b>Lennie Briscoe</b>. It’s amazing how little we as people know
about the brain. Treating sleep and
headaches at that time was to prescribe a series of formerly antidepressant
medications, of which none of them helped my headache nor my sleep, so, after a
while Dr. <b>Jerry Orbach</b> sent me back
to the PMC. The four people I interacted
with there was the receptionist, who was clearly in charge of the entire clinic
and who was a voluptuous blonde named <b>Jenna
Jameson</b>, who seemed oblivious that she shared the same name as the most well-known
porn star at the time. Charles would
save the phone messages from her regarding upcoming appointments – hoping his
roommates would listen to them. His
doctor was <b>Dr. Miracle</b>, who was
eerily similar to the <b>Orbit Gum</b>
spokeswoman with her sharp British accent and early 60s fashion sense, the
psychiatrist was a creepy guy who reeked of cigarettes, had a tiny cramped
office, greasy hair, and tons of cassette tapes which he had recorded of him
saying things quietly over the sounds of a babbling brook or some such. Chuck’s first and last session with him took
place in a tiny windowless office crowded with stacks of file boxes, after it
seemed the shrink had inhaled a tuna sandwich.
They were in facing desk chairs only a few feet apart. Charles was incredibly uncomfortable, while
the psychiatrist diagnosed him as needing sleep, so gave him a few of his
homemade relaxation tapes. Lastly,
Charles would see a physical therapist each visit, who would generally employ <b>Craniosacral Therapy</b> on him, which
would make him incredibly woozy for the rest of the day, and unsurprisingly,
she was the one who diagnosed and solved his headache issues. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9BRgREIIqrcdpmORZbF7j_4osvlN2LJqCUoIcK9paKuRSe7U2ExikCl9u1tNFhaYsog6rXHM9xMNsvAdyvIseZNgZN7Hca-3CTdn5P8JrxuHAiN9ORmLQoVruN-72MV0aD3ze9jUZp8pak8LjGqKmWO44neHAiif9THcLFImseIh9VyDVm6BCP_36/s640/orbit.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9BRgREIIqrcdpmORZbF7j_4osvlN2LJqCUoIcK9paKuRSe7U2ExikCl9u1tNFhaYsog6rXHM9xMNsvAdyvIseZNgZN7Hca-3CTdn5P8JrxuHAiN9ORmLQoVruN-72MV0aD3ze9jUZp8pak8LjGqKmWO44neHAiif9THcLFImseIh9VyDVm6BCP_36/s320/orbit.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">He was now dreaming. He could tell, because he was about four or
five years old and there was his mom walking behind him. She was wearing dark sunglasses. Beside him was his childhood friend, Jon,
whose family lived across the street in their old neighborhood. They seemed to be at a carnival of some
sort. Dried and pressed grass beneath
their feet, twirling rides all about, the smell of burned grease and oil. He was wearing sandals with white socks and
blue shorts. He had a t-shirt on
underneath the green cardigan sweater his grandmother had knitted him. He was also wearing a blue bucket hat, which
he had loved. He spotted another kid
nearby with an ice cream cone shoved up underneath his nose. He immediately thought about asking his mom
for one, but decided against it, when he realized that he was carrying
something. He had a scrapbook in his
hands. Within the context of the dream,
he knew that it was his. His soon to be
Kindergarten teacher and his mom had started this book for him. Inside were projects for him to work on. It contained reading assignments, art to draw
and color, things to read and places to write about various things.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">His mom had not been around the
family for a short while, and had taken this book with her, but now she was
back and the book had some new pages.
The carnival seemed to be near the Hollywood District in Portland. They had likely walked down the hill from
their neighborhood to get there. It seemed
to be themed around movie and TV characters who were based in Portland. There was a ride/exhibit that featured odd
random characters from the old primetime cartoon the <b>Flintstones</b>, who were apparently Portland born. Strange, but very Portland. Our inferiority complex runs deep. Our local news will report about an
earthquake in Istanbul or somewhere and relate it to our quake readiness for
“when the big one comes.” They always
find some reason to find a NW connection – no matter how loose – to any news
positive or not</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">This was different from any dream he
had ever had with his mom. The only
dreams she ever showed up in were the occasional dreams where she would re-appear
in his life, such as it is now. She hadn’t
died. Instead she had gone into hiding
for all of these years. In other words,
she had chosen to leave. These were
disturbing, hurtful and very realistic dreams that he hated. Over the years, he had worked to try to
control his dreams, but in this light state of sleep, his influence generally
just woke him. In the case of disturbing
dreams like these, he was okay with that.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">His mom used to discuss various
controversial subjects with him. The
first one he remembered was when Oregon passed a mandatory seatbelt law, but he
remembered long discussions regarding hunting, clear cutting forests versus
preserving them, the death penalty, abortion, and even daylight savings
time. She would let him come to his own
conclusions, would never raise her voice or try to sway his decision, but would
play devil’s advocate to test his newly found stances no matter the side he had
chosen. He learned a lot and always
appreciated her approach. It made him
feel important.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgngyt7_xjj7MF1gHH-BR3c0oNH15XimGLRNBhxrXGTQmQ9AtZiCQuAoQgfvLRP7G4cUu2sS2McfSyheS9N4s4f0KNM7rhvCvdKh8TbvHNEjLvmoqSVxa1mDoJkqvwZM9nfX4BVk70CIcUDh5oOB5uFDqztqVjiEVjaovLE1uu42b6UA6nWCq9ZPEBc/s200/merrygoround.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="133" data-original-width="200" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgngyt7_xjj7MF1gHH-BR3c0oNH15XimGLRNBhxrXGTQmQ9AtZiCQuAoQgfvLRP7G4cUu2sS2McfSyheS9N4s4f0KNM7rhvCvdKh8TbvHNEjLvmoqSVxa1mDoJkqvwZM9nfX4BVk70CIcUDh5oOB5uFDqztqVjiEVjaovLE1uu42b6UA6nWCq9ZPEBc/s1600/merrygoround.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">He sat next to her on a park
bench. Jon, and his older sister
Michelle, were waiting in line to ride a Merry-Go-Round made up of Portland
based cartoon dinosaurs. He was looking
at his scrapbook. His mom had added some
pages about accepting death. He turned
to her and asked her what these were for, and she said that it was time to get
back home. All of us kids were due at
our elderly neighbor’s house, the Kimberly’s.
The childless elderly couple often took care of the young kids in the
neighborhood and they spoiled all of us.
We were always welcome to come in for cookies or candy, or play basketball
in their driveway, or watch their television.
They were super nice. He tried to
ask his mom again regarding the death pages in the scrapbook. His semi-conscious self wondered if these
were a warning years too late? This was
before his grandmother had passed and all of the dying began. Were they preparing him for an upcoming loss
of someone close in his life now? Were
they for his own life? His attempt to control the dream stirred him
to wake up and feel more exhausted than before he laid down.<o:p></o:p></span></p></div><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p>chriswreckagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13457541238496646702noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-396328335733163206.post-67450286036991607142023-03-01T21:29:00.000-08:002023-03-01T21:29:50.032-08:00Bother<p style="text-align: center;"> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGN6kzqEfDKXlcsMgfgG74yr50eo0OnXbdDFgTeJevgABuz6qE1ZKA0IljXV5gDpd0NW1W8Yqoo0u2M_xQW8BdWkVG7aX_66SLEVa5Nks4mfL3DBUz7mfMceg_xi3jllTA6qogmiE3SP7xE3ZLhwPmsFcjWyQjLzIr7xrR2fUeoHFGEWJgbaaLDGCL/s225/tomorrow.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGN6kzqEfDKXlcsMgfgG74yr50eo0OnXbdDFgTeJevgABuz6qE1ZKA0IljXV5gDpd0NW1W8Yqoo0u2M_xQW8BdWkVG7aX_66SLEVa5Nks4mfL3DBUz7mfMceg_xi3jllTA6qogmiE3SP7xE3ZLhwPmsFcjWyQjLzIr7xrR2fUeoHFGEWJgbaaLDGCL/s1600/tomorrow.png" width="225" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">None of us want to be a bother, yet
we all have differing ideas of what that actually means and likely apply it
differently to those around us. Trying
to not be a bother has played a huge roll in my life and I’m not exactly sure
why. When asked why I’m so afraid of
being a bother, I generally resort to an answer involving not wanting to be the
center of attention or a nuisance, which is true, but it doesn’t tell the whole
story. Much like my recent realization
that much of my decision making throughout my life has been made with a very
temporary mindset, me realizing that I worry too much about being a bother to
others has hindered my growth. In both
cases there’s nothing I can do about the past, but I can try to recognize it
going forward and potentially do better going forward.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/SNvBZfm7KPY" width="320" youtube-src-id="SNvBZfm7KPY"></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Abecedarians "They Said Tomorrow"</i></span></div><br /><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">In 1990, I first heard the amazing
song “They Said Tomorrow” by <b>Abecedarians</b>,
which has a repeated line about the singer trying to build up the nerve to
approach a someone he is drawn to: “If I bother you/please tell me to go away/I
don’t want to bother you/but it’s not for me to say” and it hit me at the time
like a ton of bricks. It encapsulated so
much of what I’ve always felt. I’ve
always felt like my presence alone is an unwanted intrusion. I do not have a ready reason why this is and
I don’t think it’s particularly important.
What I do know is that feeling this way has prevented me from trying a
lot of things. In that song “They Said Tomorrow,”
it displays the other definition of ‘bother,’ which is to not try something
period. The narrator of that song keeps
putting off this supposed urgent need, instead saying to himself “I’ll try it
again tomorrow.” This other side of the
coin is intriguing me today, because it calls to motivation. Have I been more concerned about disturbing
others, or does it have to do more with me not wanting to disturb myself? Did I not ask the girl out on a date, because
I was afraid of bugging her, or was it because I was afraid of her saying yes? It cannot ever have been about rejection,
because that was pretty much my expectation.
After missing a week of school as a little kid, and falling woefully
behind in math, did I not ask the teacher for help, because I didn’t want to
draw attention to myself, or be a burden, or because I didn’t want to do the
extra work to catch up? </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Not sure any of these questions are
answerable in a definitive way, or if they’re even relevant. The important part is to recognize, going
forward, when I am about to use ‘bother’ as an excuse, I need to consider the
response further. If the past week has
proved anything to me is that I am not far from needing to be taken care of to
survive. During the past week or so, I
have fallen in public, which is scary because there’s little chance that I will
be able to get up again on my own, I have found it nearly impossible to climb
out of bed, I am struggling to eat or prepare food or even obtain groceries, I
struggle to focus to fill out or even read health insurance paperwork, I canceled
a doctor’s appointment, because it was too much effort to get there. I will have to be a bother. This cannot go on. It’s depressing as hell. I don’t know how to ask for help. Perhaps, ‘bother’ to me, has always meant
‘burden’ – a heavy load to be dragged around.
