Here's one good reason.
(now linked to in the sidebar of this very blog.)
12 October 2008
Comics, y'all.
Yes, I agree. Comics should be regarded as part of the literary landscape.
Here's one good reason.
(now linked to in the sidebar of this very blog.)
Here's one good reason.
(now linked to in the sidebar of this very blog.)
26 September 2008
Responses to "Newsweek" Reader Responses
"Before reading your cover story, I had major doubts about Sarah Palin.....would she be tough enough to handle the people who might try to push her around?.....your article erased every doubt. She appears to be as tough as they come. A shrewd and gifted mayor and governor, she scores higher on my list than the rest of the crowd on both tickets." --Hany Hanna, Sioux Falls, SD.
Yes, she's very tough. Tough as a pig, one might say. She's going to need that when the starving masses of America are marching down Pennsylvania Ave. enrobed in tattered zombie rags, touting torches and maniacally chanting "justice! justice! justice!" Maybe she can show them where Russia is. Oh wait, that's right--she's use to handling large firearms. Again, she's tough. Everybody duck.
"I noticed that the caption accompanying one of your photos of Sarah Palin refers to her as a "former mayor of tiny Wasilla." I believe she is the sitting governor of Alaska. As such, her title is Governor Palin. I have yet to see a photo caption of Sen. Barack Obama referring to him as 'a former community organizer.'" --Matt Lanker, Marysville, Ohio.
Well, ha ha, I can't believe I get the chance to say this legitimately, but, THANK YOU CAPTAIN OBVIOUS!!! "I believe she is..." Oh, oh, you believe, do you? That's good, see, because if you, and maybe even other people like you didn't believe she was currently the Gov, then her authority and station would just disappear in an puff of apostasy. Wow! I'm glad you're around, man! "As such, her title is Gov. Palin." No SHIT! You don't say! You know, I know you read a lot and everything, but there's this thing they do, especially in mass-market periodicals like "Newsweek", where the caption under a picture will often make reference to one of the central points of the story. Also, I know, I just know Matt, that you have been going around showing this issue to your familyfriendscoworkers and are just so proud of yourself for having gotten the attention of a very, very, low-ranking unpaid intern, but do you realize that "Newsweek" has exploited you by printing your letter just to show how banal it is to shuffle through the undercooked editorializing of random jerks? They've mocked you just by printing your stiff, juvenile, obvious comment--and silently, you're thanking them. Think about it. As a concession, let me tell you--it is for this very reason (that the journalistic establishment rightly snorts at volunteer pundits like myself) that I don't write in to periodicals. Oh, and P.S.: Obama was the one to characterize himself as a "community organizer", whereas Gov. Plain has all but buried the traces of her meager and recent beginnings. That's why "Newsweek" et. al. feel the need to highlight her background so aggressively.
"Dear Newsweek,
Do you have any idea how to paint toenails? I am, as they say, a 'nail polish version', and I am really screwing this up royally. Should the strokes go away from the cuticle, or towards it? Also, I think Senator Palin looks smart and cute, and will make a really great prez when that nice old man finally heads toward the light. Go Braves!" --Anna Smith, Atlanta, GA
"I was very disturbed by Daniel Lyons' recent article, 'A Gloomy Vista For Microsoft.' I am in no way employed by Microsoft, but were I, I would feel a deep sense of regret that the CEO of a certain PC hardware company has been 'less than pleased with Vista', and that Mr. Lyons feels the need to print this fact. The staff at Microsoft, where, again, I am most definitely not employed, may be remiss at learning that people think the need for the 'Mojave' commercials only underscores Vistas problems, or that, thanks to infinitely superior products being offered by Apple, Microsoft may be headed down the path of former-cool orgs like AOL. I have no affiliation with Microsoft whatsoever, but if I did, I would be outraged. Especially at that bit about being in a 'time warp.' You should be ashamed of yourselves." --Gill Bates, Medina, WA
Yes, she's very tough. Tough as a pig, one might say. She's going to need that when the starving masses of America are marching down Pennsylvania Ave. enrobed in tattered zombie rags, touting torches and maniacally chanting "justice! justice! justice!" Maybe she can show them where Russia is. Oh wait, that's right--she's use to handling large firearms. Again, she's tough. Everybody duck.
"I noticed that the caption accompanying one of your photos of Sarah Palin refers to her as a "former mayor of tiny Wasilla." I believe she is the sitting governor of Alaska. As such, her title is Governor Palin. I have yet to see a photo caption of Sen. Barack Obama referring to him as 'a former community organizer.'" --Matt Lanker, Marysville, Ohio.
Well, ha ha, I can't believe I get the chance to say this legitimately, but, THANK YOU CAPTAIN OBVIOUS!!! "I believe she is..." Oh, oh, you believe, do you? That's good, see, because if you, and maybe even other people like you didn't believe she was currently the Gov, then her authority and station would just disappear in an puff of apostasy. Wow! I'm glad you're around, man! "As such, her title is Gov. Palin." No SHIT! You don't say! You know, I know you read a lot and everything, but there's this thing they do, especially in mass-market periodicals like "Newsweek", where the caption under a picture will often make reference to one of the central points of the story. Also, I know, I just know Matt, that you have been going around showing this issue to your familyfriendscoworkers and are just so proud of yourself for having gotten the attention of a very, very, low-ranking unpaid intern, but do you realize that "Newsweek" has exploited you by printing your letter just to show how banal it is to shuffle through the undercooked editorializing of random jerks? They've mocked you just by printing your stiff, juvenile, obvious comment--and silently, you're thanking them. Think about it. As a concession, let me tell you--it is for this very reason (that the journalistic establishment rightly snorts at volunteer pundits like myself) that I don't write in to periodicals. Oh, and P.S.: Obama was the one to characterize himself as a "community organizer", whereas Gov. Plain has all but buried the traces of her meager and recent beginnings. That's why "Newsweek" et. al. feel the need to highlight her background so aggressively.
"Dear Newsweek,
Do you have any idea how to paint toenails? I am, as they say, a 'nail polish version', and I am really screwing this up royally. Should the strokes go away from the cuticle, or towards it? Also, I think Senator Palin looks smart and cute, and will make a really great prez when that nice old man finally heads toward the light. Go Braves!" --Anna Smith, Atlanta, GA
"I was very disturbed by Daniel Lyons' recent article, 'A Gloomy Vista For Microsoft.' I am in no way employed by Microsoft, but were I, I would feel a deep sense of regret that the CEO of a certain PC hardware company has been 'less than pleased with Vista', and that Mr. Lyons feels the need to print this fact. The staff at Microsoft, where, again, I am most definitely not employed, may be remiss at learning that people think the need for the 'Mojave' commercials only underscores Vistas problems, or that, thanks to infinitely superior products being offered by Apple, Microsoft may be headed down the path of former-cool orgs like AOL. I have no affiliation with Microsoft whatsoever, but if I did, I would be outraged. Especially at that bit about being in a 'time warp.' You should be ashamed of yourselves." --Gill Bates, Medina, WA
14 September 2008
Well, shit.
I am typing this post through tears.
One of my idols, David Foster Wallace, died this past Friday from an apparent suicide.
If you look one post back, you will see my first true "essay" on this essay blog ("Of Ghosts And Fathers").
If you look three posts back, you will see a short post about Wallace ("To David Foster Wallace..."). I had just read an essay of his that inspired me to try to write actual essays (rather than unsupported, anti-grammatical rants).
You'll be missed, David.
Fuck.
Extra:
The Salon memoriam.
The Washington City Paper column.
The New York Times appraisal.
The 2003 Onion spoof.
"There is The Thing, plunked down in the coliseum of our consciousness. There is The Viewer of this Thing, sitting in the stands, hand on chin. And there is the Viewer of the Viewer of The Thing -- the postmodernist metaphysician hovering in the helicopter above, discussing the way people watch.
One of my idols, David Foster Wallace, died this past Friday from an apparent suicide.
If you look one post back, you will see my first true "essay" on this essay blog ("Of Ghosts And Fathers").
If you look three posts back, you will see a short post about Wallace ("To David Foster Wallace..."). I had just read an essay of his that inspired me to try to write actual essays (rather than unsupported, anti-grammatical rants).
You'll be missed, David.
Fuck.
Extra:
The Salon memoriam.
The Washington City Paper column.
The New York Times appraisal.
The 2003 Onion spoof.
"There is The Thing, plunked down in the coliseum of our consciousness. There is The Viewer of this Thing, sitting in the stands, hand on chin. And there is the Viewer of the Viewer of The Thing -- the postmodernist metaphysician hovering in the helicopter above, discussing the way people watch.
And then, somewhere out in the cosmos, watching the watcher watch himself watching, talking about talking about talking, there is David Foster Wallace, novelist, essayist, recovering ironist, and wizard of giddy self-consciousness." -Matthew Gilbert
12 September 2008
Of Ghosts And Fathers
On March 13th, 2007, Christa and I were sitting down at a Mexican restaurant in Lakeview known more for its margaritas than for its food. We were expecting a friend, and had just ordered our first drinks, when I received a call from my father's phone. Normally, I never answer the cell phone while sitting at table, but my father had never called me on a weeknight in recent memory, so I picked up.
It was my step-mother, Joyce. My father had died in his sleep of sudden heart failure, brought on by arteriosclerosis, or a hardening of the arteries. He was in bed in their Virginia home when it happened. He was 52 years old.
Joyce had been married to my father for over 20 years, so you can imagine her incosolability over the phone. Our conversation was brief, and I was grateful for the quick notice.
As a stony glaze overtook my expression, I managed enough cognition to ask Christa to cancel our margarita orders, and to say "yes" when she asked if she should buy us take-out for dinner.
I have heretofore been unwilling to analyze my emotions immediately following that phone call, but have recently had occasion to ponder them: I felt cold--beyond the harsh Chicago early spring temperatures--and empty, of course. And I wondered, "is this real?" And I wondered, "what is?"
Okay, enough of the sadness. I gave you this background so that I could have a jumping-off point from which to paraphrase my speech at the funeral: My father was, first and foremost, a thinker, a workbench philosopher (builder by trade) who was so successful at inundating his only child with a skeptic's worldview, that the child found himself questioning the father's very existence only moments after being informed of his death.
If you find this chilling, know that you are not alone. I guess it's kind of cliched to be scared by your own thoughts, but there I was, feeling pretty heartless, even with the knowledge that my involuntary emotional response was conforming to my father's best wishes for me.
