this wreckage

This Is Our Emergency

2012-01-22T13:41:00.000-08:00

“When you've finally thrown up your hands
Poured your heart out, yet nothing stands
It seems our efforts are wasted
But yet it hasn't been in vain”

1991 was a terrible year. It started out with a three week intensive college course named “The Holocaust,” which was worse than it sounds. Then I had to drop out of school, because my mom’s horrific medical issues meant I was needed at home to help. Unfortunately, instead I spent nearly two months in the hospital after a surgery went poorly. The bulk of the year was spent working part time and driving my mom to and from her dialysis treatments out of town. It was all too late to help her though, because by September, she was gone. My friend, Wil, wasn’t having a great time of it either. He had been hospitalized for extended stretches and when home, found that he was so heavily medicated that about all he could do was sleep. Yet, out of all this darkness, something sparked between the two of us and we found a way to create something that helped inspire us and brought us closer together as friends. It was a little over 20 years ago we began a small ‘zine named This Wreckage. A project, which in many ways, got me through that terrible time and the reason why I still make half-hearted attempts at writing today via this site.

For those unfamiliar with ‘zines, they were in some sense a precursor to so many of the millions of blogs out there on the web now, but instead we used paper, typewriters, scissors, paste and photocopiers to get our message to an audience. The term ‘zine, which we hated with a passion, came from “fanzine.” Fanzines were homemade, self-published tomes, generally about one particular subject. We named our ‘zine after the 1980 Gary Numan song and produced seven issues over about a two year span. Along the way, we destroyed Mike’s photocopier (Mike, the owner of Driftwood Mac, Lincoln City’s record store, in a sense, was our benefactor), gave L.M. Tomiself a place to seemingly incite fury in anyone who read his writings, we wrote about the L.A riots, religion, and music, and Wil’s demented cartoons always adorned several pages. At one point, a naïve culture paper named Perpetua, published in Seal Rock, gave us a page in their much bigger paper (they had ads and a staff) for a couple of months. We bit that hand by publishing a rant about the hypocrisy of hippies at a Kenny Loggins environmental rally, featured a questionable cartoon about Somalia and wrote negative reviews of all the promo CDs Perpetua wanted us to write about. That relationship ended after we were chased down by security at the Galleria for leaving Perpetua all over the mall without permission. It all ended in the fall of 1993 with an issue printed on newsprint instead of a photocopier (the pinnacle of ‘zinedom!). Unfortunately, by this point, we had become discouraged by the lack of real response from anyone, besides a few of our friends who submitted art and writing along the way. Plus the expense of printing it entirely out of our pockets became frivolous, because we now had rent and food to cover. The ultimate slap in the face came months after we printed that final issue, when another ‘zine that reviewed ‘zines gave us a glowing review for content, but in the end gave us poor marks, because there was no price included on our cover (it was always free), so the writer assumed that it would be too expensive to recommend to his readers.

Sometimes that same feeling of discouragement overcomes me when I post entries onto this new single minded version of This Wreckage. There’s a need inside anyone who creates art of any type for an audience. When there’s little or no sign of an audience, that artist inevitably questions the point of creating in the first place. It’s only natural. Don’t get me wrong, I am not calling what I’m doing here “art,” but I do find myself wondering why I bother to share these things, because there’s no audience for it. I wonder where the motivation comes from.

“Unfulfillment is killing you
Seems like no one shares the same view

We may have never met but

It might you who pulls me through”

Music has always been my motivation. My love of music and inherent need to share the new music I love with my friends has always been a part of who I am. It is undeniable, so I just go with it. When Wil and I first started doing This Wreckage a little over 20 years ago, music was the driving force for me. It was never featured particularly (every issue ended with music reviews), but it was always there. To be frank, I was hoping to get a bunch of demos and promos for free, so I wouldn’t have to keep spending all of my money on new music. Looking back now, after all these years, what I realize is that the importance of the work we did then was not what we thought we were seeking (an audience, free music, new friends and contacts, and in our most grandiose moments, a dream of earning a living by doing cool stuff and revolution!), instead it was the work itself. Rarely have I felt so inspired and driven as I did when we put those old ‘zines together, plus I don’t think Wil and I were ever closer as friends then when we were collaborating. We had so much fun making those issues that we still talk about recreating it in some form to this day, mainly so we have an excuse to hang out with a purpose and recruit our other friends to join us.

“Don't forget that when you doubt

That anyone will care about

A thing you do and when you're lost

Someone else is always found”

This Wreckage’s final issue may have gotten screwed by a misinformed review back in the day, but its epitaph came along nearly a year after it had been distributed. A small trickle of letters started to appear in the PO Box from mostly High School and college kids who liked what they saw and wanted to let us know that our work impacted and inspired them. We received our first paid advertisement (which was reluctantly returned rather than making a new issue simply because we finally had an ad), and along the way, we met some really cool people who have become long time friends. We met people we may not have otherwise (like when I found myself asking advice from Tsunami’s Jenny Toomey over the phone!), and we did indeed receive some pretty cool demos along the way from various bands such as Versus, Tugboat Annie, and 17 Relics.

Speaking of which, my recent posting of 2011’s best music shockingly has garnered some new music from a band looking for a feature on this very blog. This is the sort of thing I daydreamed about when we started the ‘zine, and now I’m not sure what to do, so I’ll review it and continue to enjoy the process of writing and communicating, no matter who is or isn’t paying attention.

Tremor Low
Kingmaker EP
(self-released)

Here we have a 5 track EP that harkens back to the goth-tinged romance bands of the early 80s like The Cure. This Bay Area four piece has tapped into some nice energy here. An early 80s post-punk vibe is clearly a touchstone here, as the first track is named “Peter Murphy’s Dead” and musically fires on all upbeat raincoat rock cylinders. Actually, their sound reminds me of a nice matching of L.A. band The Autumns and the UK’s Ray (see their Death in Fiction from a few years back). It’s amazing how these sorts of sounds make their way back into the consciousness of each new generation, since so much of this was under heard at the time. But, if the sound is done right and with passion, it is always welcome in my book. The driving title track “Kingmaker” is the highlight here with it’s sing along “Who are you?” chorus, delicate chiming guitars and splashy drumming make for a nice listen. The other big favorite is the closing “2003,” which evokes the aforementioned Peter Murphy’s dreamy solo work. This is a very consistent and enjoyable collection of songs. If any of the touchstones I mentioned are of interest, chances are you will find something to like here.
(facebook.com/tremorlow)

lyrics and title from Pretty Girls Makes Graves

Top 40 of 2011 Part IV

2012-01-01T16:03:00.000-08:00

Here is the final installment of the Top 40 releases of 2011: The Top 10

I hope everyone takes a chance to share some of your favorites from this past year in the comments below!

10. We Were Promised Jetpacks
In the Pit of the Stomach
(Fatcat)
A couple of years back Ox and I went to see the Scottish lineup of The Twilight Sad and Frightened Rabbit perform at Dante’s as part of Portland’s Music Fest NW. At that time, the second Twilight Sad CD was due to be released and they were to play some new material, so we were pretty stoked. As we walked into the crowded and appropriately burning hot club, we first headed to the bar for beer, the merch table to secure the new CDs and then to the stage. The soundtrack during this entire adventure was another band from Scotland, who despite how many times I’ve asked and had answered who they were, their name never stuck with me. All I knew is that they sounded incredible, were really intense, and their singer reminded me of golfer Lee Westwood gone insane. It wasn’t until recently that I put together their silly and apparently too difficult to remember name with a moment when I could actually seek out this four-piece’s music. They have two albums, and much like their live set, both are full of incredible intensity. This second offering, much like The Twilight Sad’s second Forget the Night Ahead, is maybe a bit too much, as there’s nary a chance to take one’s breath, aside from the closing “Pear Tree,” and the opening segment of the fantastic “Act on Impulse.” True be told though, I kind of admire the all-in fire of this music. The complex and always forward pressing drumming pushes the string shredding passes of the guitars, which act as fuel to ignite a fire into singer Adam Thompson who lays his heart on the line with commitment and searing passion. If you need feel this kind of fire burning inside, then throw on the singles “Medicine” and “Human Error,” and the surprisingly hummable “Picture of Health,” or “Sore Thumb,” and the undeniable force that is the album opener “Circles and Squares.”
(wewerepromisedjetpacks.com)

9. Veronica Falls
Veronica Falls
(Bella Union/ Slumberland)
Veronica Falls have been releasing singles now for a few years, but this is their proper debut album and it’s a welcome beginning, though a pretty dark one. We start out with “Found Love in a Graveyard” a song that seems to be about having a love affair with a ghost, while we definitely don’t want to go to “The Fountain,” or delve into “Misery” or “Bad Feeling” (another ghostly entry). That’s just side one! Some of these songs sound fairly upbeat with their nice male/ female vocal harmonies, pounding barely in control drums, and tight strumming guitars, but things are definitely not all good here in Veronica Falls. The bleakness of their words isn’t overwhelming and only adds an added depth to their brand of indie pop, which is often described in terms of the C86 explosion and a touch of the Sarah brand sound, but I hear more of Australia’s late great Cannanes here, though a bit less ramshackle and a lot more focused. “Stephen” comes off as a lost Pixies track, if maybe they had decided to strip things down a bit, instead of adding the keyboard flourishes of later albums. Veronica Falls’ sound fits the black and white pastoral cover of the album. It has a wintery feel; one that is tinged with sadness, but has a familiar comfort. Don’t miss their title song “Veronica Falls,” the fairly uplifting “Come on Over,” “Right Side of my Brain,” along with the previously mentioned tunes for a sense of their sound and let’s hope they continue to make such touching music.
(veronicafalls.com)

8. The Rifles
Freedom Run
(The Rifles/Nettwerk)
This third LP from Chingford UK’s mod-pop band The Rifles is a bit of a shock to the system. Having absolutely gone apeshit over their spiky early singles and debut No Love Lost, and enjoyed their progression to a bigger sounding act with their second album Great Escape (my 2009 # 2 pick), this new one threw me. After the first few listens, and even after hearing and loving the pre-LP single “Tangled Up in Love,” pretty much nothing sat well with me. Besides that single, at best, I felt indifference, while at worst, I was annoyed. However, this is the Rifles - this is the band that gave us “Peace and Quiet,” “Local Boy,” “Science in Violence,” and my two ultimate favorites: “When I’m Alone” and “Out in the Past.” I had to give the new material more of a chance. And, believe it or not, most of these songs started to grow on me. Their earlier work had a very punk/mod flavor (think The Clash and The Jam) and they’re blessed with huge pop sensibilities. This new work focuses more on their pop sensibilities. Really, much of this album wouldn’t sound out of place amongst work by UK pop acts from the late 60s when there was a fair amount of concept album and orchestration happening. For whatever reason, it didn’t click with me at first, even though my tastes with age have leaned more towards classic pop sounds. Maybe it’s because of songs like “Love is a Key” and “Little Boy Blue (Human Needs)” tread in a direction that I don’t want to go. The rest of the album though, has won me over in a big way. The opening four tracks form a dazzling spectacle of chiming guitars and catchy harmonies. “Dreamer” is a builder that acts as a bridge between older Rifles and this new one (literally, as they now have a new rhythm section), while “Sweetest Thing” and its falsetto vocals climbs to sparkling heights. The other unendingly catchy number is the sing-along simplicity of “I Get Low.” Overall, though a bit too much, but a brave step in a new direction and once one’s mind (meaning mine) is open, this proves to be a winning album that sounds classic and modern at the same time, much like Oasis did during the mid-90s with Definietly Maybe. Sit back and enjoy the ride.
(therifles.com)

7. Trembling Blue Stars
Correspondence 10” EP
(Elefant)
Okay, so I thought last year’s double CD release, Fast Trains and Telegraph Wires (last year’s # 4 pick), was to be the final statement from longtime favorites Trembling Blue Stars. However, this 10” orange vinyl EP sprang up earlier this year to treat us to one last taste from this Robert Wratten led collective. With releases like this, the farewell can go on forever as far as I’m concerned. The opener is a mix of two songs from the last album, “Outside” and one of the highlights “Half-Light,” strung together into an ambient masterpiece re-titled “The Light outside.” Up next is another short instrumental that reflects the theme of the last album, with its quiet airwave static. “Sunrise on Mars” jumps in and acts as this set’s true single. It’s a spot on example of this band’s ability to craft perfect three minute bits of stellar heartfelt pop. Side two opens with an old 80s Wire favorite: “Kidney Bingos” with help from Caesar McInulty (The Wake) on vocals with late term member Beth Arzy (ex-Aberdeen). This straightforward rendition, though welcome, offers nothing revelatory. The final two songs are the very strong though. “A Field at Dusk” is an acoustic strummer that carries the listener into a melancholic state of total reflection, while “A Spell of Songs” is a classic finger picked number with a slowly unfolding story that has marked all phases of Wratten’s storied career stretching from the Field Mice, Northern Picture Library to this band. Will he start again? I sure hope so.
(elefant.com)

6. exlovers
“Blowing Kisses” 7”
“Starlight, Starlight” mp3
(Young and Lost Club)
Enough already! exlovers need to release an album now! This is getting ridiculous. This UK five-piece has released 3 7” singles and a 10” EP since 2008 with nary a fumble throughout, but still no full length. This year started off with promise with the 7” release of “Blowing Kisses,” another short driving song on par with their excellent Stephen Street produced “You Forget So Easily” (last year’s #15 pick) from late 2009. The B-side, “Motheaten Memories” is even better with its single guitar intro that builds into an upbeat number that crashes through some soaring peaks and valleys musically. Both of these songs show an aggressiveness that much of their prior work hasn’t shown, but the ever consistent twin vocals of Peter and Laurel guide us through these songs of fractured relationships. I thought this single for sure would mean a new album in 2011, but nothing all year…until just recently on their website they’ve announced that an album is immanent and have provided a chance to download a free track: “Starlight, Starlight.” I suggest everyone take advantage of this free preview; it’s quite a treat.
(exlovers.co.uk)

5. Secret Shine
The Beginning and the End
(Shine)
Secret Shine were a Sarah band in the early to mid 90s, but they were one that mined the shoegaze world more than the fey shyness of most of their label mates. Vocally, they fit right in, but musically they were bit a more noisy. Even though I treaded those Sarah grounds quite a lot back then, I somehow overlooked them. It wasn’t until after they reformed after their original drummer Tim Morris died, that I found my way to their two EPs of very nice new material released in 2006. They followed those with a new album that harkened back to their prior 90s album in 2008 (All of the Stars), which sounds great, but sometimes lacks memorable moments – like so much of the newer shoegaze material out there. This second album in their new version is a big leap forward from that one. Along with their own signature sound, this has a feel of “Pearl”-era Chapterhouse with it’s combination of electronic atmospherics mushed together with the waves of guitars and the cooing of Slowdive’s Rachel Goswell. This set opens with a fiery “In Between” to get the adrenaline going, while “Perfect Life” eases into a nice universal groove. Other standouts include the burning back to back side two songs: “Hole in Your Heart” and “It’s Killing Me.” “Touching Nothing,” and the big beat of “Trying to Catch the End” finish the album off in dreamy Slowdive-ish fashion. My only complaint here is that the vocals don’t quite fit right in the mix productive-wise. They sound like they’re piped in from somewhere else. Maybe it’s the odd seeming use of auto-tune, but something’s amiss in the sound at times. This is a minor complaint, because the songs are strong and most-likely the most consistent and best of their recording career.
(secretshine.co.uk)

4. Dum Dum Girls
Only in Dreams
He Gets Me High EP
(Sub Pop)
I liked the Dum Dum Girls’ first album (2010’s home recorded, mostly solo I Will Be), but it felt more like sketches of songs. There are catchy short bursts with some great melodies, but the drum machine grows a bit old throughout and there’s far too much reverb shadowing Dee Dee Penny’s vocal gifts. I wondered what their second album would sound like with a full band and more fully realized songs. The result? I absolutely have fallen head over heels for Only in Dreams! Firstly, Dee Dee’s vocals are way more upfront and forceful here, which is a plus, because she gets to showcase her cool early - Chrissie Hynde (The Pretenders) inflected voice. Oh, and her oohs and aahs throughout can be spine tingling, such as in the sad plea of “Heartbeat (Take It Away),” which makes me melt. The full live band proves to be a huge benefit as well, after a year of solid touring; they have formed a tight knit base and Jules adds some tasteful 60s-ish surf guitar leads that fits beautifully inside these girl group inspired songs. Everything here is recommended, but start with the endlessly refreshing “Bedroom Eyes,” the Cramps-like “Just a Creep,” “Caught in One,” and “Tears on My Pillow.” Then, turn to the epic and haunting “Coming Down” and the emotional “Hold Your Hands.” Come to think of it, this album is actually stuffed with heartbreak and sadness and loneliness and it is a beautiful and comforting way to deal with it.

The pre-LP four song EP He Gets Me High is also highly recommended. The three originals are all worthy of making the album, especially the single standout title track. Lastly, is a cover of the Smiths’ oft-covered “There is a Light that Never Goes Out,” which is a song that doesn’t need to be covered, but this is easily the best I’ve heard. The loud buzzing guitars drive this song with an urgency that most covers seem to lack and it has reinvigorated life into a song that had kind of faded from my old lexicon of favorites. Thank you!
(wearedumdumgirls.com)

3. Lanterns on the Lake
Gracious Tide, Take Me Home (2 CD)
(Bella Union)
After three stellar self-released CD EP’s, Northeastern England’s Lanterns on the Lake finally come through with a full length album. Last year’s EP feature “Lungs Quicken” (#14 pick for me for 2010) opens this 11 song set with its life affirming urgent plea. There are a few other holdovers from the original limited EP’s dating back to 2008’s Starlight EP. From that debut we find two songs that have undergone major overhauls: the heart wrenching “If I Have Been Unkind” and the now sweeping epic plea of “I Love You, Sleepyhead.” Also, appearing from their 2009 second EP Misfortunes and Minor Victories, another transformed treat finds “A Kingdom” becoming the upbeat centerpiece in this cinematic collection. If you thought those early EPs were impressive displays of subtle beauty and introspection, this album will fulfill and surpass all expectations! I’m pretty sure that the weather has changed to dark and menacing outside while I’ve listened to this beauty, as it evokes the myriad greys, dark blues, and greens of a misty coastline. The gentle guitar plucks and foggy atmosphere of the layers of strings envelop these songs with shimmering depth. Check out the autumn colors of “Blanket of Leaves,” “Not Going Back to the Harbour,” and the perfect “Tricks.”

Also, if you have the chance, find the version of this album with the “Rough Trade Bonus Disc.” Two of the songs are reprised remixes from the album, but are really the full superior versions of what made the LP. While the two new tracks are both stunners!
(lanternsonthelake.com)

2. The Wild Swans
The Coldest Winter For A Hundred Years
Tracks in Snow EP
(Occultation)
Could this really be true: a third album from the Wild Swans? I hear their trademark icy keyboard atmospherics, some twinkling piano fills, pristine guitar leads and Paul Simpson’s distinctive and personable voice; it is true! Let’s see, they formed in like 1980, released their first official LP in 1988 and find their way to this: The Coldest Winter in a Hundred Years by 2011. Maybe most surprising is that these 13 tracks collect the sound, the passion and the romanticism first heard from these northern Brits back in 1982 with their legendary “Revolutionary Spirit” single and their early BBC recordings. I cannot tell you how welcome this release is! You see, as a young kid, I discovered this band through the vinyl only release of their three song Peel Session, which is stunning (a record I purchased twice due to wearing it out). That very release spawned a rebirth and led them to finally record their first album: Bringing Home the Ashes, an album that has not fared well critically over time, but one which I proudly claimed in 1988 as my favorite of that year and am not ashamed that it still holds a warm place in my heart. Yes, it has dated a bit, due to a heavy 80s production sound (drums that sound like machines, etc), but the songs are stellar. An odd second album followed two years later and was way too influenced by producer Ian Broudie, whose Lightning Seeds were splashing rainbows and candy all over the world at that time. Space Flower was mildly interesting, but turned out to be fleeting ear candy that has not been a favorite to return to. I’m not sure why I’m going through the history lesson here, though it is an interesting one – considering that the band is more of a legend or myth than an actual entity. In 2009, they shocked me by releasing a magical 10” two song single with the catchy UK referencing “English Electric Lightning,” (included here) and the wonderful short story/song “The Coldest Winter for a Hundred Years” which details the early years of the Liverpool music scene through the eyes of main Swan Paul Simpson. “Liquid Mercury” was the next peak at new material (also included here) and it shines as a prime example of their new material – a pristine classic catchy tune. Most of these songs are simple 3 minute pop nuggets, yet they jammed full of feeling and depth. The clear theme throughout is a sense of loss – and that loss being England’s fall from grace – at least in Simpson’s mind. It is probably a bit overdone, but there’s a little bit in all of us that looks back into parts of the past longingly and the supposed good times. This one will feed that desire and provides the perfect reflective soundtrack to do so. “Falling to Bits,” the opener, with its declaration “This town is falling to bits and I don’t like it/ We need a bonfire lit and I’ll ignite it” serves as a proper thesis that leads to the aforementioned songs, the heavily referenced “My Town” and the lamenting closer “The Bluebell Wood;” all of which provide examples of better times. The best songs though lie in the other tracks. I love the bursting chorus of “Chloroform,” and the tragedy of its both World War referencing lyrics, and the mournful yet comforting conversation with loved ones now passed in “Lost At Sea.” This is what I signed up for and why this CD has stayed in constant rotation throughout much of the year. I don’t know if the Wild Swans will stick around this time or disappear for another 10 years, but I recommend everyone seek this out while they’re still here. I would start with their early years 2 CD retrospective from 2003, Incandescent, but I hear that’s now out of print and selling at outrageous prices, so get this while the opportunity still exists!!

Through direct mail order from Occultation, one can also pick up the 3 song suite Tracks in Snow, which should be released as a single. All three songs are easily album worthy, if not radio single ready. “Dark Times” works as the perfect Wild Swans anthem in less than 3 minutes! Wait! No! “Disintegrating” is the perfect Wild Swans single that encapsulates their ability to capture broken hearted moments with a comforting touch. Meanwhile, the closing “Poison” is a nice little love song - also highly recommended.
(thewildswans.co.uk)

1. The Joy Formidable
The Big Roar (Box set)
(Canvasback/Atlantic)
I am in love with this band. I have to come clean. There’s no way around it. When I first ran across their impressive mix of soaring shoegaze atmospherics mixed with the grinding propulsive drive of the best post-punk, and the crazy frenetic drumming, I was hooked. Listening to this, their official debut album (though 2009’s A Balloon Called Moaning was basically an album – my #1 pick from last year!!), has made me feel like a high school kid again! They have rekindled that early spark I had when I first became a music obsessive fanatic. When I wanted to follow bands on tour, wear their t-shirts every day and litter my walls with posters and album art. The Big Roar fits that bill too! Its mix of epic barnstormers and short fast pounders, along with an unusual bent on lyrics; reminded me of the sprawling mess that I fell in love with when I first came home with The Cure’s Kiss Me Kiss Me Kiss Me in 1987, as a 16 year old. Not that they sound anything like each other, but the creative drive and willingness to go for it at all costs is what is appealing. The only downside of their debut is that four of these twelve numbers were already on last years’ EP/LP, though these are bigger sounding and “Whirring” now is a closer approximation of the unbelievable show-stopper that this gale force band is live (a must see!!!). Also, last autumn’s stunning single “I Don’t Want to See You like This” appears here as well. We’ll let this go though, since these songs needed more exposure, because they are simply that damn good. The remaining seven songs are glimpses into the shear raw power that this Welsh by way of London trio possess. The opening track “The Everchanging Spectrum of a Lie” is a slow building lengthy glider that spirals itself into a frenzied show stopping force! Though it’s not the easiest way to be exposed to the band, it certainly shows off where they’re about to take us. The highlights for me, besides the appearance of the double-kick drum on a handful of tracks (feeding my secret metal head needs), come with the bursting short-ish songs, such as the punky “The Magnifying Glass,” the explosive “Chapter 2,”and the cryptic “A Heavy Abacus.” I hope they don’t burn themselves out too quickly! This is amazing stuff.

The box set, if you can get your hands on one, comes with a second disc with 6 tracks from their earlier days. The highlights are the Catherine Wheel-like shredder “Greyhounds in the Slips” and the underrated 2010 single “Popinjay,” which is downright creepy. Also included are two DVDs. One disc follows the band a journey from their home base to the beach where they filmed the video for “I Don’t Want to See You like This,” (video included) as well as compiling all of their early videos for “Whirring,” “Austere,” and “Cradle.” The other disc is an up close, audience perspective view of the band in an early NYC gig. It gives one a taste of how impressive they are in person.
(thejoyformiable.com)

Here's to a new year and much much more great music and don't forget to share your choices for the best of 2011!

Links: Top 40 #'s 40-31
#'s 30-21
#'s 20-11

Top 40 of 2011 Part III

2012-01-01T14:36:00.000-08:00

Here are the listings from #'s 20-11of my favorites of 2011:

20. Buffalo Tom
Skins
(Scrawny)
Getting older sucks. More and more, I’m finding I’m writing about bands in their 30-somethingth year of existence and in some cases wondering what happened to their initial fire and power. Buffalo Tom is a prime example. Their first three albums were Dinosaur Jr.-tinged, true American, college rock feasts of blasting guitars, tumultuous drums and achingly powerful songs that peaked with the stellar rollercoaster ride that is 1992’s Let Me Come Over. In 2007, they reunited after their initial 10 year run, with a so-so album (Three Easy Pieces) that made the purchase of Skins a bit of a risk, and much like the direction of their post 1992 career arc, the songs have mostly lost their edge and spunk. It’s not bad though. In 1995 I might’ve shelved this CD after one listen and written it off as old man rock – much like I did with 1993’s horribly produced Big Red Letter Day. Now that I am an old man, I see some value here. The opening “Arise, Watch” is a stunning piece of vocal interplay that traces new ground without losing attention. ‘Down” recalls some of their older work, as does the spunky “Guilty Girls.” Other standouts include the momentous “Here I Come,” “Lost Weekend,” and the closing “Out of the Dark.” Yet, when I hear the mandolin and acoustic plucks of the glossy duet with Tanya Donelly (ex-Throwing Muses, Breeders & Belly), I get sleepy and bored. There’s a bit too much of that here, but they are on an improving arc, and that is a good thing!
(buffalotom.com)

19. Ringo Deathstarr
Colour Trip
Sparkler
(Sonic Unyon)
Colour Trip is this Austin, Texas trio’s first official album and it is a welcome one. For those out there who love shoegaze with some bite, there is something of quality to be found here. Their sound goes back to the Jesus and Mary Chain – like many of the original shoegaze bands of the late-80s/early 90s – taking cues from the deep breathy vocals and machine-like pop precision of JAMC’s Honey’s Dead. Then, they infuse their sound with massive doses of My Bloody Valentine waves of guitar disorientation. In other words, this is pretty cool. I also appreciate the focus, as most of these songs clock in at fewer than 3 minutes. There isn’t a lot of groundbreaking here, but they have found a sound and they have breathed some life and passion into it and it shines through. Feel their force on the MBV ode “Imagine Hearts,” the Lush-like explosion of “So High,” and “Tambourine Girl.” The ultimate song – one of the best of the year – is the two minute “Kaleidoscope,” whose brevity and humming feedback atmosphere makes me want to hear it over and over again and yet again.

Sparkler, a compilation of their early EP and singles, was originally released in 2009, but I had not yet discovered these guys. Luckily, Sonic Unyon has made these songs readily available again. Here Ringo’s influences are even more clearly stated, but one can see their talent and ability in such songs as “Some Kind of Sad,” “Down on You,” and “Sweet Girl in Love.” Colour Trip is their better and more original work, but both are worth the price of admission.
(facebook.com/ringodeathstarr)

18. For Against
Black Soap EP
(Words-on-Music)
Nebraska’s rock legends For Against have been creating amazing music for over 25 years and this EP collects three songs from their earliest recordings together in 1984 and allows them to see the light of day for the first time. It proves that they had a lot of talent to burn from the get go. “Black Soap,” their first ever recording, is a short and speedy post-punk landmark chock full of early Cure reverbed bass lines (think “Play for Today”), scratchy guitars and busy drumming and, of course, monotone dark lyrics (“your black soap won’t get me clean”). An amazing start! “Dark Good Friday” sounds a bit more like the direction For Against headed with their first two 80s albums with Harry Dingman’s stratospheric guitars chiming atop Jeffrey Runnings’ mid-range bass fills. Lastly, we find a different mix of their now famous (in my dream world that is) club epic “Amen Yves (White Circles),” which originally appeared on their unbelievably creative In the Marshes 10”, as part of Independent Project Records’ “Archive Series” in 1990 (my favorite of all their records). Crucial for fans.
(myspace.com/foragainst)

17. Should
Like a Fire Without Sound
(Words-on-Music)
It’s been since 1998 since Should released Feed Like Fishes and to be honest I had kind of forgotten about them. In many ways, this doesn’t sound like the same band either, since the fuzz and noise of their early records has been completely stripped away. What we’re left with without this added coating is a much more memorable bunch of songs. The nine songs here are very downbeat and precise and perfect for a nice lazy afternoon of daydreaming. Each little nuance and subtle addition to these fairly sparse songs conjure up very pleasing hummable moments. The delicate melodies that Marc Ostermeier and Tanya Maus create here such standouts as “Turned Tables,” “Slumberland,” and “Just Not Today” all feel so familiar and comfortable that I cannot shake them from my consciousness. Plus, I cannot overlook the cool factor of their cover of Disco Inferno’s “Broken” (from their 1991 In Debt compilation LP!). Please check this out!
(myspace.com/shouldmusic)

16. The Pains of Being Pure at Heart
Belong
(Collective Sounds/ Slumberland)
This is a very nice second album. The Pains’ first had a decidedly small indie pop sound, which mirrored the early Slumberland artists from 89-92 in sound and vibe, has been transformed into a much bigger one with the addition of mega producer Flood (U2, Depeche Mode, etc) and a superb mix job by the remarkable Alan Moulder (Swervedriver, Ride, Lush, Curve, etc). These kids are clearly making a step forward and searching for a wider audience. Hot on the heels of last year’s two shining 7” singles, this album starts off with the heavy buzz and danceable jangle of the title track followed by the super poptastic classic “Heaven’s Gonna Happen Now” and “Heart in Your Heartbreak (second of the 2010 singles – last year’s # 23 pick). These three songs show the promise that the Pains have! The remainder of the album is full of solid little songs, though it levels off a bit. Some other good high points include the teen anthem of “Even in Dreams,” the very Jesus and Mary Chain-ish “Girl of 1,000 Dreams” and the trance inducing closer “Strange.” I look forward to their next progression.
(thepainsofbeingpureatheart.com)

15. The Lonely Forest
Arrows
(Trans/Atlantic)
Every once in a while, an album comes along where nothing really astounds me, yet I find myself listening to it all the time. This year’s candidate is from the, apparently third album by Anacortes, WA natives, The Lonely Forest. I say apparently, because I had never heard of them and am a bit saddened that I have let them slip through my fingers this long. Luckily, Death Cab’s Chris Walla snapped them out of obscurity and signed them to his own fledgling label imprint with Atlantic and produced them as well. In addition, they played some dates with the Joy Formidable around the time Arrows was released and I was able to see them play last spring. They are a straightforward good old fashioned college rock band that has a knack for writing some pretty catchy anthems. Most of these songs feel like they should be played at outdoor festivals. Their lyrics are very relatable and down to earth. In fact, they really should be much better known than they are! Maybe vocalist John Van Deusen’s mildly nasally voice may turn some people off, but it doesn’t bother me. Maybe I simply relate to their clear love of the Pacific Northwest’s access to oceans, harbors, rivers, lakes, lush forests and mountains that shines through their music (check out their love song to the NW: “I Don’t Want to Live There”) that I relate to. At any rate, the highlight here is “Turn Off This Song and Go Outside,” and very catchy pop tune that is telling us to do exactly what it says. The album is bookended by a couple of quiet ballads, but for the most part this collection rocks and finds some good hooks in songs like “Two Notes and a Beat,” “Coyote,” and the twin songs that examine the inside and outside of love “(I Am) The Love Skeptic” (“and the bullshit never ends”) and “(I Am) The Love Addict.” This is very entertaining.
(thelonelyforest.com)

14. Nature Set
Enough is Enough 7” EP
(Elefant)
Oh boy! This is fantastic! “Enough is Enough” comes on fast and is as addictive as crack! I love it! This UK four-piece had me dancing around like the moron I am in seconds with "Enough is Enough," and the best part is that the other three songs herein are just as strong. I make it no secret, I am a sucker for catchy, energetic pop songs and it’s a bonus when they come packaged with female vocals with lots of background harmonies! “You or Nobody” slows things down a bit and at times sounds a bit like label-mates The School. Then they get their early Go-Go’s on with the B-side opener, “At Least Not Today,” while finally catching a psychedelic tinge with their darker closing track “The Engineer,” which reminds me of a song I know so well, but I cannot place it. Whatever the case, this is excellent and I am an instant convert. I cannot wait to hear more. They have just released a split cassette with the newly formed Former Lover, who is led by ex Long Blonde (a favorite in this house), Dorian Cox. I am filled with anticipation.
(natureset.info)

13. Standard Fare
“Suitcase” 7”
“Darth Vader” mp3
Standard Fare/One Happy Island
Split 7” EP
(Melodic/Thee Sheffield Phonographic Co)
Last year’s debut album from Standard Fare, The Noyelle Beat (#3 pick), was a refreshing and surprising blast of fun and lively songs that have continued to linger in my head for nearly two years now. I’m so glad that they’ve released a bit of new music this year while waiting with great anticipation for the January 2012 release of their sophomore effort, Out of Sight, Out of Town. The split single with Boston’s One Happy Island finds both bands covering each other’s songs, along with one original each. Standard Fare takes a crack at what turns out to be an incredible OHI song: “Kudzu Girlfriend.” The title alone tells us where this one is going, but Standard Fare turn this into their own with their brand of C86 jangly buzz and duel vocals. Their original contribution is another tight 2 minutes. One Happy Island takes on Standard Fare’s “Night with a Friend,” and similarly, they make this their own. One Happy Island reminds of a modern version of the low-fi Beat Happening sound, but with much better playing. Their music is charming with unusual instrumentation and it works perfectly with this great duet. Their original “China Fair” is another revelation and a good reason to seek this music out.