I am trying my damnedest to get through this. I wish it were a switch I could flip
off. </span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I have been blessed with family and
friends that want to help, but I honestly don’t know how to accept it. I do not feel like I deserve it. It’s not so much that I don’t want to be a
bother, it’s that I don’t think I’m worth the bother. Perhaps that is where I need the most
assistance – help to find the ability to accept assistance and accept it
gracefully. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></p></div><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p>chriswreckagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13457541238496646702noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-396328335733163206.post-39993385677792306682023-02-19T09:42:00.002-08:002023-02-19T09:42:18.660-08:00The Sun is in Our Eyes<p style="text-align: center;"> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgCpn6WULxaWTAMQLwr6Hthl1shEjPq4N17u2acF0umbDzZwCRQZFV-KkLyf2XayMr1bc46Vmj83QPEas8SSmmskHWaBvXpSfFRwspoefDOQYFH7MhFwPy8PKazJXflgJB7iCTK7LCVAwYDZzDsRmZg2tsx4YbAuosBtVQoZNJ054jCzSbdUhT1-h8/s700/sunineyes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="700" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgCpn6WULxaWTAMQLwr6Hthl1shEjPq4N17u2acF0umbDzZwCRQZFV-KkLyf2XayMr1bc46Vmj83QPEas8SSmmskHWaBvXpSfFRwspoefDOQYFH7MhFwPy8PKazJXflgJB7iCTK7LCVAwYDZzDsRmZg2tsx4YbAuosBtVQoZNJ054jCzSbdUhT1-h8/s320/sunineyes.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">UJU<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><i>The
Sun is in Our Eyes<o:p></o:p></i></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b>(Melt)</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">There is some kind of scientifically
enhanced surgery going on with how precisely this collection of songs tugs at
my heartstrings. <i>The Sun is in Our Eyes</i> is melodramatic and depicts the romanticism
of past love in a very unreal light. I
know we’d all like to believe that from our past there’s the one perfect match that
got away, but the reality is generally far different. There’s commonly a very good reason they are
no longer a big part of our life. Yet,
for some reason, it’s very powerful to look back into our pasts and overly
romanticize a stolen kiss at summer camp and the delightful innocence of it
all.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Firstly, I need to thank <b>DJ Krissy Vanderwoude</b> for this, because
she played a song by <b>UJU</b> on her
radio show, <b>Drowned in a Sea of Sound.</b>
a couple of weeks ago. I cannot contain
my enthusiasm for this album! This is
one of those: ‘was this made for me?’ sort of albums. Okay, I have to slow down. UJU is from the Philipines and <i>The Sun is in Our Eyes</i> is their second
album. I do not have much prior
experience with Filipino bands, other than going nuts over <b>Julie Plug</b>’s sparkling bright debut <i>Starmaker</i> way back in 1998/99.
UJU do share Julie Plug’s incredible pop sensibilities, but instead of
the overt chiming pop rock of JP, UJU explores a dreamier approach. In fact, the first few songs remind me heavily
of the quiet approach of that first EP by <b>The
Arrogants</b>. There’s a simplicity to
the songs that really helps set a particular reflective mood. Much like the power of <b>Robert Wratten</b>’s songwriting, and more specifically, during the
brief <b>Northern Picture Library </b>period. There’s an ambient atmosphere combined with
nakedly emotional lyrics that pretty much wins me over every time</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Early single, “Promises,” borrows the
guitar melody from <b>New Order</b>’s
amazing “Leave Me Alone,” (full overly melodramatic disclosure: pretty much any
evening during my high school years, I was probably listening to “Leave Me
Alone” with an intense desperation wanting everyone to leave me alone, despite
the fact that they did - especially the girls.
Of course, it isn’t until the spectacular sixth song, “Anywhere,
Everywhere,” that a burst of <b>Adorable</b>’s
“Sunshine Smile” type guitars sprawls out like a splash of bright color. The album takes a much more shoegazey turn,
sound-wise, the rest of the way, especially, the epic crashing wave that is the
title track.. There’s a foggy
atmospheric haze to many of these songs that reminds of Singapore’s <b>motifs</b>, or Australia’s <b>Lowtide</b>. However, <b>Leeju
Jung</b>’s vocals are an entirely different game here. She does not blend her voice in like another
instrument like so many shoegaze artists.
She really sings, but she does not fall into that dreadful <i>American Idol</i>-style of oversinging. Instead, songs such as the bouncy, “We Should’ve
Walked, but We Ran,” feel like something sung by <b>Rachel Mayfield</b>’s former band, <b>Delicious
Monster</b>. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">There are so many great songs here
that pull those emotional strings! “Summer’s
Gone and so Are You,” I mean C’MON?!!
Then there’s the intensely exciting instrumental “Was it the Sound of a
Car Crash, Broken Glass, or the Moments I’ll Never Get Back?” which paints a
dramatic picture, where words would be too much. The closing “I’ll Be Alright (I’m Still Here)”
is repetitive, but undeniably pretty and reassuring and romantic as hell.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Yesterday morning, after listening to
this album over and over about a half dozen times, and deciding that I wanted
to write about it, I learned that UJU is now taking a “hiatus.” I guess it’s a good thing that there’s
another album to discover!</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">(<a href="https://meltrecords.bandcamp.com/album/the-sun-is-in-our-eyes">https://meltrecords.bandcamp.com/album/the-sun-is-in-our-eyes</a>)<o:p></o:p></span></p></div><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/NS0I5KyftNM" width="320" youtube-src-id="NS0I5KyftNM"></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>UJU "THe Sun is in Our Eyes"</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><br /><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p>chriswreckagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13457541238496646702noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-396328335733163206.post-81917951938689747782023-01-22T10:31:00.002-08:002023-01-22T10:31:19.407-08:00Half-Life, Remembered<p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSfFbVtUknoSSIMtCsXQ_ILD_ibToNEgZFcd15fMpNBoLU59uwk6MhhW4TNE5WTmg5qlWFz_y49g8PpBox-srD4Co3lSyxyRqs1f34LRl3n0-Y5-Hv4OZzIv9TtN_YA4bh59Z2-mwMQ22koixu8TYUJgdbxa7hn7kMbovW-MuuUWM2Ns7UsPQcvpny/s226/substance.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="223" data-original-width="226" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSfFbVtUknoSSIMtCsXQ_ILD_ibToNEgZFcd15fMpNBoLU59uwk6MhhW4TNE5WTmg5qlWFz_y49g8PpBox-srD4Co3lSyxyRqs1f34LRl3n0-Y5-Hv4OZzIv9TtN_YA4bh59Z2-mwMQ22koixu8TYUJgdbxa7hn7kMbovW-MuuUWM2Ns7UsPQcvpny/s1600/substance.jpeg" width="226" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">When I was in High School, I worked
at a pizza parlor, and sometimes I made and rolled the dough. The dough room was long and narrow and very
white. There was a small radio that sat
on a ledge near the high ceiling by a row of windows that were far too high to
see out. Up on the window ledge a radio
blared, far beyond its sonic capabilities, a radio station that had a penchant
for late 80s Top 40 hair metal. The
white walls were decorated with beer and wine cooler posters, brought in by
beer distribution sales reps. All of
them depicted attractive models in bikinis holding bottles of beer. One, in particular stands out in my
memory. It had three models laying out
on a <b>Budweiser</b> logo blanket, while
wearing Budweiser bathing suits. Somehow
they had become Budweiser. I used to
stare at this poster for hours. It’s no
wonder I used to get a little aroused every time I saw a can of Budweiser.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkYziSI2niDkBl7jbX4GQgoS_3wBU3jKCdg7F501WZ_9-NSN05DjVJALpy9y2fG3c72SInsEyvtE-CgZjwzAV6gO25TpnlFO5TGGqOBY3T3cQsdmC_y0-G0BvIMuRVa0zpw0B4X1jpGmIbPpjo2LN34TJz9JxzucDOGZdOQBEDhWACbh0mX-d1Ah9i/s241/bud.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="241" data-original-width="209" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkYziSI2niDkBl7jbX4GQgoS_3wBU3jKCdg7F501WZ_9-NSN05DjVJALpy9y2fG3c72SInsEyvtE-CgZjwzAV6gO25TpnlFO5TGGqOBY3T3cQsdmC_y0-G0BvIMuRVa0zpw0B4X1jpGmIbPpjo2LN34TJz9JxzucDOGZdOQBEDhWACbh0mX-d1Ah9i/s1600/bud.jpeg" width="209" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Back then, I used to buy all kinds of
posters. None of them were beer
posters. Unsurprisingly, I bought a lot
of rock-n-roll posters of my favorite bands.
I especially enjoyed those subway style posters, which were large and
more graphic in design. I was not really
interested in posed band pictures, or live action pictures. My most treasured poster was a massive <b>New Order</b> <i>Substance</i> poster with the blue flower thingy. During those times, and into my early
twenties, I began to amass quite a collection of great music posters, bumper
stickers, concert flyers and badges. For
some reason, I never displayed them.
Those posters never made it onto a wall at any place I’ve ever lived. None of those stickers were stuck on
anything. Those posters remained inside
a pair of poster tubes for years, until I finally donated those tubes to
charity years ago. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhJ_qW4drqwaSoaxxPWhmwYbL0RBNScrcEz5XFc9meDNyTlMNHTnWEvoykmvMqq7aFS2V8GdTEtfq-C_vAfd9_Pkp-WGyYzmZ17jEhfiAgw1-XwxVU0yG7e-UxLDJjgpsZ0P7w4QMb5D27eGMQ1iubI_Ihx_WTrEiKcZh5GTuhE2f-uLVh2FvgqyHu/s259/siouxsie.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="259" data-original-width="194" height="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhJ_qW4drqwaSoaxxPWhmwYbL0RBNScrcEz5XFc9meDNyTlMNHTnWEvoykmvMqq7aFS2V8GdTEtfq-C_vAfd9_Pkp-WGyYzmZ17jEhfiAgw1-XwxVU0yG7e-UxLDJjgpsZ0P7w4QMb5D27eGMQ1iubI_Ihx_WTrEiKcZh5GTuhE2f-uLVh2FvgqyHu/s1600/siouxsie.jpeg" width="194" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx1x4w3U0CQc1OsUD9RLd2HKqA3jJj1p5IKknS7YlGGGVRVr7TKO8Rggus_6aI0-WWQ1vDYeekVKfPMwaFyqvXlncOAHuL_-CZF-hOv-hD0pCESh308OXe4j9gKPf8FLLvdrda4x1-ml7fdoPv00nf4prt1azkJAKlw-1f8iVZsXRRw4bMPyxsr7rp/s275/eddie.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="275" data-original-width="183" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx1x4w3U0CQc1OsUD9RLd2HKqA3jJj1p5IKknS7YlGGGVRVr7TKO8Rggus_6aI0-WWQ1vDYeekVKfPMwaFyqvXlncOAHuL_-CZF-hOv-hD0pCESh308OXe4j9gKPf8FLLvdrda4x1-ml7fdoPv00nf4prt1azkJAKlw-1f8iVZsXRRw4bMPyxsr7rp/s1600/eddie.jpeg" width="183" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">When I went away to college, my dorm
room roommate became a close friend and he immediately decorated his side of
our shared space with <b>Siouxsie and the
Banshees</b> and <b>Iron Maiden</b>
posters. The room became his. I remember staring at giant pictures of <b>Siouxsie Sioux </b>and <b>Eddie</b>, while trying to go to sleep. My side of the room remained blank, until
about mid school year, when I finally put a small concert flyer for a band
named <b>Skin Yard</b> that I had ripped
off of a telephone pole. I placed the
flyer too high on the wall, and it was mildly askew. Its meager presence only enhanced the otherwise
emptiness of the walls.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimPwvLFKkU2D2mTO898jD_vldLAh-1fipWN8ORaTcMA0Q7sguO1CbznEy3GvFoiYlRJjubKs_DK26zMOzo-_reZxIyPiFH6bEQEGk3VCAy1p_KugAhmYH5WFtI4Lr4YaK9zFbliVcr-QCVW-Iodm6tzUI2WLK4ZyQGaqXVmnQTihuRklaiAP5ugMz5/s255/skin%20yard.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="255" data-original-width="197" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimPwvLFKkU2D2mTO898jD_vldLAh-1fipWN8ORaTcMA0Q7sguO1CbznEy3GvFoiYlRJjubKs_DK26zMOzo-_reZxIyPiFH6bEQEGk3VCAy1p_KugAhmYH5WFtI4Lr4YaK9zFbliVcr-QCVW-Iodm6tzUI2WLK4ZyQGaqXVmnQTihuRklaiAP5ugMz5/s1600/skin%20yard.jpeg" width="197" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I’ve begun wondering why this
is. I mean, I had tons and tons of artwork
for coveted bands in posters that I could’ve proudly displayed, but I never
did, nor did I have any inclination.