Of course, the one thing I did not bring up at the funeral-- indeed, now that I think about it, I may never have felt this way while he was alive-- was a very major difference in philosophy between my father and I. Namely, that he was a spiritualist, (if an agnostic one), whereas I am a secular humanist-- otherwise known as an Atheist.
Now, linguistic prescriptivists and descriptivists (shout out to Dr. Soy) can argue about the definition of "Atheist" all day (e.g. "Is it someone who simply doesn't believe in the existence of God [prescriptive], or must they believe unequivocally that there is no spirit, and thus no afterlife [descriptive]?"), but what I generally take as truth is this: that the idea of "first cause" is silly and scientifically useless, and that the existence of any kind of God or gods or afterlife seems ridiculous against the extremely detailed empirical relief of evolutionary science.
Hey, but what about ghosts? Well, exactly. What about them? There are, as you all know, a frightening amount of ghost stories floating around the collective unconscious. They have been transmitted verbally or in print since the dawn of human culture, and have even in (historically) recent years, made their way into the visual world via video and photographic "evidence", which "evidence" I really just see as part of the over-arching cultural narrative re: ghosts, which narrative goes something like this: "Whatever you believe about God and Religion, we can all agree on one thing, which is that life goes on after 'death', and that therefore, there are ghosts among us."
Now. A die-hard skeptic rejects this narrative out of hand as being based on an amalgam of anecdotal evidence, human gullibility, and mass hypnosis. This is the point where my father reaches out from beyond the grave, so to speak, and prohibits me from ever being a 100%, true-blue skeptic. Aside from a fervent belief in ghosts, channeling, and reincarnation, and aside from his unmatched ability to convince others of anything he chose to argue about, there was the following story. Said story was told to me by my mother and grandmother (yes, together) when I was 14, and later confirmed, in great detail, by my father, who, once again, it is nigh on impossible for me to disbelieve, especially when it concerns truth and posterity. It deals with ghosts, fear, and extra-physical bonds, and unless I am someday told that the whole thing was a big, deliberate farce, I will always believe that it is a true story. You see, it's like this:
Pocono Mountains, Pennsylvania, fall of 1976. Little Danny is only a few months old, and already his exhausted parents need a break from his exuberance. Ed Boucher enlists the help of Joe, his youngest brother, to babysit his infant nephew while Ed and his new-ish wife (married just over 1 year) Lisa go out on a date. If you have never been in the Poconos at night, let me tell you: it's right out of a horror movie. The branches of big trees creak and grumble, whistling winds blow sudden bursts of dead leaves against windows, wooden houses moan and pop as they settle, things feel ominous (I love it up there). Sitting there, trying to watch T.V. to distract himself from the eeriness as I slept, my young uncle Joe may have even pondered the mystery surrounding my namesake, a man named Daniel Whitaker.
From my understanding (this may need correcting), Daniel Whitaker was a well-liked individual-- a joker, and a bit of a tough guy. He had gone to college with one of my father's 13 siblings, and was counted as the best friend of my father and at least two of his brothers. At some point in his life, he joined the Merchant Marines, ostensibly to seek out the kind of adventure that was sought out by tough guys in those days. When his conscription was finished, he rented an apartment in Iowa, in a house owned by a young newlywed couple. Months later, he was found murdered in a cornfield, having received a shotgun wound to the back.
The young couple disappeared, never to be heard from again.
You see? My parents named me after this person. As a non-skeptic would say, that's some serious mojo.
Anywho, fast forward to 1976, it's weird and dark outside, and my uncle Joey is holding down my parents' meager fort as I sleep upstairs in the "onesies" pajamas common to the era (a jammies jumpsuit with feet, and with a single zipper up the middle). He hears a window open upstairs, accompanied by the sound of a person descending the staircase. His aural impression is so acute that he is paralyzed with fear, and cannot even bring himself to check on the snoozing youngster in his charge. He is still frozen, standing, listening--when my parents arrive home from their date.
"Joey, what's going on," says one of them, seeing the terror on his face. As Joey attempts to explain what exactly has him so unsettled, my father waves his experience off as over-dramatic, knowing his brother to be a pretty wound-up guy. My parents head up the staircase to check on me, and my father is heard to utter the famous last words: "It's probably just the house settling".
It is at this point that there is none, absolutely zero variation between this story whether told by my mother or father.
Upon entering my bedroom, they find the window to be inexplicably open in the cold mountain fall, and their son to be wide awake, though not in distress. As they approach, they notice a bulge that is insistently pushing my jumpsuit jammies out of form. The window is closed by one parent while the other opens my pajamas to find--
A sweatshirt belonging to Daniel Whitaker.
How do they know it's his? Simple. Danny Whitaker was in a fraternity in college, and like all fraternities, they had sweatshirts with their chapter's Greek letters emblazoned across the front. Here's the difference: while almost all of the frat shirts were blue, with red lettering (or something), the sweatshirt stuffed into my pajamas was RED with BLUE lettering-- the "reverse" style, only printed and worn by 3 of the frat brothers-- Danny Whitaker, and two of his closest friends.
Completely freaked out beyond belief, my father takes the sweatshirt and folds it for use as that night's pillow. While sleeping, he has a dream that a picture he's been searching for (one that includes himself and Whitaker) can be found sandwiched in his high school yearbook. When my father awakes the next morning, the sweater has gone missing (yes, from just underneath his head), and when he opens his yearbook-- yep, you guessed it, out plops that photograph.
Now, that story may indeed get some tweaking on this blog as the weeks go on, but the gist will stay the same. My parents truly believe that some supernatural force (whether it be Whitaker's ghost or something else entirely) left a message (what message? says who?) for them, and for me. That there is a connection to my namesake, and that this connection involves Whitaker's untimely death seems undeniable, and I will always believe that my parents had this experience.
Does this make me a non-atheist? I mean, I can espouse the principles of secular humanism all day--to wit: that the best thing you can do for humanity is to practice the golden rule, and that gods, worship, and tradition only get in the way. The thing is, no matter how convincing these arguments become--indeed, I would even go so far as to call myself a convert to them--I will never escape the nagging sense that there is something more, something else that awaits us beyond the veil. The scariest moments in my life now are the times when I doubt there is really anything at all.
I certainly don't believe in any form of God or original purpose or bloody "first cause", but there are days when I become very convinced that there is nothing for us once this consciousness ceases to be, that due to subatomic determinism, there may not even be free will. These are dark days for me, but I am inevitably pulled out of the malaise by a little ghost story once told to me by my parents, a story indelibly reinforced by my father and my respect for his intellectual integrity. He reaches out from beyond the grave and tells me not to take life so seriously; that what is unexplainable is not necessarily impossible, and that one should hope for the unexpected, rather than take measures to prevent against it. He teaches me to always take a closer look, even if done through a hazy lens, and thus to enjoy the wonder of existence rather than to waste time worrying about what comes after. Live now and let go later, as it were.
Thanks, Dad. I'm trying.
Extra: My mother corrects my mistakes.
It was my step-mother, Joyce. My father had died in his sleep of sudden heart failure, brought on by arteriosclerosis, or a hardening of the arteries. He was in bed in their Virginia home when it happened. He was 52 years old.
Joyce had been married to my father for over 20 years, so you can imagine her incosolability over the phone. Our conversation was brief, and I was grateful for the quick notice.
As a stony glaze overtook my expression, I managed enough cognition to ask Christa to cancel our margarita orders, and to say "yes" when she asked if she should buy us take-out for dinner.
I have heretofore been unwilling to analyze my emotions immediately following that phone call, but have recently had occasion to ponder them: I felt cold--beyond the harsh Chicago early spring temperatures--and empty, of course. And I wondered, "is this real?" And I wondered, "what is?"
Okay, enough of the sadness. I gave you this background so that I could have a jumping-off point from which to paraphrase my speech at the funeral: My father was, first and foremost, a thinker, a workbench philosopher (builder by trade) who was so successful at inundating his only child with a skeptic's worldview, that the child found himself questioning the father's very existence only moments after being informed of his death.
If you find this chilling, know that you are not alone. I guess it's kind of cliched to be scared by your own thoughts, but there I was, feeling pretty heartless, even with the knowledge that my involuntary emotional response was conforming to my father's best wishes for me.
Of course, the one thing I did not bring up at the funeral-- indeed, now that I think about it, I may never have felt this way while he was alive-- was a very major difference in philosophy between my father and I. Namely, that he was a spiritualist, (if an agnostic one), whereas I am a secular humanist-- otherwise known as an Atheist.
Now, linguistic prescriptivists and descriptivists (shout out to Dr. Soy) can argue about the definition of "Atheist" all day (e.g. "Is it someone who simply doesn't believe in the existence of God [prescriptive], or must they believe unequivocally that there is no spirit, and thus no afterlife [descriptive]?"), but what I generally take as truth is this: that the idea of "first cause" is silly and scientifically useless, and that the existence of any kind of God or gods or afterlife seems ridiculous against the extremely detailed empirical relief of evolutionary science.
Hey, but what about ghosts? Well, exactly. What about them? There are, as you all know, a frightening amount of ghost stories floating around the collective unconscious. They have been transmitted verbally or in print since the dawn of human culture, and have even in (historically) recent years, made their way into the visual world via video and photographic "evidence", which "evidence" I really just see as part of the over-arching cultural narrative re: ghosts, which narrative goes something like this: "Whatever you believe about God and Religion, we can all agree on one thing, which is that life goes on after 'death', and that therefore, there are ghosts among us."
Now. A die-hard skeptic rejects this narrative out of hand as being based on an amalgam of anecdotal evidence, human gullibility, and mass hypnosis. This is the point where my father reaches out from beyond the grave, so to speak, and prohibits me from ever being a 100%, true-blue skeptic. Aside from a fervent belief in ghosts, channeling, and reincarnation, and aside from his unmatched ability to convince others of anything he chose to argue about, there was the following story. Said story was told to me by my mother and grandmother (yes, together) when I was 14, and later confirmed, in great detail, by my father, who, once again, it is nigh on impossible for me to disbelieve, especially when it concerns truth and posterity. It deals with ghosts, fear, and extra-physical bonds, and unless I am someday told that the whole thing was a big, deliberate farce, I will always believe that it is a true story. You see, it's like this:
Pocono Mountains, Pennsylvania, fall of 1976. Little Danny is only a few months old, and already his exhausted parents need a break from his exuberance. Ed Boucher enlists the help of Joe, his youngest brother, to babysit his infant nephew while Ed and his new-ish wife (married just over 1 year) Lisa go out on a date. If you have never been in the Poconos at night, let me tell you: it's right out of a horror movie. The branches of big trees creak and grumble, whistling winds blow sudden bursts of dead leaves against windows, wooden houses moan and pop as they settle, things feel ominous (I love it up there). Sitting there, trying to watch T.V. to distract himself from the eeriness as I slept, my young uncle Joe may have even pondered the mystery surrounding my namesake, a man named Daniel Whitaker.