“Suitcase” is an incredible song that shows us that Standard Fare is ready to grow and expand, though they are also ready to abandon all of us for a bunker prepared for nuclear fallout. The B-side here, “Nine Days,” also shows another side of the band with a much more reserved feel.

This quieter sound continues on Standard Fare’s newest mp3 single “Darth Vader,” which finds them switching perspective from the exuberance and frailty of young love to a level of maturity mixed with resignation. The non-LP track that comes with the single download, “Argument,” is another short two minute worth the .99 cents, but clearly a B-side.
(standardfare.co.uk)

12. Wire
Red Barked Tree
(Pink Flag)
It’s hard to believe that the third version of Wire (second reformation – now as a trio) has lasted longer than either of the previous two. The most amazing part is that Red Barked Tree is their most live-sounding, and spontaneous album since maybe 1977’s Pink Flag! The best part for me is that this album seems to accumulate the sounds and styles that they have experimented with off and on for the last 35 years and smash them all together in a surprisingly cohesive 40 or so minute whole. Speaking of smashing, “Smash” here is one of their best true rock songs ever! But who cannot love the straight ahead punk burst of “Two Minutes” or the oddball (a word I used twice in a description for their 2008 # 7 pick Object 47) Graham Lewis sung “Bad Worn Thing”? And who would’ve ever thought we’d hear layers of acoustic guitars strumming along on the closing statement “Red Barked Trees”? This band continues to progress in unexpected, and more importantly, refreshing ways. Amazing.
(pinkflag.com)

11. Drugstore Anatomy
“Sweet Chili Girl” CDsingle
“Standing Still” CDsingle
(Rocket Girl)
Yet another band that we had lost in time has returned. This was once surprising, but nowadays, it has become commonplace and welcome. I don’t care what anyone says about selling out and all that. These artists deserve a second chance at attention. I hope they make it! At any rate, during the mid-to-late 90s Drugstore was a perennial favorite of mine. Their brand of catchy acoustic based tunes crooned by the Brazilian born bandleader Isabel Monteiro really found a home in my heart. This trio had an energetic spark, despite some fairly quiet numbers, which revealed itself on their fiery second album White Magic for Lovers (1998). However, ten years after their so-so third offering found them splintering and disappearing, Monteiro has come back with a new lineup and with renewed enthusiasm. These ten songs are subdued and quiet and really quite depressing (sample lyric: “I want salt in the wound/I want blood in the rain/everytime that I move/I want nothing but pain”), but also full of life and verve. Instead of coming off as woe is me, these songs of heartbreak feel more like an understanding old friend who has come to help us nurse our wounds. There are many references to things coming to an end: lights going out, falling rocks, etc, but it feels natural, like the end of a chapter and the start of something new. The tracks here are sparser than ever, with mostly a solo acoustic album feel, but are warmed by light touches of subtle instrumentation throughout. Most welcome is the heart-tugging strings of the closer “Clouds,” and the Spanish inflected duet “Aquamarine,” which reminds me of some of those beautiful cinematic songs by Lee Hazlewood and Nancy Sinatra from the late 60s. This album seems to improve with each listen!

The singles are not essential here, especially, the “Sweet Chili Girl” 2 tracker, both songs bookend the album. The standout album track “Standing Still” offers two new songs, which are okay (“Don’t Throw Me In” and “Bring Me His Head”) in the same vein as the album, but not as revealing and exciting as some of the band’s past b-side material.
(rocketgirl.co.uk)

We're almost there! Stayed tuned for the Top 10 next time.

Links: Top 40 #'s 40-31
#'s 30-21
#'s 10-1

Top 40 of 2011 Part II

2012-01-01T12:16:00.000-08:00

In an effort to keep things in more of a bite sized format, I have broken the Top 40 into 4 parts. These are the reviews for 2011 from pick #'s 30-21.

Here we go:

30. The Primitives
Never Kill A Secret 7” EP
(Fortuna Pop!)
The first time I heard the Primitives brand of speedy, buzzing, 2 minute pop songs in the late 80s, I was completely sold. Hearing the famous “Crash” single for the first time was a breath of fresh air that blew off the dormancy of my childhood love of the early 60s do-wop girl groups like the Shangri-La’s, The Supremes and The Ronettes, except now these catchy tunes came with the heaping portion of fuzzed out guitars a la Jesus and Mary Chain, with the adrenaline rush of the Buzzcocks thrown into the mix. “Thru the Flowers,” “Way Behind Me,” “Out of Reach,” and especially “Spacehead” were instantaneous blasts of energy that I feasted on over and over again. I think hearing Tracy Tracy’s semi detached vocals atop that buzz (on their appropriately titled debut Lovely) changed my music tastes forever. Up to that point, most of my music loves of the time were leaning towards the male dominated US indie bands like Sonic Youth, Dinosaur Jr., Lemonheads, Husker Du/Bob Mould, Pixies, etc, but now I had fallen in love with the female fronted bands. The love didn’t last long though, as their second album Pure, though it had some nice moments, didn’t contain that same immediacy that was their early hallmark, while their final album came and went without me noticing it. So, their return after 17-18 years of dormancy was one I approached cautiously. These four songs are quite a revelation! They may have more in common with the slower more 60s Nuggets garage style of rock, like Pure, my tastes have expanded as well, finding me in love with these songs. “Rattle My Cage” is a classic sex tune that needs Go-Go dancers in cages and a constantly panning camera for a video. Tracy Tracy’s cool has not diminished in the slightest and the band sounds invigorated to be back at it. “Never Kill A secret” is a nice acoustic strummer, while the closer, “Breakaway” definitely sounds like some lost early 60s pop number. Also, included is a very nice cover of the great Lee Hazlewood’s “Need All the Help I Can Get.” Welcome back! Now I’m ready for a new album.
(fortunapop.com)

29. Low
C’Mon
(Sub Pop)
This is Low’s 9th album and they have not made a misstep along the way. Their only downfall is maybe diminishing returns over the years, as their cryptic crawling songs can weigh a bit heavy over time. Then again, their last two were their loudest and most upbeat records to date, ending with 2007’s Drums and Guns (Really? Has it been that long?). This new material definitely includes some of their fuller arrangements that they’ve been slowly (sorry) adding on over time, but this overall harkens back to their 2002 classic Trust. Like that album, this is one is recorded in a church and has a big open-ended sound that does wonder for their sound. This album is a bit of a mixed bag as compared to some of their seamless past work. Maybe they’re trying to find new directions and haven’t landed on exactly which way to turn yet. My favorites on this include what may be one of their best singles to date in the album opener “Try to Sleep,” and the banjo infused stomper “Witches.” Some other highlights are two of the longer tracks that remind of their earliest days with evil sounding organ led “Especially Me” and the hypnotic “Nothing but Heart.” It’s good to have Low around, like it’s good to have at least an occasional snowfall in the winter. They remind us to ease off the gas a bit and reflect.
(chairkickers.com or PO Box 600 Duluth, MN 55801)

28. Maritime Human Hearts
(Dangerbird)
This band will always be compared to the great 90s act The Promise Ring, because of Davey von Bohlen’s distinctive voice. This is both a good and bad thing. Those who appreciated that band’s work should be alerted that a couple of these guys are still at it (Maritime also includes the complex drummer Dan Didier from the Promise Ring) and on their fourth album since 2004. On the other hand, some might be disappointed with the mildly new direction and I’m sure the band itself grew tired of past band references years ago. What sets this band apart from their predecessor is the basic simplicity of their songs. They are built on top of a very rock solid rhythm section and guitarists von Bohlen and Dan Hinz color in the remainder with nice high end post-punk fills. What we’re left with are a bunch of really nice hummable pop songs that will stick in your head after a few listens and keep you coming back for more. Several of these songs would make great hit singles: “Paraphermalia,” “Air Arizona,” and the teen angst anthem “Annihilation Eyes,” but “Peopling of London” and “Faint of Hearts” are the big standouts for me with their deep bass walk and gradual build. Check these guys out.
(maritimesongs.com)

27. Still Corners
Creatures of an Hour
(Sub Pop)
This debut album from Still Corners is an interesting work. I’m not sure what to make of it. Apparently, they released an EP in 2007, but I didn’t hear of them until last year’s really strong “Don’t Fall in Love” 7”. This collection does not contain any songs that quite live up to that single, but overall, it is a dreamy mood piece that will transport the listener into another world. I’m just not certain what kind of world that is. Many of the songs here are infused with some creepy sounding organ which gives it a circus crossed with 60s acid drench psychedelic feel, which is an odd juxtaposition considering that Tessa Murray’s breathy barely there vocals sugarcoat a pretty mellow and relaxing, if not a bit unsettling collection. The best songs here include the opening “Cuckoo,” the misplaced instrumental “Circulars,” which should be later in the tracklisting, the shuffling “Into the Trees,” and the goth-tinged “I Wrote in Blood.” I’m sure this is all very confusing to read, so just check them out and see for yourself.
(stillcorners.tumblr.com)

26. Big Troubles
Romantic Comedy
(Slumberland)
This is the second long player from Big Troubles, but the first for me. It makes sense why Slumberland picked these guys up, because they have a knack for very catchy pop numbers, one of which approaches a lost Pains of Being Pure at Heart track (“Minor Keys”). By all accounts, their debut is a super low-fi fuzzy nugget, but I hear no evidence of such on this follow-up. In fact, they’ve brought in Mitch Easter (Let’s Active and, most famously, early R.E.M.) to put his producer’s touch on this and from what I can ascertain it would be a similar makeover that the UK’s Moose made when Easter produced their first LP back in the early 90s. That transformation found Moose suddenly going from shoegaze noise makers to whistling acoustic pop purveyors. That’s what this album sounds like, even though the lyrics defy the title and spell out bad luck with love, the music is mostly pretty splashy and full of sunshine. It’s an enjoyable listen that reminds a bit of Velvet Crush’s debut In the Presence of Greatness. There’s no big statement here, but a whole big of hooky songs to enjoy like “She Smiles for Pictures,” “Misery,” the melancholic “Engine,” and my favorites “Make it Worse” and the closing “Never Mine.”
(bigtroubles.bandcamp.com)

25. Astrid Williamson
Pulse
(Incarnation/One Little Indian)
This is easily Astrid Williamson’s worst album in her career. It lacks the highly flying breezy intensity of her solo debut in 1998, or the strong singer-songwriter back to basics of her second self-titled album and 2006’s Day of the Lone Wolf. And though this album seems like an old relic from the world of 80s overproduction and prodigious use of senseless sound effects, it lacks the 80s new romantic spark of her 2009 LP Here Come the Vikings. And don’t get me started on how far removed this is in quality to the epic shoegazing classic she led her original band Goya Dress through. The blame seems to lie with her collaboration with Leo Abrahams who has apparently worked extensively with famed ambient lord Brian Eno. He has crushed the drive of much of this album with bleeps, bloops and frustratingly distracting effects. Having said all of this though, Williamson is an accomplished songwriter whose deft touch with lyrics and beautiful piano flourishes saves this album. For every weighted down mess such as the drudgingly dull “Underwater” and “Husk,” we find a back to basics straight-forward “Miracle” and a winning “Pulse.” The best songs feature mostly (aside from some unnecessary flourishes) just Astrid and her piano as on the timeless “Connected” and achingly beautiful “Paperbacks.” This isn’t a bad album, it simply has a few missteps, but I will continue to sing the praises of this way too overlooked artist.
(astridwilliamson.co.uk)

24. Sons and Daughters
Mirror Mirror
"Breaking Fun” 7”
(Domino)
This is this Scottish quartet’s third long player, and after the in-the-red forcefulness of their last LP, 2008’s This Gift (my #1 pick of that year), they have brought the tempos down a lot. Instead of the straight-ahead guitar assault of the last one, or the foot stomping traditional Scottish tones, crossed with punk styling’s of their debut and near perfect EP, 2004’s Love the Cup, Sons and Daughters go all gothic post-punk on us. What has remained is their love of murderous and menacing lyrics, as evidenced in the back to back songs about a serial killer (“Rose Red” and the famous Black Dahlia murder “Axed Actress”). This fits in well with their new style. The scratchy guitars and empty echo chamber effects of the drums make this feel like a lost Bauhaus album with some female vocals added in. Unfortunately, this is not what I signed up for with this band. It has taken me some serious listening to find a way into this heavy somewhat burdensome album. Once inside, there are moments of light that remind why this band has always been so appealing to me. That reason: catchy songs! Though, they are clearly going for atmosphere here over pop singles, there are some sparkling sing-along choruses that have wrapped themselves into my psyche, such the declarative passage in “Orion” and the upbeat downshift chorus of “Don’t Look Now.” The clear standout here though, is “Rose Red,” which finds the band hitting their strengths and sounding like they’re having a good time re-telling the bloody story and even jumping into a first person mindset. This album at first was a bit shocking. My distaste for it as a whole was palpable. It has won me over a bit since the summertime, but I am hoping that this turns out to be an experiment only and that they angle for something different next time. I recommend this, only to the hardcore fans. To anyone wanting to try them out for the first time: start with Love the Cup and then jump full bore into This Gift!

The single “Breaking Fun” is an odd choice. It has no real hook and though the lyrics are quite thought-provoking, it hides this band’s true talents of writing really catchy tunes. Kind of a dud. Better is the short b-side “Giallo,” but definitely not worth seeking out.
(sonsanddaughtersloveyou.com)

23. Idaho
You Were A Dick
(Idaho Music)
Idaho has returned after a 6 year a hiatus with their 8th long player. It’s hard to believe really. I skipped the last LP, 2005’s The Lone Gunman, as it was really more of a movie soundtrack then a proper LP. So instead for me it’s been 10 years since Jeff Martin’s musical vehicle has crossed my path with his first truly solo work, 2001’s Levitate. To be honest, I barely remember that album. All of the past trademarks return on Dick: Martin’s quiet, croaky voice, mostly down-tempo and atmospheric, short songs dominate. As with all of his work, my favorites tend toward the edgier, louder numbers such as “The Space Between” and “Up the Hill.” The excellent title track starts things off on a telling path with its story of personal disappearance, as the narrator observes an old acquaintance over what sounds like a social media site. Has he really moved on with his life, or simply changed locations (“is it that you were a dick to me in high school?”)? It sets a thought-provoking tone. Like much of Martin’s work, the songs can be a bit hit and miss and can be difficult to dig into. However, it is worth the effort, as repeated listens provide increased intimacy into what he’s trying to achieve. This doesn’t achieve the heights of Idaho’s best work, 1997’s The Forbidden EP, nor 1998’s most cohesive work, Alas (which Martin reissued on his own imprint a few years back as a combo pack), but it has it’s moments and is a welcome return. If you seek this out from his website, you will also receive a bonus DVD with a bunch of extra songs! While you’re there, pick up the reissue I just mentioned; along with Idaho’s fantastic debut 7” single “Skyscraper” from 1992, which sold me on them from the beginning and their ’93 debut Year After Year!
(idahomusic.com)

22. Social Distortion
Hard Times and Nursery Rhymes
(Epitaph)
Six plus years since their last LP has passed in a flash and Social Distortion return like an old friend. After about 33 years or so, this is only their seventh actual album, yet they have chiseled a permanent mark in rock-n-roll history. Who would’ve thought that Mike Ness – a skinny little punk rocker – would become a source of some of the most authentic old fashioned classic rock-n-roll? Yet, we’ve witnessed the evolution with each spread out entry from the snotty punk of their early singles and 1983’s Mommy’s Little Monster to the Stones by way of Ness’ heroes: Johnny Cash and Hank Williams Sr. blend of today. In many ways, this LP feels like what Ness has been striving for since 1988’s Prison Bound, with its tough guy ballads and tales of bad luck, fugitives on the run, and surviving through and despite it all. Though I personally prefer the shredding and angry side of Social D that rears its ferocious head on a few songs each album and throughout the entirety of 1996’s White Light, White Heat, White Trash, I cannot deny that this may be their ultimate complete statement with such cracking numbers as the opening instrumental thesis statement “Road Zombie,” to the closing favorite “Still Alive,” and all the dusty sidetracks in between. Thanks for stopping by on your travels, old friend.
(socialdistortion.com)

21. British Sea Power
Valhalla Dancehall
(Rough Trade)
I’ve always liked British Sea Power, but I have also always held them away at a suspicious distance. They have a remarkable ability to write huge hooks for massive sounding anthemic songs, but they also have the tendency to bury them in obscurities, needless complexities and what seems like inside jokes. They also like to clutter much of their collections with needlessly long songs. Aside from their most focused work yet, 2005’s Open Season, their other three albums though grandiose and innovative, also drag on too long and wear out the audience. As always, there is much to recommend here. The opening “Who’s in Control?” is like a soccer chant filled with angry lyrics that gets the adrenaline going. “We are Sound” is an even better offering, but then the mixed bag starts to set in. “Georgie Ray” is a slow burner that has a nice hook, but is a bit of a momentum killer so early in the album. “Mongk II” is a personal favorite, with its buzzing and endlessly open ended sound working its way to an obscure but catchy refrain, while “Observe the Skies” also gets me singing along at every turn ("Let's watch the nebulae explode"). “Luna” is a solid mid-tempo song, as is the first single “Living is so Easy” and the closing “Heavy Water.” On the other hand, these 13 songs are hampered by the heavy handed and odd “Baby,” and the unbelievably endless “Cleaning Out the Rooms” and “Once More Now” (over 11 minutes!!). These epics aren’t bad songs; they’re simply a bit much. The good greatly outweighs the bad, so I definitely will keep an ear out for their future material, but will continue to hope for a tighter album that focuses on their strengths.
(britishseapower.co.uk)

That's it for this installment! We're halfway there, so please stayed tuned for the Top 20.

links: Top 40 #40-31
#20-11
# 10-1

Top 40 of 2011 Part I

2011-12-31T16:21:00.000-08:00

The hardest part about writing about music is that it's nearly impossible to say anything that makes any sense. Instead one is left with a bunch of repetitive adjectives that may or may not connect the reader to the actual music that's being described. In this age of information, it's so easy to find even the most obscure new music, that it's easy for people to check stuff out without spending money or really with that much of an effort, so that's helpful...which is nice.

Another year has passed and it's time for me to aimlessly post my list of favorite music releases of the year. The only reason I do this is because I have this burning desire to share my love of this stuff! Plus, like so many, at times like these, I like to reflect on the events of the past year, and even though the best music is timeless, it's also the way I keep track of events in my life. I remember what I was doing when I was listening to certain songs.
Since I'm so long-winded and there're so many releases here, I have chosen to break the list down into 4 parts of 10 releases and I'm going for the American Top 40 Casey Kasem style, so we'll start with 40 and work our way to the # 1 pick of 2011.

Happy New Year!

40. Telekinesis
12 Desperate Lines
(Merge)
This is my first exposure to Michael Benjamin Learner’s music. He definitely takes major cues from early period Death Cab for Cutie here (no surprise with Death Cab’s Chris Walla producing and playing along for this second album) – just check out “50 Ways” or “Dirty Thing” for a sample. It could be a lost track from Death Cab's We Have the Facts. There are also clear influences of the Teen Beat label’s vision of dryly recorded new wave and the bass-lines throughout would not sound out of place on an Unrest, or Flin Flon album. Check out the new wave bass line of the standout track “Please Ask for Help,” or the sing-along chorus of “Car Crash” to see that this guy can write very addictive tunes. I haven’t heard Telekinesis’ earlier work yet, so I do not know if there has been significant growth away from their/his influences, which could be important, but the influences are sound as far as I’m concerned. This is a solid cohesive collection that is worth a listen.
(telekinesismusic.com)

39. Radiohead
King of Limbs
(Ticker Tape)
Radiohead have reached a level of exposure that I am not especially comfortable with. It’s become more about their aesthetic then their music these days. I appreciate that in 2000 they radically changed their sound and direction with Kid A, and even more so with Amnesiac (which King of Limbs most reminds of), but everyone knows that their best work came during the mid 90s with The Bends (a huge creative leap forward from their debut) and their peak OK Computer in 1997. Whether it’s their fault or not, since then they’ve been stuck in a media blitz which obfuscates their music with their supposed politics and message. Having said that, they have done some pretty great work, if not as solid as their “rock” phase, but their last LP 2007’s In Rainbows found them regaining their strengths. King of Limbs is a bit of a step back or sideways. These eight songs are built on complex sounding drum loops and various electronics with Thom Yorke putting his patented creepy moan over the top. Lucky for them, they have serious talent, so it all sounds pretty good – save for the terrible Casio keyboard sound effects that distract the opening “Bloom.” It’s the final four tracks that rate the real attention. “Lotus Flower” makes an obvious single choice with its actual dance-ability, while “Codex” is a moving piano driven ballad that lingers like a bad hangover. “Give Up the Ghost” is a strange folk/electronic hybrid that is oddly effective, and finally the closing “Separator” finds a sing-along chorus with Yorke harmonizing against himself. Not sure how this rates in their lexicon, but it’s worth an actual listen, as opposed to listening to everything that gets said about them.
(radiohead.com)

38. Death Cab For Cutie
Codes and Keys
(Atlantic)
Death Cab have made it to album number seven and now third on a major label (not that that means anything anymore) and they are finally truly showing the tell tale signs of a band that needs a break. While this is their biggest departure from their now signature sound, and I give them ample credit for that, it feels heavy and distant. Their music has always been about intimacy and the small things in life, while this new album is bloated with useless electronic trickery and is way too slick for its own good. It’s in the songs that remind of more of their mid-period work (like back to Transatlanticism) such as the single “You are a Tourist” and the title track that are the catchiest and strongest of their new direction. “Monday Morning” and “Underneath the Sycamore” also show signs that these guys are still breathing. Overall, this is a bit of a letdown, not because of lack of songwriting chops, but because this doesn’t feel like they were fully invested in its making. It’s still worth a listen.
(deathcabforcutie.com)

37.Soft Science
Highs and Lows
(Test Pattern)
When I first fell head over heels over Holiday Flyer back in the late 90s, I never thought I’d be chasing down all the various projects that now defunct band would be involved with. There's the California Oranges, Desario, and well, here’s another one. This one finds vocalist Katie Haley (Conley) leading a band with former members of the offshoot California Oranges (among others) and mining similar territory. The album alternates between very catchy pop numbers featuring Katie’s sweet voice and some shining guitar based melodies and more dream-like atmospheric or dare I say shoegaze-y numbers (more like early Lush). The opening trio of songs are an immediate highlight, with the short, pounding “When Will You Come Home,” the stratospheric “Closer to Me,” and finally the rocking “Something to Go on.” Don’t miss out on “Better Be Good,” “It’s Right ”and “No Sanctuary” or my favorite catchy tune “Take it Back.”. Just track this thing down and try and keep up with all the Holiday Flyer alumnus projects out there – you won’t be disappointed, or better yet, start out with the old HF albums and work your way forward.
(facebook.com/softsciencemusic)

36.The Radio Dept.
Passive Aggressive: Singles 2002-2010 (2 CD)
(Labrador)
I know very little about these Swedes. We sold all of their music on our old Entangled Records website, but I only heard a track or few here and there. I did always like what I heard, but was never sure if it was enough to delve further. Along came this collection early this year: two CD’s for the price of one, and singles which should represent their best tracks, so I decided to give it a try. I am glad I did, because these 14 songs definitely live up to my high expectations of the melodic Swedish pop scene. These tracks span their entire career and find them moving from in-the-red low-fi numbers that remind me of my days listening to Spare Snare and the like to an almost Pet Shop Boys sound (“The Worst Taste in Music”) to a more balanced fully realized sound of their now mature selves on the newer material such as the amazing “Heaven’s on Fire,” the strangely dubby “Never Follow Suit” and the lyrically strong “The New Improved Hypocrisy.” Of course, I also bought it because they cover the Go-Betweens classic “Bachelor Kisses” here. The B-sides are okay, but not essential. They are mostly sketches and experiments that are really of interest to fans only. This will definitely lead me to check out more of their previous work. (theradiodept.com)

35. Moscow Olympics
Cut the World (reissue)
(Happy Prince)
In 2008 this Philippines 5-piece released their debut 7” and mini album before disappearing off of the radar. This reissue of their early and only released work reminds us all why they were such a find a few years ago. These kids were clearly heavily influenced by the work of the Sarah records stable from the late 80s and early 90s. The music is mixed in a mid-fi haze of atmosphere, while the winsome vocals are barely audible. This isn’t merely a revival of that Sarah sound though. These songs feel a bit heavier and are driven a bit faster and edgier. It’s an interesting angle they take. One that puts the listener in a sleepy trance at first, but over time the details start to shine through exposing an entire new light on the premises. Thank you to the Japanese for keeping the light directed towards this valuable release and check out the first new music from Moscow Olympics with their recent mp3 “Keeping the Avenues Open.”
(facebook.com/moskva80.com)

34. Mira
The Echo Lingers On: Demos, Outtakes and Rehearsals
(Projekt)
I was smitten with this band when I first heard their song “Cayman” in the year 2000. During that summer, I had a giant brain cyst that was making life increasingly difficult due to a never ending severe headache, numbness and a near constant case of the hiccups. Only a few things kept me sane. One was taking long fast walks, the other was golfing, which somehow eased the head trauma and nausea - though not the odd colors I was starting to see and the balance issues I was experiencing – and lastly, listening to the soaring voice of Regina Sosinski and the dramatic dream-like build and release of Mira’s “Cayman.” If you haven’t heard Mira’s blend of kinda gothic, ethereal, and shoegaze, then I would suggest starting with their debut self-titled album which includes the amazing “Cayman.” Next I would recommend you stop off at their third and final full length, 2005’s magically recorded There I Go Daydreamer, which includes their single “Window Seat” and sounds like its being performed right in front of you. This CD is a limited edition collection of some of Mira’s demos and such and is definitely for the old die-hards. Some of this is pretty sketchy what with rough live rehearsal recordings and some unfinished demos. However, the first four songs include their debut EP from way back in ’97 Something Ventured and it is well worth the price of admission alone! Throw in the added bonus of the surprising short pop nugget “For Now” that did not make the final cut of the debut and I found this to be a nice listen.
(mira.nu)

33.The Black Watch
Led Zeppelin Five
(the Eskimo Record Label)
John Andrew Fredrick’s band the Black Watch has now been grinding away around the fringes of the music scene since 1987 and never have they broken through towards any sign of exposure (other than a near miss with 1994’s career highlight Amphetamines, which is only notable because it could be found by the multitudes in used/cut out bins all over the record shopsback then). This is a major tragedy! Fredrick is an English professor and would probably be horrified by my attempt at writing this (or any) review, but I will sing his praises anytime. This curiously titled album is the 11th full length album from TBW (the 10th for me, I have not yet found their debut) and please don’t be fooled by the name, because this is nothing like Led Zeppelin. If one were to reference a “classic” rock band as an influence, the obvious one would be the Beatles (whose “It’s All Too Much” is covered as the album closer – re-titled “Weirdly”), since these songs are streamlined pop songs full of vibrant melodies and hummable hooks. This album was released as a limited release on New Zealand label in 2010 (see obscurity reference above), but has finally been issued here on Fredrick’s own label. I highly recommend you take advantage of its availability, because this is their best work (among a discography of consistency) since maybe 1999’s King of Good Intentions. There are hit single possibilities all over the place with such songs as the hyper catchy “Emily, Are You Sleeping?” Or check out the mid tempo relatable “Like in the Movies” and the magical “Earl Grey Tea,” which I think features lead vocals from recent guitarist Steven Schayer. I hope they continue to give this music thing a chance, because there are a few of us out there that welcome the new music every few years.
(myspace.com/theblackwatch)

32. Brittle Stars
Occasional Appearance
(Fastcut)
In 1999 Shelf-life Records released the quiet debut album by Florida’s Brittle Stars. It is the quintessential album of the entire Shelf-life catalog. It was also the only the only album they released (aside from a remix and obscurities collection), which is incredibly sad, because their soft mix of New Order and OMD electronics combined with the reflective sense of The Sundays was a perfect one. These are subtle songs that really should be heard by more people, but I think they prefer to be off to the side on their own, which is how I like to listen to such beautiful songs as “Tripping Me Up,” the momentous “You Went in Phases,” “May,” and the closing title track. This is so good that Japanese label Fastcut has decided to release this album with a few extra tracks from the remix LP tacked on with nice packaging. Unfortunately, it has only been released as a limited edition, but hopefully this magical music will stay alive through word of mouth. This is my part.
(can be found at tonevendor.com)

31. Dark Captain
Dead Legs and Alibis
(Loaf)
Dark Captain has abandoned ship on half of their name. They may have dropped the too wordy addition of ‘Light Captain’ from their title, but their sound remains as consistent as ever. This doesn’t stray too far from the sound of their surprising and flawless debut Miracle Kicker. This is complex sounding music. Each song is built on top of busy repetitive drum percussion patterns and intertwining acoustic guitar lines that are almost too much for the mind to comprehend. It’s best to focus on the whole of their sound then the intricacies that form it. The simultaneous vocals of apparently all members of the band create an easy welcoming vibe into their dark world. When they find a groove with their unique sound, the results are really stunning as on “Submarines,” the fluttering “Right Way Round,” and the final open spaced “Flickering Lights.” They’ve added more layers of instrumentation throughout this album, but their biggest flaw may be that the songs start to sound the same with too much exposure. Much of this is to blame on the shared one voice vocals, which leaves less room for emotional inflection. Also, the sheer busyness of their sound can wear one down after so many songs. However, their sound is a great one and this is being nit-picky. Maybe their niche should be with EPs instead of LPs, just so we (me) slow thinkers can focus our attentions without so much effort. Start with Miracle Kicker and see if you like that before coming here.
(darkcaptain.com)

Please tune in next time for the next installment of the Top 40 0f 2011!

links: Top 40 #'s 30-21
#'s 20-11
#'s 10-1

The Dead Part of You

2011-11-19T07:28:00.001-08:00

I paced around the back of the tee box slapping my shitty driver over and over against the dew slathered ground. Back at the Shan, where the golf nightmares never cease; the first ones out of the gate after a late night and a restless fit of sleep. This is it. The inaugural Grudge Match. Ryan and I challenged Eric and Wirtz to a straight battle over 18 holes naming it a Grudge Match. Ryan and I had worked ourselves into a frenzy, during a conversation one evening, where we went from thinking it’d be a good idea to get us all together for a round, to deciding that we’ve always hated them and that we must defeat them. The only problem was they are both much better at this wretched game than either of us – especially me.

“What are we playing for? What are the stakes?” Wirtz asked as he stretched out his back by bending over and burst the button off his pants. “Anybody got a safety pin?”

This course is terrible. And by terrible, I mean difficult. We’ve all played here so many times and I’ve hit a bad shot from every square yard that encompasses the property. So many bad memories, and yet I keep returning. This morning, I had been startled from a dream where Tiger Woods was being interviewed after a round here and all he could do was shake his head and say that he shot a 102. You’d think that would make me feel better, but I know it’s all a lie.

“I don’t know Wirtz, I’m not playing for money,” Ryan chimed in as he and Eric laughed at Wirtz’s struggles with his pants. “You guys are going to win, so I’m staying out of that game.”

“How about we play to the death?” I suggested sternly from my post at the far end of the teeing ground, before returning to my circling and pacing.

“Woah! Uh, no.”

“You afraid?”

“Let’s play for blah” Wirtz suggested as he put his bleeding index finger into his mouth to stop the drop of blood that he had exposed from the tip of the safety pin that he had used to fasten to his pants. I use “blah” because no one remembers what he actually suggested; a word I misheard as “souls.”

“It’s settled then, we’re playing for souls,” I decided as I adjusted the long sleeve mock that I was uncomfortable in, but found necessary in the heavy misty coastal morning. “Whoever wins gets to keep the souls of the losing team.”

“What?” Eric looked around, irritated. “That doesn’t make any sense!”

“I don’t have a soul,” Ryan proclaimed and therefore agreed to the terms.

Wirtz was simply distracted by his pants. This would not prevent him from hitting the ball further off the first tee with his 5 iron than I could hit my best drive. And it went on from there.

This is how I lost my soul.

I spent hours in the little examination room that doctors have, yet again. This time I was there to get the results of my CT scan from the prior week. Still I was asked to sit on the familiar little wax paper covered butcher block in my underwear shivering. As usual, the wait was long enough for me to “read” three entertainment magazines cover to cover. And as usual, the doctor spent all of two minutes with me. At least half of that time was spent tugging on my tender gonads. All in all, fairly routine. The only anomaly is that the scan discovered several breaks in my ribs. To look at this closer, he ordered detailed x-rays to be done and sent me to his scheduler guy to set that up.
The scheduler guy seemed awfully curious about my injury. Way more curious than my doctor. He asked if I had been in an accident. I told him I couldn't think of anything that would cause my ribs to break. He suggested that maybe I’d angered "someone" enough to lead "them" to beat me in my sleep causing us to laugh conspiratorially.
After my sinister forced laugh in response, I felt disturbed. Why would this be funny? Why would I want to treat someone so badly that they would want to break my ribs while I sleep? Of course, none of this matters, since I do not have anyone around to break my ribs during my sleep. Maybe I should've taken his jab as a compliment. It is rare that someone assumes that I’m in a relationship and not as someone who is falling apart both physically and mentally.

I stood in the kitchen leaning against the counter’s edge opposite of the oven. The light that illuminated the parking lot outside beamed some residual glare through the white blinds. With the black and white bands of shadow striping my T-shirt, I tried conjuring up an ugly version of the “American Gigolo” movie poster image. I failed to reach ugly, so I took a deep breath and grabbed my keys and headed out.

It had been one of those evenings. It was a Friday, and I was filled with restless energy, but there was nothing to do that felt right. There were no appealing shows. All of my area friends had plans with their significant others or were working. Generally, I’m okay with a night off, but staying in and watching a movie or listening to tunes with the headphones wasn’t in the cards. Every attempt to relax had already been thwarted by twitching legs and an inability to focus.

I screeched out of the parking lot in the floating old maroon Ford and turned the stereo up as loud as I could get it. My destination was to hit downtown, but I knew that it would prove a pointless journey. The late summer had been a warm one, and this night was no different. I pushed down the windows and opened the vents to get some airflow moving inside the stuffy car that had been absorbing heat all afternoon. I could feel drops of sweat drawing a line down my spine and my head start to pulse with irritation.

At each light on the way to downtown I sped off the line like a teenager so I could cut off the cars in the other lane. I was acting like a dick and feeling like one too. My mind had reverted back to High School and maybe beyond. I was back on Highway 101 cruising Wayside and looking for unsuspecting tourists to mess with. I didn’t care about anything. Everything was stifling oppressive and overwhelming.