Oddly enough, I think it’s due to my health. When I was diagnosed with <b>Von Hippel Lindau (VHL)</b> in 1985 as an 8<sup>th</sup>
grader, I think I began to see life and any lifestyle that I would ever choose
as temporary. I’ve mentioned it on this
space before, but I was 13 when I decided to never have children due to the
genetic danger of passing VHL along, but beyond that I think I began to be wary
of getting involved with relationships in general, because I felt that they had
no chance of lasting, I think I lost a lot of ambition due to the idea that I
would constantly be side-tracked by continuing health crises, so I have a
history of working at jobs, just to earn money, not to try to maximize my
potential. Ironically, I have stayed at
jobs forever, again, I think it’s because I am always waiting for the other
shoe to drop, and by “other shoe,” I mean serious surgery. Instead of being ambitious, I just remain in
place until the next surgery. I think
this notion of temporariness has affected my life on more levels than I can
ever realize. I think it is the reason
why I have always been reluctant to make my home – feel like my home –
something as small as decorating the walls. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Regrets have been a huge part of my
life. I have tortured myself ever since
I became old enough to make any kind of real decisions, and just now, I think I
know why. I have experienced a lot of
life’s stops and restarts due to VHL and its various surgical maintenance
needs, and I can attest that they are difficult and frustrating. Yet, the fact that I have never allowed
myself a sense of purpose, or home, or permanence, has been devastating. I have short changed all of the people I’ve
met along the way too. I have a small
handful of long-time friends who I grew up with pre-VHL, but I could have had
more, if I ever let people in. I think
this mindset is a big reason why I have always been so slow to trust. The more I consider this notion, the more I
realize that I have lived the last 35+ years with a mentality that I cannot be
a part of things, because I’ll only be around for a moment. It’s like a life philosophy based on the idea
that I don’t want to play the game at the party, because my ride will be here
any minute. It feels ridiculous, but I
can honestly say that I have never made these decisions to avoid things
consciously. I <i>have</i> agonized over missed opportunities, due to these decisions for
eons. Looking back at my life under this
new realization makes everything feel pretty damn ridiculous, but I really am
that clueless!</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Sadly, there’s nothing I can do about
the past. Perhaps, I can now move
forward with clearer thoughts and more informed decision making, though I worry
that it’s too late. I am at that age
where I should now be reaping the benefits of all of those important life
decisions of the past – those decisions that I made with the mindset that I
didn’t have a future to consider, nor did I believe that future me worth the
bother.<o:p></o:p></span></p></div><p style="text-align: center;"><br /><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"> </p>chriswreckagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13457541238496646702noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-396328335733163206.post-56965065009460036952023-01-15T12:50:00.001-08:002023-01-15T12:50:36.776-08:00(image for) drawing on canvas<p style="text-align: center;"> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcmvwLnzpJzB2N5qQQNW6_BAMEl37Zgey39p2nE1Jx5omGHm0fyNlc--oQvXlo7axIGo0OW7mlJqD2q_YTTmZR-XYMs8lm8pxxc1MIGihB8bDlE02muZtXW4UyCkG_ceVKZc35JdQx-QwDhPgKt0sNuq781tvm_z8suCmEGc3eE9Lj08CU3Dfl62eE/s700/image.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="700" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcmvwLnzpJzB2N5qQQNW6_BAMEl37Zgey39p2nE1Jx5omGHm0fyNlc--oQvXlo7axIGo0OW7mlJqD2q_YTTmZR-XYMs8lm8pxxc1MIGihB8bDlE02muZtXW4UyCkG_ceVKZc35JdQx-QwDhPgKt0sNuq781tvm_z8suCmEGc3eE9Lj08CU3Dfl62eE/s320/image.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">SPOOL<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><i>(image
for) drawing on canvas<o:p></o:p></i></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b>(self-released)</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">After several singles the past couple
of years, Japanese four-piece, <b>SPOOL</b>,
return with a full length at the end of 2022!
There is something special about this band, but to be honest, I have a
difficult time putting my finger on it.
They are always solid. They mine
a style that is a psychedelic indie rock that reminds me of the early <b>Teenage Fanclub</b>, when they were more
similar the <b>Dinosaur Jr</b> than the <b>Byrds</b>. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">This new LP fits right in, yet mines
another adjacent style. The songs and
production here are very straight ahead and streamlined. SPOOL have often employed a dreamier,
exploratory sound, but here the basslines are tight with the massive sounding
drums. This album would’ve fit neatly
into the US dominated <b>4AD</b> record
label years from about 91-95. I’m
talking about when 4AD began releasing alterna-rock hits by US bands like <b>Pixies</b>, <b>Throwing Muses</b>, <b>Belly</b>,
and especially <b>the Breeders</b>. I’m not implying that Spool sounds like these
bands, or is copying their sound, I’m just saying that if you appreciated these
artists, you might enjoy this one. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">From the tight thumping of the
momentum gathering opening instrumental “fu_ka_n” to the closing melancholy “nevv
song,” this album is pleasing at every stop.
The highlights for me are the vaguely <b>Lush</b>-like ”Somewhere,” which scratches many itches, along with the
heavy and cranking “In My Head,” which includes a guitar line that sounds like
a buoy beacon in the distance, and the two minute scorcher “P-90.” “Light of
the Sun” is amazing too, despite ripping off the opening of <b>Adorable</b>’s 1994 “Vendetta” single. What a song to steal from though!! It becomes its own rocker by the time the
first verse comes in. The three pre-LP
singles are all nice inclusions, though surprisingly, three of the quieter
additions.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">SPOOL, have easily earned the honor
of being a band that I will continue to purchase prior to hearing new
offerings. I know that sounds silly, but
I take that very seriously. There aren’t
many that my tightwad hands will ungrip for sound unheard. It almost feels like they’re taken for
granted after only three excellent albums.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">(<a href="https://spool1991.bandcamp.com/album/image-for-drawing-on-canvas">https://spool1991.bandcamp.com/album/image-for-drawing-on-canvas</a>)<o:p></o:p></span></p></div><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/c1K1dCsrFVg" width="320" youtube-src-id="c1K1dCsrFVg"></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>SPOOL "(image for) drawing on canvas"</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><br /><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p>chriswreckagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13457541238496646702noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-396328335733163206.post-56049774746190220712023-01-11T20:31:00.001-08:002023-01-12T17:35:28.728-08:00Going Missing<p style="text-align: center;"> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkC0SYQoC2BzcBcL4ixmCJUljLkiHaH95ujUQeiwyooUMZe0dB5FC0T3pwu_xGcUe1t0ac-RfCnY432SUMwe0P9bHmsJFcc20aDcP2MaQ-hOlcluWrStcckJ8brCQm9_8gO7LIoOrWsp6pQsVjZimKhYKrBo2gUN0Vv9kdhdNsPZrR-h6UACzfArpY/s1200/driftwood.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="1200" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkC0SYQoC2BzcBcL4ixmCJUljLkiHaH95ujUQeiwyooUMZe0dB5FC0T3pwu_xGcUe1t0ac-RfCnY432SUMwe0P9bHmsJFcc20aDcP2MaQ-hOlcluWrStcckJ8brCQm9_8gO7LIoOrWsp6pQsVjZimKhYKrBo2gUN0Vv9kdhdNsPZrR-h6UACzfArpY/s320/driftwood.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">For a television season or two,
during the late 00s, on Sunday evenings, <b>CBS</b>
used to air the television shows <b>Cold
Case</b> and <b>Without a Trace</b> back to
back. I will not go into the quality of
these shows, or a breakdown of them in any fashion. I had consistently watched both of them prior
to their pairing. I liked them
both. I liked the idea of Cold Case and
how they would pair music from the time of the unsolved murder in the flashback
scenes. I always thought that would’ve
been a fun job. Wish I had thought of
it. Without A Trace was always
intriguing to me, because I have always been incredibly fascinated by the idea
of going missing without a trace.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Sundays have been important days for
me since I was in High School. Back then
it was my music day. I remember doing my
school work mostly on that day, while listening to my most recent music
discoveries and reading books about music.
Then in the evenings, I would listen to my favorite new music radio
shows, before tuning in to <b>MTV</b>s <b>120 minutes</b> for more music. The main thread here, is that I would spend
the day alone, focusing on enjoying my interests. They were days where I would recharge. Ever since, I have tried to keep that
tradition alive. I am slow to make plans
for activities or social things on Sundays, because of this. However, as a mostly Monday through Friday
worker bot, over the years, Sundays became a day of dread. Here I would be dedicated to languishing in
my pursuits, all while trying to ignore the building dread in my gut about the
idea of returning to work the next day.
One day, perhaps I will try to explore this mindset of not living in the
moment, and focusing on only the negative side of things, but that time is not
now.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">For about a year, my Sunday evenings
would end with a double TV shot of Cold Case followed by Without A Trace. There was something satisfying about the two
shows that quelled some of that work dread and always had me feeling all kinds
of things about life. I don’t know why,
but I think it was the sheer sadness that came from both shows. Both shows always centered around
investigations where each victim’s life is uncovered and we get to learn about
all of the horrible shit in their lives.
All of their bad relationships, hidden pain, and their dark secrets. I guess I found it grounding to see that
we’re all effed up in different ways. It
also taught me to truly realize that everyone has their issues and to be more
understanding in general. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">A few years ago, I wrote about my
strange fascination with a local missing person case (<i><a href="https://chris-thiswreckage.blogspot.com/2018/09/jennifer-she-said.html" target="_blank">Jennifer, She Said</a></i>), where I touched on how I identified with her
case, and I still feel it in a way that makes me a little nervous. I don’t think I have the courage or the
whereabouts to go missing. Without A
Trace was a perfect show for me. It was generally tragic and sad, it contained
all kinds of unresolved emotions, and it tugged at my odd desire to go
missing. Unfortunately, the missing I
want to go, is one where I am also unaware of the details, so I can enjoy the
mystery. Where there are people looking at clues from your life and finding
importance in them, when literally no one else ever would.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> In a sense, I have gone missing before. There were times, during my dialysis years,
where I would be hospitalized for up to a week, and would not alert anyone,
besides my workplace, and even then, not always. You know what? It was never a big deal. My lack of communication was mostly a case of
sheer laziness, and most of the time, no one noticed. There was no <b>FBI</b> investigation. There
weren’t any panicked phone calls from family or friends wondering what happened
to me, or even why my car hadn’t moved from a strip mall parking lot for five
days and nights. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Truly, I do not understand my
interest in going missing. During my
last hospital stay, after a brain surgery, I struggled with
hallucinations. For a long time, I
believed that I was under constant threat via kidnapping, which led to torture
and likely death. It was all incredibly
real and clear that none of that stuff would be something to wish for. None of that was real, and it was some of the
scariest stuff I’ve ever experienced! So
no, I really don’t want to go missing against my will and I really don’t seem
to be able to go missing on my own. I
remember one weekday morning about five or six years ago, I decided to drive to
the ocean instead of going to work. I
left my phone at home, drove to a quiet, isolated beach, and sat in amongst
some giant piles of driftwood with my head in my hands in an attempt to shut out
the world. It was cool and cloudy, and
yet somehow, I still got a wicked sunburn, and when I returned to work the next day, my manager asked me where I had
disappeared to the day before, I told him that I needed a day away, and he was
completely understanding and cool with it.