From my understanding (this may need correcting), Daniel Whitaker was a well-liked individual-- a joker, and a bit of a tough guy. He had gone to college with one of my father's 13 siblings, and was counted as the best friend of my father and at least two of his brothers. At some point in his life, he joined the Merchant Marines, ostensibly to seek out the kind of adventure that was sought out by tough guys in those days. When his conscription was finished, he rented an apartment in Iowa, in a house owned by a young newlywed couple. Months later, he was found murdered in a cornfield, having received a shotgun wound to the back.
The young couple disappeared, never to be heard from again.
You see? My parents named me after this person. As a non-skeptic would say, that's some serious mojo.
Anywho, fast forward to 1976, it's weird and dark outside, and my uncle Joey is holding down my parents' meager fort as I sleep upstairs in the "onesies" pajamas common to the era (a jammies jumpsuit with feet, and with a single zipper up the middle). He hears a window open upstairs, accompanied by the sound of a person descending the staircase. His aural impression is so acute that he is paralyzed with fear, and cannot even bring himself to check on the snoozing youngster in his charge. He is still frozen, standing, listening--when my parents arrive home from their date.
"Joey, what's going on," says one of them, seeing the terror on his face. As Joey attempts to explain what exactly has him so unsettled, my father waves his experience off as over-dramatic, knowing his brother to be a pretty wound-up guy. My parents head up the staircase to check on me, and my father is heard to utter the famous last words: "It's probably just the house settling".
It is at this point that there is none, absolutely zero variation between this story whether told by my mother or father.
Upon entering my bedroom, they find the window to be inexplicably open in the cold mountain fall, and their son to be wide awake, though not in distress. As they approach, they notice a bulge that is insistently pushing my jumpsuit jammies out of form. The window is closed by one parent while the other opens my pajamas to find--
A sweatshirt belonging to Daniel Whitaker.
How do they know it's his? Simple. Danny Whitaker was in a fraternity in college, and like all fraternities, they had sweatshirts with their chapter's Greek letters emblazoned across the front. Here's the difference: while almost all of the frat shirts were blue, with red lettering (or something), the sweatshirt stuffed into my pajamas was RED with BLUE lettering-- the "reverse" style, only printed and worn by 3 of the frat brothers-- Danny Whitaker, and two of his closest friends.
Completely freaked out beyond belief, my father takes the sweatshirt and folds it for use as that night's pillow. While sleeping, he has a dream that a picture he's been searching for (one that includes himself and Whitaker) can be found sandwiched in his high school yearbook. When my father awakes the next morning, the sweater has gone missing (yes, from just underneath his head), and when he opens his yearbook-- yep, you guessed it, out plops that photograph.
Now, that story may indeed get some tweaking on this blog as the weeks go on, but the gist will stay the same. My parents truly believe that some supernatural force (whether it be Whitaker's ghost or something else entirely) left a message (what message? says who?) for them, and for me. That there is a connection to my namesake, and that this connection involves Whitaker's untimely death seems undeniable, and I will always believe that my parents had this experience.
Does this make me a non-atheist? I mean, I can espouse the principles of secular humanism all day--to wit: that the best thing you can do for humanity is to practice the golden rule, and that gods, worship, and tradition only get in the way. The thing is, no matter how convincing these arguments become--indeed, I would even go so far as to call myself a convert to them--I will never escape the nagging sense that there is something more, something else that awaits us beyond the veil. The scariest moments in my life now are the times when I doubt there is really anything at all.
I certainly don't believe in any form of God or original purpose or bloody "first cause", but there are days when I become very convinced that there is nothing for us once this consciousness ceases to be, that due to subatomic determinism, there may not even be free will. These are dark days for me, but I am inevitably pulled out of the malaise by a little ghost story once told to me by my parents, a story indelibly reinforced by my father and my respect for his intellectual integrity. He reaches out from beyond the grave and tells me not to take life so seriously; that what is unexplainable is not necessarily impossible, and that one should hope for the unexpected, rather than take measures to prevent against it. He teaches me to always take a closer look, even if done through a hazy lens, and thus to enjoy the wonder of existence rather than to waste time worrying about what comes after. Live now and let go later, as it were.
Thanks, Dad. I'm trying.
Extra: My mother corrects my mistakes.
14 July 2008
A Healthy Addiction
I have a confession to make. I did a crazy fun thing with thousands of strangers on a Saturday night, and I didn't even invite my friends. That is, I flaked out and forgot that they would be interested until the last minute. And that is because of the Sickness.
I thought it was just a silly Chicago local yokel myth, how riding to work becomes riding for recreation becomes riding to everywhere, all the time. And then it happened to me-- I became so obsessed with cycling that I forgot that other people like it, too.
I am slowly morphing into a new being-- a caricature of an urbanite, covered in and cash-drained by a dizzying array of saftey gadgets, bike tools, accessibility features, and high-end replacement parts. I talk at very, very disinterested people about the best routes to work, the best rides in the city, the stupidity and arrogance of sidewalk riders, and the most recent manner in which I was almost killed by an oblivious motorist.
This whole time I am aware, as are my bemused co-workers, that I have undertaken a very common transformation. I have transmogrified from a normal city-dweller into a time-honored, oft-satirized breed: The Chicago Bike Commuter.
The breed is so well-recognized that savvy NPO fundraisers can organize entire multi-million dollar benefits around our fantasies. Case in point: the 20th annual McDonald's L.A.T.E. ride to benefit the Friends of the Parks. A brilliant idea. Take over 25 miles of prime Chicago boulevard and lake frontage for 6 hours and get people to sign up to bike it for $40.
Wait, how are we going to get thousands of the classically broke Commuter species to shell out that kind of green? Oh yeah, the ride starts at midnight (that kind of little detail's not icing, folks-- that's the whole cake).
So, this event and the corresponding media coverage aren't exactly news to the locals, but it took my brain about 3 minutes to explode after checking out the webisite. An overnight ride? Up to 10,000 riders? Drunk bystanders cheering you on? 25 road miles? Breakfast?! Once Christa covered my broke ass with the registration fee, I could attend with a clear conscience.
What? Friends of the Parks does important stuff, man.
I should take this opportunity to point out to anyone not living in the midwest that Chicago is a flat, flat city. Someone on the ride said it best when they said, "We don't have hills here, just inclines." So, don't get any big ideas about how tough this ride must have been. There were children there. Small ones.
Lots of them.
So there we are, 9,900 bicycle dorks and about 100 casual riders, straddling our bikes on the corner of Congress and Jackson at midnight, waiting for an obnoxious announcer's countdown and an airhorn. They sent us out in five heats, of which I was in the last. I put myself wayyyy in the back, to facilitate the maximum amount of "chilling", oblivious to the fact that I was about become very, very weary of "chill" in general.
You see, there are lot of people. So many people that getting any kind of useful cardio excercise is an hilarious joke until about mile 5. Oh, by the way, it takes over an hour to get to mile 5, on account of there being so many people.
Did I mention the crowds?
If you know me at all, you can see how I might have been a little antsy and ready to start actually pedaling, for fuck's sake, at that point. It occurs to me that anyone who has ever done any kind of mass ride or run is probably familiar with the following scenario: If you really plan on getting past people, or on making better time, you have to go around them-- and that involves riding in the opposing lane of traffic.
Remember, it's about 2 A.M. at this time, so there's not a lot of traffic on the surface streets. However, due to the sheer density of riders next to you, you will manage to rejoin the pack in what seems like just enough time to avoid getting clipped by a pissed, speeding motorist. Thanks a lot, asshole! That's a really fair game of chicken! Yeah!
Once I was able to work up a sweat at will (the herd-like convoy eventually thins out to a mere steady gush of cyclists), I got more comfortable with taking "chill" breaks and just riding with the pack-- and that's when being a lone rider gets interesting.
Eavesdropping. You can't do it in public with a partner.
A couple cruised by me, the girl telling a pointless story punctuated by a bad joke, which she caps off by laughing at her own bad joke. They were followed by another couple (presumably unacquainted) who were mocking them. The guy made a churlish face and said, in a whiny pitch: "Myah myah myah myah! Tee hee hee!"
That slayed me.
Also on tap: Three lifelong buds (in their 60s) cracking wise about everything (sample at mile 12: "Rest stop?! I thought we were still at the start line!"); A pod of sorority sisters communicating exactly as one would expect; a middle-aged married couple fighting, and pedaling away from each other when the outrage was too much to bear. Somewhere on the ride, a person died, and somewhere further along the route, a person was born.
Okay, not that last thing, exactly, but I did see a young couple groping each other on the lakefront at sunrise.
Oh yeah, the best part of the ride: even if it hadn't been the most legal fun I've had in months (it was), it would've all been redeemed by watching the sun come up on the open, unobstructed Lake Michigan with the John Hancock building behind me. The lakefront path is weird there-- on some kind of inexplicable slope towards the lake, completely concrete, no grass. I took a few photos, sprayed a few gnat swarms with pure 100% DEET, and pushed on to Buckingham fountain, and the promised, long-awaited, McDonalds-supplied breakfast.
Naturally I was nervous-- there's nothing on their breakfast menu for a vegetarian! In hindsight, the idea that McDonalds would donate their hot, money-making death pucks to thousands of freeloaders is quite naive. Here is what they handed out: A plastic-- PLASTIC bag, Friends of the Parks-- with a McDonald's bagel (what, never had one?), McDonald's plain cream cheese, 5 of those floury "shortbread" cookies that they sell to your children, and somthing called "apples" that was chopped into sections and peeled before being heremtically sealed in yet another (sigh) plastic bag. It was once an apple, that much is certain, but that must have been before the geniuses involved with McDonald's commercial bioengineering arm (A.K.A. Monsanto) got their hands on it. It tasted like crisp, wet sponge. I can only hope that some creature at the bottom of the trash can found it to be edible.
In my starving, tired delerium, I had flashes of the website-- something about how they had been looking for volunteers to bake thousands of chocolate-chip cookies.... hey, wait a minute-- where were the goddamn COOKIES?!
I dashed to a tent dutifully marked "REFRESHMENTS" to find pint-sized amounts of pomegranate kefir (score!) and granola bars. Not bad, but I can smell the...
There! Another McDonald's tent! And what're those in the little paper sleeves being handed out with the fake bagels?