The slow drift through the downtown streets unveiled exactly what I knew I would find: couples my age wandering the streets half-crocked in groups of four or six instilled with a boozy fearlessness and obnoxious demeanor. This could’ve been what I was doing if I ever had the guts to try and make time with potential mates and I looked on with a small bit of jealousy at the laughter and closeness they were all sharing. The rest of me filled with rage. This was the last thing I wanted. It reminded me of those early days at college; wandering around the campus on a Friday night being intruded upon by drunken idiots, while I tried to figure out how I ended up having to step over a passed out body and side step a puke filled urinal just to take a leak.

Outside the Lotus, everyone in the velvet roped off line looked toward my car as I stared them all down. My stereo blasted the high end chiming guitars and breathy harmonies of my favorite Swedish band Popsicle. In reality, the music was so loud that it had become a wash of white noise that was drowning out the laughter, chatter and thumping of the nightclub they were all waiting to access.

At the next green light, I abruptly turned the car left and made my way back out of the downtown grid. I couldn’t figure out what I was doing down there other than fueling my frustration and wasting time. I was tired of this night alone and wanted it to end. I hated myself because I knew that I would do nothing to try and avoid nights like this in the future. I sped back out toward my box and felt the emptiness of the rows of streetlights that were illuminating other apartments along the way. I especially noticed the ones with a single visible light on inside. It made me realize that I was experiencing the fate of many and it made me feel emptier.

Sick, Sober & Sorry

2011-10-26T16:45:00.000-07:00

The sun shines down upon the front door of Harrison and Sara’s condo with an increasing intensity as the day nears noon and the freshness of the summer morning air burns away to stifling. A demented menagerie of summer related items litter the sidewalk. A pink flamingo leans against a tree about 15 feet up the walk, while a kiddy pool sits in the middle of the sidewalk impairing the travel of anyone who may happen to pass this way. Two folding lounge chairs are set up against the building in front of the pool. There are two young and attractive girls that move towards this mess.

“OMG! There are so many hot guys around here!” the brunette with tight fitting jeans and a tank top tells the blonde excitedly. “Two words for the guy back there: Buns of Iron!”

“Don’t you mean four words? Abs of Steel!” retorted the blonde as she reached down to adjust her short shorts. “These guys are everywhere and probably rich too!”

“I LOVE SUMMER!” both girls shout in unison and begin to giggle.

Their dialogue ends as they reach the plastic pool blocking their path and they begin to navigate around it in silent contemplation.

Suddenly Harrison rockets through the screen door in the attire of one of his alter egos: King Summer. He’s sporting a gaudy Hawaiian shirt, mirrored sunglasses, a Panama hat, a neon green zinced nose, Ocean Pacific long swim trunks and pink striped flip-flops. He’s carrying a huge fishbowl of green liquid, that overflows with tiny umbrellas and exotic fruit, which he extends outward like a chalice. He clears his throats for an announcement.

“KING SUMMER HAS ARRIVED!”

The brunette nearly stumbles into the pool from shock. The blonde girl grabs her hand and shouts “Run!” as they tear off up the sidewalk, almost running into Chuck who is approaching the condo from the opposite direction. Harrison continues to stare into the blue sky as if he is waiting for a response to his announcement from the heavens.

“AND IT IS A WHOPPING DEL SCORCHO HERE IN DOWNTOWN PORTLAND!” Harrison continues his announcement to the neighborhood. He holds his pose for a few moments longer, before his eyes start to dart around with concern. “That was your line.”

“Why?” Chuck asks as he reaches Harrison’s side. He is wearing casual black shorts and a silk shirt that is identical to “The Daddy,” a shirt that played a vital role in the prior evening’s activities.

Harrison plops himself onto one of the folding chairs, careful to balance the huge glass in his palm.

“AND IT IS A WHOPPING DEL SCORCHO HERE IN DOWNTOWN PORTLAND!” he repeats with a bit less enthusiasm and is once again met with silence. “And?”

Chuck looks down at Harrison and sees his own reflection in the sunglasses. “What are you doing?” he asks and turns toward the direction the two hot girls ran off to. “Did you do something to them?”

Harrison uses his mouth to blindly search for an unseen straw amidst the jungle of fruit in his fishbowl. His nose knocks several items off the rim and then he gives up the effort.

“KING SUMMER DECLARES THE ARRIVAL OF…” he holds his free hand out by way of introduction.

“What are you –“

“OF!” Mr. Summer emphasizes again.

“Prince Celsius,” Chuck finally responds nearly inaudibly.

Harrison, satisfied, leans back into his chair, “AH, YES, KING SUMMER’S ONLY SON, PRINCE CELSIUS!”

“You got a beer or something?”

“BEER? ROYALTY DRINK NOT SUCH AS THAT! THE WENCHES HAVE MADE SOMETHING ELSE FOR THE PRINCE!”

“Were the wenches the ones who went off running?”

Harrison, ignoring the question, carefully sets down the drink and leaps into the condo. He continues his monologue inside: “KING SUMMER’S DEL SCORCHO EL ESPECIAL!” Chuck hears him, puts his hands on his face and begins to nod his head side to side. “YES, FOR THE PRINCE! I WILL GIVE HIM YOUR LOVE, MY LADY!”

“If only this could be blamed on heatstroke,” Chuck mumbles to himself.

King Summer returns to the sidewalk with another leap and another giant fishbowl glass. This time the liquid inside is a deep red with nearly half a pineapple floating within.

“COME AND JOIN ME BY MY SIDE! RELISH THESE JUICES OF PARADISE!”

Chuck begins to fumble with the other folded chair still leaning against the building. No matter what he tries, the chair will not unfold. He is clearly getting agitated. “Fucking chair!” he shouts as he slams the still folded chair against the pavement.

“You have to get into character,” Harrison tells Chuck in his real voice. “That is the problem with you. It is all about the character!”

“Okay, how about this character?” Chuck starts with a threatening tone, as the chair unfolds itself. He immediately sets it down next to Harrison and sits down, as he continues: “I’m Prince Pissed Off and my minions will Del Scorcho your stupid ass!”

“You’re missing the point. This is all about the screenplay.”

“Oh, yes, that’s right. You mean the one without the plot?”

“So much negativity,” Harrison waves the back of his hand at Chuck, who has spilled some red liquid on “The Daddy.” “Look at how many movies have been made without a plot. It’s all about the characters. They are the movie! No one cares about whatever Steven Segal’s motivation or purpose is. Don’t mess with the cook! Come on! Hell, people will pay ten bucks as long as he is beating ass. They’d pay more if his next nemesis turned out to be the Swedish Chef from the Muppet Show.”

“So, I’m seeing King Summer versus Segal. Who can make the worst drink?”

“Herdy Ferdy Foo,” Harrison waves his fingers around as he loses himself in his Swedish Chef impersonation. “Fine!” he shouts as he regains focus, “Bitch all you want, but the bottom line is that I am right and you are scared.”

Chuck ignores him and adopts a deep announcing voice: “Segal. King Summer. Taste the wrath. It’s not fear, but reality!” Chuck gives it up. “Okay, I agree, there have been some big box office hits that have no actual plot, but…”

“What? Then with the right characters we can have a big, plot less, box office hit too. Good characters are what people go to see. All we need to do is find them.”

“What? The people who would watch that shit?”

“No, you jackass, the characters. Characters are where it’s at. Without memorable characters, it doesn’t matter how good the story is.”

“Good point. So where do we find these new friends of ours? I hear 7-11 has some solid characters on sale now! Not only that, but with the purchase of a new character, you can get a free Thirsty Two Ouncer and a Big Grab of Chipsssssssss!” Chuck trails off.

“I think we know some people, who might know some people,” Harrison says as he stands up.

“Alright, fine,” Chuck concedes as he stands as well.

The two begin to head down the sidewalk in the direction the two girls had sprinted off to earlier, leaving the summer wreckage behind them with their drinks still in hand.

“Sara is going to be pissed about this mess,” Chuck points out, now several yards away from the debris.

“Nonsense, she appreciates our art.”

A skateboarder winds his way around King Summer and Prince Celsius after building up an enormous burst of speed. Unfortunately, his efforts to avoid those two left him distracted and he hits the pool at full speed and crashes over the top and onto the hot cement.

“No, I’m pretty sure she doesn’t.”

“She will awake from her slumber to find us missing.”

“And hope that we’ve been abducted.”

“And realize that the muses have claimed us.”

“Praying that we never return.”

written with Jeffrey Piering

Summerside

2011-08-23T21:56:00.000-07:00

My mind is scrambled. My skin has been baked and my lips are as dry as the crackled dessert floor. My calves are tight from being stretched out on the sides of hills and from not getting any rest. I have blisters covering my heels and toes and I have avoided eating an actual meal for days. This is the aftermath of my summer vacation and it was more than worth it! This week I went back to my regular life and my stressful job and my vacation came to an end. What did I do for my summer vacation? Not that anyone cares, but this is the first time in my adult life that I’ve taken a week off from work for a vacation. My vacation times have always been a day or two wrapped around a weekend, or more often sucked up by medical issues. I am thankful that I have had the luxury to take that time off to recover from some pretty difficult moments, but I have never considered a month off from work after a kidney or head surgery a vacation. When I scheduled this particular week off back in January, it wasn’t in order to fly to some exotic tropical location, or to go to some theme park or Las Vegas, it was so I could attend the Safeway Classic LPGA event here in the Portland area without the distraction of work.

Yes, you read that correctly - the Ladies Professional Golf Association. Every time I tell anyone about it, the reaction I get is something between a bemused smile and an uncertainty if they’ve heard me correctly. I have been a fan of golf since I was introduced to it as a small kid playing pitch-n-putt golf at the old Washington Park par 3 by the zoo and a television spectator of the game off and on since Jack Nicklaus’ riveting Master’s win in 1986. I remember trying to make putts into an overturned coffee mug set strategically around the house and putting down stairs, and off of walls, while the pros took care of business on our old incorrectly colored Zenith TV blinked in the background.

Why the LPGA? It is currently, the only professional golf event that comes to our area (besides now the reborn this upcoming weekend Peter Jacobsen event, which is just for fun more than for competition) and after my years of watching golf of any kind, I had started to get to know the players of the LPGA. It went from a good thing to throw on TV if I needed to take a nap on a lazy Sunday afternoon, to finding myself drawn into the excitement of the competition. Of course, my interest grew when I developed a crush on the young up and comer Leta Lindley when she was fighting for a win at the women’s US Open in the mid-90s (more on her later). Now I had a player to follow, and over the years, I’ve grown especially fond of many for a variety of reasons – making the LPGA TV entertainment that I seek out, if I am going to be watching sports on a weekend afternoon.

After finding ways to not go to the Safeway Classic for so many years (this year was the 40th anniversary of the Portland event), last summer, over the weekend, I decided to take advantage of the free passes that someone gave to me, and trek out there. At first, I was a bit reluctant, since I couldn’t convince anyone to go with me, but once I was there I was astounded. So excited, in fact, that I wrote a thank you email to the LPGA a week or so after the event. Here is an excerpt:

“This experience was really rewarding and entertaining. I’d like to pass along my compliments to everyone involved in putting on the event. There was a palpable sense of enthusiasm amongst everyone that I encountered throughout the event from the volunteers to the players. It was a nice change from what seems like an increasingly jaded sports world. I have attended countless Trailblazer basketball games, some Seahawk games and I am a season ticket holder for the soon to be MLS Portland Timbers here locally and yet I have never left any of those experiences – not just happy with the inherent drama of the competition and competitive spirit – but with such a sense of community. On that Saturday, my game plan was to witness each group make their way through the 11th hole at Ghost Creek and then follow the final group in to the clubhouse. I have played Ghost Creek a handful of times and have been killed by that hole every time, so I thought it might be an entertaining spot. While there I saw the players interact with the fans casually and comfortably, while making golf look way too easy. It was incredible to see! I remember being especially touched when I witnessed Paula Creamer, a big star on the tour, who was clearly frustrated with her putting and fighting hard to make the cut, still take the time to talk to a young fan and sign a golf ball for him. She did this despite storming away irritated at another missed putt towards the next tee box. I could go on and on, but I will close, simply by saying that I thank everyone involved and will be doing my part to spread the word that these girls do rock and so does everyone behind the scenes! Next year, I am planning on taking much of that week off from work, so I can see more fantastic golf and will encourage everyone I know to take some time to join me!”

Here I was, about to take my week off. I had considered going to the golf course early that Sunday morning to volunteer as a caddie for the Pro-Am tournament scheduled for Wednesday and Thursday, or even as a caddie for one of the players who do not use a regular caddie. However, instead I was invited to attend an amazing birthday event for my friend Ann in Boise, Idaho. It was a farm dinner, served outside during a beautiful sunset on a warm evening in the company of wonderful people with good wine and unbelievable food. What a start to the vacation!

After that quick weekend jaunt, I returned home to make a bit of progress with getting my apartment in order and getting my little car to stop sounding like a World War II bomber. With these things taken care of, I was set to attend the pro-am. With that, I was able to get up close to the players while they practiced on the driving range, and practice greens. I was able to see them prepare their strategies for several of the holes, as they mapped out yardages and the breaks on the greens. I was able to see Brittany Lincicome smash some drives way past her male playing partners; Paula Creamer turn from intently trying to figure out possible pin placements for the upcoming tournament, to casually sinking a birdie putt for her team and celebrating with them; then watch recent major champion Stacy Lewis describe to her amateur playing partner, in her Arkansas drawl, how best to play the hole they were on; and then watch defending Safeway Classic champ Ai Miyazato smile her way to a 30 foot putt on the 8th green. This is also the spot where I saw my old favorite Leta Lindley give what looked like a quick chipping lesson to a woman lucky enough to play in this event, who then hit her ball to within a few feet of the cup from about 60 yards away. After that I was off to play some golf of my own with Ryan and we had a blast! I regaled him with my bizarro observations of my morning with the ladies and did my best to learn from the little tidbits I picked up.

The next morning was the start of the tournament, so I raced out to the course to catch the first tee time just after 7 am. I watched favorite after favorite tee off and start their tournament with great hopes of winning the big prize on Sunday. However, after seeing Leta Lindley in person for the first time the day prior, I decided I was going to follow her and her playing partners around the course for the entire 18 holes. Leta has had a win in her career and a few close calls in some major championships, but she is not a high profile player. In her 16 or so years on tour, she has taken the bulk of two seasons off to have and take care of her children. She has always been consistent enough to grind out enough high finishes to keep her playing privileges on the tour, but has always been quiet, unassuming and under the radar. This was reflected in the fact that I watched her play 34 or her 36 holes over the first two days of competition and was often the only person standing nearby as a spectator – clapping my obnoxiously loud clap and trying to will all of her putts into the hole. The lack of spectators around her and her playing competitors saddened me, especially since the attendance for this year’s event was an all-time record of over 88,000 people – though somewhat understandable since none of these particular players were in contention after the first round.

Speaking of that first round, Leta, finished and made her way to the official’s tent to sign her scorecard, after a rough 18 holes of 7 over par (after a very promising start to her round). I found myself, after a quick trip to the porta-potty, standing in front of her as she headed to the locker room. I wanted so badly to talk with her. I wanted to let her know that she’s been my favorite golfer for a long time, but I panicked! She looked in my direction, seemingly recognizing me as the guy who clapped so loudly from under the trees every time she did something great. She smiled, despite being upset with her performance. I stared back blankly and she passed me by. I didn’t know what to do! I have never been one to be star-struck and I haven’t asked for an autograph since I was a like 9-10 years old when Jon and I would go to the Blazers rookie games and get autographs from the new players, Jack Ramsey and always the chatty Bill Schonely. I have picked up a few autographs from authors and musicians since then, but only when I am buying their product in a store or at a show when the artist is in the room. I didn’t especially want Leta’s autograph (so happy to have it though!), what I really wanted was to talk with her, but how else could I do that without seeming like a stalker?

That evening, after watching another group of players make their way around the course (no one can tell me that watching golf live isn’t the most active of all spectator sports!), I felt sick with myself. How could I let Leta pass me by without saying a word - without letting her know that she was so inspirational to me when I would watch her play golf on TV while sitting in my dialysis chair back during those dark days? This was especially true after seeing a clip of an interview with her, where her positive words helped shift my focus during the early days of my life without kidneys from simply trying to survive to striving to feel strong enough to get back out on the golf course and do my best to enjoy those moments. And these are things I achieved! In fact, despite losing much of my strength, flexibility and stamina, my golf game improved during this period of my life. I committed myself to watching her play the second day and rooting her on to a better day of golf and a chance to make the cut. Making the cut is vitally important to those who are not familiar with golf. In these tournaments, the field of around 150 players gets cut down by approximately half – the half with the best scores, while the rest are invited to exit. What this means, is that those roughly 75 players have no chance of making money for that week. This is extremely harsh when one factors in that these players often have to pay their own travel and lodging expenses. Golfing is not necessarily as luxurious as it may seem for the casual observer. I witnessed a young player, who was fighting to earn her first paycheck ever on the LPGA, bogey her final hole after she found water with her drive. She was reduced to tears as she realized that a par would’ve put her inside the cut line. It can be a brutal game and unfortunately, after 36 holes, Leta, who fought to a very solid one over par 72 in her second round (once again in front of an audience of mostly me), came up one stroke short of the cut line after barely missing a chip for birdie on the difficult finishing hole. I was heartbroken, while she put on a tight-lipped smile and again went to sign her scorecard knowing that she had no chance of earning a dime after travelling all the way from Florida.

When I found myself, once again, in front of her on her way to the locker room, I was again reluctant to say anything - even though I had vowed to myself that I would not freeze up again. But how does one approach someone who has just missed out on such an opportunity? The season is nearing an end and maybe she needed that paycheck to keep her playing status going forward, along with all the other important reasons that we all work to try and earn a living. In other words, I was afraid to bother her at what might’ve been a very frustrating life moment. It’s not like an NBA player missing a buzzer beater that brings a loss. That guy still gets paid and paid a lot more than these women do (I'm sure she's fine, but I am amazed at how little many of these talented women get paid as compared to their male counterparts). Yet, there I was mumbling a warbled “hello” to this woman, asking her for an autograph, and feeling like a little kid. She graciously agreed and seemed genuinely touched when I informed her that she has always been my favorite player and that it's been an honor to follow her impressive career. She apologized for her poor performance and thanked me for my compliment. I know that she would’ve allowed me to talk about all of those things I mentioned earlier about her inspiration to me and all that sappy stuff, but I didn’t want to take up anymore of her time. I settled that matter and was late for the Timbers game, which had just started and I was 20 miles from the stadium!

The tournament ended the following day with an exciting playoff resulting in a win by Norwegian Suzann Pettersen. An impressive final day comeback and someone who deserved some good news, since she had a friend pass away on her last week and also had reportedly gone to school with that guy who killed a bunch of people in her home country. She was easy to root for. Christine was kind enough to join me for the long walk around the course in the hot sun watching a bunch of golfers she doesn’t know, play a game she doesn’t know much about. I cannot say in words, how excited I get about attending this event. I used to imagine mashing up all of the tumors and cysts and cancers together into one big gooey disgusting ball that have haunted me and my mom and my brother and everyone else over the years who have been burdened with them and bury it deep under the earth’s surface out of harm's way. In this case, I wish I could physically infect people with my adrenaline and enthusiasm for this stuff. It is so fantastic! Yet, now the future of this tournament is up in the air, as Safeway’s sponsorship deal has ended. They could renew, or some other corporation could take over as the title sponsor, but if this event is lost, it will truly be a tragedy. This is the longest running event this tour, besides the US Open, and one of the best attended. The LPGA has been hit hard by poor governance in recent years and the terrible economy. They have been making positive strides, but this would be a terrible blow to lose this event and a terrible blow to my new favorite time of the year.

la lune

2011-07-27T20:25:00.001-07:00

Swallowing down a burning taste of cancer and cringing from a rusty throat. Two plastic tubes dangle from a hole just above the heart without use and panels of several IV lines stretch out from the neck. An itch on the tip of the nose reveals what feels like a wire hanger unbent and then shoved into the right nostril and down through the back of the throat and on into the stomach. On the other end, another tube runs from the hanger into a bag hooked to the side of the bed. The bag is beige with a chunky viscous. The left arm is wrapped tight in bloody gauze and is throbbing to escape. The chest is trapped underneath a weight of monitors and tightly wound bandages making breath difficult to draw in. Wires and tubes strap the body down from all corners of the plastic bed, which somehow are keeping track of proof of life on one of the boxes with lights on the periphery of the room.

“A little drumming boy
Is beating in my chest”

Lights flash and scream out alarms, while feeble beeps come and go or jab at an annoying constant rate without consequence. A television shows a blurry figure dancing to the hum of quiet static in front of the moon from above. It is the only distraction from the various intense aches and stabbing stings taunting every second.

“Is this a competition?
I’m definitely winning
Because two by two
They came through
And one in every one
Fits a million”

Is this an experiment or simply organized torture? Is this worth a potential extension of life, or is it an extension of a nightmare? Choking down regret and questioning every decision and every move along the way. Is this all there is? Sensory deprivation is the only way to survive this moment and the moment after that. It is disorienting and disillusioning, but the only time that the pain is somewhat bearable. Maybe someday this will all end. In the meantime, it’s best to keep it all inside. Carry it to the grave. Pretend that everything will be alright and that it’s all worth the effort, while knowing that none of this matters. This is potentially how we could all find ourselves sooner or later.

“You keep on holding back
Can’t break it to yourself
That your life means nothing
But the fear’s making sense”

song lyrics: Sons and Daughters.

We Don't Need Nobody Else

2011-07-18T20:45:00.000-07:00

Chuck leaned his arms heavily against the shopping cart as he prepared himself for a long wait in line. No matter which line he ever stepped into at a store, he always found the slowest moving line. He found himself behind the old woman who has to write a check and fumble through thousands of outdated coupons, which will cause a debate and more problems. He sighed as he scanned the tabloid headlines, uncertain who most of the people were. Had he become that out of touch? He then looked to his right and checked out the candy offerings in case the snickers bars were on sale. When was the last time they were available as four for a buck? No matter what the price, he still considered buying a couple. His next glance went to the poor girl working the register. How often did she have to deal with these arguments about incorrect coupons and fine print and how she’s not trying to rip people off?

Chuck was startled when his eyes went from this young woman’s nametag (he liked to use the checker’s names when he thought of it) to her face. Not only was her name Sarah, but she looked so much like Sarah from back in the day! She couldn’t be one and the same Sarah. There’s no way. This girl’s too young and that was what 15 years ago that he last saw her? His thoughts immediately drifted back to when he last saw Sarah. It must have been during the summer of ’96. He had been on his way over to Gary’s place with a new mix tape. The tape was a break-up compilation with a bunch of bitter one-sided love/hate songs. On his way, Chuck, stopped at a bagel shop to grab a snack, knowing that he and Gary would lose themselves to conversation and most likely not get any dinner. That was when he last saw Sarah. She was a girl that he had had a crush on a couple of years earlier, but she had been living with her boyfriend at the time. But when she had split with that guy, she disappeared from the outskirts of his little social circle. Yet, here, after months of not seeing her, he ordered his plain bagel with plain cream cheese, and she seemed to be reciprocating his serious interest in her. She smiled and chatted and asked a lot of questions and then followed him to a table. She touched her hair lightly as he mumbled stuff that had happened to so and so. She bit her lower lip and grinned as he made self-deprecating comments and tried to bite through the tough bagel without spurting the spread all over himself. Later she followed him outside, touched his arm and told him how great it was to see him again after so long. He then headed to Gary’s place in a daze.

That had been a crazy summer. Work had been busy all the time. He had experimented off and on with working second and third jobs. He couldn’t really remember much else. Were they still doing the summer bowling league? What about that tape? What was on there? There was most certainly the Kitchens of Distinction song “Now it’s Time to Say Goodbye,” which later became Gary’s anthem from that mix. Oh, and Animals That Swim’s “50 Dresses,” and Whipping Boy’s “We Don’t Need Nobody Else” – a song with lyrics like a short-story detailing a clearly messed up relationship. Wasn’t that when he and Gary jokingly argued about the lyrics? Something about the woman in the story putting bees or beans in her hair? Maybe they made a joke out of mishearing the lyrics, because of the uncomfortable violence in the song and, at the time, Chuck was feeling too good to be the outraged guy who needs to tell his friend that his ex sucked and he would be better off without her. He was bathing in the possibilities that seemed to open up when he ran into Sarah earlier that day.

“Sir! Sir!” this new version Sarah was trying to get Chuck’s attention. “We can clean that up for you. Don’t worry about it.”

Chuck looked into Sarah’s beautiful brown eyes as he stood frozen over a broken container of salsa that he had dropped between his cart and the conveyor belt. He felt overcome with regret. Why hadn’t he asked for the other Sarah’s phone number? He was always letting these chances pass him by without ever realizing it until long after the events had happened.

“I’ll get someone to clean that up. It’s okay. Do you want us to get you another salsa to go with those chips?” this Sarah asked, as if she needed to talk Chuck down from a ledge.

He stared down at the pile of crushed tomatoes with juice spreading out along the tile below and saw his heart smashed on the floor. He suddenly felt old – like really old – and helpless. He was now the person holding up the grocery line because of incompetency. All of the Sarah’s were gone. That sense of possibility and hope and excitement of all the Sarah’s had been lost a long time ago and he knew it.

“No, thanks, Sarah, I don’t need any salsa,” Chuck quietly replied. “I’m so sorry. I’m really really sorry,” he emphasized as he swiped his cards and tried to hurry up the transaction.

“It’s okay! These things can happen to anyone!” Sarah smiled brightly.

“Thank you for everything,” Chuck said with emphasis as he stumbled away.

A Boring Story

2011-06-21T20:21:00.000-07:00

It’s still dark outside, as it is every morning I go to work. I climb onto the crowded and blaringly bright Max and keep my focus on the floor. I’m wearing sunglasses, which are irritating, but the only way I can possibly partially conceal the wreckage that is my face. A face that feels like it’s creeping out over the top and the sides of the frames. People clear a larger space than is necessary for me, as I try to settle into an open corner by the door on the opposite side of the one I entered on. There are no open seats. I felt humiliated yesterday, so I stayed at home. This morning, I don’t feel anything.

---

Everything was all smiles and giggles. Halloween at the dive strip club we wound up at after about 10 other stops around downtown, and I was standing behind D as he talked with Kat backstage. Kat was our stripper a few minutes before. The stupid turban from the borrowed tossed together costume I was not trying too hard to pull off kept falling off my head. I fiddled uncomfortably with the fake taxi ID badge stuck to my chest as I tried to figure out where the others had disappeared to. I mumbled something to D about how Kat wasn’t going to come to the party that we had heard about happening over off of Belmont. What? Oh, she is coming? Great. Whatever. I stumbled out into the cold damp air outside to find the rest as the house lights came on for closing time.

---

“Oh, you’re such a cutie! What do you do?”
“Hey, Shan, surprised to see you down here…”
“We’re heading to that party we heard about when we were over at the Paris…”
“I’m doing some consulting right now…”
“What are you up to tonight?”
“Looking hot!”
“Can I get a smoke?”
“How long have you been a stripper?”

The voices from multiple conversations faded into the late night air as I strode forward beyond the rest. I lit a cigarette and felt my throat burn. Where was this party again?

“What the fuck are you gonna do about it?!”

I turned my head, as I heard more shouting. There were suddenly a lot more voices, a bunch of voices, yelling in indecipherable accents. I saw Jeff surrounded by a bunch of thugs. What happened to D and Ryan? Kat and Shan? I was several blocks ahead. I sprinted back trying to figure out what the hell was happening. Jeff tried to defend himself from the attackers, but he was severely outnumbered and wearing a catholic bishop’s robe, which constricted his movements. Stupid Halloween.

Down he went, just as I arrived swinging wildly and randomly at the crowd. Too late. I felt a crack on my right knuckles before finding myself grabbing onto a couple of these attackers in some thoughtless effort to pull them down with me as hit after hit crashed across my face. Then I heard a voice above the din, the gang ran away and all became quiet, which urged me to scream obscenities at the cowards running away from us.

---

An older woman keeps staring at me. I don’t know what she sees, but I can almost see the wheels turning in her head as she forms some kind of explanation for why I look the way I do and how I’ve invaded her life. Maybe she could simply ask me. Maybe I’m just being paranoid. Maybe it’s the whiskey I had to drink before heading out this morning. I turn my attention back to the floor of the train and try and forget about anyone around me. I’m simply a man on his way to work.

---

   “What happened tonight?” the nice nurse asked me in emergency.
I tried to form words to answer, as I spot Ryan over her shoulder with a grin on his unscathed face, “I, uh, I’m not sure.”
   She was pressing a giant Q-tip around my eyes and it stung to an extent that I started feeling woozy and nauseous.
   “We were jumped by a gang of Russians,” Ryan interjected.
   “What time is it?” I asked.
   I was trying to remember what his stupid costume was. It was gone now. What happened to the turban? Why was D’s laminated bloody picture still clipped to my shirt?
   “How’s Jeff doing?” I asked no one in particular, since no one responded to my last question. The sound of my own voice was muted like it was coming from somewhere else.
   “He’s conscious now. He’ll be okay, honey. He’s getting X-Rays, which is where you’ll be going when we’re done getting these stitches in,” the nurse let us know.
   “What time is it?” I tried again. I noticed that I could see the shadow of my own face closing in on my peripheral vision as it swelled.
   Ryan left. The nurse soon followed.
   “The doctor will be in to put those stitches in shortly dear,” she told me over her shoulder.
   Sometimes I believe that I am destined to spend most of my life waiting around in examination rooms like this one. I belong here. My disease has been dormant for a few years now, so I needed to find a new way to get in. I laughed and fell back onto the flat gurney.

---

I adjust the sunglasses as I walk down the crooked sidewalk in an effort to get them out of the scarring the frames have settled into. Time for work. When I phoned in ‘beaten up’ yesterday, I’m pretty sure that it created more questions than it answered. In my defense, I could not see, and the nurse had recommended that I not go in. She was very nice. I liked her.
“What the -?!” I shout, startled. A rogue sprinkler suddenly sprang out from the recently rolled out grassy knoll next to me spraying my legs with a focused intensity. I stop and glance at my wet pants and begin laughing because the water attack avoided my crotch. I remove the sunglasses, as the first sign of daylight creeps over the reflecting glass of the miles of business park mazes I work in. “I expect these attacks during the summer,” I scold the sprinkler head, “but not in November.”

When We Were Young

2011-04-11T12:23:00.000-07:00

A typical night at the packed Gypsy in Northwest Portland leaves both Chuck and Harrison standing amid the smoke, chatter and fellow patrons searching for a place to stake their claim. They are positioned in the main thoroughfare between two booths with drinks in hand, yet having no adequate place to set them down. Chuck is a Whiskey Sour man, whereas Harrison prefers the more classic Bloody Mary. Patrons pass in front of the two as their dialogue begins.

“This is…big,” Harrison says with hesitation in an effort to create drama.

“Not really,” Chuck flatly responds.

“Huh?”

Chuck shifts his cold drink to and fro trying to find a place to set it down. “Mardi Gras? Yeah. St. Patty’s Day? You’ve got my vote. Valentine’s Day with Tracy Lords’ classic cinema? That was big.” He gives up his efforts.

“Not the gathering. Besides, the date with the Lord wasn’t big; it was expansive – bordering colossal,” Harrison tries to clarify.

“Don’t forget illegal. Those performances were during her carded at an R age.”

Harrison’s brow furrows in confusion, “Well, I’m sure everyone else was 21. Or, at least 18.”

“Besides, it’s Lords. Plural not singular,” Chuck asserts, contentedly takes a sip from his drink, and then continues. “There is only one Lord, you heathen pedophile! Jack Lord!”

“Are you going to try and duck destiny all night?” Harrison shouts with his arms upraised with frustration.

“Duck destiny?”

Harrison places his hands out in front of him as if directing traffic to make his point. “Yeah. Duck. Destiny.”

“I have no idea what you’re alluding to. At first I thought you were talking about the crowd, so I was stating that it really isn’t that big compared to other nights. But, in reality, you were clearly setting this whole conversation up to spiral off into some strange tangent.”

“We need a table. That way you are sitting down,” Harrison responds as he waves down Linda, a waitress common to the pair.

“Why are you pregnant?” asks Chuck as Linda approaches with a look of worry on her face.

“I’m getting killed here Banister! What is it?” an exasperated Linda asks.

“He’s pregnant.”

“No, I am not! He’s dodging inevitability.”

"I thought I was ducking destiny.”

“I don’t have time – “ Linda begins with mounting irritation.

“We really need a table,” interrupts Harrison. “Something huge has come to pass.”

“If you two summoned me over here because you are starting another religion, I swear to God I am going to scream rape.”

Chuck looks worried, “Please don’t swear.”

“What?!” Harrison exclaims trying to regain Linda’s attention. “No, that’s not it at all.” He takes a sip from his drink and gets a stick of celery stuck on the rim of one of his nostrils. “But since you mentioned it, why didn’t you ever convert?”

Linda turns away from the two boys and inhales to scream. Harrison extends his hand to try and gag her, but stops when his drink begins to spill. “No! No no no no no! Please, I’m going to write a little something on a piece of paper here that says ‘25%’ gratuity.”

Linda looks at Harrison closely. “25%? I thought that was our standard. It sure is when Sara is around. Where is Sara, anyway?”

“She formally declined to join us,” Chuck interjects.

“Linda?” the bartender shouts to her with his hands aloft from behind the wait station jammed full of drinks.

“What if I scribbled out that silly number and wrote in a big 3-0?”

“Where is Sara, Harrison?”

“She formally declined – “ Chuck begins again.

“I heard you the first time Chuck!” Linda interrupts. “I was asking Harrison.”

“Um, she has come to the conclusion that it is best that we pursue our endeavors and dreams without her company,” Harrison responds to his drink as if in reverence to someone departed.

“And, in her conclusion, lots of adjectives were used, such as, insane, juvenile, and absurd. I think I may have even heard a retarded cast into the mix at one point,” Chuck affirms as he looks over his shoulder at the angry bartender calling for Linda.

“Two words: Three and zero,” Harrison waves the imaginary piece of paper around like a bad salesman.

“Alright, I swear…” Linda says as she beelines to a table, followed slowly by the boys, where a couple is discussing their day in the close quarters of a booth. In front of them on the table is a plate of appetizers and a fruity fishbowl drink. Unfortunately, there is enough room at the table for four people. Six, if you squeeze.