It really pissed me off! </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Maybe I want to go missing from my
life as it is. Perhaps it’s a desire to
start over in some fashion – to rid myself of all of the responsibilities and
obligations I feel each day. Whenever I
get asked what I would do, if I could do anything I want, I struggle to
answer. I’m not sure what I want, or I’m
not sure I can allow myself to want things.
I know I want to escape from my health problems, and the constant
obligation of checking up on the state of my poor health. Instead, like so many of us, I wish for unattainable
things, while trying to achieve some sort of record for denying myself any joy
in life! It’s clear that there is no
reward for working those extra hours, or whatever. No wonder I want to disappear! </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I vaguely remember an episode of
Without A Trace where a woman went missing, and it turns out that she wanted to
set up a fake kidnapping, so she could escape her life and start anew in some
other country. However, her fake
kidnapper instead decided to <i>really</i>
kidnap her, and it all went badly, until our TV heroes intervened just in time
to save her from death. That feels
exactly right.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/1YkoGvnjW7I" width="320" youtube-src-id="1YkoGvnjW7I"></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Maximo Park "Going Missing"</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><br /><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></p></div><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p>chriswreckagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13457541238496646702noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-396328335733163206.post-71215744643567206192023-01-05T09:52:00.000-08:002023-01-05T09:52:04.153-08:00Song Stories: Changing Colors<p><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="color: #333333; font-size: 10pt;">When Wil and I started the </span><i style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">This Wreckage</i><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="color: #333333; font-size: 10pt;"> ‘zine over 30 years ago now, the idea is that we would have people submit material that we would throw in each issue as is and put it out to the world.</span><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="color: #333333; font-size: 10pt;"> </span><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="color: #333333; font-size: 10pt;">What we didn’t realize going in is that most people do not want to actually share things like that.</span><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="color: #333333; font-size: 10pt;"> </span><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="color: #333333; font-size: 10pt;">We struggled in finding material to achieve our albeit ambitious goal of a monthly issue.</span><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="color: #333333; font-size: 10pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 14.2667px;">However, in a small way, I’d like to float out a similar request we used to do every issue, but with more of a singular focus. I am hoping that anyone who reads this would be willing to send some kind of story of a certain song that means something to them. This could mean a short story, an essay, a drawing, a photograph, a poem, a few words, I don’t know. One of my favorite things is to tie music to pretty much every waking minute of my life. It’s a problem really. There are hundreds of songs that evoke a lot of emotions for me for a variety of reasons based on their being nearby at the time. I absolutely love hearing and reading other people’s stories along these lines. I don’t care the genre or the artist, or my personal history, if any, with the song, I find these stories endlessly fascinating.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 14.2667px;">I’m hoping to encourage any and every one who might be willing to send some of their stories to me via messenger, or via email: </span><a href="mailto:tangledrec@hotmail.com" style="color: #992211; text-decoration-line: none;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 14.2667px;">tangledrec@hotmail.com</span></a><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 14.2667px;">. I would like to share them here, on this site, if given the permission.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 14.2667px;">Please ask any questions you may have.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 14.2667px;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyKRFjvYO3lp5DI6PGez2UXxarKY-WmDssOsQkzc1fzHTz3NQqqULpb73HZEg-Qlun29Gf4wykgxqAXJ_ak1pnXpOAItmgjSoVTPuUHK3WM0TsrssogmB-nl2ZjeRowncvk6Mk2UBaKM5CCPE2CKGT2DYge4OvaDC_01EPscwoszphzFQFGFQkSb42/s700/split.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="700" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyKRFjvYO3lp5DI6PGez2UXxarKY-WmDssOsQkzc1fzHTz3NQqqULpb73HZEg-Qlun29Gf4wykgxqAXJ_ak1pnXpOAItmgjSoVTPuUHK3WM0TsrssogmB-nl2ZjeRowncvk6Mk2UBaKM5CCPE2CKGT2DYge4OvaDC_01EPscwoszphzFQFGFQkSb42/s320/split.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px; text-align: left;"><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">A few months into the pandemic, like
late spring, or early summer of 2020, I remember we were all dealing with the
isolation of the lockdown.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A lot of us
who were fortunate enough, could work from home, most places were closed, and
most people were wearing masks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There
was also very little traffic, even at those busiest of times.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Despite all of the terrible news of conflict
everywhere, there were a few promising reports at the time that the lockdown
might be working and that we may have seen the worst of it by that point, and
that there were a few signs of how quickly the environment was recovering with
so little traffic every day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have a
distinct memory of having to drive somewhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It was a warm, sunny day and I had a brief flash of optimism.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can’t believe it now, but I actually
thought to myself: “This might not last much longer.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Apparently, I was drunk, but the idea that we
all collectively could actually make a difference and be willing to make
sacrifices for the good of us all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We
just needed to hang in there for a little while.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">Pretty sure it was a Wednesday night
in June of 2020, when I tuned into <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DJ
Amber Crain</b>’s fantastic internet radio show <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">When the Sun Hits</b> on <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Decayfm.com</b>,
when she played a brand new track, “Changing Colors,” by a band named <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Weathering</b>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When DJ Amber played “Changing Colors,” its
wall of guitar buzz smacked me across the face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It somehow became the best and biggest power chord I’d ever heard!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I never get tired of its wallop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even though it’s seemingly a heavy mass, it
is still light and tuneful, instead of the heavy sludge and grinding of so many
metal/industrial/noise bands that I once loved so much.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Instead it’s the sound of inspiration and
energy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I remember, years ago, trying to
compare <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Bob Mould</b>’s heavy solo album
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Black Sheets of Rain</i> to <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Sugar</b>’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Copper Blue</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Where <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Black Sheets</i>’ guitars felt like actual
weight that we were fighting to climb out from under, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Copper Blue</i>’s sounds were like bolts of sparkling electricity
filling us with gusto.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Both styles can
be great in their own way, but this…this somehow bridges both the heavy and the
fire.</span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">I’m spinning circles<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">Like wheels in my eyes<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">I’ve been changing colors<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">All my metal oxidizing</span></i><i><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">I went absolutely cold.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Shivers cascaded down my spine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A giant lump welled up in my throat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Water pooled up in my eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not only did these words hit me with a ton of
bricks, as that super power chord transitioned into a luxurious, nearly
orchestral space for the vocals, but it was that voice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are times that certain voices affect me
emotionally, and I do not know why.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But
this voice, provided by <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Elinor Carbone</b>,
reminded me of <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Emma Pollock</b>’s voice
the first time I ever heard <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">The Delgados</b>
on their jaunty single “Everything Goes around the Water,” which quickly became
one of my favorite songs from one of my favorite albums ever.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They have voices that crackle with emotion
and endless tunefulness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can’t get
them out of my head!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Their phrasing
keeps me humming their vocal refrains over and over, like a puzzle I can’t
solve, but keep making the same efforts to try.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Those words too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I grow ever
older, I constantly fight the notion that I’m spinning circles – getting stagnant,
but I feel like it’s a constant battle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I desire stillness and quiet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
mostly want to be left alone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I want to
wrap myself up into an isolated cocoon and shield myself from the madness and
needs and expectations of others, but those tendencies are exactly what leads
to the rust build up.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/cY-fS2NBCTs" width="320" youtube-src-id="cY-fS2NBCTs"></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>The Delgados "Everything Goes Around the Water"</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><p></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">Watch me kick the dust up<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">Don’t like it settling settling down</span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">These words hit hard and act as a reminder to shake
off the oxidation and fight to stay relevant or at least feel like I’m
trying.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is inspirational to me, yet
it is an ever increasing challenge as I age and as my health quickly
declines.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Those leaves change colors no
matter what.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This past October was like
summer, where it was well into the 80s and dry nearly the entire month, but
dammit, those leaves still began to change from green to yellow and so on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ready to fall.</span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">I can act so restless<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">Take care, you carry me home<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">It’s so strange to be loved<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">When I insist on being left alone</span></i><i><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">In recent years, I have had to face
the very real notion that I may not be able to take care of myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Currently, I struggle to cook, clean, shower,
and on certain days: everything.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yet my
lifelong need to be independent and mostly alone has put me in a very real
crossroads.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How do I accept help?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How do I handle the idea that there are
people willing to help, and are simply waiting for the call.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How do I handle such things without feeling
useless and embarrassed? However, that heavy guitar instills me with life, especially when that killer guitar melody sits in atop the fuzz, it is a perfect example of why music is Goddamn important. Plus, the song ends abruptly with a sharp snare drum smack and hi hat tap, like a lot of <b>Bad Religion </b>songs, which always leaves me wanting more. Don't get me started about my general dislike of fade outs.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">😭</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">This
is not much of a story. The reality is
that I was sitting over my laptop with my headphones on, sitting in the dark,
yet I will not forget that moment. “Changing
Colors” is the whole package for me as far as a song is concerned.</span> It’s exciting and fun to hear, to play air guitar to, to sing along with,
and it makes me feel things – a lot of things. When I hear it, I get inspired, I get sad, and I want to hear it again.