I staggered up to the nice, nice, volunteer behind the counter, who made ready with another breakfast package for my childish, bogarting countenance. "Man, I really just want one of those--" I started to stammer, but before I could say "cookies", the very smart man had placed two-- TWO of them in my hands.
Friends, I devoured those motherfuckers, you know I did. And I'm sure there was chocoalte on my face afterwards, and for the entire 6 mile ride home from the fountain, and maybe even-- well, let's just say I haven't exactly looked in a mirror since the ride. But, you know, my co-workers would tell me if I had been walking around all day with yesterday's chocolate smeared on my face. Right, guys?
Guys?
Tired Rider At Dawn
I thought it was just a silly Chicago local yokel myth, how riding to work becomes riding for recreation becomes riding to everywhere, all the time. And then it happened to me-- I became so obsessed with cycling that I forgot that other people like it, too.
I am slowly morphing into a new being-- a caricature of an urbanite, covered in and cash-drained by a dizzying array of saftey gadgets, bike tools, accessibility features, and high-end replacement parts. I talk at very, very disinterested people about the best routes to work, the best rides in the city, the stupidity and arrogance of sidewalk riders, and the most recent manner in which I was almost killed by an oblivious motorist.
This whole time I am aware, as are my bemused co-workers, that I have undertaken a very common transformation. I have transmogrified from a normal city-dweller into a time-honored, oft-satirized breed: The Chicago Bike Commuter.
The breed is so well-recognized that savvy NPO fundraisers can organize entire multi-million dollar benefits around our fantasies. Case in point: the 20th annual McDonald's L.A.T.E. ride to benefit the Friends of the Parks. A brilliant idea. Take over 25 miles of prime Chicago boulevard and lake frontage for 6 hours and get people to sign up to bike it for $40.
Wait, how are we going to get thousands of the classically broke Commuter species to shell out that kind of green? Oh yeah, the ride starts at midnight (that kind of little detail's not icing, folks-- that's the whole cake).
So, this event and the corresponding media coverage aren't exactly news to the locals, but it took my brain about 3 minutes to explode after checking out the webisite. An overnight ride? Up to 10,000 riders? Drunk bystanders cheering you on? 25 road miles? Breakfast?! Once Christa covered my broke ass with the registration fee, I could attend with a clear conscience.
What? Friends of the Parks does important stuff, man.
I should take this opportunity to point out to anyone not living in the midwest that Chicago is a flat, flat city. Someone on the ride said it best when they said, "We don't have hills here, just inclines." So, don't get any big ideas about how tough this ride must have been. There were children there. Small ones.
Lots of them.
So there we are, 9,900 bicycle dorks and about 100 casual riders, straddling our bikes on the corner of Congress and Jackson at midnight, waiting for an obnoxious announcer's countdown and an airhorn. They sent us out in five heats, of which I was in the last. I put myself wayyyy in the back, to facilitate the maximum amount of "chilling", oblivious to the fact that I was about become very, very weary of "chill" in general.
You see, there are lot of people. So many people that getting any kind of useful cardio excercise is an hilarious joke until about mile 5. Oh, by the way, it takes over an hour to get to mile 5, on account of there being so many people.
Did I mention the crowds?
If you know me at all, you can see how I might have been a little antsy and ready to start actually pedaling, for fuck's sake, at that point. It occurs to me that anyone who has ever done any kind of mass ride or run is probably familiar with the following scenario: If you really plan on getting past people, or on making better time, you have to go around them-- and that involves riding in the opposing lane of traffic.
Remember, it's about 2 A.M. at this time, so there's not a lot of traffic on the surface streets. However, due to the sheer density of riders next to you, you will manage to rejoin the pack in what seems like just enough time to avoid getting clipped by a pissed, speeding motorist. Thanks a lot, asshole! That's a really fair game of chicken! Yeah!
Once I was able to work up a sweat at will (the herd-like convoy eventually thins out to a mere steady gush of cyclists), I got more comfortable with taking "chill" breaks and just riding with the pack-- and that's when being a lone rider gets interesting.
Eavesdropping. You can't do it in public with a partner.
A couple cruised by me, the girl telling a pointless story punctuated by a bad joke, which she caps off by laughing at her own bad joke. They were followed by another couple (presumably unacquainted) who were mocking them. The guy made a churlish face and said, in a whiny pitch: "Myah myah myah myah! Tee hee hee!"
That slayed me.
Also on tap: Three lifelong buds (in their 60s) cracking wise about everything (sample at mile 12: "Rest stop?! I thought we were still at the start line!"); A pod of sorority sisters communicating exactly as one would expect; a middle-aged married couple fighting, and pedaling away from each other when the outrage was too much to bear. Somewhere on the ride, a person died, and somewhere further along the route, a person was born.
Okay, not that last thing, exactly, but I did see a young couple groping each other on the lakefront at sunrise.
Oh yeah, the best part of the ride: even if it hadn't been the most legal fun I've had in months (it was), it would've all been redeemed by watching the sun come up on the open, unobstructed Lake Michigan with the John Hancock building behind me. The lakefront path is weird there-- on some kind of inexplicable slope towards the lake, completely concrete, no grass. I took a few photos, sprayed a few gnat swarms with pure 100% DEET, and pushed on to Buckingham fountain, and the promised, long-awaited, McDonalds-supplied breakfast.
Naturally I was nervous-- there's nothing on their breakfast menu for a vegetarian! In hindsight, the idea that McDonalds would donate their hot, money-making death pucks to thousands of freeloaders is quite naive. Here is what they handed out: A plastic-- PLASTIC bag, Friends of the Parks-- with a McDonald's bagel (what, never had one?), McDonald's plain cream cheese, 5 of those floury "shortbread" cookies that they sell to your children, and somthing called "apples" that was chopped into sections and peeled before being heremtically sealed in yet another (sigh) plastic bag. It was once an apple, that much is certain, but that must have been before the geniuses involved with McDonald's commercial bioengineering arm (A.K.A. Monsanto) got their hands on it. It tasted like crisp, wet sponge. I can only hope that some creature at the bottom of the trash can found it to be edible.
In my starving, tired delerium, I had flashes of the website-- something about how they had been looking for volunteers to bake thousands of chocolate-chip cookies.... hey, wait a minute-- where were the goddamn COOKIES?!
I dashed to a tent dutifully marked "REFRESHMENTS" to find pint-sized amounts of pomegranate kefir (score!) and granola bars. Not bad, but I can smell the...
There! Another McDonald's tent! And what're those in the little paper sleeves being handed out with the fake bagels?
I staggered up to the nice, nice, volunteer behind the counter, who made ready with another breakfast package for my childish, bogarting countenance. "Man, I really just want one of those--" I started to stammer, but before I could say "cookies", the very smart man had placed two-- TWO of them in my hands.
Friends, I devoured those motherfuckers, you know I did. And I'm sure there was chocoalte on my face afterwards, and for the entire 6 mile ride home from the fountain, and maybe even-- well, let's just say I haven't exactly looked in a mirror since the ride. But, you know, my co-workers would tell me if I had been walking around all day with yesterday's chocolate smeared on my face. Right, guys?
Guys?
Tired Rider At Dawn
01 July 2008
The Track List
This post's for you, Justin.
First, check out this great grammar refutation from o1mnikent.
I just spent the weekend making a giant playlist (192 songs, 163 different artists) in order to reveal a small cross-section of my iPod (to myself), and to hopefully expose lots of people to music they've never heard. Except Devon and Justin. They will have heard 100% and 95% of this playlist already, respectively.
Feeling bored? Scan the whole list, then leave a post letting me know the approximate percentage of this music you are familiar with. This will help me determine whether I have been suitably unusual. Also, the track list is all insanely formatted due to copy & paste, so, you know, have fun with that.
Thanks for bothering.