Linda addresses the couple reluctantly. “I’m sorry, I’m going to ask that they join you for a moment. We are getting their table ready right now.” The couple looks rightfully confused as Harrison and Chuck approach without so much as a sign of recognition of their presence. The bartender continues his calls for Linda. She adds a disclaimer while staring at the boys: “This will only be a minute and you won’t even notice that they’re here.” Linda makes a three and a zero with her hands toward Harrison as she rockets towards the bar.

The table rattles as the two settle in. The giant drink between the couple capsizes spilling along the boyfriend’s hands and shirt. Linda, like Lot, does not look back.

“Shit!” exclaims the boyfriend.

“This is much better,” Chuck exhales – oblivious to the carnage a few inches away from him.

“Oh yeah,” Harrison agrees, as they both set their drinks carefully down onto the wobbling table. They are ready to engage in conversation.

“Here honey,” the girlfriend swipes at her boyfriend’s wet shirt with a napkin.

“Okay, I’m sitting,” Chuck licks his finger and extends it upward to check the wind before continuing, “The world is still spinning. So what’s so big?”

“I’m so glad you asked,” Harrison grins. “We are film aficionados right? From the whatever’s till now, it doesn’t matter; those scribed lives fill voids in our existences.”

“There are many voids. Oh so many voids,” Chuck glances over at the boyfriend when he hears him groan.

The boyfriend takes the napkin from the gal and carefully jabs at his shirt, “Christ! It’s all over!”

“Then let’s fill those voids and while we’re at it – I don’t know – maybe our wallets!”

“Looks like Tide country,” the girlfriend uncomfortably laughs.

“So, what? Become actors?” Chuck asks with mild annoyance at the notion.

“It looks like I’ve been shot!” the boyfriend shouts at the entire room.

“Are you insane?” Harrison asks incredulously, “I can’t act.”

“Oh no, that’s not the silk daddy is it?” the girlfriend responds to her boyfriend’s clear dismay.

“You would be a terrible actor wouldn’t you?”

“This is the silk daddy!” sobs the boyfriend as he shrinks his shoulders.

“You’re ducking again,” asserts Harrison distractedly. He turns his attention toward the bar and spots Sean and Dorian.

“The Daddy is ruined!”

Sean and Dorian, precariously carrying pints of neon yellow liquid, approach the table expectantly. “Sup?” Dorian asks.

“Sup, dudes? Slide home,” Chuck and Harrison respond in unison as the each scoot closer to the couple on each side, so Dorian and Sean can slide into each space at the outside end of the booth.

“The intricate and expensive fibers of the Daddy will never survive this!” the boyfriend continues to sob.

“What the hell?” the girlfriend mumbles and crosses her arms.

“What are you freaks up to?” Sean asks as he twirls his drink between his thumb and forefinger just above the table.

“But this is the Daddy!” the boyfriend pleads for understanding.

“Welcome to the future,” Harrison dramatically pronounces to his cohorts and anyone who may be within earshot.

“What is this?” asks Dorian as he drains his pint. “All I got from the email was: ‘Meet at Gyps. Stop. You’ll be there anyway. Stop. Probably drunk. Stop. This is big. End transmission.” So, hit us with the line.”

“We are the writers,” Harrison begins moving his hands around in a Vogue motif, “and as you slept, dreaming of Molly Ringwald – "

“No,” Sean urgently interrupts, “I never dreamt of her.”

“Ally Sheedy?” Harrison asks Sean still miming in sheer stupid vanity.

“Naw, never into brunettes.”

“She was tight until that dandruff thing,” adds Dorian.

“Freeze frame. Flakes are el natural. Otherwise, she would be a Disney chick,” Harrison continues the tangent and his gestures.

“What?!” Dorian shouts confused.

“Oh, you know damn well, Scully. Those Disney chicks aren’t real.” Harrison retorts amazed, while finally giving up his flailing arms and hands. “They’re bought, built, all on a program – "

“CGI can only go so far Mulder,” D argues.

“Tell me, have you ever touched one of them? No?” Harrison turns to the others for help. “I didn’t think as much.” Sean and Chuck shake their heads in agreement, or simple indifference.

“Come on Daddy!” the boyfriend shouts as he shakes his shirt in an effort to revive the original color and dry it out as quickly as possible. “We need to get to the drycleaners stat!”

“You lived in L.A. for 14 years,” Dorian addresses Harrison, “and you’re telling me you never saw one of them in person?”

“Pasadena. And, never once.”

“Oh, that’ll help,” the girlfriend sarcastically groans before sucking on the one remaining straw sticking out of the nearly empty fishbowl.

“Once, when I was young, I saw Dorothy Hamill skating,” Sean adds. “Wasn’t she hot once in the 70s?”

“Like, hot always,” affirms Chuck to the palm of the hand his face is leaning on. “Mary Lou was the bomb back in ’84! I swear most of America wasn’t sure whether to eat out of, frame, or hump the box of Wheaties she was on.”

“Daddy? Daddy?” the boyfriend cries out to his failing shirt.

“Listen. We’re doing the screenplay. And I mean THE screenplay,” Harrison returns to topic.

“Screenplay?” the gang responds in unison.

“There you go. Stretch it a little more. That way, maybe everyone will pay more attention to the wrinkles than the stains,” the girlfriend tells her boyfriend.

“That’s it boys! This eagle has finally stopped doing whatever the fuck he was up to prior and landed.”

“I get it. One small step for you and one gigantic step for our kind. Kudos,” adds Sean.

“What’s up with the attitude?” the boyfriend finally responds to his neglected date.

“C’mon dude! What the fuck are you talking about?! That’s ridic!” Chuck pounds the table.

“No, the eagle is right! Think out of the box. Multimedia, mass exposure, internet, action figures. The soundtrack will debut at #1 with a bullet. MTV will be touring our cribs….” Dorian continues to list addressing no one in particular, “my spa will be filled with Cristal…how can I afford such luxury?”

“I know we can do this.”

“Seems like you care more about that stupid shirt than me,” the girlfriend states, as she’s now shifted most of her attention to the boys.

"D’s right about the box,” Sean adds, “hey, they said we couldn’t fly, and I’m certain some people plummeted to their deaths, but those silly Wright Brothers did it. 'Cuz you gotta have faith.”

“10 car garage, a private plane…well, I guess that ends our tour…” Dorian stammers, as he returns to the conversation.

“That’s what I like to hear. I am sick and tired of this can’t do shit. How could Brian Bosworth star in an action movie and get away with it? And worse, we all sat around watching that crap shouting ‘Boz! Boz! Boz!’ What’s stopping us?” Harrison shouts before taking a deep breath.

“But this isn’t a shirt. This is the Daddy?!” the boyfriend whines as his defense.

“Whatever bros,” states Chuck, clearly not convinced.

Dorian looks at his empty glass and then at the bar, “This place is past tense. Let’s motor. Besides, the Oak is about the start.”

“What’s happened to this place?” Sean agrees.

“The Oak is what’s happened to this place? Everything was cool until they added the oak.”

“Look! Here comes Helloween!” Chuck points to a male in his late 30s or early 40s crossing through the bar towards the other section where an announcer is beckoning all to partake in karaoke 80s night. This guy is hardcore hair-metal enthusiast. He proudly sports a cut off baseball T-shirt from Motley Crue’s Dr. Feelgood tour, ripped jeans, big big hair and the same kick ass attitude he had back in ’82. If only the body had remained as fresh as his love for the genre of metal. Patrons watch and also point, while some of the younger ladies in attendance wave to him for some God forsaken reason. He is so damn uncool. They are clearly too young to understand how uncool he is. So much so, that he has become cool.

“What’s wrong with all of you?” Harrison jumps back on point. “We’re talking about THE screenplay. This could be the Ben Hur of the new millennium and all you’re worried about is the Oak!”

“I know Kevin Smith. Maybe he could offer –" the girlfriend begins to the boys.

“I need to get drunk,” Chucks cuts her off.

“Let’s hit the ‘Balt,” suggests D.

“Who the hell is Kevin Smith?” the boyfriend’s voice cracks.

“We need to stay and hash this out,” demands Harrison, sensing he’s lost his audience, as Helloween has begun to wail the opening scream in “Welcome to the Jungle” by Guns n Roses.

Everyone else nods in silent agreement.

“Fine, but you guys are picking this one up,” he commands as he waves down the scrambling Linda.

“D’s all over this action,” Sean offers, “he’s got a Jacuzzi boiling over with Cristal.”

“Did you screw him?” the boyfriend jealously continues.

“Someone is going to pay for this and somehow I have a feeling it’s going to be me,” Chuck worries aloud.

“I got it C-Note,” D offers.

“I’m not talking about the bill.”

Linda approaches cautiously. She addresses the couple who are no longer facing each other: “Well, I have some good news for you two. Your guests’ table is finally ready.”

“Cancel it. Just tab me and these three,” Dorian gestures to Sean, Harrison and Chuck. “We’re out.”

The boys all stand and stretch nonchalant aside the booth, while the girl slaps her now ex-boyfriend. “Go to hell!”

“Oh dear,” Linda worries to herself as Helloween continues to shred his voice to the siren screams of Axel Rose and the girl runs towards the exit after the departing boys.

(written with Jeff Piering)

Murmur

2011-01-08T11:46:00.000-08:00

I have never been a big fan of R.E.M. They maintained on my music periphery during the 80s, when I purchased their albums up through 1988’s Green. Aside from a few singles since then (their last release I purchased was the fantastic 1996 single with Patti Smith “E-Bow the Letter”), I haven’t been interested, nor do I own most of those older albums anymore. In fact, I don’t even hear their newest music anymore. They have managed to reach a place in the pop music hierocracy where they are so well known that no one bothers to promote their music. I am guessing that this is a shame. At any rate, I have just spent the morning reading the 33 1/3 series (Continuum) book about R.E.M.’s debut 1983 album Murmur - before "Losing My Religion" was played 4,000 times a day and before the nightmare that is "Shiny Happy People". Firstly, this series of books is fantastic, if you are unaware, I heartily recommend you rush out and find some titles you're familiar with. They are small (generally between 100 & 150 pages) tomes that are specifically about certain rock and roll albums. I have read maybe two dozen of them and they all take a different angle: from Joe Pernice’s amazing novella for The Smiths’ Meat is Murder to the oddly technical and mostly unreadable book for Joy Division’s Unknown Pleasures. Most of the books break down a bit of historical context for the artist at the time of recording, behind the scenes snapshots of the recording sessions, and so on. So far I have purchased only the books for albums that I know and love and have used the books as a tool in many cases to rediscover said album. In this case, I don’t think I’ve listened to Murmur from start to finish since 1988, so hearing it again after reading extensively about it was refreshing and it brought back some fond memories. The book is very well done, but this isn’t about that book or that album specifically. This is about the idea of the album (an idea that could be in serious jeopardy) as heard without preconceptions and unfettered by our media’s race to find the next big thing.

Having said that, I will begin with the first tangible memory I have of the album Murmur. I believe it was the fall of 1985, freshman year of high school, when Wil and I took off in the afternoon and wandered down from the school on the hilltop to Driftwood Mac’s on the south edge of Taft. As mentioned before, in a previous post “Vertigo,” these were my discovery years for music. I was just starting to earn spending money of own and finding ways of learning of new music aside from the stale radio play lists of contemporary hit radio. When Murmur was released in 1983, I’m sure my favorite records were by Men Without Hats, Thompson Twins, Men at Work and the Hall & Oates best of. Two years later, I was sitting next to Wil on the rotting bleachers of the old Taft High football field, which had long since been abandoned, looking at his freshly purchased vinyl copy of R.E.M.’s Murmur and reminiscing about when Steve was on the football team playing on that very field. We were amazed at how in just a couple of years what was once a destination for many of Lincoln City’s town folk during Autumn Friday nights, was now a forgotten overgrown and muddy shadow of its past glory (or shame in the case of Taft’s football history at the time). We compared how the otherworldly cover of Murmur – its grey wasteland covered in kudzu – was fitting for our location at the time - as the Oregon coast’s version of the kudzu plant may as well be the unstoppable tendrils of the blackberry bushes that had already nearly engulfed that field. After sitting and studying this mysterious album and discussing our developing likes and dislikes with music (among other things), we found our way back to his house, to his basement room to listen to the record. I will never forget that day, because of the time spent with my friend, and because of that discovery of hearing something new to us and different from the norm and the purity of hearing music with no expectations.

Things have changed drastically from those days. Then, being from a small town, exposure to new music was almost entirely based on word of mouth, or the odd music video that might’ve appeared on WTBS’ Night Trax or USA’s Night Flight on Friday nights (I don’t know why, but we didn’t get MTV, when they still played music videos, on the coast till late ’87). We couldn’t hop on the computer or phone to hear what so and so sounded like any time we wanted. We didn’t know what most of these artists looked like or where they were from and in some cases what they were going on about. This made these albums our lifelines. They defined us in many ways. We listened to every song on these albums because we didn’t know when the next great mystery would come along. It’s so much easier now to find whatever music we want to nowadays and part of me has a serious jealousy. I used to work so hard to find the artists that I wanted to hear, as opposed to the ones I was forced to hear on constant repeat on the radios that blared from all corners of my little world. How cool would it have been to hear one of the cool kids talking about “this new band” Husker Du and to be able to hop on the net, listen to a sampling of their songs and upon loving them, as I do, owning the songs within minutes? Even though these things happen for me now, I cannot comprehend that experience when I was 13 or 14. I most likely would’ve stolen my parent’s credit cards and driven our family into financial ruin.

Now that we can so easily pick and choose what songs we like, whenever we like, the concept of the album has declined. It is still alive and may be alive to some extent indefinitely, since bands will most likely continue to record and “release” to the public a grouping of songs that reflect their most recent efforts. But the importance of the sequencing of tracks and the ebbs and flows of that collection is vanishing. Why bother, when the potential audience can simply snag the one song they know and move on without hearing anything else? A lot of the mystery is gone and so is some of the fun.

I’d like to invite anyone that reads this to share your favorite memories of discovering new music and how it impacted your life.

Top 25 of 2010

2011-01-01T15:05:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year everyone! 2010 was a really solid year for music and I hope you all take the time to expose yourselves to some new sounds. These artists are all worthy of attention.

1.The Joy Formidable
A Balloon Called Moaning
“Popinjay” 7”
“I Don’t Want to See You like This” 7”
(Black Bell)

This debut mini LP from Welsh trio The Joy Formidable has sent a rush of adrenaline through me this year that has not ceased! This is truly a breath of fresh air and why I will always be one who seeks out new music. These highs are too hard to stay away from! Somehow TJF have captured in this crudely recorded – yet still majestic and full sounding set – a combustible mix of early Catherine Wheel, Compulsion and the dreaminess of such purveyors as the Cocteau Twins! But mostly, these kids rock and they bring it. The tiny front woman cranks out guitar lines that rival the best of the post-punk greats and coos over her own din. She is a revelation. Yet she is counter balanced by the swift and busy pounding of drummer Matt Thomas and Ritzy’s significant other Rhydian Dafydd on shredding bass. There are no moments on this rollercoaster ride that aren’t fucking amazing - “The Last Drop” and “Whirring” being the highlights of highlights.
The “Popinjay” single from this summer continues their winning streak of a nice start/stop chorus, but a non- essential B-side. While the new pre-LP (their The Big Roar is due out in about 3 weeks! Holy shit yes!!) “I Don’t Want to See You like This” single (still a non-essential B-side) could be the song of the year! This song benefits with a full, no HUGE, sound by coming from a proper studio and apparently major label backing (Atlantic), meaning they may be a bit easier to track down. Please do that!

2.Thrushes
Night Falls
(Birdnote)

2007’s Thrushes debut LP Some Come Undone is a favorite of mine because it is comfortable. Its warm electricity has been like a soft blanket to wrap myself in when I’ve needed it over the last couple of years. This Baltimore foursome portrayed a gentle blend of sounds that harkens back to the shoegaze days of the late 80s and early 90s along the lines of Slowdive crossed with Pyschocandy era Jesus and Mary Chain, or Black Tambourine. For their second offering, Night Falls, they have continued with this basis, but exploded with some added energy and urgency! Opening with the stellar “Trees,” vocalist Anna Conner proclaims that she’ll “make you cry” atop a wash of splashing cymbals and barely contained drive. This is one of the songs of the year! While their debut lingered in a misty and vague beautiful haze, Night Falls lands with a direct message full of broken hearts and bitterness and buzzing catchy tunes.

3.Standard Fare
The Noyelle Beat
(Bar None)

A ramshackle affair! This spirited collection surprises by evoking the best bands of the so-called C86 Brit indie-pop scene and yet sounding unbelievably current. This three-piece are masterful at capturing the thrill and drama of crushes and fresh love. Emma Kupa’s vocals are the highlight here. She sings with an exuberance that finds her stretching for heights that she may not be able to achieve, but is all the more brilliant for it. Guitarist Danny How, whose playing is lithe, clean and joyously loose, takes the lead voice on a couple of tracks here and is not outdone – as his “Edges & Corners” is a two plus minute burner. Would like to see these guys do more duet numbers such as the back and forth high point of “Nuit Avec Une Amie,” but this is a minor grump, because what is here is fresh and fun as hell! Phenomenal debut! More please!

4.Trembling Blue Stars
Fast Trains and Telegraph Wires/Cicely Tonight Volume One
(Elefant)

This is reportedly the final TBS album and that is a shame, because this collection (an album and a seven track EP) may be their best. Robert Wratten has left the legendary winsome Field Mice in the dust, the experimental Northern Picture Library (a personal favorite) after only one album, and now his longstanding Trembling Blue Stars are finished only to be revered as influential years from now due to their heart on sleeve quiet reflection and delicate perfection. Some of these tracks would make their greatest singles (“My Face for the World to See,” the Cath Carroll sung “The Imperfection of Memory,” the downbeat “Half-Light” and the stellar “Cold Colours”), but the 11 tracks on CD1 are cohesive and flow together like the soundtrack to a really cool movie. On the second disc we see a bit of house cleaning possibly, as it includes some instrumental ambient pieces, a cover of the Dream Academy’s “Not for Second Prize,” the return of Anne Mari (of Field Mice/NPL) to lead vocals on “The Lowest Arc.” However, CD2 fittingly closes with a hidden track titled “No More Sad Songs,” a perfect epitaph for one of the great bands of the last 15 or so years.

5.The Corin Tucker Band
1,000 Years
(Kill Rock Stars)

It’s about time! After lamenting Sleater-Kinney’s disbandment in 2006, I have been waiting anxiously for some Corin Tucker material - hoping she would grace us all again with her insightful and emotional music. Yes, she is best known for her in your face banshee wail from those S-K albums, but we’ve always known that she’s a powerful lyricist with a penchant for tackling big subjects with a one on one individual slant. She does so here winningly! Her solo debut (with major help from multi-instrumentalist Golden Bears’ Seth Lorinczi & Unwound’s Sara Lund on the drums) is as personal as can be with ranging subjects of missing her husband (“Half a World Away”), battling depression (“Dragon”), the unnamed crisis of an old friend (“Riley”) and the damage of losing ones means of a living in the touching “Thrift Store Coats.” Her vulnerability is expressed so poignantly throughout and we’re all the better for it. And with a less forceful set of songs than those of her old trio, we are given a chance to hear Tucker’s full range as a singer. Let’s hope that we don’t have to wait another 4-5 years to hear more material.

6.Bad Religion
The Dissent of Man
(Epitaph)

30 years man! 30 years! Bad Religion celebrates 30 years as a recording entity this year with their 15th album. It’s hard to believe. And to be honest, though I always like their albums, they have had a serious case of diminishing returns over the last 15 years. This new one felt the same at first too. However, after repeated listens, it became clear that these 15 tracks really feel like the proper follow-up to 1993’s Recipe For Hate. Stylistically more diverse (check out the return of the pedal steel on “Cyanide”), they prove that they are still hard at work trying to improve and progress. Besides, who can resist a band whose words are so incisive and educational on top of some of the best double time punk rock riffs ever put to tape? Happy Anniversary guys.

7. The Secret History
The World That Never Was
(Le Grand Magistery)

After their fantastic debut EP from 2008, The Secret History finally unleashes their debut LP and it was definitely worth the wait. Much has been made of their story. Darren Amadio and Michael Grace Jr. (principal songwriter) are holdovers from the much talked about NYC band My Favorite. In this setting, however, they rely less on an 80s synthesized sound, and more on expansive and well thought out full band arrangements (augmented with piano, strings and horns) to give this a more classic and timeless sound. Helping with this move are the cool lead vocals from Lisa Ronson, the striking daughter of the famous Mick Ronson (guitarist with David Bowie as a “Spider from Mars”). Lyrically, Grace’s songs haven’t strayed far from his past, as they are filled with Catholic image laden scenes of runaways, outcasts, the broken hearted and rock-n-roll hoodlums. These songs are absolutely hook-laden gems that strike a need to sing along upon the first listen.

8.Leatherface
The Stormy Petrel
(No Idea)

A year full of surprises - not only is Leatherface back, but original guitarist Dickie Hammond is back in the fold where he belongs, alongside Frankie Stubbs. This album is not their best (look to ‘91s Mush, ‘93s Minx and ‘94s The Last), but it's so welcoming to hear these two intertwine their guitars with such deft touches. Hammond’s staccato fills are so warm and lush against Stubbs’ rhythm work. This is their eight LP overall and first since the 2004’s middling Dog Disco, so it’s additionally welcoming to hear Stubbs’ roaring and heart wrenching voice howl its way through 12 new tracks. And new is the key here, because they are not revisiting their past here. They belt out a downright hit with the soaring “Never Say Goodbye,” and surprise with the fleet-footed shuffle of “Another Dance.” Other standouts include the early Police sounding “God is Dead,” the odd “Belly Dancing Stoat” and the amazing “Diego Garcia,” which puts a personal feel on the island’s shameful history. This is like receiving a long letter from a long time friend you haven’t heard from in a long time.

9.Northern Portrait
Criminal Art Lovers
“Life Returns to Normal” 7”
(Matinee)

Much has been made of Northern Portrait’s similarity to the Smiths, and yes, this five-piece from Denmark do have a striking resemblance to those Mancunian legends. There’s the energetic, intricate, and tasteful guitar work driving these catchy tunes and vocalist’s Stefan Larsen’s pleading Morrissey crooning (with a touch of Roy Orbison when he goes falsetto). The comparison doesn’t simply stop with the sounds either. These songs are filled with self-deprecating underdog lines that can bring a smile to one’s face or help one wallow in their misery. This debut album (on the heels of 2008’s great twin 4 track EP’s) is truly worthy of a listen. They do need to find more of their own voice, but this is a solid foundation to start with and, hell, I cannot stop listening to it! What could be higher praise for a record recommednation?
As for the 7”, “Life Returns to Normal” is a nice example of their sound pulled from the middle of the LP that captures their melancholy essence in about four flowing minutes. The non-LP B-side is a cover of “Some People” from the UK’s massive pop superstar Cliff Richard.

10.Defiance, Ohio
Midwestern Minutes
(No Idea)

Defiance, Ohio has won me over again! This is their fourth LP (third for me) and it continues to showcase their thinking man’s punk rock with serious folk leanings (the band play violin, cello, piano, banjo, upright bass, and mandolins, along with the basics). Sonically, they remind me most of early Camper Van Beethoven, but with a lyrical bent that is heavy on how our society is unfolding before us and how that can affect us individually. It can get a bit political at times, but never preachy. They come off as earnest and curious as to how we’ve gotten to where we are at this point and it is contagious. “The White Shore,” “Hairpool” and “Dissimilarity Index” all touch on cultural segregation and our self-imposed limitations and numbness from media overload. It’s a lot to tackle in short catchy tunes, but they do it and they make it lively and fun! This is heartfelt stuff that makes you think and fires you up.

11.Midway Still
Note to Self
(Boss Tuneage)

Wow! I would’ve never imagined that I’d be hearing new Midway Still material again. After loving their first two LPs from ’92 and ’93, it seemed that they were gone forever like so many of their brethren from the UK punk revival of that period (Leatherface, China Drum, Mega City Four, and Drive). Midway Still were maybe the closest to fitting in with the Nirvana craze during that time they were never able to capitalize on those comparisons. I always thought those were lazy though. Midway still’s shredding and LOUD guitar work felt more in common with the heaviness of My Bloody Valentine (who they’ve covered) and the propulsion of Bob Mould’s work in Husker Du. Yet, here we have 12 new Paul Thomson songs to enjoy and they sound as fresh and ass-kicking as they did 17 years prior. Welcome back!

12.Young Galaxy
Invisible Republic(
Paper Bag)

Young Galaxy has gone through quite a transformation since their very good 2007 debut for venerable Canadian label Arts & Crafts. Since then, they have split with that label and the duo of Stephen Ramsay (ex –Stars) and Catherine McCandless have expanded the band to a four-piece. Gone are the slow-building shoegazing epics from the first LP (reminding and Slowdive, Chapterhouse and Engineers). Enter in some bolder upfront downright danceable songs. The swirling layers of sound remain, but they are more for background atmosphere, while beats and basses guide this hip-shaking collection to the dance floor. There’s a bit of an 80s quality to these rhythms, and I have to admit that though I miss where they were going on their dream-like debut, I really like the sound of this. Hell, the track “Dreams” is worth the price alone.

13.Killing Joke
Absolute Dissent
(Spinefarm)

Another 30 year anniversary is celebrated this year. This one is a major shock too, because this new Killing Joke album finds the original lineup from their hallowed first two LPs reuniting for the first time since 1982! Twenty eight years is a long time, however, these guys are as fierce and potent as ever. It’s so welcoming to hear Paul Ferguson’s tough but absolutely swinging drumming style back in the fold. It all fits so neatly with Geordie’s signature guitar scrapings, Youth’s relentless basses and of course Jaz Coleman’s unmistakable growl. This is a band that was at the forefront of post punk, industrial, goth and even punk music. They have done it all and it’s so good to find them releasing another classic this late in the game.

14.Lanterns on the Lake
“Lungs Quicken” EP
(self released)

This is the third self released CD EP from the UK’s pastoral Lanterns on the Lake. I discovered them after hearing a few amazing songs from their previous hard to track down Greenspace configuration and learning that they were now recording under this name. Luckily, I am now on their mailing list, so I send them my dough when they let me know something new is out and about. This is my favorite EP yet. “Lungs Quicken” is a gentle builder and begins with what could be the fluttering of a butterfly’s wings and ends with the band slowly adding touches of atmosphere as the beautiful vocals plea for her lungs to work as she seems filled by a subtle urgency for survival in difficult times. This reminds me of the non-country moments of Rubber Rodeo. This would be a great 12” single, as the warmth of vinyl would really give this an added depth. “Sapsorrow,” and the short ambient “Cello Song” round out this short collection in fine style. This is definitely worth tracking down.
( http://www.lanternsonthelake.blogspot.com/)

15.Exlovers
You Forget So Easily 10”
(Chess Club 2009)

I was a bit late to the game on this one, as I only managed to get this hard to find 10” vinyl EP about a year ago. These five songs are worth the effort. The title track is as likely to get stuck in one’s head on the first listen as any song out there, and that’s a really good thing! Same with the equally spirited jangle of “Just a Silhouette,” or the straight ahead rocker “You’re so Quiet.” The remaining two songs are acoustic ballads that evoke the greatness of Elliott Smith. They remind me of fellow UK popsters Fields (with their simultaneous male/female vocals!), if they decided to drop the inclination of reaching towards the epic and simply went for 3 minute catchy nuggets. This is fantastic stuff and finally they are due to release an album in 2011!

16.Beautiful Things
Dream World
(Summerside 2009)

This band is clearly driven by the L.A. singer/songwriter Dina D’Alessandro, whose previous two solo albums captured a crisp and clean pop rock with a 90s Brit-Pop slant. Her last offering, 2005’s Is it Safe?, was a personal favorite, as it dealt with a kind of hurt and disappointment that living with health issues can cause. This Beautiful Things debut does not change her stellar sound a bit! We’re still blessed with songs that bridge the gap between sounding best on a sunny summer day, or on a cold lazy reflective day. This album sonically reminds me of Richard Butler’s (Psychedelic Furs) late 90s Love Spit Love’s second album Trysome Eatone. D’Alessandro’s lyrics here have a definite slant towards dreams – both sleeping and waking – that gives this collection a sweet cohesiveness. This is a truly underrated artist who writes and records very solid and tremendously addictive songs. Also, check out her overdriven cover of A Flock of Seagulls’ “Space Age Love Song.”

17.Emma Pollock
The Law of Large Numbers
(Chemikal Underground)

Former Delgados front woman graces us with her second solo LP since that great band’s sad farewell. Where 2007’s Watch the Fireworks felt a bit like Delgados-lite (still high praise), this one named after a mathematical theorem is like its title - much more angular and difficult. Things can at times feel clinical, but over time, the precise playing and production reveals a warm hearted center that finds our heroine reaching new heights of creativity and a clear separation from her old band. Warm yourself in the glow of the twin piano bookends “Hug the Piano,” the pounding “Hug the Harbour,” and the touching “House on the Hill.”

18.Lloyd Cole
Broken Record
(Tapete)

It seems that roughly every 10 years or so Lloyd Cole emerges with his best work. In 1990, it was the appearance of his flawless self-titled debut solo album (after years with the Commotions). In 1999, he ended that decade with The Negatives, which didn’t leave my stereo for months. Now, he hits in 2010 after several years of basically completely solo (and a bit forgettable) releases and silence, with this Nashville tinged beauty Broken Record. Here we find him working with much of the crew that made his solo debut 20 years ago. Back is the muscular drumming of Fred Maher and the keyboards of former Commotion Blair Cowen. Back is the full band and lush production with the deepest bass tones and a richness and clarity that suits these catchy as hell tracks. He’s back and cooler than ever.

19.Eux Autres
Broken Bow
(Bon Mots)

Brother and sister duo Heather and Nicholas Larimer return with their third LP (that I know of) and are now augmented with a third member (drummer Yoshi Nakamoto). This addition allows them to expand their neat little pop songs and give them added adornments. Remaining are the nasally passé vocals of the siblings that somehow work in favor of adding depth to their sneaky lyrics. Broken Bow feels inspired by the classic folksy moments from old Bruce Springsteen (covered here “My Love Will Not Let You Down”) crossed with the early 90s Slumberland noise pop bands like Velocity Girl, Black Tambourine and Henry’s Dress. This is a fantastic sound, but unfortunately, either the recording and/or the mix are fairly poor here – dimming the shining songs’ impact. This is a minor flaw that cannot keep this one from repeated listening.

20.Sambassadeur
European
(Labrodor)

Anyone that knows me knows that I love the Swedes. Musically, they seem to take the best pop moments from the US & UK scenes and boil out the frivolous bits and condense everything to the tastiest morsels. My love affair started in the early 90s with the powerhouse loud dreamy guitar bands Popsicle and Easy, but has expanded over the years to include the lush full arrangements of bands like Sambassadeur. This is their third offering and subtly their best yet. The opening “Stranded” goes from a slow classical sounding piano to a propulsive pop number adorned with a magical string arrangement and Anna Persson’s rich voice. And so it goes from there. It’s a comfortable stretch of simple sounding songs filled with layers and layers of tiny details and finishes with a Tobin Sprout cover (“Small Parade”). I think anyone who likes Camera Obscura would really dig this. Check out my beloved Swedes.

21.Versus
On the Ones and Threes
(Merge)

Another unexpected return in 2010: Versus reappear after 10 years away. They were one of my consistent stalwarts of the 90s – from the moment I received their demo tape in 1992 all the way through to their swansong Hurrah in 2000. Many are hailing this new collection (their 5th official LP) as maybe their best one yet. I am not ready to go there, because I have a soft spot for the glossy Two Cents Plus Tax. However, On the Ones is a grower. With each listen more nuances and subtleties uncover themselves and I am finding that what was once a lukewarm welcome back has become a rebirth of why I loved them all along. Listening to it again at the moment has it sounding even better than the last time. Let’s hope all of these successful comebacks stick around.

22.Tracy Shedd
EP88
(Eskimo Kiss)

I have always had a quiet respect for Tracy Shedd’s straightforward and clean songs. I have always sought out her records when she releases one, but then kind of forget about her until the next one comes along. This year saw the release of a 10” vinyl 5 track EP by her and cohorts. This one finds her returning to her piano roots. Apparently, she grew up with some serious skills on the piano but abandoned it for writing songs on guitar all these years. The change back to piano is noticeable and these tracks seem built on a more solid foundation. They feel lasting and timeless. It’s a moody grouping here that is stunningly pretty and reflective and melancholy.

23.The Pains of Being Pure at Heart
“Say No to Love” 7”
“Heart in Your Heartbreak” 7”
(Slumberland)

These NYC pop upstarts graced us with two vinyl singles of new material while we anxiously await their sophomore LP effort. Their progression is apparent from the get go. These recordings are fuller, smoother and cleaner productions, yet they are still based in these guys’ ability to write the most effortless youthful sounding melodies heard in years. Both singles are excellent and make the anticipation for the new LP all the higher.

24.Swans
My Father Will Guide Me Up a Rope to the Sky
(Young God)

Swans are back! This may be the most shocking return of the year. Michael Gira had proclaimed the Swans as dead on their final live release in 1998. Yet, here he is again, with some of the old cohorts and it is devastatingly and convincingly a Swans album. The Swans’ darkness and bleaker than bleak words are accompanied by an ever evolving sound, but one that is, as always, unmistakably their own making this a strong claim this is not some cash in reunion. There is a beauty in what Gira has always put together in the many incarnations of this band, but what I think has often been overlooked is that there is a certain sardonic quality to his words. Yes, they are serious as all get out, but you can almost see him grinning as he sings of setting all the world's lairs ablaze in the most straightforward track on the LP “Reeling the Liars in.” We also hear, who I’m guessing is Gira’s young child singing a duet with Devendra Banhart in “You Fucking People Make Me Sick,” which is as disgustful as it sounds. Oh boy, this is brutal and scary stuff – just like we hope for. I shouldn’t love this stuff, but I can’t help it.