The song is powerful and defiant, and yet sad and reflective. During each airing of When the Sun Hits, there is always a coinciding live
chat about the songs on <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Facebook</b> and initially, during that particular airing, all I could do was put
in a crying emoji. My heart was racing, as I was overcome with an intense
emotional and physical reaction to this song, and of course, my collector nerd
need to purchase it kicked in like a panic, which I did!<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/8KwG62Zh0PE" width="320" youtube-src-id="8KwG62Zh0PE"></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Weathering "Changing Colors"</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></p><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="color: #333333; font-size: 13.3333px;"></span></div><p></p>chriswreckagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13457541238496646702noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-396328335733163206.post-69629300089789147702023-01-01T11:06:00.000-08:002023-01-01T11:06:10.742-08:00Top 10 Albums of 2022<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">2022, I think, has been a difficult year for many of
us. </span><span style="text-align: left;">I cannot imagine how difficult the
past few years have been for musicians with the closures and shut downs taking
away essentially every opportunity to perform and share their art or even
create it.</span><span style="text-align: left;"> </span><span style="text-align: left;">My goal in sharing the music
I love with as much gusto as I have is to celebrate it!</span><span style="text-align: left;"> </span><span style="text-align: left;">Not just those that I champion here, but all
of it.</span><span style="text-align: left;"> </span><span style="text-align: left;">I admire the effort and passion
to not only have the talent and creativity and vision to make music, but to
also bring it to the public for those of us who struggle to make things
happen.</span><span style="text-align: left;"> </span><span style="text-align: left;">Considering all of the
obstacles, 2022 has been as vibrant and exciting as any other year in music.</span><span style="text-align: left;"> </span><span style="text-align: left;">These choices below are an approximation of
what I believe my most listened to albums of the year have been.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgznaciDqiCadRmX88RW9utRYF2SOXxQ0q0klCsbnH5ntVGozgPH_iJPNfWDSVa9tczI4BZUD1P4BaFRtMGreQnR80bmQLPA4w_1Etb9H3eDaDUuta0mk2bmJDh4tf28Y40RsiMA_zQBlKr2U7bnlfeQQc4rifntcwlEweZ7iAh4IvsU12me0_cJoFp/s350/heart%20under.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="350" data-original-width="350" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgznaciDqiCadRmX88RW9utRYF2SOXxQ0q0klCsbnH5ntVGozgPH_iJPNfWDSVa9tczI4BZUD1P4BaFRtMGreQnR80bmQLPA4w_1Etb9H3eDaDUuta0mk2bmJDh4tf28Y40RsiMA_zQBlKr2U7bnlfeQQc4rifntcwlEweZ7iAh4IvsU12me0_cJoFp/s320/heart%20under.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<p class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><b><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">1.</span><span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><span style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;">1.</span></span><span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> <a href="https://chris-thiswreckage.blogspot.com/2022/07/heart-under.html" target="_blank"> </a></span></span></b><!--[endif]--><b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><a href="https://chris-thiswreckage.blogspot.com/2022/07/heart-under.html" target="_blank">Just Mustard <i>Heart Under</i></a><o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><b><br /></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt 0.25in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSrJcmtEcau-v4UlmBqIJCFgDL5JCyfeAEB7g5_Fj9YanT5an3rZqxSPpq6RJQi3k4wVm_RRC4G8rd9Wvd2OCh_ytM_eKnxE4CQMiWzkV2w9M6ez6Cx9tcG-ztyVIDB1RdwZphhFvcCfaJMxKfv-o-3ApBhCtdUSjKZLJRekKs58qHSsIDwUo2wodL/s700/embody.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="700" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSrJcmtEcau-v4UlmBqIJCFgDL5JCyfeAEB7g5_Fj9YanT5an3rZqxSPpq6RJQi3k4wVm_RRC4G8rd9Wvd2OCh_ytM_eKnxE4CQMiWzkV2w9M6ez6Cx9tcG-ztyVIDB1RdwZphhFvcCfaJMxKfv-o-3ApBhCtdUSjKZLJRekKs58qHSsIDwUo2wodL/s320/embody.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><b><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">2.</span><span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><span style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;">2. </span></span><span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></b><!--[endif]--><b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Basement Revolver <i>Embody</i><o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8W55OfcMQsQndBkiouP_4oJxOXUUFmOuY0UOAGOLR3nfmWfVbG9dvkPyAMlzcrNWstYqFIfa8uLRxDvAizfttstNEi1qGtKZwjiYPvorJqjuvdK02xHBpwP1LeddwbDlt80xBuhxTt3w3sCOW5r70wSHXwjJiDGJ-g587j7_FF35Af0EbjdyJTwC7/s700/blue%20rev.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="700" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8W55OfcMQsQndBkiouP_4oJxOXUUFmOuY0UOAGOLR3nfmWfVbG9dvkPyAMlzcrNWstYqFIfa8uLRxDvAizfttstNEi1qGtKZwjiYPvorJqjuvdK02xHBpwP1LeddwbDlt80xBuhxTt3w3sCOW5r70wSHXwjJiDGJ-g587j7_FF35Af0EbjdyJTwC7/s320/blue%20rev.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><b><i><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">3.</span><span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><span style="font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;">3. </span></span></span></i></b><!--[endif]--><b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Alvvays <i>Blue Rev</i></span></b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> <b><i><o:p></o:p></i></b></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt 0.25in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNzJBZln6OD5pDwU9-jxeOM5_c_Vr96WS8ZsSIJVikDpA2KIV_U_ZCG8sKKMuEbIBLGcDDJ-x7Hd_hQZr2naNS7boiYjjd-epfHm_RAoPYmWTUcnr9JhcSe5tebZET2Zcd_8UWkZuls8DnldG7dAznxxpmtk-C-SL9ZepitI6k7JB0FzDOk302N46z/s350/lovelives.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="350" data-original-width="350" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNzJBZln6OD5pDwU9-jxeOM5_c_Vr96WS8ZsSIJVikDpA2KIV_U_ZCG8sKKMuEbIBLGcDDJ-x7Hd_hQZr2naNS7boiYjjd-epfHm_RAoPYmWTUcnr9JhcSe5tebZET2Zcd_8UWkZuls8DnldG7dAznxxpmtk-C-SL9ZepitI6k7JB0FzDOk302N46z/s320/lovelives.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><b><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">4.</span><span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><span style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;">4. </span></span></span></b><!--[endif]--><b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><a href="https://chris-thiswreckage.blogspot.com/2022/12/love-lives-in-body.html" target="_blank">Soft Blue Shimmer <i>Love Lives in the Body</i></a><o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt 0.25in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip_XHuahKg8_u9YM_MMU4Z-wFcc7ZCd6GlXCz9QQzgG_JXRMTJeO_QTFMGa9QgZfYpfsa7SYaITBGYEIxIXAxBnij544N3GlOUrdcGL3kBuvA_1jMnF-qL7YSP-VZZOFFoRKp2ZG3cu-C9FrY2GEIQs0cVmFXMtW7-al72vYvUv3a1sTfzBIoTq_XX/s700/capelton.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="700" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip_XHuahKg8_u9YM_MMU4Z-wFcc7ZCd6GlXCz9QQzgG_JXRMTJeO_QTFMGa9QgZfYpfsa7SYaITBGYEIxIXAxBnij544N3GlOUrdcGL3kBuvA_1jMnF-qL7YSP-VZZOFFoRKp2ZG3cu-C9FrY2GEIQs0cVmFXMtW7-al72vYvUv3a1sTfzBIoTq_XX/s320/capelton.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><b><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">5.</span><span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><span style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;">5. </span></span></span></b><!--[endif]--><b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><a href="https://chris-thiswreckage.blogspot.com/2022/09/from-capelton-hill.html" target="_blank">Stars <i>From Capelton Hill</i></a><o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg989R_oCgyRBGh93vpZTC7UJlZ_HMc6gqMVSGDkDb-vRHWkvREY68l7fUma45BbtrScCmmv3kTui6x4WXA2YZrJ_MVEmopW0aiLpdPxIZkYfvdduqCMsJJAaVBJjcbfurih-YLUWiTh1nSwtNurvqzP8PfwQbQ3QyZC6L7SisaXUeC08RNQ8-POGxh/s700/dawn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="700" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg989R_oCgyRBGh93vpZTC7UJlZ_HMc6gqMVSGDkDb-vRHWkvREY68l7fUma45BbtrScCmmv3kTui6x4WXA2YZrJ_MVEmopW0aiLpdPxIZkYfvdduqCMsJJAaVBJjcbfurih-YLUWiTh1nSwtNurvqzP8PfwQbQ3QyZC6L7SisaXUeC08RNQ8-POGxh/s320/dawn.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><b><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">6.</span><span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><span style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;">6. </span></span></span></b><!--[endif]--><b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><a href="https://chris-thiswreckage.blogspot.com/2022/12/dawn-of-freak.html" target="_blank">The Haunted Youth <i>Dawn of the Freak</i></a><o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnZBCukZe-g3YXipeypi5pdsgBMM1OyHZTHln2xf3MX8QI-pF89JSfWAT_hpE8TwJUwvs3TH-Lah5GNYWkP07yQgyoQNgxNMdcB7-BNWRrez-kFC7T3Q-bKuk2mX3nRmHCc98yBquzVrAeUckBMGQcEjlmaNdk3B50u_UFcCjElbYZJ_LrNJSvcIvO/s700/raise%20hell.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="700" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnZBCukZe-g3YXipeypi5pdsgBMM1OyHZTHln2xf3MX8QI-pF89JSfWAT_hpE8TwJUwvs3TH-Lah5GNYWkP07yQgyoQNgxNMdcB7-BNWRrez-kFC7T3Q-bKuk2mX3nRmHCc98yBquzVrAeUckBMGQcEjlmaNdk3B50u_UFcCjElbYZJ_LrNJSvcIvO/s320/raise%20hell.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><b><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">7.</span><span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><span style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;">7. </span></span><span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></b><!--[endif]--><b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><a href="https://chris-thiswreckage.blogspot.com/2022/08/raise-hell.html" target="_blank">Fresh <i>Raise Hell</i></a><o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt 0.25in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJymyC1bbcoU3_PJZhlfZLjBW_TJiPNdcOe2QFaVQmZX-HoU9EX6a0fsEK81c012Puq1RvTmAZ-i1W-EMlPsvIDdG9yi8XhAjKAADZ4wQXY7irIsS7LO3LbaF3zBZivArkI8cJLq9B0R33rHpTHSF005mQN2RmrOncd-EFrM5wbBoS41g-ZSszzVCV/s700/expert.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="700" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJymyC1bbcoU3_PJZhlfZLjBW_TJiPNdcOe2QFaVQmZX-HoU9EX6a0fsEK81c012Puq1RvTmAZ-i1W-EMlPsvIDdG9yi8XhAjKAADZ4wQXY7irIsS7LO3LbaF3zBZivArkI8cJLq9B0R33rHpTHSF005mQN2RmrOncd-EFrM5wbBoS41g-ZSszzVCV/s320/expert.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><i><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; font-weight: bold;">8.</span><span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><span style="font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>8. </b></span></span><span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></i><!--[endif]--><b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><a href="https://chris-thiswreckage.blogspot.com/2022/09/expert-in-dying-field.html" target="_blank">The Beths </a><i><a href="https://chris-thiswreckage.blogspot.com/2022/09/expert-in-dying-field.html" target="_blank">Expert in a Dying Field</a><o:p></o:p></i></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt 0.25in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK-oz8cAX_tSTCW5PUX_0hHypJmsCN7htm-UwUlmbIugOx9SNSpwxOo0bjgn6fTK-hGMCLlUwV4sU8auFvNc9dBRHIdOM5kcHWbGTCCOWX6HeLsZfdUjyhoE9Ico9Ogv6NzIOVziVwsVuqLc8KXQQszlC3BzUcaQS4O1sB-xUVaPzbhOYJJrZNaxro/s700/canary.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="700" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK-oz8cAX_tSTCW5PUX_0hHypJmsCN7htm-UwUlmbIugOx9SNSpwxOo0bjgn6fTK-hGMCLlUwV4sU8auFvNc9dBRHIdOM5kcHWbGTCCOWX6HeLsZfdUjyhoE9Ico9Ogv6NzIOVziVwsVuqLc8KXQQszlC3BzUcaQS4O1sB-xUVaPzbhOYJJrZNaxro/s320/canary.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><b><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">9.</span><span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><span style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;">9. </span></span><span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></b><!--[endif]--><b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><a href="https://chris-thiswreckage.blogspot.com/2022/12/canary-yellow.html" target="_blank">Soft Kill <i>Canary Yellow</i></a><o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt 0.25in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaLIeZYeZXyvRcsDk7Mmo5FpAOjR9zUi1cqZ9aahfI4RkAgM7pF6utPHj1PoTzsS9kaBTi3A_e0nZBd_tf6fN7P1tY2UpenyYvxyNPL69H_l8XfVKwnx5Y6DBB1gtii2Fyt2XGoufFqMxIIiWci1h72eklNCZgx117SWGZ5xDc5tXzdkVDQaHWfaTb/s350/black%20sheep.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="350" data-original-width="350" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaLIeZYeZXyvRcsDk7Mmo5FpAOjR9zUi1cqZ9aahfI4RkAgM7pF6utPHj1PoTzsS9kaBTi3A_e0nZBd_tf6fN7P1tY2UpenyYvxyNPL69H_l8XfVKwnx5Y6DBB1gtii2Fyt2XGoufFqMxIIiWci1h72eklNCZgx117SWGZ5xDc5tXzdkVDQaHWfaTb/s320/black%20sheep.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><b><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">1</span><span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><span style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;">10. </span></span></span></b><b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><a href="https://chris-thiswreckage.blogspot.com/2022/07/black-sheep-is-still-dreaming.html" target="_blank">COLLAPSE <i>Black Sheep is Still Dreaming</i></a><o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><o:p><br /></o:p></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><o:p><br /></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .25in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;"><o:p> </o:p></p></div><p><br /></p><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p>chriswreckagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13457541238496646702noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-396328335733163206.post-67492412160175991002022-12-12T15:24:00.008-08:002022-12-13T22:18:28.930-08:00Small Talk<p style="text-align: center;"> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN3prkdpyQHMBcBRPLBtPHgX8FUb-VrXjbvdAFOMxj8b29anA0bZAvc6eggQ77TR4s_h_gmQvwdRi622fupgFkqcPdJoGlHb8z_hkTnpkB222Vyq51rllVRrGo_fvCrQEYEPGNwL118t-XeUF_NqZNv_vYM5ASoV1s1DvdR1TRe7OVQfxlrI3j_s4c/s179/small%20talk.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="119" data-original-width="179" height="119" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN3prkdpyQHMBcBRPLBtPHgX8FUb-VrXjbvdAFOMxj8b29anA0bZAvc6eggQ77TR4s_h_gmQvwdRi622fupgFkqcPdJoGlHb8z_hkTnpkB222Vyq51rllVRrGo_fvCrQEYEPGNwL118t-XeUF_NqZNv_vYM5ASoV1s1DvdR1TRe7OVQfxlrI3j_s4c/s1600/small%20talk.jpg" width="179" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">I suppose it all depends on how
different people define small talk. To
me, it means a conversation that is based on meaningless and safe topics. In my world, these topics are generally about
the weather and forecasts of the weather.