SONG TITLE/ARTIST/ALBUM
1. Girl In the War / Josh Ritter /The Animal Years
2. 2X2 /Get Him Eat Him /Arms Down
3. Desert Skies /Beachwood Sparks/ Beachwood Sparks
4. Be Gentle With Me /Boy Least Likely To / The Best Party Ever
5. Confidant /Mason Jennings/ Birds Flying Away
6. Spanish Key/ Miles Davis/ Bitches’ Brew
7. Rainbows In The Dark/ Tilly And The Wall/ Bottoms Of Barrels
8. Fake Empire /The National /Boxer
9. Henrietta /Fratellis / Costello Music
10. Dig, Lazarus, Dig!!! /Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds / Dig, Lazarus, Dig!!!
11. Fluorescent Grey /Deerhunter /Fluorescent Grey
12. Our Trip / The Thermals/ Fuckin’ A
13. Monkey/ Low/ The Great Destroyer
14. Cough Coughing/ Menomena/ I AM the FUN BLAME MONSTER!
15. So Post All ‘Em /YACHT /I Believe In You. Your Magic Is Real.
16. How Low / Jose Gonzalez/ In Our Nature
17. Pump Up The Volume /Art Brut /It’s A Bit Complicated
18. No Moon /Iron & Wine/ iTunes Exclusive EP
1. Pots And Pans /Les Savy Fav / Let’s Stay Friends
2. Ill love / Pete And The Pirates / Little Death
3. Fell So Hard /The Sun / Love And Death EP
4. See No Evil /Television /Marquee Moon
5. Nothing/ Mason Jennings/ Mason Jennings
6. One More Goodbye / M. Ward / Old Enough 2 Know Better
7. Song Against Sex/ Neutral Milk Hotel/ On Avery Island
8. Time To Pretend / MGMT/ Oracular Spectacular
9. Gimme Indie Rock / Sebadoh / Rocking The Forest
10. Yellow Number Three /The Wrens/ Secaucus
11. Peacebone/ Animal Collective/ Strawberry Jam
12. Two Way Action/ Andrew Bird’s Bowl Of Fire/ The Swimming Hour
13. So Far We Are / French Kicks / Two Thousand
14. Yeah Toast!!! / Arcade Fire/ Unknown
15. Needle In The Camel’s Eye /Brian Eno/ Velvet Goldmine Sdtrk
16. Sentimental Heart /She & Him / Volume One
17. Oh What A World /Rufus Wainwright/ Want One
18. C + F / Sam Prekop/ Who’s Your New Professor?
19. Woman King / Iron & Wine /Woman King EP
20. Absolutely Cuckoo /The Magnetic Fields/ 69 Love Songs
21. Work (Carparks & Cubicles) / The Cinematic Underground /Annasthesia
22. I Might Need You To Kill / The Thermals /The Body, The Blood, The Machine
23. Born To Lose / The Bouncing Souls /The Bouncing Souls
1. Staring At The Sun /T.V. On The Radio/ Desperate Youth, Bloodthirsty Babes
2. Belarus / Low /Drums & Guns
3. Good Folks Bad Folks /Sonny Smith /Fruitvale
4. No Pussy Blues / Grinderman/ Grinderman
5. I Don’t Believe You /The Magnetic Fields / 69 Love Songs
6. Walking On The Dune /The Make-Up /I Want Some
7. Split Needles (Alt. Version)/ The Shins/ Phantom Limb Single
8. On Parade / Electrelane /The Power Out
9. This Magnificent Bird Will Rise! / Deerhoof / Reveille
10. Dynamite Walls /Hayden/ Skyscraper Nat’l Park
11. Unless It’s Kicks/ Okkervil River /The Stage Names
12. Jenny/ Stellastarr*/ Stellastarr*
13. Red And Purple/ The Dodos / Visiter
14. Palmcorder Yajna / The Mountain Goats/ We Shall All Be Healed
15. Burn The River Dry /Jim White/ Wrong-Eyed Jesus
16. These Few Presidents / Why?/ Alopecia
17. Falling Down/ Scarlett Johansson / Anywhere I Lay My Head
18. Push And Pull /Get Him Eat Him /Arms Down
19. Funny Like The Moon / Bunky / Born To Be A Motorcycle
1. 7/4 (Shoreline) /Broken Social Scene /Broken Social Scene
2. Sunship Balloons /The Flaming Lips /Ego Tripping At the Gates Of Hell
3. Woody /Hayden /Elk-Lake Serenade
4. The Clock /Thom York / The Eraser
5. Crawling Can Be Beautiful /Les Savy Fav /Go Forth
6. A History Of Lovers/Calexico/Iron & Wine/ In The Reins
7. Rally / Phoenix /It’s Never Been Like That
8. Collagen Rock / Mclusky / Mclusky Do Dallas
9. This Must Be The Place / Arcade Fire /Power Out Single
10. (Do Not Feed the) Oyster /Stephen Malkmus /Pig Lib
11. Ragged Wood / Fleet Foxes /Ragged Wood
12. The Well / Smog /A River Ain’t Too Much To Love
13. Tane Mahuta /The Ruby Suns /Sea Lion
14. Sanctuary /Antibalas Afrobeat Orchestra /Security
15. Mama, Won’t You Keep Them Castles In The Air And Burning?/ Clap Your Hands Say Yeah!/ Some Loud Thunder
16. North American Scum/ LCD Soundsystem /Sound Of Silver
1. Wham City/ Dan Deacon/ Spiderman Of The Rings
2. A Hand To Take Hold Of The Scene /Okkervil River/ The Stage Names
3. Nylon Smile/ Portishead/ Third
4. Hurricane Jane /Black Kids / Wizard Of Ahhhs
5. Knife/ Grizzly Bear/ Yellow House
6. Waking Up / Evan Dando/ Baby, I’m Bored
7. Manchasm /Future Of The Left/ Curses
8. Promiscuity/ Manu Chao / Esperanza
9. Baby (1971)/ Os Mutantes / Everything Is Possible
10. Kick It ft. Iggy Pop/ Peaches/ Fatherfucker
11. Eskimo/ Versus /Old Enuf 2 Know Better
12. Rough Gem / Islands /Return To The Sea
13. My British Tour Diary/ Of Montreal /Satanic Panic In The Attic
14. Grounds For Divorce / Elbow / The Seldom Seen Kid
15. David Watts/ The Jam/ The Sound Of The Jam
16. Dirty Old Town /The Pogues /The Ultimate Collection
17. Summer Here Kids/ Grandaddy/ Under The Western Freeway
18. 2HB / The Venus In Furs / Velvet Goldmine Sdtrk
19. Fools/ The Dodos/ Visiter
20. Earth To Dorris / Was (Not Was) / What Up, Dog?
1. Where The Humans Eat /Willy Mason / Where The Humans Eat
2. Sycamore / Bill Callahan/ Woke On A Whaleheart
3. Amsterdam/ Peter Bjorn & John /Writer’s Block
4. My Side Of The City / Beulah/ Yoko
5. Polyethylene (Parts 1 & 2)/ Radiohead / Airbag/How Am I Driving? EP
6. People /Silver Jews/ American Water
7. Hollywood Ending /Hayden/ Elk-Lake Serenade
8. Tropical-Iceland / The Fiery Furnaces/ EP
9. In Love/ Fear Of Pop/ Volume One
10. Hearts Of Oak /Ted Leo & The Pharmacists /Hearts Of Oak
11. Pillar Of Fire/ Ian Downey / Ian Downey Is Famous
12. Lamont’s Lament /The Sea And Cake /Nassau
13. Wound Up /Office / A Night At The Ritz
14. Black Cab / Jens Lekman / Oh, You’re So Silent Jens
15. Ole! Tarantula / Robyn Hitchcock & The Venus 3/ Ole! Tarantula
16. Gore Veil / The Deadly Snakes/ Porcella
17. Run That Shit/ Edan/ Primitive Plus
18. Down In The Tube Station At Midnight /The Jam / The Sound Of The Jam
19. Said So What / French Kicks / Swimming
1. Miles From Nowhere /Cat Stevens/ Tea For The Tillerman
2. Timorous Me/ Ted Leo & the Pharmacists / The Tyranny Of Distance
3. T.V. Eye/ Wylde Rattz/ Velvet Goldmine Sdtrk
4. Modern Girl / Sleater-Kinney /The Woods
5. Little Brother/ Grizzly Bear/ Yellow House
6. Summer’s Gone / Aberfeldy / Young Forever
7. Fix Up, Look Sharp / Dizzee Rascal / Boy In Da Corner
8. So Hard Done By / The Tragically Hip/ Day For Night
9. House Of Jealous Lovers/ The Rapture / Echoes
10. Me Gustas Tu / Manu Chao/ Esperanza
11. Knock Yourself Out / Jon Brion /I Heart Huckabees Sdtk
12. N.Y. /Doves /The Last Broadcast
13. These Burgers/ The Moldy Peaches/ The Moldy Peaches
14. Who Is It? / Talking Heads/ The Name Of This Band Is Talking Heads
15. Palo Alto/ Radiohead/ Airbag/How Am I Driving? EP
16. Gold Soundz / Pavement / Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain
17. The Owls Go /Architecture In Helsinki /Fingers Crossed
18. Ask Me Anything /The Strokes / First Impressions Of Earth
19. Fit But You Know It / The Streets/ A Grand Don’t Come For Free
20. Scenic World /Beirut/ The Gulag Orkestar
21. Cowbell/ Tapes ‘N Tapes/ The Loon
1. This Town /Hot Hot Heat /Make Up The Breakdown
2. Chances Are/ Apostle Of Hustle/ National Anthem Of Nowhere
3. Unity/ Operation Ivy / Operation Ivy
4. Highway 61 Revisited / PJ Harvey/ Rid Of Me
5.Fitter Happier/ Samson Dalonoga ft. The Found Sound Orchestra/Stereogum Presents: OKX: A Tribute To OK Computer
6. Glass Hotel (live)/ Robyn Hitchcock /Storefront Hitchcock
7. The Whole Shebang / Grant Lee Buffalo/ Velvet Goldmine sdtk
8. Tim I Wish You Were Born A Girl/ Of Montreal / Cherry Peel
9. Sorted For E’s and Whizz /Pulp/ Different Class
10. Bad Kids/ Black Lips /Good Bad Not Evil
11. Change Clothes / Danger Mouse/ The Grey Album
12. Glynis/ Smashing Pumpkins/ No Alternative
13. What Goes On / Sufjan Stevens / This Bird Has Flown
14. Head South /Modest Mouse/ This Is A Long Drive For Someone With Nothing To Think About
15. The Warning / Hot Chip /The Warning
16. I Was Born (A Unicorn) /The Unicorns/ Who Will Cut Our Hair When We’re Gone?
17. H2Ogate Blues/ Gil Scott-Heron/ Winter In America
18. Coming & Going On Easy Terms / John Vanderslice/ Cellar Door
19. Jerusalem / Dan Bern / Dan Bern
20. Adopduction /Les Savy Fav/ Go Forth
21. Seven /They Might Be Giants /Here Come The 123s!
1. Echos Myron /Guided by Voices /Bee Thousand
2. Spy /They Might Be Giants /John Henry
3. I Didn’t Come Here To Die /Spoon/ Love Ways EP
4. What Can I Do?/ The Rosebuds /Make Out
5. Lazy / Howard Hello / Sickroom Records ‘06-‘07 Sampler
6. X-ray Reveals Doctor Left Wristwatch Inside Patient/ Jad Fair & Yo La Tengo / Strange But True
7. (Theme From) Chariots Of Fire / The Bad Plus/ Suspicious Activity?
8. Heart Of Glass / The Bad Plus/ These Are The Vistas (shit! 2 in a row?! I organized this list by track number. Very random!)
9. Just (ft. Phantom Planet)/ Mark Ronson/ Version
10. Arrest Yourself/ Hot Chip / The Warning
11. Genius/ Kings Of Leon /Youth & Young Manhood
12. Bottles On The Tracks/ Nick Jaina /The Bluff Of All Time
13. We’re Not Supposed To /Supergrass/ I Should Coco
14. Is This New ?/ The Fall/ Imperial Wax Solvent
15. Every Home A Prison/ Coldcut ft. Jello Biafra/ Let Us Play!
16. As Night As Now/ Mates Of State / Our Constant Concern
17. Fall On Me/ the Vitamin String Quartet/ tribute to R.E.M.
18. Motoroller Scalatron /Stereolab / Emperor Tomato Ketchup
19. At The Hop/ Devendra Banhart / Nino Rojo
20. I’ve Been Shot /Tim Fite / Over The Counterculture
21. Bonnie & Clyde/ Luna/ Penthouse
1. Stay Loose /Belle & Sebastian /Dear Catastrophe Waitress
2. A Sweet Summer’s Night On Hammer Hill /Jens Lekman/ Oh, You’re So Silent Jens
3. Bourgeois Blues /The Bluerags/ Rag ‘N Roll
4. Essex Dogs/ Blur /Blur
5. Filipino Box Spring Hog / Tom Waits/ Mule Variations
6. Run For Your Life/ Cowboy Junkies/ This Bird Has Flown
7. Walking My Gargoyle/ Gothic Archies / Lemony Snicket sdtk
8. Put A Curse On You/ Quasimoto /The Unseen
9. Strange/ Wire/ Pink Flag
10. The Good Old Days/ The Libertines /Up The Bracket
11. Part-Time Punks/ Jeffery Lewis / Stop Me If You Think You’ve Heard This One Before
12. She Will Only Bring You Happiness /Mclusky / Mcluskyism: A Sides
13. Ill-Placed Trust /Sloan / Never Hear The End Of It
14. The Best Of Jill Hives/ Guided By Voices/ Earthquake Glue
First, check out this great grammar refutation from o1mnikent.