25.Various Artists
Auteur Labels: Independent Project Records
(LTM)

This is what I wrote elsewhere about this compilation earlier this year: “This release features the fantastic US label Independent Project Records founded in Los Angeles in 1980 by Savage Republic co-founder Bruce Licher. This 23 track compilation spans the history entirely (notice the clear gap from ’96-’08) showcasing its varied assortment of artists and their amazing groundbreaking sounds. I first ran across this label in the mid-to-late 80s when I picked up Camper Van Beethoven’s landmark debut Telephone Free Landslide Victory (1985), featuring, of course, their quirky single “Take the Skinheads Bowling” (included here). The next time I ran into the label was when I found the debut LP from Nebraska’s For Against’s Echelons (1987). It wasn’t until late 1990, while away at college that I encountered a For Against release on the label which absolutely changed my life. The first in IPR’s series of 10” colored vinyl only releases featured some unreleased and experimental tracks from this amazing band. This “Archive Series” debuted with the promise of a new installment every other month which could be had via subscription. These records were interesting, thought provoking, and most importantly, entertaining, but the bonus was the fantastic artwork that made up these special records. The records were numbered and pressed in an old fashioned letterpress printer and looked otherworldly. They provoked the imagination and upon arrival would send me off to stereo to absorb every nuance of these incredible products. These records expanded my horizons and exposed me to what felt like a special secret world.”

The Book of Love

2010-10-18T11:16:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I made a half-hearted attempt at trying to sort through the stacks and stacks of stuff I have allowed to pile up in my place. By sorting, I really mean purging. The goal is to get rid of it all. This will not ever happen, but I like to believe that it will. After dumping a bunch of useless paperwork, I tried tackling a box of my old writing. As I’ve mentioned before, I have random notebooks and loose sheets of paper piled in drawers and boxes, crammed with handwritten writing efforts. This is when I discovered a little yellow sheet of paper crumpled up and smashed into the corner of the box I was going through. It was not titled. Since I have been unable to get myself to write at all in recent times, I thought I’d share this scattered thought from my past, which may have been a rough draft as an intro for an old issue of the “This Wreckage” ‘zine. I know I did not use it. Clearly, I came to my senses.

“I’m only pulling pieces
From the pages of my former life
Stiff and wrinkled paper
Written in a different time
Are you gonna cross the line?”
- Corin Tucker, 2010

Being careful. No, you did not want to hurt her. You left no traps. Only an open door. Biting your tongue and smiling through the pain. Everything is perfect in here. Everyone is smiling. Everyone is happy.
Being too careful. Being someone different, because what you are is not enough. Nothing will last from this. Everything built on a foundation of lies.
Nothing works. Relationships are always doomed to fail. Fear, lies, miscommunication, misunderstanding and then, finally, truth. Inevitably, truth is the end. It’s really sad too. The simple delusions we put ourselves and others through.
Nothing works. Failure can appear from nowhere. All feels fine. All feels good. All feels right. No. Let’s screw it up. Let’s walk away.
Sometimes I wish I knew someone who believes in things spiritual. I don’t believe and I can’t (this person would disregard this). I wish I could be convinced that there is a plan, because I do not like what I see. I do not like what I feel.
Sometimes I get so anxious that a big ball wells up in my throat making it difficult to breathe. My lungs quicken, my hands clench into fists and my heart pounds erratically. This feeling arises far too frequently these days and at times as disparate as being pulled over in my car by a cop to seeing what I think may be a cute girl wandering around a half mile away. But this feeling is strongest when I’m alone and wishing a girl who used to like me would pretend to again. It’s during these times when the feeling of regret becomes so overwhelming that I cannot fathom why I made such rash and harsh decisions without care for how this could affect anyone, especially me.
Last year, was easily the worst year of my life. Half of it was bad, due to my own stupidity. The other half: I had no control over. It scared the shit out of me. Three down and I was nearly the fourth. Things may have turned out better if I had. Maybe I should’ve gone. If only the nurses hadn’t acted so quickly. Maybe if a doctor had not been available. I never did like to make decisions for myself. It’s too hard.
Full circle now. I’m left feeling nothing these days. Not a damn thing. Empty. Hollow. Yes, that’s right, kind of like a relationship where one or both people has lost interest, yet they keep it going. Why keep it going? It’s going to fail anyway.
- May 7, 1992

Can I Play With Madness?

2010-08-15T18:46:00.001-07:00

Max V

Sunday May 9th, 9:57

A crisp wind flows eastward stretching out towards the Willamette. I am sitting on some steps downtown waiting for the Max. Today was the first warm day of the year, but a chill is beginning to settle in to the evening – making me wish I had decided to wear a jacket. A fair weather weekend, along with the Cinco de Mayo festival at Waterfront Park have brought out the crowds tonight, so I skipped the last train through because it was crammed with folks heading home for the night. To my left, a guy at the other end of the block is making balloon animals for the kids who are high on sugar and adrenalin. I watch blankly, while holding a copy of a weekly paper in front of me.
“Can you spare any change,” a voice calls out from my right. I look up to see a teenage couple reeking of cloves lord over me. The boy has his arm around the girl and they are both wearing vintage faded black overcoats and black punk rock T-shorts. The girl clings to the boy and huddles under his arm. She is wearing a short skirt and ripped fishnets. Her eye make-up is thick and blotchy. It was her who asked for the change.
“Sorry,” I reply, almost chuckling audibly. Their punk/ goth/ industrial look is so cliché that I nearly forgot that it’s no longer my mid-80s high school years. Even the bands that they advertise were defunct by the time I was old enough to hit the clubs. I make a half-hearted effort to look sympathetic, but they eye me with disgust anyway, as they move on towards their next potential coin benefactor. I shudder with the freshening breeze and a bit of nerves as well. I no longer feel any connection with teenagers and their unpredictability, which makes me feel old and frail and vulnerable.
Another train rumbles to my stop and I watch the teens step on, along with the balloon animal guy and hordes and hordes of chattering families. The train is once again packed, so I choose to wait. I light a cigarette and commence looking at the paper for ads for upcoming shows. As I read, I lose focus of my surroundings, save for occasional yelps from children and a pair of belligerent voices yelling at each other from down the block. I recognize the voices as two drunken guys out roaming the street looking for an outlet for their drunken energy. My recognition comes from the familiarity of being one of those guys too many times in the past. Somehow, they recognize my past glory as well, because they head straight for me. I turn back to the paper with fierce concentration, hoping that they will continue stumbling and bumbling harmlessly on by.
“Hey dude, how’s it hanging?” the white guy with long greasy blond hair groans at me. I do not look up at him, but my peripheral vision ascertains his position and that of his cohort, who looks to be Native American. They are a few feet to my right, holding tall cans of cheap beer. The silent guy peels around his buddy and throws his empty can at the concrete trash receptacle off to my left. He misses badly and stumbles uselessly after the rogue can.
“Okay man. How are you tonight?” I finally respond, resigning myself to this fate, and making eye contact. He’s wearing an ancient baseball style T-shirt/jersey thing and pale ripped jeans. The guy is cut. He could easily crush my skull with his bare hands in a matter of seconds. His friend continues stomping in his heavy boots chasing the rolling beer can. Every time he catches it, he spins and shoots it erratically back to the trash – again missing horribly. This activity causes the blond guy to laugh and shout insults at him. I try to smile to feign interest.
“Kimosabe sucks like the Blazers,” he hoots loudly over his shoulder, before draining the remainder of his beer. He then takes the empty can and beams his friend in the middle of his back, which ricochets perfectly into the hole at the top of the trashcan. He releases a gut-wrenching howl and a stream of mostly unintelligible insults at his buddy, who turns around confused.
I finish the cigarette and mindlessly grab for another one, wondering if they’re going to panhandle or not, so I go ahead and offer each them a smoke from the pack. They oblige.
“Thanks dude,” the blond man mumbles with the cigarette stuck loosely between his lips. He already has his lighter out, but continues to talk without using it. “You know that today is Mother’s Day, right?” He adds, as I watch the smoke bounce up and down.
I nod with recognition of this fact, though I hadn’t really thought about it.
“No matter what, your Mom loves you, right?” Even Mr. Injun over here has a mom who loves him.”
I nod again, but feel a lump form in my throat as I try to hold back the realization that my mom has been dead for years.
“My mom passed away,” I reply, against my better judgment, as my eyes begin to sting from the smoke billowing in to them.
The blond man reaches out to grab my hand and says to me, “She’s still out there bro. She’s looking after you and she still loves you. Kimosabe! Come here! Let’s pray!”
On command, Kimosabe clods over and before I realize what’s happening, we’ve all joined hands. I play along out of a desire to avoid conflict. I do not believe in the power of prayer, nor do I believe in God. Would God let something like this happen? Well, maybe.
The blond guy stammers some familiar common prayer and after a moment of uneasy silence, I look up at their two faces. Their eyes are both clenched solemnly closed. Finally, Kimosabe says “Amen” and they bounce alive and release hands.
“Thanks,” I croak and look down at the paper folded underneath my arm. The next train is rolling slowly my way. I stand up stiffly. “This one’s for me boys,” I say triumphantly, as my escape nears and my confidence grows.
“Just remember what I said, man. She’s looking out for you…always. She has her eyes on you right now,” the white guy warns me, as I reach down and pick up the abandoned beer can and stand it on the lid of the trashcan before boarding the train. This car is also smashed full of fatigue parents and kids sticky with cotton candy and the striking smell of stale caramel corn.
I turn back and reach my hand out to shake the hands of the two guys. I feel a well of emotion spill up into my eyes and throat like a sudden rush of vomit. “Thanks,” I say, “and take care of yourselves.”
“The doors are closing,” intones the voice of the Max. I jump onto the train into the center of a couple of arguing kids and a biker with his vehicle. He is wearing some wrap around sunglasses, a stern expression, and the posture of a Private at attention. His bike dangles from a hook, swinging annoyingly between me and the handrail. I turn toward the door that shut behind me and I search for sight of the two drunken strangers. I do not see them, but I do see that the concrete trash monument stands alone with the tall boy sitting on top of the grey metal lid in memory of our strange encounter. I turn back towards the biker and see myself reflected in his shades. Behind him, written in marker, someone has scrawled “Sleep in My crotch” on the back of one of the seats. I shake my head to try and forget what has happened, but begin to wonder how I can incorporate that line in to some sort of short story.

Make Me a Mixtape

2010-07-05T12:10:00.000-07:00

“You remind me that I'm never going to be twenty-two
listening to the alarm waking up south of North Avenue
my skin is going to wonder what I'm doing now.
So write me a letter,
tell me where you are
how to get there
and how long that it takes to tape me some songs.
Make me a mixtape
something old and something new
something I said or that we did
that reminds me of you
Make me a mixtape that makes me yours.
Don't leave out Husker Du.
Put something on that The Cars did in 1982.
It makes me yours.”

The Promise Ring, 2000

I have always made mix tapes. It has been going on for even longer than I’ve been buying music. They used to come along fast and furious. I could whip them out for myself, friends, co-workers, classmates relatives, and every once in awhile, for a girlfriend or a hopeful girlfriend. I’m not sure why, other than my near psychotic need to share my love of music. What better way is there than sharing the actual music? I’ve tried writing about music, but that’s an entirely different beast and one that never (especially with my limited abilities) quite paints the right picture. I still do my annual top albums list, but I certainly have grown tired of using the same old adjectives to describe the music I love for no real reason.

The mixes don’t happen very often anymore. Somehow, it has mostly consolidated. I now make a couple of CDs during the year and send them out to a small core audience (a slowly growing one) of old friends, instead of sending each person their own. It is less personal, but the inspiration to make a mix CD does not occur as often as it used to. However, when the urge strikes, that psychosis returns. I obsess over every detail of the mix. I’ve been wondering what that drive is all about. But I really don’t know, other than the love of music and the communal aspects that can be derived from it. It could be that it’s simply a pleasant distraction. Something for my busy and mostly negative thoughts to focus on that isn’t destructive.

Recently, I’ve been wrestling through the annual summer mix. I’ve put together random mixes of potential songs (up to about 140) onto several CDs to listen to in my car. Wherever I drive, I am focused on what sounds best, what goes best with others. I have also been taking requests from those the mix is intended. I am confounded at times at the challenge that is presented when I receive requests of such varying styles and often vagueness. The main intention is to offer up the newest music that is upbeat and good for summertime. But I also love the idea of piecing together the puzzle of songs that are written on scrap paper and floating in my head. The next challenge is always the toughest. How to whittle 70-80 songs into a manageable 20 or so that find some kind of coherent flow? The flow is the key. Each segue way may only make sense to me in the end, but, believe me, there is always a reason for them.

Having just completed the latest installment of the summer mix, I feel relieved and relaxed. I am ready to sit back and enjoy the music and let the obsession of what goes best with what to float away. I hope that as I hand them out to my friends that it will lead to fun moments and future memories. And in the end, the mix will be forgotten, but the times we had with it as the soundtrack may be lasting.

Make Up

2010-05-31T13:42:00.000-07:00

Gary and I were standing outside the department store sitting at one end of the mall.

“Dude! You know that these make-up chicks are hot!” Gary affirmed as he slapped me on the shoulder.

“I really don’t know man. Besides, I think I’m allergic to all of that toxic shit. My eyes always start burning whenever I’m near that section,” I responded, looking for excuses not to give this a try.

“We gotta do it. Who else has tapped this market? Just think of all those lovely ladies, who have been lonely all these years, because only other ladies talk with them. No dudes in their right mind would ever trudge in there!” Gary shouted as he grabbed my hand to encourage me. “I’m telling you, this is cash!”

We locked our fists and I accepted this sinister logic as gospel before we turned toward the store’s entrance.

The department store was a generic one in a generic mall. It was built in the 70s, remodeled in the 80s and retouched in the 90s. The mall’s lighting was a combination of soft fluorescents and giant distant skylights. The image of actual daylight, along with the faux little stick trees in pots lining the walkways attempted to give the image that maybe this is as close we may come to nature sometime in the future. The smell of cinnamon rolls, caramel corn and an overwhelming feeling of sterility attacked my senses. Inside the store, the illusion of daylight was snuffed out by strategically directed spotlights and phony wood walkways that split into two directions, framing the make-up counters. Behind this mysterious unknown land were the dual escalators, women’s shoes and purses. Gary and I stood agape, taking in the densely packed silver and glass counters that formed a daunting maze for us to maneuver.

“Let’s do this,” I grunted through my clenched teeth. We each headed into the maze, uncertain of what we would find, or how we might deal with it. He went to the left side and me to the right. Our goal, apparently, was to spot hot women working in the section and find a way to communicate with them.

My mind raced as I navigated my way aimlessly around the pathways. I didn’t know if I should pretend to be shopping for a girlfriend, or, NO! Not a girlfriend. Need to be on the market. I don’t care what Gary says, women are not more attracted to taken men (or are they?). I didn’t know what to do. I decided I was shopping for a sister’s graduation. Now that that issue was settled, I simply needed the nerve. The smells of thousands of perfumes, lotions, soaps and war paints dominated the stifling atmosphere of the store. The odors had choked the air out of my lungs and I began to wonder how women could breathe in such an environment. Estee Lauder, Avon, Obsession…so many names…with posters hinting at nudity and yet, everything looked the same. The only signs of life I could make out were employees wearing white lab coats, along with a quiet indecipherable chatter floating amongst the waves of powerful smells. My eyes were beginning to itch and sting and water. My nostrils were flooded with congestion, so I began gasping for air through my mouth. I staggered close to a young woman who was having blush applied to her cheeks by one of the white coats. They spoke to each other simultaneously using some form of advanced communication. My eyes glazed over, so my vision was like a camera lens completely covered with Vaseline. I started to think of what I had always heard about near-death experiences. Maybe this foggy light was what everyone was reaching for. I stumbled and swerved with my hands over my burning eyes, listening for voices to avoid. The conversations that I passed by continued unbroken, telling me that they were oblivious to my ragged presence. The tile floor beneath my feet felt slippery due to the constant misting of sample bottles of nasal nuances glazing the smooth surface. I removed the hands from my eyes and looked ahead through the haze to find an escape route. I spotted a hint of darkness beyond the gleaming and sparkling glares in the foreground. I lunged forward with no regard to any potential bystanders hoping to reach the other side of the make-up section. Sweat was running down my face and my back as my body temperature reached unbearable levels. I could hear the faint tickle of piano keys tempt my ears. I knew this was the piano on the other side. I was almost free! As I approached to exit of this strange hell, my eyes cleared for a moment. Beside the piano was a wooden bench and some potted plastic shrub and what looked like real dried out lichen wrapped around its base. I fell to my knees and stretched out to the bench, sitting at the base of the escalator, in a failed attempt at a dive. I cried out in agony due to the unforgiving surface on the floor crushing my knees. The piano continued its soothing tones. Already on the bench, breathing heavily, was Gary. His gasps split each word he said, as I dragged myself up onto the seat next to him: “How…did…you…fair?” I couldn’t answer. Tears were striping my cheeks as they tried to cleanse my scorched eyes. “Now that we’ve scouted out what we’re up against, we can go in with a set plan of action,” Gary blurted with renewed intent.

My back slid down the slats of the bench and I exhaled and began coughing out the toxins. This was not happening again.

Lose Your Illusion

2010-05-27T15:18:00.000-07:00

“Would you ever hurt me?” she asked me.

Her eyes burned into mine. They were serious and vulnerable like I had never seen them before. Moments before, she was laughing hysterically and uncontrollably, so much so that she blurted out her adorable snort; I froze from the sudden seriousness of her intent.

I did not know what to say. Obviously, I would never hurt her. I worshipped her. She was the highlight of my day. When I asked her out nearly a year prior, I did so hoping that it would be the moment that would lead to the pathway to my fulfilled future. That may be overstating it, but what did it matter? She turned me down.

Her question, though straightforward, felt like a complicated puzzle that most likely did not have a solution.

“No, I would never hurt you. Of course not; not intentionally. I really like you,” I stammered quietly, while staring into the beer glass on the table in front of me.

She was blocking her question to me from the couple sitting across the table from us in the booth by turning her shoulders toward me and speaking very quietly. We were sitting next to each other when that couple approached and asked if they could join us at the table. It was a busy Friday night on a nice summer evening at a bar downtown and we were there with a big group of people from work saying goodbye to a long time co-worker.

“Yes! Please!” she’d excitedly told the strangers. It turns out the couple were out celebrating a first wedding anniversary that upcoming weekend and wanted to get an early start. Our work group had taken over the group of tables in front of the bar and was getting louder and louder as the evening wore on. Inexplicably, she and I wound up sitting next to each other in a booth adjacent to our gang, but not directly involved. Originally I sat there, because I am good at sidelining myself and was not in a great mood. Somehow, this pretty young woman, who I had a massive crush on for nearly two years, joined me. There were so many times when I would try and place myself in her midst in an effort to worm my way into her heart. This time, I had purposely stepped aside, and now here she was. Occasionally, we would be visited by a carouser from our scene, but mostly we talked about what was happening around us and simply watched the activity from off to the side. When the couple asked if they could share our table, they made it clear from their words that they assumed that we were a couple. I got up and ordered another round of drinks for us and our guests from the barkeep and watched the three of them chat with her. I desperately wanted to know what they were talking about, but at the same time I really didn’t. I decided that she was probably informing them about my past overture toward her and maybe how she enjoyed toying with me by alternately giving me signs of hope and then stomping on that hope ever since I asked her out. That would explain the laughter they were all engaging in during my absence. When I returned to the table, she quickly stood up and allowed me back into my corner on the inside of the booth. Then she handed the man across the table her camera and asked him if he would take a picture. Lost in my thoughts, I did not realize that she wanted him to take a picture of the two of us. This event took awhile as he goofed around with the ‘cheese’-type photography gimmick like we were little children. This extended our posing time for what seemed like an eternity. She leaned in closer as the seconds drifted away. I could feel her velvety hair dangling against my arm and shoulder. My senses were overwhelmed by her enticing aroma. The smooth skin of her arm was placed on top of mine, so that our hands were touching. Chills were racing up and down my spine. Eventually the picture was snapped, but our pose lingered few a few moments more. It could’ve lasted forever as far as I was concerned. Then she jolted back upright and retrieved her camera. The woman across the table asked us for the same favor. She handed me the camera and I snapped a quick picture wordlessly and set it back onto the table. This is when she asked me her question. After my response, she sat quietly and mulled over my words, then, suddenly this beautiful girl stood up and excused herself.

As she walked deliberately towards the restroom, we all watched her. My heart sank as she disappeared, because I assumed that she would return to the big group and leave me alone with these two. I turned my attention to my beer and drank a big swig, wondering how I messed this one up.

“You two make a cute couple,” the woman said to me. “How long have you been together?”

“I’ve known her now for almost two years, I think,” I replied, trying to keep beer from spraying out of my mouth from surprise. This was the first time in my life that I was associated as being a part of something ‘cute.’ I scratched the back of my neck uncomfortably, knowing that somehow this misleading answer would come back to kick me in the ass.

The bartender stopped by with a tray holding our four beverages and left with my empty pint. I immediately drank from the fresh beverage, ignoring the couple’s intent of sharing a toast. The beer was terrible. They should offer something other than their own brew at this place. The couple began talking amongst themselves, sensing my silence and intent on the beer in my hand.

The girl came back and stood at the end of the table. She picked up her new full drink and raised the glass to toast the anniversary of the pair with us. I held up my half empty drink and leaned my face into my other hand. I was drifting off; losing steam. I couldn’t stop thinking about her question. What was her motivation? Why would she think I would hurt her? What did she mean? It was mysterious. Did it mean she was finally showing some signs of maybe giving me a shot after all this time? Did it mean that she was wary of me, like I could be some sort of threat to her? I didn’t get it and wanted to explore it further, but I did not know how. This was a party and she was rejoining the group. I could feel energy tumble out of my body which slumped like a deflating balloon. My mind started to gather together pictures of moments that she and I had shared over our time together up to that point. The couple was carrying on a conversation, which may or may not have included me, because I was oblivious to them, though I may have been responding. I could not be sure. I was lost, thinking about all of those times that she and I had shared laughter by slinging verbal jabs back and forth about each other and our workmates; or the times when she was flustered and came to me in confidence; or those early mornings when she and I were the first ones in the office and the only two who would show up hung over. Though I was older than her, we were still the two youngest in the office. In some ways we had the most commonality amongst everyone we worked with. But she did turn me down. I took that to heart. She said she didn’t date co-workers; understandable. And that was the end of my one overture. After that event, she became distant; again, understandable. I treaded lightly for a long time and tried my best to be upbeat and leave the whole thing behind – at least that’s what I wanted her to believe. I didn’t want her to hate me or leave. I liked her too much and I liked having her around. This was the problem. The more she relaxed around me, the more I continued to fall for her. It was a trap that I could not get out of. Over time, the shared laughter and outrage at our surroundings gained a new momentum. Things were comfortable again between us - until this particular evening. What was happening?

Instead of lingering, I had told Jeff and Steph I would meet them after this thing, so I decided to bail. I said a goodbye and good luck to the couple, went to the restroom, paid my tab at the bar, sought out T and gave her a farewell hug and ran the gamut of fellow employees who shouted various things out as I made clear my intention of an early exit. The evening’s sunset was just beginning to paint the sky with a pink splash. I hurriedly stepped outside, still with scrambled thoughts and more questions with no answers. Normally, I would stay to the bitter end to find out if any of these signs meant anything for us, but nothing felt right.

I waited for the Max right outside the bar and enjoyed the warmth of the air on my air-condition-chilled arms.

“Wait up!” There she was. She was leaving with me. “I need to catch the Max too.”

“Where are you headed?” I asked her, genuinely curious if her answer would involve me in any way.

“Meeting up with some friends,” she said with a smile.

“Yeah, me too,” I mumbled as the train approached and I tossed a piece of gum into my sour mouth. The doors of the train flapped open and revealed a roar of recycled air and a loud intercom voice espousing the wonders of this downtown corner. People shuffled by us either leaving or boarding the train. I looked over at the trash cylinder on the sidewalk to toss the gum wrapper into as I stepped aboard the train behind her. The lid’s opening, which deflected my shot and knocked it to the ground, had squiggly handwriting on it that stated: Life is a hole. “I couldn’t agree more trash can,” I sighed under my breath.

“What?” she asked, looking at me from across the aisle.

“Nothing. I hope you have a good weekend.”

Road to Nowhere

2010-05-23T21:41:00.000-07:00

This afternoon I was sorting through a bunch of notebooks and papers I have packed away in boxes. I really wonder why I do this stuff. For a few years at a time, I store every loose piece of paper that comes my way and throw it into different piles, which then eventually make it into a box, which then gets stuck into a closet. Eventually I decide I need to clean stuff up and I sort through it. Inevitably, I throw most of it away. There are always the dreaded exceptions. I run into stuff I’ve written over the years. I have never kept it in any kind of order. Most of what I’ve written, be it so-called journal entries, music reviews, short stories, whatever, finds itself unfinished on random bits of paper, or in the middle of mostly empty notebooks and for some unknown reason, I keep it. I always run into something that makes me think that maybe I can finish, or improve upon, and there’s also the stuff that catches my attention because it is so damn pathetic and because it reflects something written exactly ten years ago. What was I doing ten years ago? Let’s find out:

“May 23rd, 2000

What the hell am I doing? Someone gives me a tiny little notebook with tiny paper and I start writing a bunch of embarrassing and humiliating crap about how damn lonely I feel and what girl I have a crush on at that particular moment. Luckily, I haven’t done this much over the years. Just to get it over with, the crush is on *name withheld*. She’s way younger than me, we have essentially nothing in common (it’s debatable if I have anything in common with any woman I find attractive) and real bad for me. She’s real bad for me, because I am so damn crazy for her. I do not need to be sent over the edge with crazy, but damn she’s got me.

This tiny book is too small to write in. It’s absurd. Why would anyone buy such a thing?

Currently, I am listening to a Czech band named The Ecstasy of Saint Theresa. My hope right now is to inspire myself to write. Not write this nonsense, but to be creative and write. I need to find a way to pull myself out of this nosedive I’ve been on since like 1979. This Friday I get to go in and find out how my kidneys are doing. Can’t wait for that! I wonder when this tenuous streak of 7 years of no surgeries will end. The docs never sound encouraging, but they’ve let me go this far. I’m also wondering about this headache I’ve had for like a week now. I’m pretty used to headaches, but this one has not wavered in its intensity. That doesn’t seem right. Maybe I’m stressing out about the check up. I have always been right in my (giant) gut about when the news will be bad with these things and it is screaming this time. But, hey, after the check-up, Ryan and I are driving off to Black Butte to play golf for the holiday weekend. Could this be the last time I have a golf weekend? I really need to enjoy it. Treat it like it could be my last. Take in everything like a breath of fresh air, instead of getting so damn angry at my continual bad play. I really should give golf up. I should give up most things. I’d be better off.

Maybe I’ll write some music reviews tonight. I’ve been considering starting up the ‘zine again; Wil and I have been talking about putting it online. If I start writing something, then maybe the motivation to find an audience will increase. I should give him a call. That’s a good way to feel like I’m making progress without actually writing. That is solid stuff there.

There is so much in the air right now. I can sense something big on the horizon, but it is elusively just out of reach. I don’t know what it is, nor can I tell if it’s good or bad, it’s just there. It’s almost tangible. It’s been teasing me with its tempting draw of major change, but not giving me any clues. Maybe it’s the upcoming useless work trip to Vegas, I think *name withheld* is going too. At any rate, I cannot wait to find out what this big thing is! Strange things are definitely afoot. I mean I had that weird Laker fan girl making moves on me at the Blazer game last week. At least Ryan said she was picking up on me. I cannot read women at all. But, boy, oh, boy, something needs to happen! The sad truth is that nothing has really changed in my life since like ’88. I’m just more scared and somehow more jaded. Life is so funny, isn’t it?”

Looks like nothing has really changed. Nice. I was right about one thing though. There was big change ahead, I was just dreading the wrong thing going wrong. That headache was being caused by a cyst the size of a navel orange sitting smack dab in the middle of my brain stem. Life sure is funny.

0340

2010-05-22T16:31:00.000-07:00

Two new CDs that I have recently picked up have transported me to a different time. The first one is from the great UK label LTM’s most recent release in their continuing Auteur Labels series. The series has featured some fantastic UK labels who released some of the most influential music of post-punk in the late 70s and early 80s. This release features the fantastic US label Independent Project Records founded in Los Angeles in 1980 by Savage Republic co-founder Bruce Licher. This 23 track compilation spans the history entirely (notice the clear gap from ’96-’08) showcasing its varied assortment of artists and their amazing groundbreaking sounds. I first ran across this label in the mid-to-late 80s when I picked up Camper Van Beethoven’s landmark debut Telephone Free Landslide Victory (1985), featuring, of course, their quirky single “Take the Skinheads Bowling” (included here). The next time I ran into the label was when I found the debut LP from Nebraska’s For Against’s Echelons (1987). It wasn’t until late 1990, while away at college that I encountered a For Against release on the label which absolutely changed my life. The first in IPR’s series of 10” colored vinyl only releases featured some unreleased and experimental tracks from this amazing band. This “Archive Series” debuted with the promise of a new installment every other month which could be had via subscription. These records were interesting, thought provoking, and most importantly, entertaining, but the bonus was the fantastic artwork that made up these special records. The records were numbered and pressed in an old fashioned letterpress printer and looked otherworldly. They provoked the imagination and upon arrival would send me off to stereo to absorb every nuance of these incredible products. These records expanded my horizons and exposed me to what felt like a special secret world. I started my subscription (my number was 0340) shortly after having to return home from college due to a lot of strife with my family. My mom was going through the early stages of a battle with cancer that she would eventually lose, while I was due for some serious surgery myself. These records were an oasis for me; a chance to escape from the horrors of hospital visits full of bad news and be transported to a world full of potential and discovery. Listening to this compilation reminded me of how amazing this music really was with the added bonus of hearing some of the artists from the label’s earliest releases for the first time! It is essential.

This was when my addiction to music went from bad to worse. I began to delve further into this new secret world of music that I was quickly discovering by uncovering layer after layer of how to track these things down while stuck in a small Oregon town. I started to read small regional music fanzines voraciously, mostly for the record reviews and the tiny little ads provided by tiny little record labels. I started writing letters to the bands and labels directly and mail ordering from them for the smallest of costs. Soon enough I was receiving records in my mailbox more than a few times a week! Wil and I even started putting together a little ‘zine of our own in the early 90s named, not surprisingly, “This Wreckage.” It was fun and exciting to feel involved even in the remotest of ways.

This brings me to the other new CD that’s been gracing my player constantly: Black Tambourine. This band was only around for two years at the end of the 80s and all but one of their (few) songs were released posthumously. This CD follows 1999’s Complete Recordings and tacks on six more tracks. Two are simply demos of prior tracks, while four more are new recordings of old songs from their few live sets from back in the day. Hearing this rough and tumble music with sugary sweet melodies buried beneath walls of guitar fuzz reminded me how fun and invigorating the music was and is and how clearly it inspired and drove me through such hard times. It makes me want to dig out my old records again as well as my old holey Black Tambourine T-Shirt showing the girl with the bob-haircut pointing a gun, which once led Archie Moore in 1994 (then member of Velocity Girl, former member of BT) to stop during a set at La Luna and approach me at my familiar perch with friends near the front, stage left, and ask me where the hell I got that shirt. I was speechless and the show continued, but the answer was simple. I got it when I bought Black Tambourine’s first full 7” EP via mail order from Slumberland Records for like $4 postpaid. I’m sure it included a note of thanks from label honcho Mike Schulman (also a member of BT) on the backside of a piece of scrap paper with their small discography Xeroxed on the back. This CD release is number 111 twenty-some odd years later. I recommended these guys to everyone back then. I still do.

Nowhere Man

2010-04-05T16:03:00.000-07:00

Last week, Jeff and I watched a Henry Rollins speaking tour DVD. It was hilarious and angry and dark like one would expect. Surprisingly, Rollins did a few minutes about how everyone is “hot.” He explained that no matter how we individually feel, there is always someone out there checking us out. This made us laugh, especially considering that about 5 years ago, I self-proclaimed myself as “hot,” knowing the absurdity of the statement, but using it in an effort to feel a bit more confidence. It seemed to work for a few weeks early on, before I once again forgot to believe that I’m hot. Whether or not I believe that I’m hot, or submit to the truth: that I am not (aside from that one freak that according to Rollins is checking me out); I am beginning to wonder if I am even visible.

As long as I can remember, I have been one of those people who seem to go unnoticed. This is not a complaint. Sometimes being easily forgotten or invisible has its benefits. There have been many instances when I should’ve found myself in trouble (especially during High School) for certain shenanigans, and found myself sneaking away blameless. There was that one time when I shoved Larry off of the third story deck of Dorian’s apartment years ago and couldn’t convince him that I was the one who did it. I am frequently, one of those people who can be introduced to people repeatedly, because they never remember our previous encounter. Again, this can often be a good thing. How many times have you wanted a second or even a third chance to make a first impression? Believe me, it is an opportunity that I relish, because I never feel good about how I come across. But why should I worry, when no one will remember anyway?

Of course there are also the downsides. I can be at a business and find myself completely ignored for endless stretches of time. I am the guy who goes to the bar and never gets served, even if there are no other customers. The most unusual case of feeling invisible that has happened to me on several occasions is when I find myself downtown at the edge of a curb at a crosswalk waiting for the signal to change and someone will walk over and stand directly in front of me. And when I say in front of me, I mean so close that I have to move back, or my nose would be buried in the back of their head. It is mysterious. It’s moments like that, where being a seeming ghost really sucks. I understand my invisibility in many instances, because I am very quiet and reserved and can sometimes exhibit an endless amount of patience. What I do not understand is always being the breaking point in a line that people decide to cut through. I am not a small guy yet, when waiting in a long line for something, I am inevitably the weak link, which will allow passersby the get through from one side of the line to the next. Do I exude some signal that lets people know that I am the weakest link, or am I simply invisible?

So, where does this leave me with my experiment about being hot? I’m not so sure. There are always exceptions to every rule. If we accept Rollins’ theory that everyone is hot as a truth, then I need to find a way to become visible. It’s hard to be hot when you’re not really there.

another bright spark

2010-01-19T19:20:00.000-08:00

He keeps his eyes on Stacy across the room. Bright lights flash behind her. Glass clinks and clanks chip at his ears. Music thumps over the top of everything. He feels boxed in; almost sensory deprived. She smiles at the guy she is talking to. Earlier he and Stacy had been involved in a heated discussion. They were always arguing. She irritated him with her attitude. To him, she was insufferably conceited. He took it upon himself to try and knock her down with nasty quips, jabs and a general mean spirit. Sometimes he made him so angry that the sound of her voice made the inside of his head itch. Her overwhelming fragrance made him want to purge the bile that would churn in his gut in her presence. Yet, here he is staring at her as she mingles with most of their co-workers. Was he jealous? She was having a good time and all could do was sit away from the group and drink beer after beer. He thought of her as a virus.