These days, it seems, that pretty much every topic can be divisive, and <i>even</i> weather could lead a conversation
down a dark road of conflict.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">However, I have never been good with
small talk. I fail at it. I realize it’s importance. It is a comfortable way to pass time when
around strangers, it can open the door to deeper conversations, when none of
those present knows how to jump in, it’s a way to feel other people out, and it
can help people avoid that dreaded conflict that stresses a lot of us out. It’s all casual and non-threatening</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">When I say that I fail at it, I mean
that I’m not good at it. To me, it’s
always been frivolous. We only
have so much time on this planet. Why do
we spend so much time talking about shit that no one cares about? Don’t get me wrong. I am obsessed with weather. I watch all of the local forecasts with an
old man’s focus. I am interested in
doppler radar, barometric pressures, heat indexes, and the various forecast
models, and I check the weather app on my phone way more than I’d like to admit. I can tell the difference between actual
meteorologists and presenters on TV, and can become annoyed, if I believe that
they don’t know their stuff. Yet,
hearing a bunch of random people talk about the weather – mostly wildly
inaccurately, is quite possibly the last thing I want to do. If it all were soundtracked by <b>Todd Rundgren</b>’s “Bang on the Drum All
Day,” then my misery would be complete. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">When I find myself in those prime
small talk situations, alone with random people for an indeterminate amount of
time, I generally shut up. I am not a
talker to begin with. However, I will
take part, if someone else initiates, or if something that I think is strange
happens and I can’t help but make some sort of crack. If I do start yammering, I will start asking
questions of the person, or people. It’s
a good way to not talk about myself.
Apparently, asking questions is often too much for most people. Unless, it’s work-related, or weather
related, or some such, people make it clear that anything personal is out of
bounds. Seems to be related to the
invisible personal space bubble that most of us have, in various sizes (mine is
very large), it seems to include probing questions and revealing personal
thoughts.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">I guess that’s it. I am no different than most people. I find ways to avoid sharing too much
self-information, and people that can talk a lot about nothing, are trying to
do the same thing, just in a different way.
They have learned how to use small talk, where I have not. Asking probing questions often shuts down a
kind of connection, and that’s where I fail. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">Small talk bothers me that much more
with people that one already knows. I do
not need the weather run down, I don’t need a meaningless list of activities
that they’ve checked off some sort of list. I get this a lot, for example: when people talk
about what music they’re listening to, what books they’ve read, what movies
they’ve seen, and especially what TV shows they’ve been streaming, but that’s
it. A list of things is meaningless to
me. I can only find interest, if these
things come with information. Were these
various things enjoyable and why? Are
they recommending them to me? I want to
ask these follow up questions, but they are often met with an exasperated
reaction and rarely any answers. To me,
it feels like there’s no point. I’m
interested in the reason behind people’s choices, and what makes them
tick. I want to know about them. I am incredibly slow to trust people, and
always have been. It helps me trust, if
I know more about who I am dealing with.
Plus, I am genuinely interested.
The same is true with the weather topic.
If the topic, comes with a story, it can become intriguing. Not every topic of conversation has to be
deep and meaningful, but at least bring something personal to the table!</span><span style="font-size: 10pt; text-align: center;"> Tell a story!</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBOPc7KsIqtyc-3X24zKFIDvCKHNGhRZZC89y5S3Ihk9TK7Su7CHlwDbB2_M5UwCHXAgwlJ0s9tgmWz4xdq7AzdX5bc7dtDEjmSV7L_hdThm4SRdapjUCLOLhJSTrCapLqqAR_ZXIeu5qUZOjqwTWsG_x9TnEZG7Pj8EEpJU-s7Y1nrbydtoz7kSW4/s225/aunties.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBOPc7KsIqtyc-3X24zKFIDvCKHNGhRZZC89y5S3Ihk9TK7Su7CHlwDbB2_M5UwCHXAgwlJ0s9tgmWz4xdq7AzdX5bc7dtDEjmSV7L_hdThm4SRdapjUCLOLhJSTrCapLqqAR_ZXIeu5qUZOjqwTWsG_x9TnEZG7Pj8EEpJU-s7Y1nrbydtoz7kSW4/s1600/aunties.png" width="225" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">Still I find small talk amongst
friends very strange. I understand
building up to more in-depth topics of conversation, but if there is a solid base
of familiarity there, why waste time chatting about weather, or other frivolous
topics, unless there’s a story there? I
don’t understand. Perhaps, it’s me. Maybe I am untrustworthy. Perhaps, I do not do a good job of creating a
trusting space, or am too judgmental, or am not deemed worthy of being privy to
such information. I am seriously trying
to understand. I’m trying to notice
which types of questions make me uncomfortable and not ask those, because as I said before, I'm slow to trust others. For
example, recently I met my cousin <b>Laura</b>,
who is a high school English teacher, at the wonderful <b>Auntie’s Bookstore</b> in <b>Spokane</b>. I don’t get to see her often, every few
years, but after a few moments of greeting, I asked her for a book
recommendation - like what is her all-time favorite book – the book that has
most impacted her. Though, I really want
to know, I immediately realized that that was a very personal and pressurized
question, and totally unfair. I likely
would have changed the subject like she did.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">Amazing that I can say all of this,
while writing about something that is frivolous. It is something I’m trying to learn
though. I want to do better, and I want
to understand why we as a people struggle so much to communicate, when we’re
around each other. Me, included, if not
especially! We’re all each other
have. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p>chriswreckagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13457541238496646702noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-396328335733163206.post-71867347072076521852022-12-10T11:09:00.000-08:002022-12-10T11:09:38.371-08:00Love Lives in the Body<p style="text-align: center;"> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgweBz2BuY3nSP4Lbv9bpNgl6j3TsJC9WsLfHXgjvmEvtP3hluZoGWVCnx4ZU70OzVZ7DZNKpCRLazTIwgrG0uZJ9jUwfSKR8yKVWfXEx2w9wOhRnq7mZ0ieq1O55QXl_m6ewd1NGHczbltdnBtCYxf6kVmgfDBzKxF8N3PASdWlAM1-o_D-kZ8OW6V/s700/lovelies.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="700" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgweBz2BuY3nSP4Lbv9bpNgl6j3TsJC9WsLfHXgjvmEvtP3hluZoGWVCnx4ZU70OzVZ7DZNKpCRLazTIwgrG0uZJ9jUwfSKR8yKVWfXEx2w9wOhRnq7mZ0ieq1O55QXl_m6ewd1NGHczbltdnBtCYxf6kVmgfDBzKxF8N3PASdWlAM1-o_D-kZ8OW6V/s320/lovelies.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Soft Blue Shimmer<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><i>Love
Lives in the Body<o:p></o:p></i></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><i>(Other
People)</i></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Love Lives in the Body</span></i><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> is <b>Soft Blue Shimmer</b>’s
second album, and as I’ve said before, this band’s sound is one that I
love! I have trouble writing about
them. My love for them does not elicit
any kind of narrative. I just enjoy
their music. It seems to be deeply
rooted in me. I remember a time when I
was in my early twenties and in love with the idea of love. I had experienced, in a big way, that early
electric bliss that comes with a fresh crush/relationship and on the other side
of the coin, around the same time, I had gone through a lot of serious
heartbreak and loss. I became a mess of
emotions and conflict. Everything in
life became exceedingly poignant and powerful.
Inevitably, all of the songs I loved from that era that evoked any
direct emotions from those experiences, all still tap into those vivid days. I began to amass a soundtrack for those times. Songs that poked the bruises of those
emotions were of a wide variety of sounds, but are all linked in their own
genre that only makes sense to me. Soft
Blue Shimmer’s warm sound envelops me into that world – a world of my deepest
desires and regrets - the things that bring tears to my eyes. Their songs mean a lot to me in a deeply embedded
way. Perhaps, they’ve stumbled upon just
the right dose of bittersweet. I miss
the feeling of feeling so much. Age and
accumulation of experiences, at least for me, has numbed me, despite my best
intentions to avoid it. Hearing music
like this makes me feel alive. In some
ways, I need to keep that bruise going.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Love Lives in the Body</span></i><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">, indeed. Much like
Soft Blue Shimmer’s music lives in my body.
Main vocalist, <b>Meredith</b> takes
a breath in and out to open their second album, before we are set into their
stunning musical realm. It’s like a ‘here
we go’ prep. Their wash of soft buzzing
guitars, plush drums, and Meredith’s heavenly vocals are always pleasing, and
it’s about then when I realize that I will be listening to these songs a lot!</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The slow unfurling of the pre-LP
single, “Prism of Feeling,” is beautiful as it blooms into a sound that one
wants to hear again and again. This is
similar to the rising earnestness of “Cloudless.” “9090” is the most upbeat song, while “Memory
/ Fantasy” is quite melancholy with matching incredibly visual and poetic
lyrics. Definitely my early favorite.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The album unfolds in an unusual
way. It leans toward the dreamy side
early, and increases the tempo and pop hooks as it progresses. SBS, have found a magical balance between the
shoegazey elements I love and the crisp fizz of indie pop, which I love as much. They remind me a bit of 90s legends, <b>Majesty Crush</b>, only without the creepy
and sinister lyrics. I feel a profound
loss in these songs, thought I am likely projecting, as they explore not just
the emotional loss of a loved one, but the physical one as well. It’s a thought-provoking thread to consider
and deeply felt. Maybe that’s part of
what poking the bruise is all about. So
often, we mourn the emotional loss, but not the little things, like just the
right touch to the forearm at just the right time. <i>Love
Lives in the Body</i> evokes all of that.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The dichotomy between the darkness of
the words and the bright music is fantastic - something that has always appealed to me! On their <b>Bandcamp </b>page they
let us know that they’re <i>here to make you
think about stuff or forget about stuff</i>.