I just spent the weekend making a giant playlist (192 songs, 163 different artists) in order to reveal a small cross-section of my iPod (to myself), and to hopefully expose lots of people to music they've never heard. Except Devon and Justin. They will have heard 100% and 95% of this playlist already, respectively.
Feeling bored? Scan the whole list, then leave a post letting me know the approximate percentage of this music you are familiar with. This will help me determine whether I have been suitably unusual. Also, the track list is all insanely formatted due to copy & paste, so, you know, have fun with that.
Thanks for bothering.
SONG TITLE/ARTIST/ALBUM
1. Girl In the War / Josh Ritter /The Animal Years
2. 2X2 /Get Him Eat Him /Arms Down
3. Desert Skies /Beachwood Sparks/ Beachwood Sparks
4. Be Gentle With Me /Boy Least Likely To / The Best Party Ever
5. Confidant /Mason Jennings/ Birds Flying Away
6. Spanish Key/ Miles Davis/ Bitches’ Brew
7. Rainbows In The Dark/ Tilly And The Wall/ Bottoms Of Barrels
8. Fake Empire /The National /Boxer
9. Henrietta /Fratellis / Costello Music
10. Dig, Lazarus, Dig!!! /Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds / Dig, Lazarus, Dig!!!
11. Fluorescent Grey /Deerhunter /Fluorescent Grey
12. Our Trip / The Thermals/ Fuckin’ A
13. Monkey/ Low/ The Great Destroyer
14. Cough Coughing/ Menomena/ I AM the FUN BLAME MONSTER!
15. So Post All ‘Em /YACHT /I Believe In You. Your Magic Is Real.
16. How Low / Jose Gonzalez/ In Our Nature
17. Pump Up The Volume /Art Brut /It’s A Bit Complicated
18. No Moon /Iron & Wine/ iTunes Exclusive EP
1. Pots And Pans /Les Savy Fav / Let’s Stay Friends
2. Ill love / Pete And The Pirates / Little Death
3. Fell So Hard /The Sun / Love And Death EP
4. See No Evil /Television /Marquee Moon
5. Nothing/ Mason Jennings/ Mason Jennings
6. One More Goodbye / M. Ward / Old Enough 2 Know Better
7. Song Against Sex/ Neutral Milk Hotel/ On Avery Island
8. Time To Pretend / MGMT/ Oracular Spectacular
9. Gimme Indie Rock / Sebadoh / Rocking The Forest
10. Yellow Number Three /The Wrens/ Secaucus
11. Peacebone/ Animal Collective/ Strawberry Jam
12. Two Way Action/ Andrew Bird’s Bowl Of Fire/ The Swimming Hour
13. So Far We Are / French Kicks / Two Thousand
14. Yeah Toast!!! / Arcade Fire/ Unknown
15. Needle In The Camel’s Eye /Brian Eno/ Velvet Goldmine Sdtrk
16. Sentimental Heart /She & Him / Volume One
17. Oh What A World /Rufus Wainwright/ Want One
18. C + F / Sam Prekop/ Who’s Your New Professor?
19. Woman King / Iron & Wine /Woman King EP
20. Absolutely Cuckoo /The Magnetic Fields/ 69 Love Songs
21. Work (Carparks & Cubicles) / The Cinematic Underground /Annasthesia
22. I Might Need You To Kill / The Thermals /The Body, The Blood, The Machine
23. Born To Lose / The Bouncing Souls /The Bouncing Souls
1. Staring At The Sun /T.V. On The Radio/ Desperate Youth, Bloodthirsty Babes
2. Belarus / Low /Drums & Guns
3. Good Folks Bad Folks /Sonny Smith /Fruitvale
4. No Pussy Blues / Grinderman/ Grinderman
5. I Don’t Believe You /The Magnetic Fields / 69 Love Songs
6. Walking On The Dune /The Make-Up /I Want Some
7. Split Needles (Alt. Version)/ The Shins/ Phantom Limb Single
8. On Parade / Electrelane /The Power Out
9. This Magnificent Bird Will Rise! / Deerhoof / Reveille
10. Dynamite Walls /Hayden/ Skyscraper Nat’l Park
11. Unless It’s Kicks/ Okkervil River /The Stage Names
12. Jenny/ Stellastarr*/ Stellastarr*
13. Red And Purple/ The Dodos / Visiter
14. Palmcorder Yajna / The Mountain Goats/ We Shall All Be Healed
15. Burn The River Dry /Jim White/ Wrong-Eyed Jesus
16. These Few Presidents / Why?/ Alopecia
17. Falling Down/ Scarlett Johansson / Anywhere I Lay My Head
18. Push And Pull /Get Him Eat Him /Arms Down
19. Funny Like The Moon / Bunky / Born To Be A Motorcycle
1. 7/4 (Shoreline) /Broken Social Scene /Broken Social Scene
2. Sunship Balloons /The Flaming Lips /Ego Tripping At the Gates Of Hell
3. Woody /Hayden /Elk-Lake Serenade
4. The Clock /Thom York / The Eraser
5. Crawling Can Be Beautiful /Les Savy Fav /Go Forth
6. A History Of Lovers/Calexico/Iron & Wine/ In The Reins
7. Rally / Phoenix /It’s Never Been Like That
8. Collagen Rock / Mclusky / Mclusky Do Dallas
9. This Must Be The Place / Arcade Fire /Power Out Single
10. (Do Not Feed the) Oyster /Stephen Malkmus /Pig Lib
11. Ragged Wood / Fleet Foxes /Ragged Wood
12. The Well / Smog /A River Ain’t Too Much To Love
13. Tane Mahuta /The Ruby Suns /Sea Lion
14. Sanctuary /Antibalas Afrobeat Orchestra /Security
15. Mama, Won’t You Keep Them Castles In The Air And Burning?/ Clap Your Hands Say Yeah!/ Some Loud Thunder
16. North American Scum/ LCD Soundsystem /Sound Of Silver
1. Wham City/ Dan Deacon/ Spiderman Of The Rings
2. A Hand To Take Hold Of The Scene /Okkervil River/ The Stage Names
3. Nylon Smile/ Portishead/ Third
4. Hurricane Jane /Black Kids / Wizard Of Ahhhs
5. Knife/ Grizzly Bear/ Yellow House
6. Waking Up / Evan Dando/ Baby, I’m Bored
7. Manchasm /Future Of The Left/ Curses
8. Promiscuity/ Manu Chao / Esperanza
9. Baby (1971)/ Os Mutantes / Everything Is Possible
10. Kick It ft. Iggy Pop/ Peaches/ Fatherfucker
11. Eskimo/ Versus /Old Enuf 2 Know Better
12. Rough Gem / Islands /Return To The Sea
13. My British Tour Diary/ Of Montreal /Satanic Panic In The Attic
14. Grounds For Divorce / Elbow / The Seldom Seen Kid
15. David Watts/ The Jam/ The Sound Of The Jam
16. Dirty Old Town /The Pogues /The Ultimate Collection
17. Summer Here Kids/ Grandaddy/ Under The Western Freeway
18. 2HB / The Venus In Furs / Velvet Goldmine Sdtrk
19. Fools/ The Dodos/ Visiter
20. Earth To Dorris / Was (Not Was) / What Up, Dog?
1. Where The Humans Eat /Willy Mason / Where The Humans Eat
2. Sycamore / Bill Callahan/ Woke On A Whaleheart
3. Amsterdam/ Peter Bjorn & John /Writer’s Block
4. My Side Of The City / Beulah/ Yoko
5. Polyethylene (Parts 1 & 2)/ Radiohead / Airbag/How Am I Driving? EP
6. People /Silver Jews/ American Water
7. Hollywood Ending /Hayden/ Elk-Lake Serenade
8. Tropical-Iceland / The Fiery Furnaces/ EP
9. In Love/ Fear Of Pop/ Volume One
10. Hearts Of Oak /Ted Leo & The Pharmacists /Hearts Of Oak
11. Pillar Of Fire/ Ian Downey / Ian Downey Is Famous
12. Lamont’s Lament /The Sea And Cake /Nassau
13. Wound Up /Office / A Night At The Ritz
14. Black Cab / Jens Lekman / Oh, You’re So Silent Jens
15. Ole! Tarantula / Robyn Hitchcock & The Venus 3/ Ole! Tarantula
16. Gore Veil / The Deadly Snakes/ Porcella
17. Run That Shit/ Edan/ Primitive Plus
18. Down In The Tube Station At Midnight /The Jam / The Sound Of The Jam
19. Said So What / French Kicks / Swimming
1. Miles From Nowhere /Cat Stevens/ Tea For The Tillerman
2. Timorous Me/ Ted Leo & the Pharmacists / The Tyranny Of Distance
3. T.V. Eye/ Wylde Rattz/ Velvet Goldmine Sdtrk
4. Modern Girl / Sleater-Kinney /The Woods
5. Little Brother/ Grizzly Bear/ Yellow House
6. Summer’s Gone / Aberfeldy / Young Forever
7. Fix Up, Look Sharp / Dizzee Rascal / Boy In Da Corner
8. So Hard Done By / The Tragically Hip/ Day For Night
9. House Of Jealous Lovers/ The Rapture / Echoes
10. Me Gustas Tu / Manu Chao/ Esperanza
11. Knock Yourself Out / Jon Brion /I Heart Huckabees Sdtk
12. N.Y. /Doves /The Last Broadcast
13. These Burgers/ The Moldy Peaches/ The Moldy Peaches
14. Who Is It? / Talking Heads/ The Name Of This Band Is Talking Heads
15. Palo Alto/ Radiohead/ Airbag/How Am I Driving? EP
16. Gold Soundz / Pavement / Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain
17. The Owls Go /Architecture In Helsinki /Fingers Crossed
18. Ask Me Anything /The Strokes / First Impressions Of Earth
19. Fit But You Know It / The Streets/ A Grand Don’t Come For Free
20. Scenic World /Beirut/ The Gulag Orkestar
21. Cowbell/ Tapes ‘N Tapes/ The Loon
1. This Town /Hot Hot Heat /Make Up The Breakdown
2. Chances Are/ Apostle Of Hustle/ National Anthem Of Nowhere
3. Unity/ Operation Ivy / Operation Ivy
4. Highway 61 Revisited / PJ Harvey/ Rid Of Me
5.Fitter Happier/ Samson Dalonoga ft. The Found Sound Orchestra/Stereogum Presents: OKX: A Tribute To OK Computer