A few months prior, on a similar night out, they had gotten into an argument that isolated them from the rest of their co-workers. Before they realized it, everyone had made their way someplace else. The little party was over. They had continued to drink through their disagreement until their insults had ceased to make any sense. They had stayed so long that he had missed his last bus home, while she had outlasted the person she had hoped to get a lift home from. At least she lived within walking distance. Reluctantly, she asked if he minded walking home with her. Despite enjoying the idea of her facing a cold walk home alone through a shady neighborhood, he agreed to go with her. He had nowhere to go anyway. While they stumbled towards her place, their constant debate and verbal abuse simmered into actual quiet conversation. They both asked each other simple questions regarding each other’s pasts. She confessed to him of a former engagement that was broken due to her fiancés infidelity. After that had happened she had cropped her long blond hair down to nothing in protest. He felt a pang of sympathy for her and stayed silent. Once they reached her home, they caught her roommate getting ready to go to bed. Stacy introduced them to each other and then invited him in for a drink.

Her laugh snapped him out of his memory. She looked at him momentarily and then returned to her conversation. He was pretty sure that she was aware that he had been watching her all evening. She put one of her hands across the back of her neck for a moment and then fussed with an earring, while keeping focus on the new guy. The look in her eyes reminded him of that one night.

After she had invited him in, they sat next to each other on her couch and sipped from bottles of cheap beer. Their conversation continued examining each other’s histories, until she shifted gears to find out about his romantic status. He confessed that he had none. She seemed surprised, which kind of shocked him. She told him that any woman would want to be with a guy like him. Stacy leaned over closer to him and softly told him that he needed to open up and be himself and the women would find him. Then she leaned back again and laughed that awful laugh.

He bristled from that memory and orders another beer from the waitress. He wondered if this is what his life will be like. The only passion he had ever exhibited in his life was to solely spew venom at those who bugged him. The only sign of life he had ever shown – going back to grade school – had always been with the girls who grinded his nerves. The girls he liked would have never known, because he could not convey those feelings. It was always the girls who pissed him off. They were always girls who would not back down and they were the ones who always stuck with him. They are the ones he still remembers, while his actual crushes faded away.

The waitress set his latest beer on the table and took the empty pint. She says, “Is everything okay?”

“I don’t know,” he responds without looking up. He didn’t want to see Stacy having a good time anymore. Seeing her made him hate himself, because she made it clear that his anger was all that kept him going. Apparently “being himself” meant being an ass.

Top 20 of 2009

2010-01-01T11:19:00.000-08:00

1. Sophia There Are No Goodbyes (2 CD) (Flower Shop UK)

"I lost my head in a landslide"
In Sophia's world, everything pretty much sucks. I can see how one would not like Robin Proper-Sheppard's music. His voice is kind of whiny and so are most of his lyrics. Yet, somehow, he manages to produce some of the most immaculate songs. He has an everyman vibe in his words which tempers the navel gazing self absorbed world he seems to live in. The pristine arrangements give this album both a soft glowing warmth and a grey day chill. His songs are geared toward the reflective and the instrospective, but there are catchy upbeat tunes like the 3 minute strummer "Obvious" that can real in even the most jaded with it's hook. The entire album seems to be about a break-up or divorce and touches on the bitterness, anger, loneliness, denial, confusion, regret, etc that seems to come with such complications. It's powerful and needs time to sink its teeth in. The second disc is a nicely recorded solo acoustic show (save for a few songs with a string quartet) recorded in Vienna on Valentine's Day of 2009.

2. The Rifles Great Escape (679 UK)

Second album, now a quartet. Continuing my love of uk punk-pop bands in the lineage of The Clash to China Drum. Careering blasts of frenentic joy and heartfelt working class sentiment. Timeless.

3. Camera Obscura My Maudlin Career (4AD)

Took me awhile to warm to this one. Feels a bit stiff at first. It's a grower and the more plays it gets, the more striking it gets. These Scots seem to be getting better with age. Plus there's a song on there about their 2007 show at Wonder Ballroom here in Portland.

4. Metric Fantasies (Metric)

This fourth album from Metric is a clear attempt for them to reach the stars, or at least the stadiums. This album is strikingly straight-forward and straight-ahead and crammed full of stadium rock anthems for the masses to chant along with. It would turn my stomach if it wasn't s well executed. Their first 3 LPs were all distatsteful to me upon first listen, but grew to be favorites over time. This one was instantly on heavy rotation, but it remains to be seen how well it will age.

5. Great Northern Remind Me Where the Light Is (Eenie Meenie)

I've gushed about them elsewhere.

6. Bob Mould Life and Times (Anti)

Mould is the man.

7. Editors In This Light and on This Evening / Cuttings II (2 CD) (Kitchenware UK)

The difficult third album? Some changes. More electronics. More experimental. Bringing in new influences beyond the Bunnymen/Joy Division touchstones. Bleak black bleak. Love it.

8. Chairlift Does You Inspire You? (2008) (Kanine/Sony)

Multi-instrumentalist three-piece who made it big with their iPOD ad song "Bruises." Of course, in the iPOD world one song gets downloaded and the band forgotten. However, this debut album is pretty damn good. It is very 80s in a Book of Love crossed with Alphaville sort of way. They forge an added identity with some impressive biting social commentary on some of these songs as well. Especially the opening two tracks: "Garbage" and "Planet Health."

9. Dinosaur Jr. Farm (2 CD) (Jagjaguwar)

Dinosaur Jr. are like an old furry stuffed animal that's worn out and beat up, but still kind of cute and inviting. This may be their best album from start to finish. Good to see the original lineup back together and staying together.

10. For Against Never Been (Words on Music)

Wow! The return of orginal guitarist Harry Dingman III has these Nebraska vets re-invigorated. This album takes me back to the original fire I had for this band's music when I first bought their "In the Marshes" 10" vinyl EP in 1990. It was mysterious and spooky and evoked the best of the original 4AD vibe with an added edge. They've never not been good, but this is why I first bought in.

11. Twilight Sad Forget the Night Ahead (Fatcat)
12. Drakes Hotel Sparks That March (self-released)
13. Ducky The Automobile (self released)
14. Thrushes Some Come Undone (2006) (Birdnote)
15. A Place to Bury Strangers Exploding Head (Mute)
16. Ballboy I Worked on the Ships (2008) (Pony Proof UK)
17. Desario Zero Point Zero (Darla)
18. Idlewild Post Electric Blues (Cooking Vinyl UK)
19. Longwave Secrets Are Sinister (2008) (Original Signal)
20. Nouvelle Vague 3 (PeaceFrog UK)

A Boy Named Charlie Brown

2009-11-29T10:09:00.000-08:00

Last night, I was hanging around at home trying to catch up on things. “Things” – you know - the stack of bills and papers that need to be filled out and/or filed and what not. I’ve been avoiding it forever. I didn’t make much progress either, because after I ate some food, I got sucked into a showing of “A Boy Named Charlie Brown” on ABC Family. For some reason, they were showing it as part of their Christmas lineup. This is odd, because it has zero to do with Christmas. At any rate, this was the first time I’ve seen this movie since I was like 4-5 years old. Yet, I still remembered it vividly. It was the first movie I ever remember seeing in an actual movie theater. It was at the Hollywood Theater here in Portland in like 1975-76. The same theater where I would later see movies such as “ET,” “The Crow,” some French movie that would be considered porn, if it weren’t French and filmed in black and white (making it an art movie), and a professional bowling documentary. A group of kids from the neighborhood went and were guided by some of our older siblings. Going in, I believe I was well aware of the Peanuts story – having watched the specials on TV, but I don’t think I could’ve ever been prepared for this movie. It is so damn dark! The entire movie is a series of humiliating experiences for the downtrodden Charlie Brown. Somehow, he finds success in his school’s Spelling Bee, and moves on to bigger national competitions, until he ultimately loses over a word he should know better than almost any other. Now that I’ve spoiled the plot, I will continue. As a young child, I was affected by this movie in a very dramatic way. I don’t know if it’s because even as a little child I identified with Charlie Brown, or if his character influenced me. I was profoundly saddened through the entire movie. I wanted so badly for him to succeed. I ached for him in his bus travels to the competitions, which were long and tiresome and extremely lonely (immaculately portrayed by the solid and muted colors of the animation). The lack of adult characters in the Peanuts series also somehow added to the emptiness to this kid who hadn’t ventured away from his parents very often up to that point, but was now out without his. I’m not sure where I’m going with this, but I wrote a short fragment story for this blog yesterday entirely based on a piece of paper I found that had “Nineteen days after” written on it – so I guess it doesn’t matter.

Watching “A Boy Named Charlie Brown” last night got me to thinking. Why did/do I identify with “Chuck” so much? Maybe it’s because during my life, people have associated me with him. Maybe it’s my giant head. Maybe it’s my attitude and disposition. When I was in High School, the drama teacher asked me to play the part of Charlie Brown when they were planning on doing the musical “You’re A Good Boy Charlie Brown.” I was confused and did not accept, which turned out good for everyone, because that small community was spared hearing my singing voice (which as the game “Rock Band” has proven, I get booed off the stage), but Ken did a much greater job than I could’ve ever hoped for. My dad even painted a Peanuts related painting around the time I was born! It has stuck with me throughout my entire life. And watching it again, after thirty some odd years, it affected me exactly as it did when I was 4-5 years old, except now, I am much more jaded and used to all of those “lost” feelings. I found it interesting that at the end of the movie, Charlie Brown is so distraught over his failure that he shuts himself into his room and refuses to face the world again. Linus comes to visit and convinces him to go out again. When Charlie Brown finally goes back out in to the world, he sees his friends out and about. He sees some of the girls jumping rope and a couple of the boys playing marbles. They are all oblivious to him. This element of adding the stab that he is inconsequential to his already strong ache of failure is downright devastating. There are many important lessons in the Peanuts movies and specials, but I think the main one is a lesson in absolute humility.

Waiting for the Sirens' Call

2009-11-28T10:41:00.001-08:00

Nineteen days after. “After what?” he thought to himself. Every damn day is the same. What’s the point in defining distinction to a specific day?

“I’m tired of your fatalism,” she said to him as she reached her hand out for a moment.

He looked down and agreed that she most likely was tired of him and his attitude. He felt like a cancer that was slowly eating away at all of his relationships. “Why don’t you go then?”

“I think I will. I need some air. I need some sunshine in my life.”

And with that, she turned quickly, slid her arms into her waist length jacket and opened the door front door. She turned back to him from the doorway first and watched him for a moment. He was sitting on the chair with his elbows on his knees and his head facing the carpet, ignoring her. She thought about saying something conciliatory, but decided against it. Instead she walked out and shut the door quietly behind her.

He took a deep breath and finally looked up. He kept focusing on this idea that nothing ever changes. Why is that? She had made her ultimatum and nearly three weeks had passed. He couldn’t remember what she threatened or what the timeline was. Maybe his deadline had already come and gone. Maybe he was once again too late. He remembered some words similar to “next step” and “advancing” coming from her lips, but didn’t really pay any mind to them. She had always been alluding to such things - like anything progresses. She was always asking him what he was waiting for. Wasn’t the answer obvious?

He stood up and stretched. He did feel a pang of guilt that he was relieved that she finally left. He knew she would be back. Her stuff was still there. He walked into the kitchen and looked in the cupboards for something to snack on. There was nothing that caught his fancy. He wasn’t sure what he wanted anyway. He laughed to himself, when he realized that she would’ve known exactly what he would’ve wanted for a snack. She would’ve created something where from these random items and it would’ve quelled the pit in his stomach for another stretch of empty time. Why would she do such a thing? Was she simply trying to prolong his agony, or her own?

He left the kitchen and shuffled into the other room again. He had arranged the room, so that there was a variety of seating surrounding a large low square table. The side along the wall was lined with a couch, while the other three sides were lined with mismatching chairs. He flopped himself onto the couch and placed his cheek onto his hands. He watched the door over on the empty side of the front room. Maybe if he could fall asleep he could eat up some more time – to find a way to get through another day.

You'll Never Get To Me

2009-10-18T08:21:00.000-07:00

It was about this time of the morning five years ago when I received a very important call. I was at work on a Monday morning trying to figure out how I would get through the day. At 11:30, I was scheduled to head over to the dialysis clinic a few doors down from my job for another round. On that morning, I didn’t think I could do it. A few months prior, I had made an agreement with my transplant doctors that I wanted to try an aggressive treatment to try and increase my chances of finding a match on the transplant list. During the two and a half years I had been a dialysis patient, I first had to wait 18 months before being eligible for transplant, due to the cancerous tumor ridden kidneys I had had removed. Once they determined that I was cancer free, I was put onto the list. This was an amazing relief. I finally had something to look forward to. The team at the clinic was always so positive and upbeat, convincing me that it would only be a matter of time before I would get a chance at a kidney. They gave me a beeper and told me to carry it around with me at all times in case that call would come. It could happen at any time!

That first year and a half on dialysis was a complete nightmare. When I had my kidneys removed, I woke up in ICU and the entire world seemed like it had dulled like my life had been shifted slightly like a radio station just off its channel. I was released from the hospital the evening before Thanksgiving 2001. But the holiday did not inspire much confidence in me. I was so weak that I could barely make the 5 minute car ride to my brother’s for the family dinner. He had moved his girlfriend and their cats down from Seattle, just so he could be closer by for me. They were serving a seriously deprived of flavor or options Thanksgiving dinner just because of my condition. This filled me with guilt, or would have if I could’ve done anything besides lay on my back on stare helplessly at the ceiling. I had gone into this deal determined not to let it run my life, but here I was nearly comatose and ruining everyone’s lives around me. The following year and a half were filled with emergency room visits, serious infections and bad moments during dialysis, but somehow, little by little, I began to feel stronger. I managed to return to work full time, even with 4-5 hours of dialysis three evenings a week. I was able to make some trips like a couple of the March Madness trips with the crew and to Hawaii for Wil and Carrie’s wedding. I was even able to go out and do some activity again, like swimming and golf. All I had to do was get to the 18 month mark.

This was the progression. Always looking forward to and trying to ignore the daily struggle. Once I had the beeper, an entirely new set of problems arose to join the ones I was already experiencing. Damn it if that beeper didn’t start going off on a regular basis. I would quickly call the numbers that would appear and inevitably, it would be some girl who was trying to reach “Ted” or “Johnny” or whoever. Or it would just be a bad number. I started to dream about losing the pager or not being able to dial or read the numbers on the display. This is why I decided I had to break down and get a dreaded cell phone. During the first 6 months of being eligible for transplant, many of my friends went in to the clinic to get their blood tested in an effort to possibly be a donor. This was both an amazing honor and a major source of guilt. I did not want to have anyone go through surgery on my behalf. However, I also did not want to stop them either. In the end, no one matched. This is when I discovered that my blood panel was not matching with any of the kidneys that came and went through the mysterious list. They called me in to let me know that they were no longer very positive about my prospects. Maybe it was due to the 9 units of blood I had once needed during a hospital stay years prior, which creates antibodies, which are not good for donor recipients. This is when the decision was made.

The plan was to wipe my immune system out to help increase my potential for a match. By this time, though I was doing pretty well for the average dialysis patient health-wise, my body was suffering. I had dropped down to about 145 pounds and was losing stability and strength noticeably by the day. I felt like I had to go for it, because I was deteriorating and I was losing hope. I started taking the immune suppressant drugs they normally give to patients post transplant and they started me on monthly treatments, which if I remember right, were designed to clean my blood of its natural defenses. I would sit in a small room on non-dialysis days hooked to an IV and stare and try to sleep. This was something that was getting more and more difficult to do, which didn’t help my state. From the dialysis I was always itchy and twitchy and uncomfortable. I would read books all night (thanks to Ann for the stack of transformative books on loan!) or listen to music and then watch a few hours of the repeating early local news before heading to work. And it was one of those early mornings at work on October 18th, 2004 when I placed my head on my desk for an intended moment out of complete weakness and fatigue. My manger passed by my office on his way in for the day and asked if I was doing alright. For the first time, I told him that I couldn’t do it anymore, that I didn’t think I could make it through another round of dialysis. This was before I summoned up as much strength as I could and tried to shake it off and pretend that things were really okay. Another hour or so passed and my phone line rang. I answered it casually, because it was my direct line and only co-workers and family and friends had known that number. It was my transplant coordinator on the line and it didn’t faze me. He was very quiet and spoke very slowly. I assumed he was calling me to have me come in to have more labs done. Slowly it began to dawn on me that he was telling me that a kidney was available for me and I went in to shock. He gave me instructions on what I needed to do and told me to immediately go to the hospital. I set the phone down and actually finished the item of work I was doing. I sent an email to a bunch of my friends that the call had come and phoned my family and then went to tell my boss. That was it. I was on my way and was in surgery before noon.

Now that I’ve bored anyone that has read this far, including myself, I’m not sure where to go with this. It is a momentous date in my life. It’s Eric and Ann’s anniversary for one (Happy Anniversary kids!) and I have a putter with their wedding date on it leaning against the wall next to me to remind me. Oddly, it is also the name and date of a briefly annual series of mix tapes I made during High School. From 1986-1988, on October 18th, I made a mix tape for my own enjoyment and for some reason titled it simply “October 18th.” I made another one in 1991, after my mom passed away. These tapes were boxed away for years and forgotten until a few months before the transplant. Due to many nights of sleeplessness, I began rummaging through all of my things late at night sometimes. My goal was to get my things organize and to shed my clutter. I think subconsciously I was shedding extraneous stuff in case I never did get the call. This is when I discovered the four old simply titled tapes. I enjoyed hearing them again and recalled how I was trying to capture a certain vibe – a welcome to autumn thing, or a rainy day feeling. Needless to say, I started the series again (now mix-CDs) in 2005 to mark the date. I need to make one today to mark the occasion.

Speaking of music, those months leading up to the transplant were rough, but I absolutely lost myself in music. One song in particular stands out. Jeff introduced it to me late in 2003. The song is “You’ll Never Get To Me” by the post-punk stalwarts, Killing Joke. I had kind of forgotten about them, but suddenly they arrived with a self-titled album full off angry political anthems and this one song that instilled me with such resolve and hope. Here are the words with the chorus only at the end along with a link to the song:

“Sea of hurt, I feel the waves of pain
And now the tides come in again
I'm caught in a vicious cycle of despair
Give me the courage to face another day, oh!

I sat in silence, I was mourning
I said sorry a thousand times
I cried aloud to God from all my failings
But God seemed deaf as well as blind, oh!

We drank and smoked and talked until the dawn
We shared our problems and our food
Telling tales of courage and resolution
Through all the hardships we'd endured, oh!

Oh, sing a song of joy
Sweet childhood, never desert me
Time for celebration, oh!
Overcome with a sense of elation
I'll never let you get to me
Survival is my victory
Time for celebration, oh!
Overcome with a sense of elation”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Uqp6SHn1Kf8

This also leads me to where I’d like to go with this. I want to send my endless thanks and appreciation to my friends and family for helping me survive the dialysis years in order to be able to celebrate this 5th anniversary. So many people stepped forward to offer me a kidney and even tested to go through with it. So many people came to spend time with me in hospital rooms and dialysis clinics or just came to spend time with me. Sometimes too many! There were a few times when I had so many people in my hospital room or dialysis chair that I was worried they’d all get thrown out! I don’t know if I would’ve made it through my first month without kidneys, let alone those 2 years and 11 months. I just hope that someday I can repay all of you. Thank you.

An End Has A Start

2009-09-27T17:47:00.000-07:00

Life happens. Isn't that one of those old cliches? Well, it has always happened to me and I'm done with it! I have spent too much of my time letting life happen to me, as opposed to going out and making it happen my way. I inherited my mom's gentle spirit and take a backseat attitude, along with my dad's tragic crumble under pressure and give in attitude. Let me tell you, it's not a good combination for taking a stand.

Currently, I am working two part-time jobs, neither of which has any kind of benefits, like health insurance or paid vacation time. I have been working long hours endlessly, through sickness and in health, with no breaks and no advancement. Meanwhile, I have continued to look for something regular, full-time, singular, different, and especially one that includes some kind of additional benefits besides pay. Last week, I found one. So, I am momentarily keeping the job I do at home, and I sadly gave my two weeks customary notice at the other. "Sadly," because I enjoy the people I work with. Unfortunately, the new job will not wait for me. So, again, I try and do the right thing. Continue with my commitment to the old job with my notice and still go in to the new job to show my new commitment to them. What is the result? Misery! It's terrible. I am trying too hard for everyone else. I am not doing the right thing for myself. The good news is, by week's end, if I survive, I will be back to two jobs (although more hours than before) and hopefully, soon enough, ONE job. The thing is, I am not that healthy. I am much healthier now than I have been anytime this entire decade, but this is literally driving me to the grave. And for what? So I can earn enough money to pay for my exorbitantly priced transplant meds and all the crazy meds that I take to fight the side effects of the transplant drugs? None of this makes me happy. None of this fulfills me. All it does is feed me and clothe me and give me a crappy place to live. This has to change and I will make it happen.

On the other fronts, I need to make more progress as well. At least I am starting to make headway, but I have a long way to go. There have been a couple of posts in the recent past about women that I have taken a fancy to. One of which I have made a mild effort to make a date with (or whatever) to little effect. Here again, I need to overcome myself and be definite and forward and ignore my doubts. I need to do this for myself. In the other case, I may be fighting an uphill battle that no attitude adjustment can change. But I will not forget and I will continue to work my way towards a chance. Any kind of chance. A chance to end this dark pathway I've been on and create a path that I can feel proud of. That is, once this upcoming week is over. I still have butterflies rumbling around my gut and I want to change them from ones of stress to ones of anticipation and excitement.

Great Northern

2009-09-15T21:33:00.001-07:00

9/11/09

After yawning, I slowly raised the beer to my lips. “Why do I do this?” I asked myself. A Weather, the slow-paced, simple, yet weirdly enticing local band have cleared the Mississippi Studios stage and Rachel Stolte and Solon Bixler and company from LA band, Great Northern, began arranging their equipment onto the stage. What a change from when I first saw them at the Crystal Ballroom on November 10th of 2007. That much bigger venue was nearly sold out. They had a stage crew to set up their gear and someone to tune their instruments during their set. A set made up of the sweeping epic burners and ballads from their beautiful and stunning debut album, Trading Twilight for Daylight. At the time, they were getting some radio airplay with “Home” the weakest song on the album, which seemed to draw out an enthusiastic crowd. Great Northern took a risky angle and played the slowest and quietest songs from the album to open the set that night, but it paid off in spades. It was one of the most intense and captivating shows I have ever seen. The songs were much bigger and better live than on record and the set-list continued to build and build flawlessly, never allowing attention to wane. It was also one of the few shows I’ve gone to alone. I remember inviting a handful of friends who had never heard the new group, nor seemed interested in finding out about them. I had also hoped to take along a certain someone at that time, but that never panned out either. So, there I stood alone, amongst hundreds upon hundreds of people.

Some things don’t change. Here I was again, alone, about to watch the same band (with a different rhythm section) perform. The usual invitations to come along were extended and even a hopeful, but important invite to my favorite pharmacy gal. She didn’t show, or she showed early and bailed, because I didn’t arrive until late (I know, I know, but it eases the sting a bit) after witnessing a depressing Timbers loss at PGE Park earlier that evening. While watching A Weather close up their set, I considered dumping the scene myself. I was extremely tired from working way too many hours and from the aforementioned game. Then, I remembered that set from two years prior and how magical it was. Then again, the band had changed (gone was their smoking hot bassist!) and the big crowd and the buzz of anticipation in the air. Instead, the tiny and not even half-full Mississippi Studios was hushed with conversation between the several handsome couples spread out sparsely across the main floor and up above in the balcony. I started to hum the opening song from their new-ish sophomore release, Remind Me Where the Light Is, to try and keep my mind on target.

The random play of songs finally cut off and the band that had never been behind the curtain was ready to entertain us. A few strikes of the guitar strings and a bit of feedback blared out as Rachel said hello to us and announced their presence. That first song was the one I was just humming, “Story,” and the words came to my lips like they’d always been there:

“Tell you a secret
Tell you a story
About someone inside
Pass it around
Get you some glory
And don’t forget to tack on a lie”

I started to cross the floor toward the stage. The music was all that mattered now and the more upbeat and streamlined sound on their second offering was just what I needed. I wasn’t sure how this show would go, but they would not disappoint. Instead of the larger than life moments of the prior show, they made this one intimate, yet no less intense. Where before the atmospheric songs from album one seamlessly segued into one another, this one had them bantering directly with the few of us in the audience, while they prepped for the next tune. Rachel took the opportunity of the setting to wander out onto the floor – off the stage – and sing to her audience directly. Eventually, she and Solon wandered over to the side wall of the room away from the front to play an unreleased ballad on a piano pushed into the corner and out of the way. This was special. The entire set was new material from the last show. I am biased when I say this, because I love their two albums, but they are a must see! I have seen hundreds and hundreds of bands over the last 25 years, and am fairly jaded when it comes to the concert conceits and traditions. It is always refreshing to be surprised and amazed and to go home energized, instead of worn down. By the time I drove home, I had forgotten that I had been there alone.

Who wants to join me for the shows this Thursday and Friday and next Monday?

Inside of Love

2009-08-30T11:34:00.000-07:00

It’s been a long while since I’ve sat down and tried to write. About a month and a half ago everything on my computer was lost to a virus, which was contracted thanks to one of my stupid jobs. Not surprisingly I never bothered to back anything up, or save anything to an outside source, so I lost everything. I had several years’ worth of writing tidbits, short stories, true stories and even seven chapters of a long abandoned novel. Instead of getting angry about it, I just shrugged my shoulders and went on with life. The only thing is, ever since, I have noticed a slowly encroaching dark cloud surrounding me. First of all, I have allowed my work situation to grow wildly out of control. I have two part time jobs, which theoretically should total between 40-45 hours a week between them. Instead, now I am working essentially every waking hour of each weekday, save for the moments that I’m traveling to and from each location. I have always been someone willing to go the extra mile for those who I work for, but I have never identified myself with what I do to make a living. I did manage to get away for a few days two weeks ago for my High School’s 20 year class reunion. It was a lot of fun and despite a lot of ambivalence and some apprehension, I had a great time! Oddly though, during my nightmarish drive home in stop and go traffic, I felt a strong sense of sadness. This sadness seemed to have no source. I have no idea what could have caused it. I had a good time and had a chance to catch up with some old friends, but here I was feeling sad. Things didn’t take a change for the better, when two nights later; I was driving home fairly late at night and turned right off the freeway onto an off-ramp only to plow over some sort of creature that jumped onto the road directly in front of me. The moment I saw this small creature’s dark shape and glowing eyes (no clue what it was), I swerved dramatically, but could not avoid hearing and feeling the crunch of its tiny skeleton underneath my front left tire. I drifted home slowly after my indiscriminate killing machine plowed into this poor scared once living being, feeling like my head would explode from massive guilt and the increasing volume in my self-questioning of where my life is headed. I feel like I’ve painted myself into a corner that I cannot escape from. This isn’t the first time I’ve felt like I had nowhere to turn after making poor decisions, but I received a second chance nearly five years ago when I received a cadaver kidney the same morning that I had finally given up. At that time I vowed to myself that I would become a better person in every way possible. In many ways, I have. I am, overall, a much more positive person. I am much wiser when it comes to finances and keeping my affairs in order. And I have devoted myself to helping my brother through his nightmare ordeal by trying to make his life as tolerable as possible. Yet, recently, it all feels like it’s slipping away. I feel like I’m losing control of things. I have allowed stress to put the squeeze on my life and a constant nagging feeling of worry. I do not know what to do.

Then, the plot shifted. Last weekend, I saw a woman who sent chills down my spine. I was in a social environment, where I barely knew anyone and normally would have bailed quickly – being that I am not the most outgoing person. Instead I lingered and planned on how I could meet this beautiful person – to see her amazing smile up close. I kept glancing at her as I worked my through the group introducing myself to the strangers on my way toward her. She proved elusive – seemingly moving through the crowd at the same rate I was. I felt like she was always as far away as she possibly could be, while still in sight. Unusually though, I began to believe that she was returning my quick glances with some sort of positive energy. I cannot convince myself that this could ever be true, or possible, but I almost believed it. She seemed to know everyone, but didn’t seem to be there with any one clique. Her easy calm and casual demeanor built up a serious longing in me. To cut the scene short, I finally managed to win an introduction, but due to circumstances, that is all I managed. This would normally be no big deal. Actually, it would be par for the course. Another pretty girl that I was attracted to that I made no show of interest to, other than maybe a disturbing amount of staring. This time though, her visage has stayed with me. I still have butterflies rumbling around in my stomach after such a brief encounter a week later. I can say that only two times previously in my life have I been affected like this. That head over heels loopy madness and a complete loss of appetite or any coherent thought. I don’t understand it and I don’t like to admit to myself that I have a hole in my life. When I think about her vivid smile, a ray of light breaks through that dark cloud that has been enveloping me and makes me think of possibilities instead of corners and dead ends, yet I still don’t know what to do. There is not a likely scenario where I would ever encounter her again, but I could try and force the issue. I do know someone that could put me in touch with her, though it would be more uncomfortable than actually asking her out – something that has never come easy for me. It doesn’t help that I feel like a combination of Frankenstein and Bigfoot wandering around this planet as a curiosity. Much like the time in the early 90’s when a bunch of my old co-workers and I were at a work lunch at Red Robin and I had ordered the Monster Burger. When the waitress brought the order for the 12 or so of us, she called out: “Monster? Monster?” and it was only me who raised a hand. I don’t know what to do.

Mirror in the Bathroom

2009-06-22T23:10:00.000-07:00

I hate taking showers at the gym after working out. Sure, there’s a moment when the sweat gets washed off in the cold weak stream coming from the faucet, but almost immediately the sweat returns due to the massive amount of literally stinking humidity of the locker room. When I get my clothes back on, I always realize that no matter how hard I try; I never get fully dry – making my clothes uncomfortable and every thing about me unpleasant. This is especially true on hot summer days. I actually feel dirtier after the shower and dressing than I did prior to the workout when I step outside and the sun is blazing down. This was one of those days. Luckily I was on my way home during the latter part of a weekday evening commute. Unfortunately, I was on the bus and it was packed and I’m pretty sure the driver had the heat on.
I put on my headphones and started my player. The slowly building feedback of Jawbreaker’s “Shield Your Eyes” tickled my ears before crashing into the opening line: “There was a sun once and it lit the whole damn sky.” How appropriate, I thought to myself. I adjusted the volume to be loud enough to drown out all extraneous noise, but not so loud that everyone around me suffering through the commute would have to jam along. My forehead was beading up with sweat and it began to run into my eyes. I wiped my hand across my brow and the sides of my face in a feeble effort to stop it. I readjusted myself in the window seat of the bus, and put my bag on my lap to make room for any boarding passengers. I flipped through my bag in an effort to find some reading material, but was distracted by a small bleeding abrasion on my index finger. I’m not sure what had happened, but it had been there awhile, because some blood had been smeared and began to dry onto the side of my hand. I pulled a corner of my towel out of the bag and wiped the freshest blood from my hand before getting lost in the music.
This bus trip was regularly about a half hour and this day was no exception. It seemed longer, because people kept loading on, but not exiting. And the heat! There was no hope in stopping the sweat beading up all over my face. People started filling up the aisles from the back all the way to the front door and for some reason no one was sitting in the open spot next to me. I know I’m not the most handsome person, but I try to be polite. Maybe my stink was simply overpowering. I grabbed the sleeve on my t-shirt and snuck a whiff on the sly. Not too bad actually. I had put on fresh deodorant and taken a shower just a short while before, even if I was getting drenched in sweat. This was disconcerting, considering that I am generally disconcerted when someone does sit by me on most days. Another stop: more people load on and try and squeeze past the mob blocking the entry way by the driver. A friendly looking older woman spots the opening by me and starts to head in my direction. Yes, this must be the reason. People didn’t want to take the seat in case someone needing the seat boarded. This made perfect sense. As she approached I pulled the headphones off and shut down the music. I decided that I should be welcoming and friendly. I looked at her and smiled a friendly nod of invitation to sit next to me. Instead of returning my welcome, she focused her eyes hard on mine, sneered and then continued moving her way by my empty seat and upsetting the crowd smashed into the narrow aisle. This was ridiculous! Now I officially had a complex. It was bad enough before that – having always felt like kind of like a big sasquatch-like beast – but now, everyone was willing to forgo a semblance of comfort in order to completely avoid me and stand awkwardly smashed amongst anyone else. This trend continued the entire trip and I had no idea what to think. What did I do to these people? I smiled at the people around me, I use subtle hand gestures to present the open seat and all I got in return was averting glances and silence in response.
Mercifully, my stop arrived. The transit center was a welcome site, not only to get my cramping legs moving again, but to get away from this weird scene. I folded the transfer slip in half and left it on my seat. I swept my hand across my forehead again and threw my bag over my shoulder. I was getting irritated by this shunning I was experiencing and stomped down the three steps and onto the sidewalk. I was instantly confronted by what seemed to be transit security. This was just what I needed.
“May I see your transfer ticket please?” he firmly inquired.
I gazed at him with complete disdain in before angrily replying, “I am not on the bus, nor will I be boarding another bus, so why in the hell would I need a transfer ticket?”
He started to respond, but cut himself off after taking in a deep breath. I pointed at the bus I had exited and told him that I left the ticket on the bus in case someone else could use it. My Anger was continuing to build, while his demeanor had changed more in to confusion. He nodded his head and walked away. In turn I stormed off in the opposite direction, even more confused, towards home.
I spent the entire walk home racking my brain, trying to understand what had just happened. None of it made any sense. I thought to myself “Its one thing to be cast aside as a freak in certain situations, but a bunch of adults on public transportation? And why today and not the day before, or the week before that?”
At the end of my destination, I stormed up the stairs to my apartment and slammed my door shut behind me. My aggravation was growing, but at least I was home. I took and deep breath. Set my bag down on the floor and headed in to the bathroom. It was time to take another shower. I needed to regain my sense of normalcy. That was when I caught something in the corner of my eye while passing in front of the mirror in the bathroom. I stopped, turned and moved in for a closer look. There was dried blood smeared all over my cheeks and forehead – almost like war paint. This changed things.