Could not be more accurate.
Timeless music! Their records are
like the best candy that we all try to save to consume last. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">(</span><a href="https://softblueshimmer.bandcamp.com/album/love-lives-in-the-body"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">https://softblueshimmer.bandcamp.com/album/love-lives-in-the-body</span></a><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">)<o:p></o:p></span></p></div><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/GtTomSJufHg" width="320" youtube-src-id="GtTomSJufHg"></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Soft Blue Shimmer "Prism of Feeling"</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><br /><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p>chriswreckagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13457541238496646702noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-396328335733163206.post-55615111902749562522022-12-08T10:32:00.001-08:002022-12-08T13:25:58.727-08:00Song Stories: Blue Monday<p> <span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="color: #333333; font-size: 10pt;">When Wil and I started the </span><i style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">This Wreckage</i><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="color: #333333; font-size: 10pt;"> ‘zine over 30 years ago now, the idea is that we would have people submit material that we would throw in each issue as is and put it out to the world.</span><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="color: #333333; font-size: 10pt;"> </span><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="color: #333333; font-size: 10pt;">What we didn’t realize going in is that most people do not want to actually share things like that.</span><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="color: #333333; font-size: 10pt;"> </span><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="color: #333333; font-size: 10pt;">We struggled in finding material to achieve our albeit ambitious goal of a monthly issue.</span><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="color: #333333; font-size: 10pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 14.2667px;">However, in a small way, I’d like to float out a similar request we used to do every issue, but with more of a singular focus. I am hoping that anyone who reads this would be willing to send some kind of story of a certain song that means something to them. This could mean a short story, an essay, a drawing, a photograph, a poem, a few words, I don’t know. One of my favorite things is to tie music to pretty much every waking minute of my life. It’s a problem really. There are hundreds of songs that evoke a lot of emotions for me for a variety of reasons based on their being nearby at the time. I absolutely love hearing and reading other people’s stories along these lines. I don’t care the genre or the artist, or my personal history, if any, with the song, I find these stories endlessly fascinating.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 14.2667px;">I’m hoping to encourage any and every one who might be willing to send some of their stories to me via messenger, or via email: </span><a href="mailto:tangledrec@hotmail.com" style="color: #992211; text-decoration-line: none;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 14.2667px;">tangledrec@hotmail.com</span></a><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 14.2667px;">. I would like to share them here, on this site, if given the permission.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 14.2667px;">Please ask any questions you may have.</span></p><p style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><b>Matt Jenkins</b> </span><span style="font-size: 10pt;">has been kind enough to share a story. Here it is:</span> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwSKXp6AtizLMeHTw1k0PwtUGxjIrVBKaxhPYxM8oEbH8Lep2IMDsp66obx9gN_23yUfUzY3B9lstXacG6VCUGW8mvrpaZIE3rVo0v2izYS72WGBeatYf3eSLdaAqnuNCPgbqJjEV_U0-cazro2Nl5dJhVZxjIT8ptvWqjXn6p52afsHieU6zJzBpn/s1240/bluemonday.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1234" data-original-width="1240" height="318" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwSKXp6AtizLMeHTw1k0PwtUGxjIrVBKaxhPYxM8oEbH8Lep2IMDsp66obx9gN_23yUfUzY3B9lstXacG6VCUGW8mvrpaZIE3rVo0v2izYS72WGBeatYf3eSLdaAqnuNCPgbqJjEV_U0-cazro2Nl5dJhVZxjIT8ptvWqjXn6p52afsHieU6zJzBpn/s320/bluemonday.webp" width="320" /></a></div><p style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif;"></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14.85px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="background: white; color: #242424; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Growing up in LC in the 80’s, there was
plenty of pop music and metal. I love both. A wonderful memory I have is from 8</span><sup style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">th</sup><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; float: none; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"> grade. After basketball practice, I needed a
ride to the <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Driftwood Library</b>. It
was about 6 pm and, of course, just a little dark and rainy. A friend on the
team was getting picked up by his big brother, who was in high school, and I
was going to catch that ride. I ended up in a rusty <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">70’s Honda Accord</b> hatchback with about six people (but it seemed
like twenty). This, I think, was the first time I heard a subwoofer. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14.85px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><span style="background: white; color: #242424; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb2sCWZnHbfRxBWdjUn_56pH47CJ8tEQj4f0Z5QUwj-83wcSb7GpqZf2SbtENZyuDjNof9EWUtJrUr01VgNb5_SZIN84viop-4joDZ35zIBo16Y30c3ToXFsiZK2HUCMs1_P0gfP0Q12IBIvbgTc0mRzblqHhp9MsD9j6iaVs7WQIAGx-6YwrHeO_x/s800/pringles.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="800" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb2sCWZnHbfRxBWdjUn_56pH47CJ8tEQj4f0Z5QUwj-83wcSb7GpqZf2SbtENZyuDjNof9EWUtJrUr01VgNb5_SZIN84viop-4joDZ35zIBo16Y30c3ToXFsiZK2HUCMs1_P0gfP0Q12IBIvbgTc0mRzblqHhp9MsD9j6iaVs7WQIAGx-6YwrHeO_x/s320/pringles.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14.85px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="background: white; color: #242424; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">FUCK! They were playing <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">AC/DC</b> and getting high from a <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Pringles</b> can made into a pipe with a carb.
I was all in. I still remember inhaling and looking down at the Pringles guy
with his mustache. <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Nemo</b>? But AC/DC
is not my song story. The song that rocked my world was “Blue Monday” by <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">New Order</b>. It was just such a different
sound and for a kid who already had designs on leaving LC and trying to see the
world, it was a revelation and a break from the pop, the metal, all the other
common forms of music. AC/DC might rock a sub-woofer, but that beat on “Blue
Monday” was, and still is, so fucking electronic that it’s like a digital heartbeat.
It seemed to transport me into the future, a beat from far away big cities.
When I think of all the things that have happened since, the advent, rise, and
domination of the Internet and social media, all the various forms of digital
culture from the human genome project to AI, to electric cars, that beat in “Blue
Monday” was calling to us. How could we not know? This present moment used to
be the unimaginable future.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14.85px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="background: white; color: #242424; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">How does it feel?</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14.85px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><u><span face=""Segoe UI",sans-serif" style="background: white; border: 1pt none windowtext; color: blue; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 107%; mso-border-alt: none windowtext 0in; padding: 0in;"><a href="https://mowp-my.sharepoint.com/personal/chris_gilliland_mowp_org/Documents/Desktop/%0b(http:/www.williamlmoore.tumblr.com">
(http://www.williamlmoore.tumblr.com</a></span></u>)<span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14.85px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: 14.85px; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/W2e2Nw8oTgc" width="320" youtube-src-id="W2e2Nw8oTgc"></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>New Order "Blue Monday"</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 14.85px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><br /></p><br /><p></p>chriswreckagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13457541238496646702noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-396328335733163206.post-18140283631498017252022-12-04T09:50:00.002-08:002022-12-04T09:51:06.824-08:00Dawn of the Freak<p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtiFl6NKocXSAFPGV-1N1638Qq4SfWFfdaBUwgTrDajxVH7E7FnOk_YraUs9Iguhlxwio7CjoGoiF3zDkFlM0lc55izDBW6gzhpe4olDUNdAtmHjnVpdosMa0Tn-AK9XOc-7CI1rW113zdG1J06tXOGNQenqm9-bvQKa9FdO5Z4O4XcWpnouxly68k/s700/dawnofthefreak.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="700" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtiFl6NKocXSAFPGV-1N1638Qq4SfWFfdaBUwgTrDajxVH7E7FnOk_YraUs9Iguhlxwio7CjoGoiF3zDkFlM0lc55izDBW6gzhpe4olDUNdAtmHjnVpdosMa0Tn-AK9XOc-7CI1rW113zdG1J06tXOGNQenqm9-bvQKa9FdO5Z4O4XcWpnouxly68k/s320/dawnofthefreak.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">The Haunted Youth<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><i>Dawn
of the Freak<o:p></o:p></i></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><i>(Mayway)</i></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">The debut album from <b>The Haunted Youth</b> opens with a short
rough, yet simple instrumental and closes with a lofi acoustic heart tugging
ballad. The eight tracks in-between are
some kind of amazing collection of postpunk pop wonders that are so streamlined
and perfect that they play like a greatest hits album from a pioneer of the
genre.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">Joachim Leibens</span></b><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">,
from Belgium, has managed to learn from the past. Over the years, especially before MP3s and
streaming changed the music industry forever, occasionally, an “alternative”
artist or band would sneak a catchy song or two into mainstream radio. I’m talking about songs by <b>Modern English</b> (“I Melt with You”), <b>The Church</b> (“Under the Milky Way”), <b>The Cure</b> (“Just Like Heaven”), or
especially <b>The Psychedelic Furs</b> (a
few), among others. These were
triumphant moments for those of us who were exhausted from the overplayed pop hits
that we mostly heard on the top 40 radio stations that us folks in small towns
were pretty much stuck with. These
random breakthroughs would spur on discovery of new and unusual music that we
had to hunt down in the nearest cities, and these would lead us to other artists. These artists were different. Generally, more experimental,
thought-provoking and interesting.
Generally, they had more insightful lyrics and sounds. They were often darker in sound, but still
tied to the idea of pop hooks. It’s as
if The Haunted Youth have cleaned out any of those variations and failed
experiments that were buried on those old albums, and put out a collection that
is so unrelentingly focused that every song sounds like one of those
breakthrough hits.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">“Broken,” the first song I heard from
them, is an epic breathy anthem, whose guitar chorus is magical and downright
exciting! So many of these songs have
very few lyrics - mainly a few lines, repeated at key moments, a sturdy
rumbling bassline and beat, some spiraling or scratchy rhythm guitars, and
nothing to get in the way of the point.
“Teen Rebel” is super infectious, though a bit odd. The vocal is kind of a snotty retort to the
so-called Teen Rebel, who is “always wanting something more.” Though, it could be irritating, these lines
are sung/spoken atop a <b>Chameleons</b>-like
bed of guitar reverb, which is always great.