6. Glass Hotel (live)/ Robyn Hitchcock /Storefront Hitchcock
7. The Whole Shebang / Grant Lee Buffalo/ Velvet Goldmine sdtk
8. Tim I Wish You Were Born A Girl/ Of Montreal / Cherry Peel
9. Sorted For E’s and Whizz /Pulp/ Different Class
10. Bad Kids/ Black Lips /Good Bad Not Evil
11. Change Clothes / Danger Mouse/ The Grey Album
12. Glynis/ Smashing Pumpkins/ No Alternative
13. What Goes On / Sufjan Stevens / This Bird Has Flown
14. Head South /Modest Mouse/ This Is A Long Drive For Someone With Nothing To Think About
15. The Warning / Hot Chip /The Warning
16. I Was Born (A Unicorn) /The Unicorns/ Who Will Cut Our Hair When We’re Gone?
17. H2Ogate Blues/ Gil Scott-Heron/ Winter In America
18. Coming & Going On Easy Terms / John Vanderslice/ Cellar Door
19. Jerusalem / Dan Bern / Dan Bern
20. Adopduction /Les Savy Fav/ Go Forth
21. Seven /They Might Be Giants /Here Come The 123s!
1. Echos Myron /Guided by Voices /Bee Thousand
2. Spy /They Might Be Giants /John Henry
3. I Didn’t Come Here To Die /Spoon/ Love Ways EP
4. What Can I Do?/ The Rosebuds /Make Out
5. Lazy / Howard Hello / Sickroom Records ‘06-‘07 Sampler
6. X-ray Reveals Doctor Left Wristwatch Inside Patient/ Jad Fair & Yo La Tengo / Strange But True
7. (Theme From) Chariots Of Fire / The Bad Plus/ Suspicious Activity?
8. Heart Of Glass / The Bad Plus/ These Are The Vistas (shit! 2 in a row?! I organized this list by track number. Very random!)
9. Just (ft. Phantom Planet)/ Mark Ronson/ Version
10. Arrest Yourself/ Hot Chip / The Warning
11. Genius/ Kings Of Leon /Youth & Young Manhood
12. Bottles On The Tracks/ Nick Jaina /The Bluff Of All Time
13. We’re Not Supposed To /Supergrass/ I Should Coco
14. Is This New ?/ The Fall/ Imperial Wax Solvent
15. Every Home A Prison/ Coldcut ft. Jello Biafra/ Let Us Play!
16. As Night As Now/ Mates Of State / Our Constant Concern
17. Fall On Me/ the Vitamin String Quartet/ tribute to R.E.M.
18. Motoroller Scalatron /Stereolab / Emperor Tomato Ketchup
19. At The Hop/ Devendra Banhart / Nino Rojo
20. I’ve Been Shot /Tim Fite / Over The Counterculture
21. Bonnie & Clyde/ Luna/ Penthouse
1. Stay Loose /Belle & Sebastian /Dear Catastrophe Waitress
2. A Sweet Summer’s Night On Hammer Hill /Jens Lekman/ Oh, You’re So Silent Jens
3. Bourgeois Blues /The Bluerags/ Rag ‘N Roll
4. Essex Dogs/ Blur /Blur
5. Filipino Box Spring Hog / Tom Waits/ Mule Variations
6. Run For Your Life/ Cowboy Junkies/ This Bird Has Flown
7. Walking My Gargoyle/ Gothic Archies / Lemony Snicket sdtk
8. Put A Curse On You/ Quasimoto /The Unseen
9. Strange/ Wire/ Pink Flag
10. The Good Old Days/ The Libertines /Up The Bracket
11. Part-Time Punks/ Jeffery Lewis / Stop Me If You Think You’ve Heard This One Before
12. She Will Only Bring You Happiness /Mclusky / Mcluskyism: A Sides
13. Ill-Placed Trust /Sloan / Never Hear The End Of It
14. The Best Of Jill Hives/ Guided By Voices/ Earthquake Glue
15 June 2008
Guided By Ego
Let's talk about torrents. On second thought, let's listen to me talk about torrents. Those of you familiar with bit torrent downloads, keep reading. Those of you not familiar... well, if you don't already know, I'm not gonna tell you.
Okay, yes I will.
My music downloading habit began innocently enough-- a stuttering combination of Lime Wire for Mac ("Incredibly slow single song downloads! Buy full version!") and the occasional iTunes purchase. I don't know whom all of these untold millions are who regularly purchase individual song files, but I am surely not one of them. Like most music fanatics of my generation, I see an album as a whole piece of art, not a steady stream of interchangeable parts. Incidentally, if you think that that last sentence requires an explanation, you are most likely one of the aforementioned iTune buyers.
I became increasingly frustrated with this seemingly arcane format of downloading-- constant screen monitoring, apoplectic mouse clicking, trickling song downloads-- that I began to wonder where the savings was in acquiring music this way. It's no fun to get cheap stuff for free if it costs you your evenings.
And then a friend-- no, an angel, perhaps-- introduced me to the wonderful world of bit torrents.
Does anyone remember when the Nickleodeon channel held write-in sweepstakes for kids? If you won, they would cut you loose in a Toys 'R' Us with a shopping cart and, like, 60 seconds, and then they would televise your spree. Every kid always did the same (smart) thing, as if they had all been coached by the same child-loving production assistant: they raced maniacally up and down every possible aisle, sweeping their arms along the shelves, until they wound up with several carts full of junk that they couldn't possibly live enough lifetimes to play with.
That's like me, with bit torrents. Anything, just anything that might eventually be of consequence or minor enjoyment gets thrown in to the iCart. And things might not have gone this way, if not for one unique feature of bit torrenting-- a stark-raving mad example of the dangers of free music, a diabolical hidden capacity of brilliant programming-- the artist discography.
If you are a serious music lover, have never heard of discography torrents, and are in possession of disposable income, then I sadly recommend the following: Go to apple.com right now and buy the 160GB iPod-- you're going to need it, friend.
An artist discography torrent is exactly what it sounds like: you may be innocently searching for that mid-80's Lou Reed or early-90's Yo La Tengo album that's just impossible to find for free, and then you see it, all tarted up and link-highlighted, with the torrent name in all caps for the ultimate in suggestive downloading: LOU REED DISOCGRAPHY (1.8GB).
Your confused and outraged mind screams at you: "No, it can't be!" Or maybe it's something more like "After all this time!...." And then, you do what you must, what you cannot but do-- you download that sucker.
And it's a fucking religious experience. And within a year, you have an iPod meant to be filled with a combination of music and movies that is indeed full, but conspicuously absent of movie files. I've got 14,000 songs, folks, and 18G of space left on my 80G machine. Don't tell anyone.
Now, this is all very crazy, and sometimes humorous, but it has brought a different understanding of recording artists to my awareness. A musician, especially a prolific one, can really have their lives and careers laid bare before anyone inquisitive enough to look into all of their published works. I like it. It's given me a new perspective on Dinosaur, Jr., Sloan, Aesop Rock, XTC, Guided By Voices, lots of others.
Oh, that reminds me. Guided By Voices.
Until about a week ago, Lou Reed's discography was the largest one I'd pilfered, clocking in at a hefty, career-fulfilling 26 studio albums. To be sure, it is a staggering amount of music, and it speaks volumes about Lou's work ethic, staying power, and talent. Also, I have no idea how long it'll take me to get through it all, but I am able to listen large chunks of "shuffle all songs" every now and again while working. I consider deleting an album here or there, as it's clear I may never listen to it again, but the collector's indulgence of having an entire discography at my fingertips is still too juicy for me to let go of.
So there it is. Twenty-six unpaid for albums-- the most obvious testament to something that can only be referred to as a severe addiction, right there on my iPod, cover art and all.
Until about a week ago. That is when I began to catalog all of my discographies, make a playlist of them (called "Discographies"), wonder if I was missing anything that a collector with tastes like mine ought to have. And I realized that something major was being omitted-- Guided By Voices. Robert Pollard is the recording artist without whose career my current listening habits would likely be quite different. I know, without having heard most of his music, that he bears quite a bit of responsibility for the music-buying trends of that most ostentatious of rock subcultures: the hipster (If you don't believe me, check out my Last.fm widget, currently set to "Guided By Voices' similar artists"). Say what you like about hipsters (I may do the same in a future post), they produce and buy the best new rock out there, and my iPod is a slave to their tastes. Pitchfork Media-- you crazy, fickle, mercurial sons-of-bitches-- I am listening (P.S.: please stop giving redundant, boring, ambient-house-trance artists those unearned nine-point-whatever ratings. It's infuriating).
So, looking to find out why this man is so influential, to hear for myself the constant far-flung references so numerous on critics' blogs, I downloaded the GBV discography. Friends, when I tell you that the initial import contained 57 albums, and that these albums each had cover art to boot (meaning that they are official releases), please know that I am seriously not fibbing. Also, hours of tinkering in iTunes-- deleting live albums, poor-quality recordings, and narcissistic box sets-- left me with 41 studio albums.
Wait, go BACK and read that shit AGAIN.
41 albums! What the--?! Who the---?! Really, at first, I just didn't know what to think. Does Pollard have a army of loyal copycats trying to help him cement his legacy? Are there robots? How the hell does one man record so much music?! And then it hit me: there may be tens, hundreds of people who have recorded this much music in the last 2 decades, it's just that Bob Pollard is the only person who has released it all. This is Ani on a much larger scale: Pollard and DiFranco each have no inner editor, and no producer ballsy enough to tell them when an album, or a track, is shit. Ani runs her own label, so she just releases everything she records, whereas Robert Pollard is a megalomaniac.
As I sifted through the albums, listening to the first few seconds of songs, looking for chaff to cull with the "delete" key of fate, I stumbled upon this gem of a live show greeting: "Brighton! How are you? Tonight, I am going to teach you to make rock music."
Wow.
Could he be serious? Could one man really ask you to take every moment of his life's work seriously? The answer is: not only is he asking you to, he expects you to. The more you pick over his work, the more his ego seems to inflate. In his chords and rhythms, one hears a palatable smacking of the tongue, in his lyrics, a taunt. It is almost as if he is wringing his hands in some dark rocking-chair corner, saying to himself, "yessssssss........ lissssssssstennnn..." He is both serious and hysterical, alternating, within any single album, between songs which express the yearning of formative years, and the skepticism of looking back and learning from mistakes. He's damn good at pulling you in, but, lest you forget-- 41 ALBUMS!