The Life of Riley

2009-06-17T21:51:00.000-07:00

Everything in front of me was moving from the bottom up – flickering like TV’s used to do when they were not quite picking up their single from the antenna, or when a vacuum cleaner was running nearby. I tried to close my eyes and breathe deeply to let the sensation pass, but the sense of motion only increased my discomfort. The sounds of a millions conversations at once stilled burned my ears, along with the muffled and distant sound of random music from a jukebox. No song ever stood out, but the repeated “NA NA NA-NA-NA-NA-NA!” from Bryan Adams’ “Cuts like a Knife” is what is in my head now. My eyes and throat were sore from the cigarette smoke that fogged that basement bar. My plan had been a simple one. I was going to just stay for Happy Hour and then head home and get some rest for the weekend. Instead, what ensued was a seeming competition to see which one of us could buy the most rounds of drinks for each other; Ryan with his pint of Knob Creek and Diet Coke, Skywalker with his yellow dotcom drink and me with my IPA’s. Every time Skywalker came back with a round, it meant that we each owed him, and so on and so on.
Earlier that day I was fretting over the last Christmas present I had left to buy. I had no ideas, but after several stores and several aborted notions, everything fell into place. I had found what I thought was the perfect gift, thanks to a random memory of something she had said in passing a month or so prior. After that, I spent an hour or so at a hiring agency taking timed computer tests and interviewing for a full-time position crunching numbers at a small office. It had been maybe ten years since I had gone through the job interview process and I was very uncomfortable. Somehow, everyone seemed to like my awkward sense of humor as if I was putting on a show, as opposed to just being an awkward and unbelievably nervous. Somehow I did well on their ridiculous and useless tests. Things were looking good that I would return to the five-day-a-week grind, whether I wanted to or not. Meeting up with the gang at the L.O.R. for a few drinks during Happy Hour seemed like the perfect remedy to relax and prepare for the weekend visit. Moments before opening the door and heading down the stairs, I received the call I had been expecting for the last day or two. What would be the plan? Where would we meet? What would we do? Instead it was once again a cancellation and an apology and an “I’ll call you soon.” I shrugged my shoulders after the brief, but unsurprising phone call and headed in to forget about things.
Despite lying uncomfortably on my bed watching the ceiling move with increased speed with each dry blink of my blood shot eyes at 4am, I felt a sense of freedom. It had been a long time since I had treated myself to this kind of abuse and it was liberating. I allowed myself to push away all of the pressure that I managed to let push me down for the last couple of years. This was the first time that I remembered the liberation I felt after I received the new kidney and was jacked full of rabbit adrenaline steroids. This was a feeling I wanted to share and wanted to maintain, except maybe without the too much to drink part.
In the end, I did not get that job and I never received another call from her again. I sometimes ponder what I did wrong with each situation, where I felt that I was doing well. I like to learn from my mistakes, but am not sure what the lesson was with either of these – besides losing faith in what people say and do. Instead I choose to remember how good it felt to be entirely too fucked up on a Friday night and start a weekend happy.

The Only Prescription...

2009-05-31T22:58:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, during my day to day activities, I’m prone to develop crushes on particular women who I’ll encounter on a fairly frequent basis. A few years back, there was a nice and attractive woman who worked as a cashier at my regular grocery store. She will forever be known as the “Sweet Sweet Checker Girl.” She was so pretty and friendly and fun. She made easy conversation and seemed very genuine. After months of her ringing up my groceries and seeing my bad habits and such, I managed to learn a little about her as well. I learned that I really liked her. Eventually, I managed the nerve to ask her out, while she scanned some treats I was buying to bring in to work the next day, for which I asked her advice. I made this move after asking a few close friends what they thought I should do and how I should go about asking her out. I never feel good about asking someone out. I feel like I’m committing some sort of crime. This feeling clearly shows that I have issues, but that can be addressed some other time. At any rate, most of the offerings I get from my male friends essentially amounts to things Trent would say in the movie “Swingers.” There is always a specific strategy and game plan and a message to let me know how “money” I am no matter the result. On the other hand, without fail, the message from my female friends is to “just be yourself.”
On the one hand, I sometimes sigh in the face of the message I get about me being “so money,” but I do find the game plan part of the hints to be helpful. However, the “just be yourself” advice simply confuses me. If I am to “be myself,” then clearly I would never have a shot. Just being myself has led me nowhere in my twenty some odd years of being someone who wouldn’t mind having a relationship. Also, for anyone that knows me – or has known me – when have I not been myself? The answer could be the few times I’ve duped some woman to hang out with me. Once the “being myself” part comes around, those relationships seem to deteriorate in some strange friendly way. They always peter out quietly. I am clearly better at being a good mate (as in friend, buddy, etc.), than I am at being an actual mate. Case in point, the Sweet Sweet Checker Girl turned me down when I asked her out. She had just found herself engaged the weekend prior (I have incredible timing). Oddly enough though, she thought so much of me that she continuously updated me on the wedding plans and eventually she showed me pictures of her wedding. Before she finally quit her job at the grocery store, she gave me a hug and said that she would miss our conversations.
Well, I’m at it again. I have developed another similar relationship. I am hoping to ask my latest hopeful flame out this week to a show ("flame out"...interesting). I made an effort to flirt and get to know her on a personal level recently. I found out that we may have similar music tastes and that she loves going to see it live. This gives me a game plan and allows me to “be myself” in an area that I am most comfortable in. Additionally, she works tangentially in the medical field, which could also help. During my very involved medical history I have found that I exude some sort of strange confidence in hospitals, clinics and doctors offices. Will this mean I am “so money”? It remains to be seen, but it always feels unlikely.

Rubbing Doesn't Help

2009-05-19T18:28:00.000-07:00

There are a lot of times that I would like to somehow send all of my friends and loved ones the albums that are most important to me at a particular moment. They would act as a letter - a letter that would be far more descriptive and comprehensive than any I could put on paper. I have made hundreds and hundreds of mix tapes and CDs for people over the years to somehow capture this strange urge I have to share my passion. I find so much in music when I lose myself in it and I become obsessed with trying to communicate this same feeling. If I were to send everyone a CD today, it would be the 1996 one from Magnapop and their aptly titled "Rubbing Doesn't Help". I highly recommend anyone and everyone to track it down immediately.

Max IV: The Final Chapter

2009-05-08T09:27:00.000-07:00

May 8, 1998:

Feeling a bit lucky to find a seat on the MAX downtown during the Friday evening rush hour, I start to wonder what kind of freak will end up sitting by me from the next stop. Usually, it’s some old woman who seems appalled at my very existence, or some drunk fuck who likes to spread out onto my half of the seat, rubbing his stained fur-lined jean jacket all over me, while chattering incoherently about something incoherent. I’ve never been able to figure out why they call the Light Rail Train “MAX.” The “Metropolitan Area Express.” What is that? Are they kidding? I think maybe it’s a generic name for the strange beings that you’re sure to encounter while riding, and has nothing to do with the name of the train itself. Maybe the “MAX” printed on the outside of the train is a warning. Actually, the commute on the train everyday isn’t so bad. Mostly, there’s just everyday people and it sure as hell beats sitting on the freeway going nowhere, but today I’m just not in the mood.
Much to my surprise, an attractive girl decides to save me from my usual fate. As she sits, we make eye contact. I try to force a smile through my natural scowl. I’ve been trying to smile at women more frequently. Anything to improve my status as a lonely single guy. In response, this girl beams back and lightly nudges me with her elbow.
“How are you?” she queries with genuine enthusiasm.
Unable to reply with words, due to shock, I wave my hands aimlessly in the air and look at her with a confused expression. Eventually, I shrug my shoulders. I don’t lie well. I quickly turn my head and look down at the magazine that I have sitting on my lap. I try and keep the image of her alive in my mind. She’s wearing a bright white T-shirt and some gray sweatpants. She was carrying an athletic bag over her shoulder. It is now sitting at her feet. She must’ve just finished a workout. She has a tired confidence about her, the kind of satisfaction that a cathartic workout can give. Damn, she’s cute. Absolutely, adorable. Her eyes, dare I say, dazzle with some kind of energy, as if she has made a pact with the devil to easily recruit unsuspecting chumps like me.
She leans forward and pulls a magazine out of her bag. I glance over at her. Her light brown hair is slightly mussed and very soft. The direction of her hair seems to flow effortlessly over her ear, and the ends begin to curl back toward her earlobes, framing her face. Her eyes look nearly closed as she focuses on her magazine and situates herself. The lids of her eyes are so smooth and supple and her eyelashes so long, I begin to lose my already tenuous grip on reality. Her eyelashes tangle, ever so slightly, as she blinks. Each blink seems to occur in slow motion.
“How are you?” I stammer without warning. Instantly, she glances over at me with her head still tilted forward. Her mouth is open a little bit and she’s smiling. Her smile draws my eyes to the tiny lines that frame the ends of her lips. Blood floods my face. My body temperature has risen to about eight times its functional capacity.
“I’m glad it’s the weekend,” I hear her joyful lilt float through me.
I begin to shake. My heart pounds uncontrollably and I tug my shirt away from my chest. I begin to hyperventilate. I actively try and slow down my breath by holding it for a pause every time I exhale.
“What are you reading?” she asks, as she bumps my shoulder again with her forearm.
“Um, it’s called, uh….” I can’t speak! I have completely forgotten how to talk! I show her the cover.
“Oh, the Utne Reader, I’ve heard that that’s pretty cool! Where did you buy it? I’ve never seen it anywhere.”
Oh, no.
“Uh, over at the, um, that bookstore…you know, the, uh, big one….” I fumble in answer.
Her smile somehow grows. I tug at my shirt again. I am staring into her deep, dark blue eyes, and she is looking back at mine. For a moment, I feel as if I am floating miles above the ocean, seeing the sun glitter off of the various blue shades of the rippled surface of the water. A chill goes up my back. My eyes start to sting from not blinking.
“Powell’s?” she asks.
“Oh yeah, Powell’s. Yes, they sell it at Powell’s.”
“How is it?”
“Powell’s?” I ask for clarification.
“No, silly, the magazine,” she laughs.
“It’s pretty cool.” I look down at the pages, as if to demonstrate it’s powerful draw.
“Oh, okay,” she trails off.
Snap the fuck out of it! I am better than this!
“It’s a sort of a compilation of writing from various independent magazines of all sorts presented thematically each issue.” That’s a bit more like it.
“That does sound cool, and impressive,” she says as she flashes her eyes playfully.
My fear and nerves are starting to turn into excited energy. I think this girl likes me! Doesn’t she realize that I daydream about this kind of thing, never believing it could happen?
“What are you reading?” I ask, just as some guy stands directly in front of the seat we’re in. The MAX is absolutely jammed. This guy’s overcoat is dangling between us and a sour smell fills my nostrils. I also hear some mysterious growling noises coming from the coat, but try and ignore them. She leans back, never losing sight of me, nor me of her. I see her tongue poke lightly at the left side of her mouth just before she closes it. Her smile remains. I grimace and shoot a glance towards the guy’s coat wondering if I am the only one hearing the growls and smelling the stench.
“It’s just a crappy Rolling Stone,” she sighs.
I smile and ask her what happened to Rolling Stone. Why did it turn into something so terrible? We both shake our heads in silence.
The man with the jacket moves. I regain the sweet scent of her hair. I take in long deep breaths in order to absorb her aroma and to keep myself as relaxed as possible.
Silence.
I start to fiddle with the rubber band on my right wrist, which is near her left knee. I am hoping that I can somehow find a way to ask her out, without sounding like an idiot.
“Is that a reminder for something?” she asks, as she sticks her index finger under the rubber band. For a brief moment, her skin is touching mine. The entire world stops. I truly begin to realize how important each moment in life really is. How I don’t appreciate the beauty and majesty of the world all around.
“No, it’s just there…huh huh.” Not the Butthead laugh! I suppose if you joke around enough, use it enough, it becomes a part of you. Memo to myself: stop the Butthead laughs. I don’t have the heart to tell her that the rubber band is meaningful to me. It does act as a reminder – a reminder of someone, of lost hopes and dreams, of my biggest mistake.
I cross my feet at the ankles, in an attempt to relax my tense body. I am so pumped up! I have to ask this girl out. I just need to figure out how and when to pull it off. I start thinking of questions that might lead me to the key one. My throat starts to constrict and my temples pound. I glance outside the MAX and try and take in the tranquility of the fresh mist outside. I look back at her. Our eyes meet again. She is pinning down her lower lip with her upper one. Her eyebrows are raised and her eyes, as a result, are fully open. The sheer beauty of her expression nearly reduces me to tears. She looks down, but still toward me. I try and follow her eyes, as if I’ll lose a part of my soul if I don’t. She presses the bottom of her right foot against the bottom of my left one. I take in a fast gasp of air from the surprise.
“Boy, you sure have big feet!” she laughs, as her hand brushes my leg. This is so weird! This is so strange! No really, this is unbelievable! How can I not ask her out? How can even I blow this one? Even I have something to work with here. Maybe this year won’t be so bad after all. Maybe this is some kind of cosmic birthday present, surprising me a day late.
“No, my feet really aren’t that big. They’re pretty average.” A little more enthusiasm would be nice here. Don’t get too cool. “Um…” I start to speak, but I am not able to focus on anything to say. Now seems like the time I’ve been waiting for. Waiting for so long. She takes a quick breath. I know. I can ask her name. I can do the introduction thing.
“My boyfriend is about your size, and his feet aren’t this big.”
Boyfriend. Of course she has a boyfriend. No girl this unbelievable could be without a boyfriend. He’s probably really cool too. He probably has a good paying job, which is fun and self-actualizing. He's probably active and in superb shape. He’s most assuredly confident - at ease with himself and his surroundings. Even with all of that, she’ll still most likely still break up with him at some point, because he’s just not good enough for her. Boyfriend. What a fucking bastard! He gets to hear her opinions on everything. He has the chance to learn her views on music, books, politics, religion, and whatever else may come up. He gets to enjoy her sense of humor. He’s lucky enough to hear her speak of times from her past – good and bad. He gets to hold her in his arms, when she needs to be held.
“He must have small feet,” I mumble, barely able to hold back the devastation.
“No, I’m the one with small feet!” she says with a smile as she looks down for a second, before making eye contact again.
“Yes. Yes, I suppose you do,” I say flatly, as I close my magazine and set it in my bag sitting on the floor. My stop is a way off, but I just want off now. I grab my bag and set it on my lap. Without looking at her, while twirling the bag’s shoulder strap around my fist, I say, “It’s been nice talking with you.” My heart has dropped into my stomach. My teeth are clenched. Fuck it! I still have to do something. This is too much to take. I have to at least try.
“I know what you just said, but…I don’t suppose it’s too much to, um, ask if you’d like to go out sometime?” I can almost see the words floating out of my mouth. I wish I could grab them and pull them back in. I want to hide them away forever. She looks deep into my eyes with a very serious focus. I avert my eyes. “You are so very beautiful,” I mumble half-heartedly, while I stand up. I take a long step, which puts me near the door. I look at her again. About twelve people are staring at me, save for our friend in the trench coat who has moved to the seat across the aisle. He seems comfortable making squealing noises, while staring at the helpless victim next to him.
“Thank you,” she says, as she looks down at her magazine. “That’s really sweet, but….” Believe me, I know. You wouldn’t want to waste your time with me anyway. Having to put up with my constant fear and paranoia. Seeing all of my confused and pent up anger. I would not be worth your while. Why would you ever want to deal with me? You’d have to hold me while I bawl my head off every night, due to my countless insecurities. I have nothing to offer you but frustration. Believe me, I know.
“I’m sorry,” she quietly begins. “I hope I didn’t….”
“No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have put you in that position.” I cut her off. I look at one of the people watching all of this. They turn away. The girl’s smile is gone. I already miss her smile. The MAX stops and the doors open. People start to flood between us in and out the door. I try to smile to her.
“Really, it was nice to talk with you, and I’m very sorry,” I say sincerely as I turn to the steps.
“Thanks! Take care!” she beams, as she waves.
I am outside in the mist. The doors close. Thanks for what?
I throw my bag over my shoulder and stand still. The MAX starts to move. I look in through the window to where I was sitting. The girl is reading her Rolling Stone.
Already forgotten.

The Promise

2009-05-05T18:07:00.000-07:00

It was a late night back in the summer of 1991. My mom had come downstairs to talk to me. At that time she was very ill. Several months earlier she had both of her kidneys removed due to cancerous tumors as the result of a genetic disorder that had been passed to her from her mom, which was then passed on to my older brother and me. The biggest problem with her surgery was not because her kidneys had been taken, but that they were taken too late. The cancer had already spread into her renal veins and then into her lungs and spine. We didn’t know the extent of the damage on that night, but she knew that her time was limited. The reason for the late night talk was that she wanted me to promise her that I would always be diligent and stay ahead of our genetic syndrome. To always monitor the potential growth of damaging tumors and cysts throughout my body in order to avoid what had happened to her. Because the disorder had been discovered in our family when I was only 13, I didn’t have a choice when it came to making appointments for CT scans and X-rays. But in 1991, I was an adult, and recovering from traumatic series of surgeries. My brother had been an adult when he was first diagnosed and avoided keeping up with the progress of the disease, because he felt that if there were no symptoms there was nothing to worry about. Having been through numerous surgeries and procedures during my young life, and having to drop out of college before nearly dying that year, he was up in Seattle living a healthy and vibrant life. In other words, I could understand the appeal of his position and I think my mom sensed that. I agreed to her request anyway - knowing that she knew best.

Since that talk, I have kept up with my promise. My mom did not take care of herself, because she was too concerned about the health of her two sons. If she had made her check-up appointments the way she had always ensured that I did, she might still be here today. If my brother had followed her advice, he might not be in a wheelchair and struggling with the minutiae of daily life that we mostly take for granted. On the other hand, I am doing better now than I have in years, because of the early detection of problems through constant check-ups.

Yet, here I am today. I went to see my nephrologist today to make sure my transplanted kidney is doing well. It has been 4 ½ years since my transplant and life has been pretty good. The strange thing is that I didn’t partake as I usually do during my appointments. I didn’t tell her about the recent pains I’ve been having in the new kidney, or the sharp pain I sometimes feel in my abdomen. These things may be nothing, but this is becoming a pattern. I told her about my brain scan in March and that I was instructed to call the office for the results a few days later and that I still haven’t. I’m not sure what is going on, but I find that I don’t care to know anymore. I already know that I have (at least) five cysts in my head and that someday I’ll most likely have to have some surgeon drill in there and try and remove them. I just don’t want to think about it now. I am used to having bad headaches every day. I can wait till they get intolerable. While I was in the waiting room this morning, trying not to stare at my favorite receptionist, I was reading about how the radiation a body can absorb from a single abdominal CT scan equals 1.5 years worth of X-rays received from the sun. This doesn’t seem good to me considering that I am nearing my 90th CT scan this fall. This info just made me laugh. I've always wondered if these damn tests are what will eventually get me. I don’t know where my head is these days. I don’t know if it’s that I don’t care anymore, or if I am simply worn out by being on a leash to a team of specialists, or if I am afraid of losing the small bit of independence and health that I have received from this new kidney. That last one may be the problem. I know that I am sick of being sick. I have had it with pills and scans and tests and the endless medical expenses. Sometimes I like make believe that I am healthy and strong and that I don’t have a huge crush on my nephrologist’s receptionist. It all seems so wrong.

Kim the Waitress

2009-04-12T20:19:00.000-07:00

Portland, OR Autumn, 1993

“Let’s go there!” Jonathan shouted over the loud stereo rattling the loose doors of the old white car, while extending a finger in front of my face.
“because the charm of her smile and the depth of her eyes radiated softly when reflected in mine”
“What?!” I responded as I slammed on the brakes in reaction to Jonathan’s point.
“yet eventually we realized sadly that I couldn’t suit her nor could she suit me”
The rusty carcass of the old Buick careened across two lanes of Weidler and slammed into the sudden steep slope of the short driveway cut into the sidewalk, throwing the two passengers across the front seat. The music shorted out for a moment before continuing.
“but I know, I-I know, an assurance of perpetual love was quite impossible”
I veered the car diagonally across the parking lot and floated into a space opposite the front entrance of the old Farrell’s and shifted it abruptly into park.
“when only 80 percent of what she wants can I fulfill”
I sat at the steering wheel, with the engine running, mimicking the naked skittering guitar line of the Spoke song in anticipation of the big booming conclusion. Jonathan stared at me expectantly holding his invisible drumsticks. One of the speakers dropped out just as the full band kicked in.
“and I content myself with the few months we had!”
With that, I pulled the key back and removed it, cutting the music off suddenly. My door screamed as if in pain as I forced it open partway, sucked in my gut and slid onto my feet. Jonathan was already out of the car and moving towards the ice cream parlor.
The wet blacktop reflected the beaming lights of the Farrell’s sign in front of me. Its frame of white light bulbs still managed to burn my eyes from its glaring image on the ground. My overcoat blew open as a breeze swept through the damp evening air. Jonathan stomped his combat boots into a huge puddle that had formed next to the wheelchair ramp by the entrance, trying to splash me. He began to laugh maniacally.
“Look out!” he screamed in his approximation of a Ronny James Dio howl.
“What are we doing here?” I asked, oblivious to his antics. “I haven’t been to this place since my birthday party in 1978. Are we going to the zoo after this?!” I added sarcastically, imagining myself riding in the backwards seat of the Plymouth family wagon that we had back then, waving at the drivers in our wake.
“Since it was too late to hit the DQ, this seemed like the next best thing.”
“I thought we were getting Blizzards so we could take one back to Isabel,” I stated, already knowing that this was, in fact, true.
“They were closed dog…they were closed,” he acted disappointed as he held the door open for me, while clipping my back foot with an uplifted toe. “Oops! Be careful there buddy!” he laughed with an over-enunciated voice, as I stumbled.
Earlier I had headed over to Jonathan and Isabel’s apartment a few beers after getting home from work. The idea was to go out to dinner, but none of us could decide what to do. After endless deliberation, Isabel had changed into a t-shirt, sweats, and her slippers, while the dusk had turned to darkness. We decided that Jonathan and I would grab something to go. The final decision was to go get treats at DQ.
I leaned my left hand on the cash register counter just inside the door, while Jonathan went straight to the gift shop shelves to mess with the hundreds of colorful toys on display. The narrow row of tables that lay straight ahead reminded me of that old birthday party during the 70’s. I couldn’t remember who was there, besides my parents, or what I had had. Jonathan began to wiggle a day-glow green rubber ball with long bouncing tendrils at me. Apparently, the wad had a high pitched voice and a low opinion of me.
“Charles sucks!” it told me.
I watched Jonathan bounce the object around before it met an untimely end with a bright blue plastic dump truck on one of the display shelves.
“Oh!” I softly exclaimed at the tragedy, just as a teenage boy dressed as a vaudeville performer approached us. He was wearing a Styrofoam hat - made to look like straw, a vest with vertical red and white stripes on the front over a white long sleeve shirt, and a black bow tie with tails. His long scraggly hair poked out from underneath the ill-fitting hat and his unenthusiastic, pimply expression were the only things keeping me from believing that he might twirl a cane around one of his arms and start tap dancing for us.
“Two?” he queried reluctantly. He was facing me, but keeping his eyes on Jonathan to his right, whose sizable frame continued to hulk over the squealing toys on display below him.
At the table, in the open dining room, around the corner from the front entrance, we both struggled opening the thin newsprint menus.
“It’s weird being back in here,” I reflected as I glanced at the light fixtures around the room. “I don’t think that it’s changed at all, except for the new and improved musty smell.”
“How do they expect us to eat our treats with this garbage all over our fingers?” Jonathan interrupted as he examined his finger tips and before sticking them into my face. “Look at this! This is an abomination! Now I have to go wash this sludge – this filth muck – off before I can even consider doing anything else!” he continued to shout around the empty place.
“There’s nothing on your fingers from the newsprint.”
“Filth! Muck! Who knows what else?!”
Our boy appeared again, leading three new characters into the space.
“I gotta hit the head, dude,” Jonathan said as he launched out of the booth. He had to turn his shoulder to allow the new customers by, who were left off at the booth next to ours in my line of sight.
The new arrivals consisted of a scruffy, tall and thin kid with hideous sideburns. The burns looked artificial - plastered across his boyish cheeks – having a darker color than the hair on his head. He sat next to a girl, who had slid into the booth before him. She stared off absently with her chin in one of her hands and her fingers gathered under her bottom lip. She had thick eyeliner on, short and spiky jet black hair and pale white skin. Her bulky furry dark purple coat tickled at her jaw line. The third member of their group was a non distinct guy who sat facing away from me. I tried to make eye contact with the girl.
As I sat looking at her, I was introduced to a faint sweet scent. Our waitress had appeared and was setting two small glasses of ice water on the table. I glanced to my left and saw a short red skirt underneath a lacey white apron and fishnet stockings wound around long luscious legs.
“Welcome to The Original Portland Ice Cream Parlour!” she smiled at me. “Do you guys want coffee?” she asked as she nodded to me.
I looked up at her glowing face. She wore shiny bright red lipstick which provided a sharp focus to her soft features. She looked airbrushed. There were matching red ribbons tying her curled light brown hair into different groupings that all hovered teasingly above her shoulders. My hand dropped from my face and began to examine the objects on the table randomly.
“I don’t know…um…”
“Oh, I’ll wait for your friend then,” she added with a smirk and twirled away. “I’ll be right back!” she called over her shoulder with a coffee pot held aloft in her right hand.
She stretched over the serving station to set the pot back onto its warmer. She held one leg up to keep her skirt from rising up and exposing too much, but enough to taunt my imagination. She began to fill three glasses with ice and water. Suddenly, I was jolted out of my daydream as Jonathan walked in front of my view of her beauty.
“Have you seen the urinals in there? They’re like six inches off the ground! I’m all, stooping down, hoping I can toss it in there! It’s fucking ridic!” he continued from where he left off, as I resumed staring at the seductive waitress. She was working her way back to deliver waters to the other table. “What?” Jonathan asked, interrupting himself. “Wait a second. What’s going on? What are you doing?” He turned his head and spotted her over his shoulder. “Oh, I see,” he realized, turning back to me, adding, “You are a dirty dirty man! Hoooo! Chucky is a dirty evil naughty boy! Naughty!”
His voice dropped to a whisper as she reached the table behind him. He hunched his head low and leaned in towards me. I looked over him and noticed that the girl in the purple coat was looking at us, distracted by our antics. She and I made eye contact before I looked back down at Jonathan’s wide grin and then at the stunning waitress who returned to our table.
“Hi sweeties,” she charmed us, “have you decided on anything? Do you know if you want coffee yet?” she said looking at me suspiciously.
Jonathan planted one of his boots firmly into my right shin, causing me to cringe and drop the spoon I had been twirling in my hand with a loud series of clanks.
“No coffee for me…thanks,” I spit out, while clearing my throat, and grabbing my wounded leg underneath the table.
She turned her attention back to Jonathan who ordered a banana split and an orange soda without hesitation and placed his filthy newspaper menu back into its holding place. I quickly began to scan the menu for the first time since our arrival. My eyes would not focus on any one thing. Jonathan had turned back around and started some sort of conversation with the other table. I sighed, trying to slow my thoughts down. I looked over at the waitress’ face, her chest, then back at her face, prior to hurriedly pointing my head back to the menu.
“I don’t know…” I said, just as Jonathan’s boot returned in full force with a loud pop. “What is your favorite?” I asked looking back up at her hazel eyes, while cringing from pain.
“If you want dessert…I’m fond of the milkshakes.” She began tapping her pen lightly on her slightly parted lips.
“I’ll have one of those then!” I leaped in loudly. “SHAAAAAKES!” then shot from my mouth unexpectedly like the legendary McDonald’s mascot beast Grimace stricken with Tourette’s syndrome. She held her gaze steady, choosing to ignore our (or my) idiocy. “Sorry, I, um… uh…make that a strawberry one. Yes, strawberry….”
She smiled inwardly, I’m certain.
“Anything else?” she sighed. We both shook our heads with furrowed brows.
“Thanks Kim!” I tossed in quickly, as she turned away, catching sight of her tiny name tag expertly placed over her heart. She glanced back and made eye contact for a second before walking off.
“Nice going chump,” jeered Jonathan.
“Dude, I wasn’t ready for this. I didn’t expect the waitress at a kid’s ice cream place to be smoking hot! What is up with the garter belt? Did you see that? She’s like one of those fantasy French maids!”
“Yeah! I did!” his voice cracked with sarcasm.
Silence overcame us for a few moments as we settled into our seats and sipped from our waters. My mind raced. Kim, the waitress, was all I could think about.
“Maybe they hired her to keep all the creepy fathers distracted so they’ll keep bringing their screaming kids to this dump?” Jonathan offered. “You should ask her out.”
“Right. I’m just the man for the job. I’m sure she gets play from hundreds of assholes a day…” I trailed off and dropped my face into my hand, lost.
“So what?”
I didn’t respond as I considered his question. What would it hurt to ask her out? That answer seemed easy: me. I could foresee, not just a polite decline, but a denial of humiliating proportions. I didn’t bother to think about what that would entail since she was approaching again with coffees for the other table. I tried to absorb the entirety of her figure in order to burn her image into my memory for all time! Unfortunately, I was too conscious of this goal, because I couldn’t focus at all.
Jonathan sat sideways in the booth with his back to the wall. He had his right arm resting on the back of the booth shared with the neighboring group. The solo guy just on the other side had partially turned around to address us.
“So, it’s her birthday today, so we wanna get the whole deal,” he whispered, indicating the purple coat girl. “Do you mind?”
Jonathan looked at me for a split second, pretending to commiserate, before answering. I looked at the birthday girl again. She continued to look disinterested with every aspect of the proceedings.
“Here you go, my darlings,” Kim had returned with the treats. “Can I get you anything else?” she queried as she looked at my empty water glass. “More water, honey?”
I blushed. Jonathan shook his head in disgust as he returned to his previous position facing the table.
Kim had a pitcher already in her left hand. She slowly leaned across the table to fill the small glass. Her perfume gently filled my nose as I slid down low in the booth, while my feet jumped around erratically like one of those wood block jig dolls that dance around on a plank. I made every effort not to ogle the closeness of her teasing cleavage, as I was ogling it. I had stopped breathing.
After the uncomfortably exciting moment had passed and she had gone away, I gasped for my breath. Jonathan’s grin widened from ear to ear as he jammed a hunk of sliced banana into it.
“Are you shaking?” he asked with a laugh.
I shook my head defiantly.
“Leave me alone,” I whined as I stabbed the straw against the table to pop the paper wrapper free. “She’s way out of my league.”
“All I’m saying is that if we played in our league, I would not be with Isabel. It’s all about overachieving. ‘Be all you can be’ and all that,” he air quoted. “Annie Oakley, dude. Blood in the water. Blood in the water,” he repeated like a mantra as he slid his right hand back and forth along the inside of his upraised left forearm – representing, presumably, a shark fin cresting the surface of the ocean’s water. “Blood-In-The-Water!” he emphasized by adding a pause between each word.
I pushed myself up higher after sinking down in the seat, so I could lean over the pink shake, asking myself what the point of this was.
“But”
“ANN-IE OAK-LEY,” he confirmed with an invisible rifle aimed at my face.
Our stand off was abruptly interrupted by an unbearably loud siren from inside the dining room. I spotted the kid who greeted us cranking on a handle to a box. That box seemed to be the source of the spiraling scream.
“AIR RAID!” Jonathan shouted, ducking his head down below the back of the booth.
I watched the kid’s hat fly off his head as he used all of the force of his skinny arm to spin the horn’s handle with determination. Then the kitchen’s door swung open, revealing two more vaudevillian kids high-stepping their way into the dining room carrying a tray atop a platform. The platform displayed a shiny silver trough jammed with countless multi-colored scoops of melting ice cream. This new duo, carrying the treat, suddenly broke out into a sprint, jolting their way back and forth across the dining room, as the air horn continued to shred our ears. Meanwhile, a thudding bass drum poked its way out of the kitchen, riding on the belly of yet another showman/ restaurant worker, who was clearly cast in his role due to his girth. In his High School daytime life, he was certainly the funny tuba player for the marching band. Jonathan peaked up over the bench just as the air raid siren slowly declined and our host joined the side of the drummer to march the quartet towards our tables. Apparently this show was designed to create intrigue and excitement for the potential recipient of the unappetizing sloppy treat piled on top of the bouncing display. The approach of the dissolving dessert and its four pallbearers triggered memories from my own birthday party. My eyes watered from over saturation. I had to place both hands on the table to keep the room from spinning.
Once the trough-bearers had reached their destination at our neighboring table and the noise had ceased (it was still ringing inside my ears), I saw the purple coat girl hang her head down and hunch her shoulders. Maybe she was being sheepish. I felt embarrassed for her. The trough was dropped under her nose with a bounce and a splash and the barbershop quartet began to serenade the victim with a version of a “Happy Birthday” song I was unfamiliar with. I could hear Jonathan humming along with the tune, while raising over the back of the booth to take in the scene. I looked around the restaurant hoping to spot our lovely waitress. I felt a surge of pride fill my chest, assuming her disdain for this tasteless show, because she was nowhere to be seen. I sank back down in my seat and examined the table, trying to be oblivious to the activities.
I began to ponder the idea of asking out the hot waitress. I closed my eyes lightly in an effort to focus – to try and summon up an angle and some courage and to shut out the action around me. “When would be the best moment to make my move?” “How would I do it?” “How could I make it memorable and intriguing for her?” “Would she be willing to give a dumpy chump like me a chance?” “How could I make her happy?” All of these questions looped around in my thoughts uselessly. My eyelids popped open with a sudden panic, realizing that I no longer knew where she was.
“She’s totally pissed!” Jonathan whispered to me, suddenly leaning in from across the table. “Look at her. Her face is red, but I don’t think it’s from embarrassment!” He tacked on as if narrating a silly sitcom. I could faintly hear a studio audience groan in unison. He was right though. She was breathing very quickly through flared nostrils. Her sneer stabbed at the sideburns kid next to her. He stood up from the table quickly; she slid over, and pushed herself upright by pressing down on the corner of the table, before storming off from view.
“Damn,” I blurted in monotone, watching her disappear. “Maybe I should go after her. Console her.”
“What is wrong with you, dude?”
“What? I dig the purple coat.”
“What about the waitress? Stay on target! Besides, she’s with Beck over there,” he indicated with a thumb over his shoulder.
Beck, and his mismatching hair and sideburns, was still standing by the table confused. The massive pile of ice cream scoops were drooping into a dark mudflow that was threatening to spill over the lip of the silver bowl. He looked at his friend who urged him to go after her with a gesture of his hand.
“What was that all about?” Jonathan asked the remaining guy, who was eyeing the birthday sludge with trepidation. He shrugged in response.
“Fuck if I know. I just got into town to visit and I’m supposed to stay with them.”
“Sweet! That’s bound to be fun.”
I made some gurgling sounds with the straw as I sucked down the last remnants of the shake and pushed the stem of the glass towards the middle of the table. I noticed the bill sitting on the edge of the table. Kim had drawn a bubbly heart onto the back of the slip. It sent a chill down my spine, despite knowing that she probably adorned all her receipts with this personal touch.
“Let’s get out of here,” I resigned.
“What about the chickie? You have to get in there.”
“I don’t know what happened to her. She’s disappeared. If she’s still around, then maybe I’ll see her at the register up front,” I suggested. I was still attempting to get together the nerve to at least tell her that…. Tell her that she’s…. I didn’t know what was appropriate.
“Maybe she’s taking a break from being so hot,” he offered.
Jonathan was on his feet, sliding an arm into his new leather jacket, as I fumbled through my wallet trying to pull together enough of a tip from the few ones inside. I had $5 total, so I dropped all of the singles onto the outside edge of the table next to the bill.
“Is that a heart?” asked Jonathan as adjusted himself into his jacket. “She so wants you.”
I slid the bill off the table with my thumb and followed Jonathan around the corner back to the gift shop entryway. Jonathan shot a look back toward the stranded guy remaining at the other table.
“Good luck tonight,” he blurted as he shot a double finger point in the guy’s direction. The castaway shook his head before pressing his right index finger to the side of it and mimicking his own suicide.
The lights had been dimmed up front, because they were shutting down for the evening. No one was in sight. Jonathan resumed fiddling with the toys for a few moments. I started to feel flushed thinking about what I would say if Kim walked around the corner.
The wait was becoming a long one.
“We should get the hell outta here. They obviously don’t want our money,” Jonathan suggested as he tossed a yellow super ball a few inches out of his palm over and over. “Why don’t you go find the waitress and tell her you’re ready to pay? Go get her!” His enthusiasm had built during this thought process, but I could see it wane immediately after he stopped talking. He closed his fist around the rubber ball. “I’ll be outside having a smoke.”
With that decision, he jerked his fist down and slammed the ball into the painted cement tile floor. The ball lunged back and forth from floor to the low ceiling panels and back too fast to see. The jackhammer rapidity of this action rattled out like machine gun fire erupting in the hushed silence of the entryway. Speckles of white powder floated down from the damaged ceiling panels.
“That should get someone’s attention,” I heard his voice menace just as I saw a puff of smoke dart in through the closing door as he disappeared.
The yellow ball was slowing its momentum and no longer touching the ceiling above with each bounce. I was able to chase it down and hunch over to grab it just as I heard some steps walking in from the dining room. I breathed a quick sigh of relief since I was able to snag the incriminating evidence before the potential arrival of Kim. I placed the ball into a clear plastic container holding rubber chicken key chains and watched the pimply kid appear and walk determinedly behind the L-shaped counter towards the register.
“Are you ready?” he queried as he made eye contact.
My shoulders hunched with disappointment, causing my hand to accidentally drag the rubber chicken container off the shelf and onto the floor with a small series of clacks.
“Damnit!” I shouted and shifted around to grab the mess up off the floor, bumping the shelving with my ass.
“Sir. Sir. Don’t worry about it. We can take care of it.”
I jolted upright, straightened my long black overcoat and stepped over the mess. I handed the kid a credit card and looked around to the dining room to see if I could spot the waitress one last time.
“Please sign here, sir.”
“Sorry about the, uh, mess.”
“Thank you,” he said, as I handed the receipt back to him.
The kid moved quickly away and out of sight. I could hear him tell someone to pick the toys up off the floor. Probably the chubby bass drum guy. I lingered in the dim light briefly and pushed open the door feeling a cool rush of wind sting my eyes. I squinted in reaction and tried to get my bearings by locating my 1975 Buick Apollo on the other side of the parking lot. At the moment I spotted its familiar shape, mildly illuminated by the orange hued lights surrounding the parking lot, I felt something snag my left foot, which was in the process of transferring weight towards my still raised right foot. The car disappeared in an upward blur, smearing into the lights from the Farrell’s sign that were behind me, and then to blackness as my eyes unconsciously clenched to brace for impact.
Lying sideways in a heap, head first down the blacktop wheelchair ramp, I felt my left palm burn from trying to catch my fall. I could hear the glide of cars passing by on the street behind me. I groaned and lifted my right hand from the puddle it had landed in and rolled on to my back. My eyes opened to see Jonathan hovering over me.
“Oops. What happened there buddy?” he asked with a wide smile as smoke flow out of his nostrils. “You okay?”
“AH! HA! HA!”
He reached out a hand to help me up, but was interrupted by a car turning into the lot. It cruised over the top of my head. I looked over to my left in reaction and saw Kim wearing a thin leather jacket. She was holding herself tightly to keep warm. She held a skinny strap against her left forearm, so her tiny glittery purse dangled next to her skirt. My neck relaxed as I watched her fishnet adorned legs clomp quickly towards the car that had pulled in to pick her up.
“Oh, no. Wow. Tough break. Sorry, man,” Jonathan stammered flatly and returned his hand to help me up. I sat up and brushed my hands together to discard the sand and gravel that had embedded themselves from the tumble and accepted his offering.
“What the hell?” I asked in mild exasperation.
“I didn’t think you’d go down!”
I brushed myself off and noticed a gaping hole in the left knee of my pants. I wasn’t upset. I shakily stepped off of the inclined plane of the slope and reached for my car keys.
“Let’s grab some beer,” Jonathan suggested as he tossed the butt aside. “It’s on me.”