If one were to remove the bass and drums, this song could qualify for an
Ambient genre all-time classic. All of
the singles, like the hand clapping addiction that is “Gone,” or the scratchy
simplicity of “Shadows,” and the sing along attraction of “Coming Home” (opens
similar to <b>New Order</b>’s “Procession”)
should be international blockbusters. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">There’s a no frills/no bullshit thing
going on here that I dig and I think a lot of people would to. A great example of this is the song “I Feel
Like Shit and I Wanna Die,” is exactly what the title implies. No sugarcoating. No nonsense to obscure the message. No room for interpretation. The music is stunning – something similar to
an early <b>OMD</b> ballad. So is this album. I’m anxious to hear more!</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">(</span><a href="https://thehauntedyouthofficial.bandcamp.com/album/dawn-of-the-freak"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">https://thehauntedyouthofficial.bandcamp.com/album/dawn-of-the-freak</span></a><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">)<o:p></o:p></span></p></div><p style="text-align: center;"><br /><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/k1TNLhpxsak" width="320" youtube-src-id="k1TNLhpxsak"></iframe></div><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i>The Haunted Youth "Broken"</i></div></span><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><br /></i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><br /></i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><br /></i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><br /></i></span> </p>chriswreckagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13457541238496646702noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-396328335733163206.post-50682817483652591682022-12-01T13:53:00.005-08:002022-12-01T13:56:48.119-08:00Canary Yellow<p style="text-align: center;"> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-eCqxBNfvRqd_MmU3C-iD_vSJZ95lDGDfNnpZh6Ewkf5gACwfnLjZYMirnGFI3jWsrudKkabKoXY6v-8Jwu2ApbOyFV32AZ1jShy93jx9XZAEROEEHnoTpbODf9TkW1DgEx5nstVlhKVMtAcIoIUoViPb-_uzdJT6jBq2wKJy1f_EkBe3TXCbwshN/s700/canaryy.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="700" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-eCqxBNfvRqd_MmU3C-iD_vSJZ95lDGDfNnpZh6Ewkf5gACwfnLjZYMirnGFI3jWsrudKkabKoXY6v-8Jwu2ApbOyFV32AZ1jShy93jx9XZAEROEEHnoTpbODf9TkW1DgEx5nstVlhKVMtAcIoIUoViPb-_uzdJT6jBq2wKJy1f_EkBe3TXCbwshN/s320/canaryy.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Soft Kill<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><i>Canary
Yellow<o:p></o:p></i></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><i>(Cercle
Social)</i></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">There are those times in High School
and college, or thereabouts, where most of us start our search for how we want
to be identified. Identity is important
to us when we’re young, because we don’t know what we are. We’ve been told how to be by our authority
figures, but at some point, we begin to question things and try to understand
what type of person we want to be. It’s
an exciting and dramatic time, because it feels lonely to search for meaning
and direction and exciting, because there’s so much opportunity and
discovery. Oftentimes, the music we
develop a taste for becomes a tangible source of community. We begin to gravitate to others who like
similar things. We change our look and
adopt new personas to fit in with a new clique or scene. Sometimes it can go deep and it is all very
serious and very important.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">Now that I’m old, I am both mystified
by it all, and I miss the promise of those days. I never really felt like I found a niche when
I was young, because I really never wanted to fit in. I did desperately, but at the same time, was
mostly content with being by myself. It
was a time of being sad, because I was lonely, and yet never comfortable with
others – especially in groups. I do,
however, miss how fired up I would get when I ran across new music that I felt
an affinity for. That felt like
home. That spoke to me. That taught me. That helped me not feel so alone. Music still does these things for me. I still get energized when I run across music
that fits into my narrow-ish tastes.
However, most of those harken back to those earlier times. They are nostalgic, even if they are new and
by younger artists.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">Having said that, within the last few
years, I have learned about Portland’s own <b>Soft
Kill</b>. They are fantastic! They exude that perfect band for young
discovery. At least that’s what I think
and feel when I hear them. They write
songs that remind me of “In-Between Days” <b>Cure</b>,
that are a bit more “street,” yet which are genuinely sad and reflective, and
yet incredibly catchy earworms that can fill one with energy and a real passion
and angst.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">Soft Kill’s latest offering is <i>Canary
Yellow</i>. I originally got sucked into their energy
with their previous proper LP, <i>Dead Kids
R.I.P. City,</i> from 2020. Yes, they
remind me of younger days, and I’m okay with that. I listened to <i>Dead Kids</i> a lot and reveled into those old angsty feelings. It reminded me how important those times were
and thankful that most of those old anxieties became meaningless to me
now. Don’t get me wrong. My anxieties are numerous – just different. <i>Canary
Yellow</i> is very similar to the previous album with songs full of an
energized sadness that are absolutely tuneful.
I mean, this is a fun and enjoyable listen no matter what.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">Songwriter, <b>Tobias Grave</b>, has a knack for catchy melodies. The pre-LP single “Magic Garden” with its
acoustic strums and hummable guitar and keyboard melody should be heard by a
wider audience, or the endlessly addictive tune that is “Rocks & Blows,”
will creep into one’s head and stay there, in a good way. The piano anointed “Domino” is another
favorite with its inherent drama that hints of the magnificent <b>Stars </b>at their best. The ballad, “The Line” sung by <b>Ruth Radelet</b> formerly of another
long-time Portland stalwart, <b>Chromatics</b>,
is a touching moment of loss and heartbreak, as well as sweet moment of
variety. I love the police station free
phone message that is “Joey,” which opens the album and provides the title, and
the epic album closer, “Lake Shore Drive,” with its music box like piano melody
crossed with a “Love in a Car”-esque high end guitar atmospherics, is dreamy
and momentous. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">The entire damn album passes by too
quickly. Lucky for all of us, we can
play it over and over again, which I will continue to do.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">(<a href="https://anopendoor.bandcamp.com/album/canary-yellow">https://anopendoor.bandcamp.com/album/canary-yellow</a>)<o:p></o:p></span></p></div><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/hVybRn8gxPo" width="320" youtube-src-id="hVybRn8gxPo"></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Soft Kill "Magic Garden"</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><br /><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p>chriswreckagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13457541238496646702noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-396328335733163206.post-32016600450542942412022-11-16T14:53:00.003-08:002022-11-16T14:54:30.296-08:00Talk to Me<p style="text-align: center;"> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhswZZMSk5XeVFtIdifZoY0bbZFgh6FteYxkTCytWKP6vyLMT3S9j6OyzLUWyppoT-xW1CFDq6eCDJia3yspzpKDIuInXoGTmGP81XaWB6QcHdwsIL71v0bqgRKL_t9O16F2Xze7bAOlACZ-ugaWFjJNu8ESEFSWiWmOb6OYc7r5h0fD4dtg3khmkXl/s1500/pegs.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1224" data-original-width="1500" height="261" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhswZZMSk5XeVFtIdifZoY0bbZFgh6FteYxkTCytWKP6vyLMT3S9j6OyzLUWyppoT-xW1CFDq6eCDJia3yspzpKDIuInXoGTmGP81XaWB6QcHdwsIL71v0bqgRKL_t9O16F2Xze7bAOlACZ-ugaWFjJNu8ESEFSWiWmOb6OYc7r5h0fD4dtg3khmkXl/s320/pegs.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>I cannot put pegs into these slots </i></span></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">If any of you have stuck with me on
these random posts I share every so often, over the past ten years or so,
you’ll know that I’ve shared a lot of tales regarding my medical history. I’m sure it’s not very entertaining, but it’s
been my way of dealing with it. Writing
about my medical experiences helps me deal with them emotionally. None of it is intended to create a pity party
for me. It is to get it off my chest,
and by chance, by sharing my experiences, I might reach someone that may be helped! I would be astounded. I also like the idea that it might create
connection. It rarely has, but perhaps
one day. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">Currently, I am in a strange
place. I was on a new medication that
has been pretty successful at shrinking tumors caused by the genetic syndrome I
have (VHL). I began taking it in March
of this year. It did cause minor tumor
shrinkage by May, but for me, the side effects were tough to handle. I began to regularly struggle to breathe, and
started to have occasional chest pains.
The doctor lowered my dose. My
next MRI, showed no tumor change by August, which seemed promising, yet the
side effects made life unlivable, so my oncologist lowered my dose again. This seemed okay, until September when the
side effects kicked in again! So bad,
the chest pains were worse than ever. I
started having days where I could not do anything at all, because of the pain
and lack of oxygen in my blood stream.
Turns out I had developed atrial fibrillation. My heart was beating irregularly and way too
fast. One day in October, I actually
ended up going to the ER, which seems to be called the ED now. Now, I’m no longer taking the medication and
my most recent MRI, early this month, shows new tumor growth. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">At this point, I honestly don’t know
what to do. I’ve been told that another
brain surgery will be too dangerous, I already know that uncontained tumor
growth will lead to paralysis, incredible pain, and eventually an agonizing
death. So, what should I do? The medication is too harsh to take. It’s intolerable. I’ve been in mourning, while I try to accept the
idea that I’ll have a rough road ahead.
I’m not done fighting, but I need to prepare for an unpleasant and
possibly deadly near future.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">Again, none of this is intended to
elicit sympathy, it is simply my reality.
Besides possible connection with people, I am looking for understanding
and support. I am honestly, exhausted
about unsolicited advice from people who clearly do not understand or try to
understand my situation. I do not
believe that my problems are any worse than anyone else’s. In fact, I am working hard to acknowledge my
great fortune in life. Everything could
be so much worse. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">All of us have problems, it’s a part
of living. I get incredibly frustrated
when people try to compete over who has things worse! Is that what you really want? Do you want to win at misery? I certainly don’t, nor do I think I would. There is a narcissism there that I cannot
relate to and that I find incredibly frustrating. Because of my experiences, I am actually very
empathetic. I take people’s troubles
very seriously. No matter what the
troubles may consist of. Being a patient
in the hospital for long periods of time can be frustrating and difficult, but
mostly humbling. Your privacy and
personal space are constantly invaded.
It’s like a chance to live like a helpless infant, but this time you
will likely remember it – vividly! As a
side effect, at least for me, it takes away a lot of bullshit fronts that we
all build up over time. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: 10pt; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijxeQBNWlgu8jrgG7KHC7GklTIgudBs-xiXaanH8US8DHXOuzDuijqPcsi4zoJFfImnE-XyHFdBSH_bXVcIm2hBpB9o4x-fPU96Lx3JZ6m6PFJeyjxVy1Ik3AeSHdrtSRL5hMwNsCMRBkLTygka3wT3r_2lTr1MvULlTtGl-4SYVfDhcQcBsKkYbmh/s750/smilesot.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="564" data-original-width="750" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijxeQBNWlgu8jrgG7KHC7GklTIgudBs-xiXaanH8US8DHXOuzDuijqPcsi4zoJFfImnE-XyHFdBSH_bXVcIm2hBpB9o4x-fPU96Lx3JZ6m6PFJeyjxVy1Ik3AeSHdrtSRL5hMwNsCMRBkLTygka3wT3r_2lTr1MvULlTtGl-4SYVfDhcQcBsKkYbmh/s320/smilesot.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Therapy is always all smiles</i></div></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">I have lost friendships as my health
has declined in recent years, and more so, find that I don’t hear, nearly as
often from my friends. I don’t blame
them, because I cannot do a lot of the things I used to be able to. I wish it weren’t so, but it is reality, and
another thing for me to mourn, along with mourning of the loss of that old
functionality. I get tired and very frustrated
by fumbling around and struggling in an effort to do simple tasks. And you know what? It’s not pretty. I try to be patient and positive, but endless
hours of Physical and Occupational therapy exercise over several years have
made very little impact. I get incredibly
angry and my neighbors are likely exhausted from hearing me shout exclamations
through the shared walls of our apartments.
Everyone chooses their own path, and if I’m too much of a bummer, or no
longer am that go to guy for a companion at a live show, or out on the golf
course, or whatever, I respect the choice to take me off the list. However, and most important, I want to thank
everyone who has stuck by me over the years, I cannot thank you all
enough! Your generosity has kept me
afloat, and that is incredibly humbling as well. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;">I’m not sure what else I really want
to say, other than a little understanding would be nice and incredibly comforting
to me. I am upset and angry enough. Like I mentioned before, it helps me get my
anxiety under some control, if I write about these things. I have a lot of fight left in me! I’m simply uncertain right now, and frankly,
scared.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></p></div><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p>chriswreckagehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13457541238496646702noreply@blogger.com2