You would think there would be some stinkers in there, and so far-- and I know this much-- you'd be right. Much to his chagrin, Pollard's releases are not all worth listening to, in fact some things are downright despicable in their intent, and by that I mean:
Bob, since you have refused to see any of your creations as unmarketable crap, you have tricked unwitting fans into buying unlistenable albums-- many times over. Yes, you are indeed a genius, but this does not forgive masturbating all over your fan base. Just because there are some people out there who want to own every thought you've ever had doesn't mean they should be able to, and not only that, but your character suffers for it.
You know, I've only heard legends about it, but I bet you're impossible to hang out with. The size of your discography is enough for me to make that judgement, unless you are 90 years old and have been wearing makeup all this time-- and I'm not sure, but I think you detest makeup.
I'm sure you said that exact thing somewhere in one of your lyrics, as you have released so many recorded lyrics that it is impossible to avoid having said everything ever (incidentally, you also love makeup).
Seriously, man, it's just too much stuff. What you've got here isn't a career-- it's an ego. The biggest ego I've ever seen in music-- and I know music and egos. Still, it'll be interesting to find out how much of your catalog is, in fact, worth buying, as I "shuffle all" through your dastardly maze and curse my addiction, and curse your eternal musical pregnancy.
And one of these days, maybe I'll even bring myself to see you perform live at one of your notorious Metro shows-- although, I don't know. My friend tells me that, on a recent visit, you sat on the edge of the stage, drinking beer, phoning it in, and generally harassing your die-hard fans, who have followed you through a literal shitstorm of releases that, as die-hard fans, they are more or less forced to purchase.
On second thought, Bob, I'm not really sure it matters much anymore. After all, I'm just another junkie waiting for the Pitchfork pusher to review your next release so that I can, you know, download it.
For free.
Think of it as payback for all the times you inadvertently but thoughtlessly asked thousands of broke kids to skip lunch for a week so they could buy an album of your afterthoughts and throw-away tracks.
Think of it as tough love.
______________________
UPDATE: Pitchfork riffs on Pollard's over-productivity.
Okay, yes I will.
My music downloading habit began innocently enough-- a stuttering combination of Lime Wire for Mac ("Incredibly slow single song downloads! Buy full version!") and the occasional iTunes purchase. I don't know whom all of these untold millions are who regularly purchase individual song files, but I am surely not one of them. Like most music fanatics of my generation, I see an album as a whole piece of art, not a steady stream of interchangeable parts. Incidentally, if you think that that last sentence requires an explanation, you are most likely one of the aforementioned iTune buyers.
I became increasingly frustrated with this seemingly arcane format of downloading-- constant screen monitoring, apoplectic mouse clicking, trickling song downloads-- that I began to wonder where the savings was in acquiring music this way. It's no fun to get cheap stuff for free if it costs you your evenings.
And then a friend-- no, an angel, perhaps-- introduced me to the wonderful world of bit torrents.
Does anyone remember when the Nickleodeon channel held write-in sweepstakes for kids? If you won, they would cut you loose in a Toys 'R' Us with a shopping cart and, like, 60 seconds, and then they would televise your spree. Every kid always did the same (smart) thing, as if they had all been coached by the same child-loving production assistant: they raced maniacally up and down every possible aisle, sweeping their arms along the shelves, until they wound up with several carts full of junk that they couldn't possibly live enough lifetimes to play with.
That's like me, with bit torrents. Anything, just anything that might eventually be of consequence or minor enjoyment gets thrown in to the iCart. And things might not have gone this way, if not for one unique feature of bit torrenting-- a stark-raving mad example of the dangers of free music, a diabolical hidden capacity of brilliant programming-- the artist discography.
If you are a serious music lover, have never heard of discography torrents, and are in possession of disposable income, then I sadly recommend the following: Go to apple.com right now and buy the 160GB iPod-- you're going to need it, friend.
An artist discography torrent is exactly what it sounds like: you may be innocently searching for that mid-80's Lou Reed or early-90's Yo La Tengo album that's just impossible to find for free, and then you see it, all tarted up and link-highlighted, with the torrent name in all caps for the ultimate in suggestive downloading: LOU REED DISOCGRAPHY (1.8GB).
Your confused and outraged mind screams at you: "No, it can't be!" Or maybe it's something more like "After all this time!...." And then, you do what you must, what you cannot but do-- you download that sucker.
And it's a fucking religious experience. And within a year, you have an iPod meant to be filled with a combination of music and movies that is indeed full, but conspicuously absent of movie files. I've got 14,000 songs, folks, and 18G of space left on my 80G machine. Don't tell anyone.
Now, this is all very crazy, and sometimes humorous, but it has brought a different understanding of recording artists to my awareness. A musician, especially a prolific one, can really have their lives and careers laid bare before anyone inquisitive enough to look into all of their published works. I like it. It's given me a new perspective on Dinosaur, Jr., Sloan, Aesop Rock, XTC, Guided By Voices, lots of others.
Oh, that reminds me. Guided By Voices.
Until about a week ago, Lou Reed's discography was the largest one I'd pilfered, clocking in at a hefty, career-fulfilling 26 studio albums. To be sure, it is a staggering amount of music, and it speaks volumes about Lou's work ethic, staying power, and talent. Also, I have no idea how long it'll take me to get through it all, but I am able to listen large chunks of "shuffle all songs" every now and again while working. I consider deleting an album here or there, as it's clear I may never listen to it again, but the collector's indulgence of having an entire discography at my fingertips is still too juicy for me to let go of.
So there it is. Twenty-six unpaid for albums-- the most obvious testament to something that can only be referred to as a severe addiction, right there on my iPod, cover art and all.
Until about a week ago. That is when I began to catalog all of my discographies, make a playlist of them (called "Discographies"), wonder if I was missing anything that a collector with tastes like mine ought to have. And I realized that something major was being omitted-- Guided By Voices. Robert Pollard is the recording artist without whose career my current listening habits would likely be quite different. I know, without having heard most of his music, that he bears quite a bit of responsibility for the music-buying trends of that most ostentatious of rock subcultures: the hipster (If you don't believe me, check out my Last.fm widget, currently set to "Guided By Voices' similar artists"). Say what you like about hipsters (I may do the same in a future post), they produce and buy the best new rock out there, and my iPod is a slave to their tastes. Pitchfork Media-- you crazy, fickle, mercurial sons-of-bitches-- I am listening (P.S.: please stop giving redundant, boring, ambient-house-trance artists those unearned nine-point-whatever ratings. It's infuriating).
So, looking to find out why this man is so influential, to hear for myself the constant far-flung references so numerous on critics' blogs, I downloaded the GBV discography. Friends, when I tell you that the initial import contained 57 albums, and that these albums each had cover art to boot (meaning that they are official releases), please know that I am seriously not fibbing. Also, hours of tinkering in iTunes-- deleting live albums, poor-quality recordings, and narcissistic box sets-- left me with 41 studio albums.
Wait, go BACK and read that shit AGAIN.
41 albums! What the--?! Who the---?! Really, at first, I just didn't know what to think. Does Pollard have a army of loyal copycats trying to help him cement his legacy? Are there robots? How the hell does one man record so much music?! And then it hit me: there may be tens, hundreds of people who have recorded this much music in the last 2 decades, it's just that Bob Pollard is the only person who has released it all. This is Ani on a much larger scale: Pollard and DiFranco each have no inner editor, and no producer ballsy enough to tell them when an album, or a track, is shit. Ani runs her own label, so she just releases everything she records, whereas Robert Pollard is a megalomaniac.
As I sifted through the albums, listening to the first few seconds of songs, looking for chaff to cull with the "delete" key of fate, I stumbled upon this gem of a live show greeting: "Brighton! How are you? Tonight, I am going to teach you to make rock music."
Wow.
Could he be serious? Could one man really ask you to take every moment of his life's work seriously? The answer is: not only is he asking you to, he expects you to. The more you pick over his work, the more his ego seems to inflate. In his chords and rhythms, one hears a palatable smacking of the tongue, in his lyrics, a taunt. It is almost as if he is wringing his hands in some dark rocking-chair corner, saying to himself, "yessssssss........ lissssssssstennnn..." He is both serious and hysterical, alternating, within any single album, between songs which express the yearning of formative years, and the skepticism of looking back and learning from mistakes. He's damn good at pulling you in, but, lest you forget-- 41 ALBUMS!
You would think there would be some stinkers in there, and so far-- and I know this much-- you'd be right. Much to his chagrin, Pollard's releases are not all worth listening to, in fact some things are downright despicable in their intent, and by that I mean:
Bob, since you have refused to see any of your creations as unmarketable crap, you have tricked unwitting fans into buying unlistenable albums-- many times over. Yes, you are indeed a genius, but this does not forgive masturbating all over your fan base. Just because there are some people out there who want to own every thought you've ever had doesn't mean they should be able to, and not only that, but your character suffers for it.
You know, I've only heard legends about it, but I bet you're impossible to hang out with. The size of your discography is enough for me to make that judgement, unless you are 90 years old and have been wearing makeup all this time-- and I'm not sure, but I think you detest makeup.
I'm sure you said that exact thing somewhere in one of your lyrics, as you have released so many recorded lyrics that it is impossible to avoid having said everything ever (incidentally, you also love makeup).
Seriously, man, it's just too much stuff. What you've got here isn't a career-- it's an ego. The biggest ego I've ever seen in music-- and I know music and egos. Still, it'll be interesting to find out how much of your catalog is, in fact, worth buying, as I "shuffle all" through your dastardly maze and curse my addiction, and curse your eternal musical pregnancy.
And one of these days, maybe I'll even bring myself to see you perform live at one of your notorious Metro shows-- although, I don't know. My friend tells me that, on a recent visit, you sat on the edge of the stage, drinking beer, phoning it in, and generally harassing your die-hard fans, who have followed you through a literal shitstorm of releases that, as die-hard fans, they are more or less forced to purchase.
On second thought, Bob, I'm not really sure it matters much anymore. After all, I'm just another junkie waiting for the Pitchfork pusher to review your next release so that I can, you know, download it.
For free.
Think of it as payback for all the times you inadvertently but thoughtlessly asked thousands of broke kids to skip lunch for a week so they could buy an album of your afterthoughts and throw-away tracks.
Think of it as tough love.
______________________
UPDATE: Pitchfork riffs on Pollard's over-productivity.
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