Perfect

2009-04-07T17:57:00.000-07:00

“So I hang an empty smile
Beneath my empty eyes
And go out
For a walk”

-"Perfect" The The (1983)

Every spring time from my freshman year of college at Pacific in 1990 till my last spring in 2001 before becoming a dialysis patient, I used to get a serious craving for Snickers candy bars - the big ones. It started at Pacific most likely because I didn't like the food at the cafeteria and had very little money. Plus with the candy machine in the basement of the Student Center, it gave me an excuse to wander. I used to try the coin on a string trick in hopes the candy machine would be fooled into giving me a Snickers for free. This never worked. If I had enough change, I would buy my candy and slowly eat it as I would walk around the campus and sometimes beyond and enjoy the solitude of an early evening. This long walk for a Snickers tradition continued on for years no matter where I lived. I didn't realize that I had started this tradition until it had to end. When I had my kidneys removed, I could no longer eat chocolate, or nuts, or caramel (or much of anything for that matter), so the tradition ended and hasn't restarted since. Today, was a nice weather day that is now ending with cloud cover. For some reason, it reminded me of those long springtime walks in search of a Snickers bar. I remember one when I had to move back to the coast in the early 90s, where I found that I had wandered all the way down to D River Wayside before finding the candy bar at Jo Jo Land just in time to refuel for the walk back home. Another time, when living near Lloyd Center in NE Portland, I found myself circling the block by the old (now gone) Ferrell's ice cream parlor and considered cheating on Snickers and grabbing a snack inside. The most memorable Snickers journey occured in 2000, when I wandered out the door after having just listened to Sleater-Kinney's "All Hands on the Bad One" CD. I had the first couple of lines from the opening song "Ballad of a Ladyman" looping endlessly in my head:
"eye cream and thigh cream, how 'bout a get
high cream?"
It was an early evening sunday and the streets were quiet. I walked from Goose Hollow into the PSU campus area and the warm day was turning overcast and I could feel a threat of rain coming on, so I quickened my pace. The streets were very quiet and the same refrain from the same song not only was on an endless loop, but I had begun to imitate Corin Tucker's powerful and unique vocal style audibly. I was feeling good, but I didn't want to get rained on, so I looped back towards the west side of I-405, where I had planned to track down the Snickers bar. As I turned a corner in the shadow of a student apartment building, I noticed a couple walking the opposite direction across the street from me. Before I could quiet myself, I had already belted out the intensifying "get high cream" line with my best effort. The couple both looked my way, clearly hearing me, but simply continued on their way. It took me a moment, but I became certain that the woman was Corin Tucker. Part of me liked the idea of her hearing me singing one of her songs while strolling down the street, but most of me didn't feel good about it at all. However, I continued on my way, now preoccupied with an internal debate whether I had just seen who I thought I had. Once I found an open mini-mart, I found my Snickers, and made my way out onto the streets again. A light rain had begun to fall, so I ate the candy faster than normal. As I passed the east side of Lincoln High School, still about 8 blocks from home, I tossed the wrapper into one of those huge cement public trash cans with the metal top. I noticed that the lid had scrawled around the circular opening "Life is a Hole." Ever since seeing that, I've always wanted and have tried to write a short story that uses that line to some poignant end. Nothing has worked so far (any ideas?). Maybe it's time to restart the tradition and go for a walk that promises a treat. I need some inspiration.

High Heels

2009-04-05T21:23:00.000-07:00

He stood in the front yard of her Mom’s house. No one was there. He had just arrived from her empty studio apartment downtown. Birds chirped and flitted about invisible to him within the piss smelling hedges. The sky was grey, but the air was warm and stagnant. All he could think about was burning down the simple white house and its dry flat lawn. He knew about what had gone on inside over the years and he blamed the entire neighborhood for not doing anything about it. As he stood in this quiet place, his stomach turned over itself and became a boiling pot of self-pity. He sat on the top of three stairs leading to the porch, filled with frustration, but feeling too weak from exasperation. The black painted wrought iron hand railing lining the stoop felt like bars to a cell and everything about this place made him feel empty and alone. He began to realize how horrible her memories really were and that she most likely would not have come here. But, she clearly was not coming back to her apartment, so now he didn’t know where to find her. He wanted to find her more than anything. He buried his face in his hands and began to think about the way her tiny hands would primp her crooked hairstyle, while she blushed for him. He pictured her in her old fashioned clothes, her cumbersome high heels and the way she would begin smoking with a cigarette holder, when she had too much to drink. She was playing the part of a 1940s movie star for him, and he found her adorable, like she was a young girl dressing up in her Grandmother’s clothes. When he first met her, the only thing that felt out of place was the sudden reluctance of his friends to hang out with him anymore and the ease with which he was able to ease her into bed. It had been only recently that his mind was telling him that something was not quite right. She had always seemed needy to him, but he appreciated that. He wanted to take care of her. She had been erratic and inconsistent during the short time he had known her, but her open and often raw emotions made him feel like he truly knew her. Yet the last time they were together, she was dramatically begging him to leave her alone. She was lying in his bed, in the dark, when he got home from work. He thought he saw bruises on her arms when he turned on a lamp. She began to cry hysterically and acted as though he was threatening her with violence, when he asked her about the bruises. He couldn’t deal with her, so he left and wandered the streets in an attempt to sort out the confusion and anger in his mind. Finally, he began to realize that she had blinded him. She had concealed herself behind her frequent laughs, her easy tears and her willing body. She was playing a role for him the entire time. This had been his first visit backstage. He finally realized that she needed help. He ran back to his apartment, only to find her gone.

Still in the yard of the home she grew up in, he stood up and paced back and forth imagining a confrontation that he regretted never having with her. His mind seethed with fury thinking about the emptiness that being near this place bore into him. Lost in his useless monolog, he was unaware that his arms were finally open to her. He was ready to help her and protect her for the first time. She had helped him from the first moment they had met, but he had never offered her anything but his own selfish desires. After several silent minutes, he stiffly and slowly walked away from the house and down the middle of the treeless street lined with identical one level houses. The spider's webs entangled in the stiff hedges were the only signs of life.

Breakout

2009-03-12T17:20:00.000-07:00

Over the last month or so, I've been really enjoying reading some my friends' Top 25 album lists on Facebook. It never ceases to amaze me how powerful music can be to everyone, especially during those teenage years, when our scope of reference is smaller and it's so easy to live and die with every single event in our lives. So many of these lists I've read are dominated by the records, CDs, tapes, downloads, etc that were discovered during our ages between 14-24. I often find it sad that so many people lose that same intimacy with music as we grow older. I understand it, because life changes; priorities change; and the impact of singular songs or albums becomes slighter as we realize that there's not a lot that we haven't heard in some form before. Music from those years stays with us longer too. About a month ago, I grabbed my dusty copy of the debut Pet Shop Boys CD ("Please") off the shelf and threw it in the player. I hadn't listened to this album in at least 19 years. Hearing the opening drum machine of the song "Two Divided by Zero" made me realize three things: I knew every nuance of this album despite not hearing it in ages; it immediately brought back images and moments from the past into vivid detail; and finally, it sounded fresher than anything I had listened to for a long while. I suppose it makes sense that I would remember every nook and cranny of this CD, because when I bought it in 1985, I had about 20 other CDs. Now, when I get a new CD, it has to compete with a couple thousand, along with the endless soundtrack of songs that float through my mind - most of which I would never consider purchasing in any form. I still devotedly go out and buy the latest music from the Cure, for example, but it gets shelved quickly after a few listens and there's certainly no rush to get it. I remember driving to Salem of all places on a sunny early summer day in 1987, so I could get the Cure's "Kiss Me Kiss Me Kiss Me" the day it was released. I drove straight back home (I also remember picking up a copy of that debut Concrete Blonde record along with it! Great day!)and listened to it in it's entirety - only coming out of my trance long enough to flip the records over when it was time. But I realize that I still get that excited about new music! Maybe I am in a state of arrested development, but I find myself counting down the days till I can go track down the new Camera Obscura album, or the new Doves, or the second LP from Great Northern, or I find myself wondering if and when a new Lawrence Arms CD will be out. My enthusiasm is constantly being replenished by new music, or discovering new-to-me old music, or a fresh look at old favorites. Like right now, I'm listening to a song that I find myself pulling out of the archives about once a year on a sunny day, when I need a boost, or if I want to maintain some positive momentum: "Breakout" by Swing Out Sister. Today, I need a boost and this old 12" single is providing it. What could be better?

Wildflower

2009-03-01T09:19:00.000-08:00

He was standing on the second floor of the old apartment building. The hallway was in shadows, as the flickering lights that normally cast a dingy white hue across the middle of the hallway had clicked off. There were no windows in these sloping old passages, so the only illumination came from the buzzing bank of lights from the hallway behind him and from her room.
Her door was open and he stood nearby. Her door was usually open at least part way when she was home. Her room was a beacon of hope for him in this old building. Her brilliance inside felt like a cozy and safe place deep in the bowels of this soot stained dark brick beast that eats the desolate lives inside generation after generation. The early autumn rain that had begun to fall that day could not begin to wash away the shroud of filth that blackened the four story building over its 100 years of existence. It was a building allowed to survive inside bleak shadows, while providing affordable rent downtown.
Colored lights were bouncing around the expanse of the nicotine stained wall that was exposed. He decided that her TV must have been on. Her room was at the end of this stretch of the hallway. Straight ahead, past her door, was a painted over old fire escape. The rusty ladders outside the escape had long been taken down and dumped in a pile behind the building. They were so worn that they were more dangerous than dueling with a fire inside with no where to run. The door had been sealed shut by crackling off-white paint, in an attempt to blend it in with the wall color. Unfortunately, the wall paint had worn off decades ago, leaving the door conspicuous and the building frightfully escape proof. Between him and her room, she had left a garbage can just outside her door. He could hear the sounds of movement inside. He marveled at the different colors that looked like reflections of twinkling Christmas or carnival lights. He was trying to slow his breath, while picturing her inside. He had never seen the inside of her place, except for the two feet of temptation that she often provided for him as he passed by on his way to or from the front stairwell.

The last time he saw her, she had spoken to him. Somehow she knew his name. She commanded him to smile, as she was walking purposefully down the hallway in the opposite direction, while beaming at him. He almost cowered on the other side of the hall they had shared. Her strong personality was too much for him and he had not been ready. He did not yet know her name, though he had been attracted to her since the day he had moved in. She knew his name and he could not stop thinking about her.
The first time he remembered seeing her, she was at the café across the busy boulevard outside the building. She was sitting at a table on the sidewalk outside the café in the warm evening sunlight and he was on the steps up to the front door of the apartments. He was trying to enjoy the fresh evening air after working up a sweat all afternoon moving junk into his place. At first she seemed familiar to him. She was very pretty with her short dark brown hair curving just around her ears. Something made her different to him than all of the other pretty girls he normally saw from day to day. Her draw was hypnotic, yet elusive for him to comprehend. While he stared at her, she caught him. She was chatting with a younger girl – maybe a niece or a younger sister, because she didn’t look old enough to be the mother of a girl nearing her teens. When their eyes met, she smiled and raised her eyebrows in acknowledgement, before turning her attention back to her companion.
This was his first apartment and he felt energized. It had been a long time. He chuckled to himself as he stood up to stretch out his tired muscles, hoping she would look his way again.

He shook this memory from his mind and moved a step closer to her door. He stopped and felt a chill trundle down his back. He thought of her smile. She was able to not just smile with her eyes and mouth, but with her entire body. Her smile was so genuine and so overwhelming to him that his stomach knotted up every time she used it. She expressed a carefree and positive energy that electrified every thing in range. Her presence made him excited and yet he didn’t know her. He was trying to gather up the nerve to knock. He wanted to express how attracted he had become to her since he moved in a month earlier. Then he heard voices from inside her room. He thought that someone was in the apartment with her. Maybe it was the TV, but it was too hard to tell. The noise began to crumble his resolve.
He looked down at the flower in his hand. It looked weary. When he picked the flower, only a short while before, it was brimming with life and color against the graying skies and the grim backdrop of the building. The flower had been a solitary bright color amongst the dusty weeds that had spit out from the broken backside of the apartments. The rich red petals of the flower reminded him of her lips and the silky dress he had seen her in almost a week earlier. They had met at the front door the previous Friday when he was returning from a late movie alone. She was wearing a rich red strapless dress that drew his attention to her smooth ivory skin. She also wore a black choker around her neck and black stockings that highlighted her nice legs. Her short, dark brown hair was shining in the streetlights and had a little added wave to it. He had never seen a more stunning beauty. He tripped as he approached the front steps, barely keeping upright. She smiled down at him and asked if he was ok. She was wearing more make-up than he had seen her with prior, especially that lipstick and striking eye-liner. He assumed that she was returning from a date, because her spirits were clearly high. He wanted desperately to ask her out then, but how could he? He was disheveled and greasy from the popcorn he spent his last five dollars on. He didn’t compliment her. He didn’t say a word.
He had never seen her with anyone who looked like a boyfriend. She was with different people most of the time he saw her around. With her ability to be friendly to anyone, his inability to engage her in casual conversation had frustrated him. Despite the sense of familiarity she had for him and his belief in her as a kind and tender person, his nerves always won out. All he wanted to do was ask her out, or the courage to talk with her. He was hoping that just knowing her would instill him with some comfort. If he did manage the courage to open his heart to her, he would’ve expected her to say no. This is the response he expected from any girl who ever peaked his interest with any intensity. This girl was the first one who had broken through his self-imposed purgatory and had him considering that she might give him a chance. If only he would ask. He felt a slight glimmer of hope from her, an indulgence he didn’t understand, but grabbed hold of. With that indulgence, came pressure for him to do something about it.
That pressure really intensified the evening that she knocked on his door. She and another girl he had seen in the building unexpectedly visited his room. He had been engrossed in a book, sitting beneath his desk lamp. He had been reading for so long that when he looked up, startled by the commotion at his door, his eyes had trouble focusing. The rest of his room was dark and all he could see was the slit of light peeking in from the hall. He opened the door hurriedly, without even considering that this was his first visitor and was immediately embarrassed by his state when he saw the two girls. The shock of seeing her launched his heart rate into the stratosphere and he began to choke on his own saliva.
He stood there listening to what they had to say, though he was distracted by his worries of having her see him so ragged, standing over a pile of dirty clothes in his dark room. He was worried about his unshaven face and his sloppy hair and the huge red blotch that had formed on his left cheek from propping his head up for the previous few hours. They had shown up to invite him to a potluck gathering they had planned for the tenants of the building. It was all over before he could respond or acknowledge what they were doing. The girls had moved on cheerfully to the next room over extending their generous invitation to the prying, despicable old man next door. He was always at his door listening to what went on outside. He would often open his door and stand there and watch if people were having an exchange. If there was no action in the hall, he was probably listening through the walls of his neighbors or staring out the window at whatever motivated this emotionless gray man’s habit. “Only this girl would have the guts to try and get the outcasts around this dump to all become neighborly,” he thought to himself, as he reluctantly closed his door. Seeing her in his doorway so unexpectedly nearly made him pass out with surprise. He felt like one of those swooning teenage girls from the clips he’d seen so many times of the Beatles or Elvis on the Ed Sullivan show. It was a daydream he had repeatedly, finally coming true, or at least, partially true. The girls had been dressed up in second hand prom dresses as they delivered their home-made invitations. Though they were going for some humor with their outfits, he couldn’t help but realize how fetching she was. She wore a frilly pale pink dress and gaudy, bulbous costume jewelry that was dangling off her ears, wrapped around her neck and slipping around her slender wrists.
He lay back onto his bed and stared up at the sagging and stained ceiling. He usually slept on his stomach or sides, mostly out of paranoia about what was up above his helpless body at night. He guessed that the ceiling was comprised of a mixture of asbestos, mold and pests. At any time he expected the concoction to give way in a shower of debris, his upstairs neighbor, rodents and piles of sticky mulch that would splash down on him. If he didn’t look at it, he wouldn’t worry about it. At that moment, however, his mind was focused on her and the opportunity that this potluck presented to him. Maybe then he would get a chance to know her a little and to finally talk with her.
As he lay there alone, his thoughts turned to fantasy and he imagined a second knock on his door. This time she would be alone. This time, she would ask him out or she would confess her love to him. This would fill him with so much confidence that he would wrap his arms around her and she would bury her face into his neck as he pulled her closer to him. He would enjoy her velvety hair against his chin and savor her sweet scent. He would close his eyes and try to absorb her essence. Lying there in his room, he could still smell her.

The colors on the wall changed. He could hear voices and could not place their source. Then he thought he heard crying. This was not his time. He looked at the trashcan outside her door and moved quickly towards it. He held the flower in front of his face between his fingers and examined it, then took a shaky deep breath. As he exhaled, he parted his fingers and dropped the flower into the can. His body slouched with disappointment and he felt nauseous. He turned around, nudging the garbage accidentally with his right toe, and headed back to his apartment frustrated.
When he reached the stairwell door, halfway down the hall and into the light, he slapped the heavy door with both hands and shoved it in. His apartment was up one story above hers. When he found the third floor, the fluorescent hall lights were piercingly bright, burning his squinting eyes. He stopped at his door, turned the knob to the unlocked room, looked both directions and stepped inside.
His heart was pounding and he was breathing quickly. There was a pressure at his temples, so he decided to lie down. He couldn’t relax, because he had failed. The mounting urgency in his mind was so massive that he was exhausted. He was sickened at his inadequacy. He had no insurmountable trouble functioning in any other part of his life, but he could not break through and ask this girl out, or even attempt a conversation. Maybe the potluck was his time.

She was sitting on the futon in her room, surrounded by several crumpled wads of yellow paper from the pad she held in her lap. She set the pad and her pen down and stood to stretch and rub her tired eyes. She wanted to turn off her blaring TV, which had begun to irritate her. If she was going to get anything done, she would need some music.
Her apartment was warmly lit by a table lamp next to the folded futon and a light hanging on the wall next to the kitchen doorway. Her studio had a couple of bookshelves loaded with books, CD’s, a stereo, a few plants and lots of framed pictures. As she reached over to the stereo to put something on, she heard a bang outside her open door. She froze in place and stared intently at the partial opening. All that she saw were the boxes that she had packed earlier stacked neatly behind where the door swings inward. She was startled by the sound and a bit shaken, because she lived at the end of the hall, so no one had any reason to be out there, unless they were visiting. She called out a quiet hello and waited for a moment and then, despite her nerves, cautiously went to the door and pulled it open. She peaked out into the darkened hallway and didn’t see anyone, so she put her left hand on the knob, toed the line between her room and the threadbare carpet in the hall and leaned out. To her right was the sealed Fire Escape as always and to her left, she spotted the quiet guy from the third floor walking into the stairwell, letting the door slam behind him. She rummaged through her thoughts, to determine the source of the sound and relaxed as she decided it must’ve been the guy tripping on what was left of the carpet. It was worn completely through in places, and folding upwards in others. She laughed, because the carpet had made her stumble on a few occasions. She always assumed that the patterned carpet once had an array of colors, but now it was a mossy dark gray and a serious hazard. She relaxed and leaned back into her room, spotting a red flower in amongst her garbage. She picked it up with curiosity and pondered this new mystery as she turned it around between her right thumb and forefinger enjoying its simple beauty. She pinched her lips together in thought and shot another glimpse back down the vacant hallway.
She went back into her room, wondering about the appearance of the flower, still damp from the rain outside. She heard a muffled door crash echo through the stairwell. With sudden determination, she shot from her room padding towards the stairs in her bright white socks. She was ready to gamble and track the flower to its source.
With a bit of trepidation, but mostly exhilaration, she hopped up the stairs, two at a time, reaching the heavy door for the third floor before the door behind her had closed. She looked through the wired glass to see if anyone was visible. Then she slid into the hallway, holding the door, so it wouldn’t slam shut and crept down the hall looking at each door that she passed, searching for the source of the flower.

He had sat on the edge of his bed feely a bit woozy. The only light source was coming from the kitchen in the back left corner of his place. The window directly across the floor from his door was open as it had been since he moved in at the end of August. His bed sat to the left of the door as you entered with the headboard against the hallway wall. Other than the kitchen and bathroom, his apartment was a perfect square. No decorations hung on the walls, there was no television and the only light source was the lamp on his desk at the foot of his bed, along with a little stereo. He had taken the bulbs out of the overhead light, so it would never be turned on. A pile of CD’s and records sat on the window sill getting damp from the rain blowing in. A cool wind swept through the room, as a blinking crosswalk sign flashed endlessly from above the intersection outside. He listened to the traffic splash through the wet crossing below, thinking of how to redeem himself.
He was in disbelief that he hadn’t knocked on her door. He mocked himself in frustration. In reality, deep down, he knew that he wouldn’t go through with it. His loneliness was sometimes unbearable, but it was all he knew and he was too timid to change what little of a life he had managed to pile together – no matter how fragile. He was terrified of being rejected, but the pain this girl was causing him from her peripheral presence alone, had him feeling hollow, lost and achingly empty. If he would’ve just left a note or something with the flower, it would have been cowardly, but it might’ve at least started a dialog.
A light knock tapped on his door, startling him. He looked at the blond wood of the door, unsure whether the knock was at his or his neighbor’s door. Another, firmer, knock hit three times. He stood up and attempted to compose himself. His hands were trembling. He didn’t want to answer the door, because he was too shattered by his failure. He opened it anyway.
She was standing in front of him holding the flower he had found for her. It no longer looked wilted and tired in her hands. She looked up at him expectantly and didn’t say a word. She didn’t budge or avert her eyes from his. She presented the flower to him with a quizzical expression.
After several seconds, he slid his feet backwards, moved his shoulder back and opened the room up for her to enter. She took a couple of short steps into his room, leaving the door wide open. She noticed a smell like burnt toast as she scanned the sparse arrangement of his place and wrapped her arms around each other with a sudden chill. He stood back watching her eyes as they looked over his life. The room didn’t reveal much, but her presence made him fidget with anxiety. He felt naked and vulnerable.
“What is this?” she finally asked, breaking the hypnotic sizzle of the cars driving on the wet pavement outside.
He looked at the flower that she was again holding out for him and stammered, “It’s a flower,” knowing full well that his sarcasm was unwanted by both of them.
“How did it end up in my garbage?” she queried expectantly, undaunted by his annoying reply.
“I feel like I’m in trouble,” he laughed back nervously.
“Maybe you should be,” she replied sternly, grimacing slightly.
“Maybe wild flowers grow from the trash,” he explained and turned his head toward the window.
Her hand holding the flower dropped to her side as she exhaled. She looked down at the cracked tile beneath her feet and let more air out from her lungs. She was upset. This was too awkward. She was unsure of what to do. His flippant responses made her feel that coming to him was a mistake. Maybe she had been mistaken about his interest in her.
“Listen, I’m sorry I’ve bothered you like this. I thought that you had brought this flower to me, but maybe that was an absurd thought, since I found it in the trash. Just because you put a flower in my garbage…” she trailed off, “I don’t know what I’m doing. Maybe I’m losing my mind. I thought that…” she stopped again, looking back down, “I’ve been packing all afternoon…”
“Packing?” he asked quickly.
“Yes, looks like I’m moving out,” she managed in reply.
“Why?” he asked with increased panic.
“There are too many expenses. I have been unable to keep a job and continue full time with school. I don’t know how to handle it all,” she paused and crossed her arms again as another chill hit her. She looked out the open window into the blackness, seeing only a faint reflection of him and her and the blinking light outside. She mumbled, “I guess we’re meant to be only one color in life…” she stopped before finishing with a shrug. “I’m moving home to try and sort things out.”
She looked back at him, directly into his blue eyes. He noticed that her eyes were filling up with tears. His were already, but he had been trying to keep them hidden. His mind had been frantically racing the entire time, unable to put together a coherent thought. He wanted to help her, but even more urgently, he wanted to stop her. He needed to keep her there, so he could figure things out, and to calm down. His head was spinning from what was happening. He had been alone so long that he wasn’t even certain if this was real. He said nothing to her. Instead he looked at her with concern and felt her slipping away.
“Yes,” he finally blurted, “I was going to give you the flower. I thought I overheard someone with you, so I left. I didn’t want to bother you,” he confessed, as she moved towards his door, “that’s all.”
“That’s all? Well, thanks for the sentiment, I guess,” she said to him and turned away.
He didn’t say anything as she stepped back into the hall. He followed her to his door, as she spun around again to face him. He could see her lips quivering as she raised the flower up to her chest. Her eyes were wide open and glistening with emotion. He still didn’t know what to say to her. She’d just told him that she was moving away, right after allowing him the notion that she might be interested in him. She had come and completely shattered his world and he was agitated.
She continued to stand in front of his door, waiting for him to say something. In his eyes, she could see that he was searching for something, but nothing came.
“I’d better get back to packing,” she whispered into the void.
“When will you be moving?” he asked, grabbing the chance to inquire about the concept his mind couldn’t comprehend.
“Tomorrow afternoon. My father will be helping me.”
He didn’t want her to leave. He didn’t know how to get her to stay. He didn’t have a clue what to do. He never did. He didn’t know why he was so afraid. He had never pictured himself with a girlfriend and has always stuck by that by shooting himself down before anyone else could. This entire moment was foreign and frightening for him.
“I’m very sorry to hear that,” he stated, trying to stop from throwing a tantrum. “What about the potluck next weekend?”
The old man next door opened his door to her right and she jerked her face in his direction. The man looked at her, as if she wasn’t aware of him. After a moment, she managed a half smile for him as she sniffed and he pulled his head back inside and closed his door. Feeling overwhelmed, she turned to leave.
“The potluck doesn’t need me. Go and have a good time,” she tried to sound enthusiastic. “Enjoy the party without me,” she added as she disappeared around the corner back to the stairwell.
He continued to stand in his doorway. He wanted to go after her, but it was futile. She was gone.
He closed his door lightly and dropped, once again, onto his bed. He was in shock. Hundreds of undeveloped thoughts tore through his mind, confusing him more. He wondered if she was interested in him and how she knew that he left the flower. She had been in his room, but now she was moving out. He still didn’t know what to do. He never had known.
As he sat there, he thought of what he always thought of when he wanted a girl in his life. He continued to keep that Christmas vacation when he was 16 years old in his mind. It was a trap he didn’t feel he could escape. A girl he had known as a young kid was visiting his family with her mom. Before then, he had only known her as the snotty little brat who lived next door, who his parents forced him to play with. It was probably because she was the only kid his age on the block, but he figured it was because she had no friends. When she was there, that Christmas, he realized that she had become a very pretty girl. She had these iridescent blue eyes, sweet full lips and soft, shoulder-length light brown hair. She was stunning – a totally different girl. During her stay, they became friends. They shared many interests and joked about the old neighborhood and really enjoyed each others company. One night, after watching a movie on cable, and all the parents had gone to bed, they discovered each other. It was clumsy and scary, because neither one knew what they were doing. It didn’t matter to him though, because he was falling in love and it was a rush he had never experienced. The next day, their last together, he wanted to stay with her every possible second and profess his feelings to her, but she wouldn’t talk to him. She stayed by her mother’s side and if she even looked at him, she would do so with a cold emotionless gaze. He never saw her again, except when her mom sent school photos of her in cards and letters. Her eyes in those pictures were always the same ones that shunned him at his most desperate moment. She raised him to his highest high and smashed him with one look. She had stolen his ability to trust. Perhaps the girl who had just been in his room was right. Maybe people are one color in life. Maybe people are unable to truly change. Maybe his path had been chosen. Maybe his hopes of a girlfriend weren’t meant to be.
He stood up and stepped out into the hallway. He shut his door, locked the deadbolt, flipped off the creepy old man’s door, imagining him crouched on the other side listening. He went down to the second floor, slowing near the darkened corner of the hall where her room sat, noticing her door was now closed and the garbage can was gone, before speeding off to the front entrance of the building.
The steps up to the front door extended up from the sidewalk to the second floor for some reason. He didn’t know how the first floor inhabitants got in and out of their apartments, because there seemed to be no doorway or stairs for them, and the building had no functioning elevator. They were most likely trapped there like everyone else. Except for her, she was leaving.
He stepped outside and remained at the top of the steep stairs, where he first saw her. He sat down on the wet concrete handrail. He could not see anything but his breath and streaks of rain dropping down on him. He looked back at the building in the direction of her place, but her window was around the corner. The building was almost invisible in the dark, except for a few lit windows scattered around its carcass. This building had no charm and most assuredly never did. It was just a piece of trash. He didn’t want to go back inside, so he crossed his arms over his knees and leaned forward to rest his head onto them.

In her room, she sat on the futon and held her head in her hands. Her room was silent. She felt humiliated. Her life was falling apart. The phone rang and she lifted her head to stare at it with her bleary eyes, cursing the unwanted alarm until it stopped. She had gone through so many emotions during the day that she felt numb. After several moments, she looked out her window to the shiny blacktop below. Traffic passed as it always did. She thought of his blank expression when she went to him and then climbed off the futon. She kicked the wads of paper into a pile and threw them into her garbage. She took a long deep breath and puffed out her cheeks when she exhaled. She grabbed some books from her shelf, ignoring the wild flower sitting in a glass of water, and began stacking them into an open box by her door.

Story finished in 2005
With inspiration provided by the long missed band, The Abecedarians