stones and addendums

The Rolling Stones have become my new musical obsession. I bought Let It Bleed last year sometime and I listened to it once. My reaction was something like, “Holy crap, this is the best record ever!” Then for some reason I put it on the shelf and didn’t listen to it again until Saturday night. As “Gimme Shelter” cascaded into “Love In Vain” I found myself wondering, “What the hell is wrong with me?” Today I went to Plan 9 and picked out Beggar’s Banquet and Sticky Fingers to put on hold until tomorrow (New Year’s Day, everything at Plan 9 is 20% off). I can see Exile On Main Street and Tattoo You entering my collection in the future.

The Stones have always been a band that I admired. I’ve always seen them as a radio band – a band who, when their music comes on the radio, I listen to and love, but at the same time I never feel the urge to rush out and buy the records. I suppose I reached a point where I was tired of stopping dead whenever I heard “Beast of Burden.” Give in to the urge. Just buy the damn records. After taking the Let It Bleed plunge I realize how stupid my approach was. I’ve missed out on so much good music for so long. We must rectify our errors.

Keith Richards is the greatest guitarist who ever lived. If you look at my guitar heroes over the years my taste has evolved from the flamboyance of Eddie Van Halen and 80’s hair metal to the calculated precision of Carrie Brownstein and compositional context. I don’t care how fast you can run your fingers on the frets. Let me hear something sleek and classy, something streamlined. Give me the Pretenders over Zack Wilde. Keith Richards is the master of this. A simple lick that gives overdue credit to the bass speaks greater volumes than 90-seconds worth of widdly-widdly-wahhh. Keep it in context. Write me a song. Let It Bleed is nothing but honest to God songs. They’re not trying to be flashy. They’re not trippy. They’re not dishonest. It’s Keith Richards showing us his immeasurable talent by just playing the blues. We have a new king at the top of my list of guitarists. Jimi Hendrix rightly stepped aside.

As an addendum to my Best-Of list for 2007 let me say something more about The National. They are overrated. I’m back on the fence with one leg on the wrong side after listening to Boxer again. If you are a fan of morose motherfucker music, then Boxer absolutely is for you. It’s song after song of dry, deep crooning (I’ve already tried Joy Division) and uninspired, monotonous emoting (Interpol had their chance). It sounds like they told the drummer to start messing around on each track and every other part jumped in to jam along, but they kept getting locked in on the same dead weight. I’ll give it more chances than this, and I may be putting unfair pressure on it because so many people are calling it record of the year. I’m baffled with how people can say this when there are obvious better choices out there.

As another addendum to the list, I’m making a new category – Favorite Vocalist. Kathleen Hannah is one of the best things I discovered in 2007. Her range can go from sweet desire to flaming rage in a matter of moments. Any Bikini Kill record is evidence, but it really comes out on the first Le Tigre release. She blends from “Deceptacon” into “The The Empty” right into “Eau D’Bedroom Dancing.” At times she’s a junkyard dog finally unchained and chasing the intruder so she can rip his nuts off, and with the greatest of ease she becomes a Blue Ridge twilight. Iggy Pop is the only other vocalist who does it better, but that’s beside the point (but listen to “Search and Destroy,” followed by “Gimme Danger,” and then “Your Pretty Face Is Going to Hell” and tell me he’s not a shape shifter). Corin Tucker does it, too. Kathleen Hannah is just a lot of fun. She knows how to perform. Being a lead vocalist is twenty-percent getting out the words and eighty-percent delivery. You have to be an actor. Iggy Pop, Corin Tucker, and now Kathleen Hannah – not a bad way to complete a triumvirate.

I do not think it means what you think it means

I watch Sports Center more than I should. I only watch it for the football highlights. NBA replays bore me, and I have no time for baseball. The NHL is dead to me since Anaheim won the Stanley Cup. Once football is over I will have no reason to watch Steve Levy and Kenny Mayne every night. Thank God I found the inspiration to complain one more time before my interest evaporated.

Oddly enough it was a sports environment that introduced me to the mangling of the English language. I believe it was a college football game where I first heard the word “athleticism.” The very fact that athleticism did not show up as a misspell just now proves my point for me, but you cannot see the lack of red underline on my computer screen, nor can you think my thoughts. So I must explain.

There is no such word as athleticism. At least there wasn’t until maybe ten or eleven years ago. An announcer whose name I can’t remember told us to “watch his athleticism on this play.” Let me tell you how there can’t be a word like athleticism. “Athletic” does not yield an “ism.” “Athletic” has no need for an “ism” form. Someone can have “athletic ability,” much in the same way as someone can be “very athletic.” If “athleticism” were truly a word, then the athlete would become the “athleticist.” This is true of the word “communism.” Someone can be a “communist.” “Communism” is a word that denotes an organized political system. Someone who follows communism is a “communist.” Someone who plays sports is an “athlete,” not an “athleticist.” “Athleticism” is a word someone created to sound less like an idiot. Never say “athleticism” again in my presence.

Sports Center has provided me with one more language faux pas that makes me want to cut my face off. “Begging the question” is a phrase that has to do with arguing in the logical sense. To “beg the question” is to bait a response. It is an argumentative fallacy. It is not good. Recently I have heard this term overused. Many Sports Center anchors will give a long list of events or statistics and then say, “This begs the question,” and then they will say a question. This cannot beg the question. This would certainly “raise the question.” Yes, we have a curiosity when someone cites a mountain of evidence regarding steroids. It doesn’t beg the question of whether or not Barry Bonds had knowledge of this. It raises the question. It does not beg the question.

This evening I was watching television with my sister-in-law and a commercial for some retail abattoir committed the same mistake. “This begs the question.” I had this same discussion with her and she lightly agreed, slightly unsure. My brother entered the scene and he confirmed my suspicion. There wasn’t much I could do. Why smash a television that isn’t mine. The only people I punish would be my brother and his wife, and they were innocent. The true perpetrators would escape justice. I sank into my seat on the couch and watched the rest of Law and Order SVU.

If you are guilty of perpetuating the mangling of the English language, please stop. You aren’t doing anyone any good. Yes, eventually the language will change to accommodate you, but it will change in order to accommodate the mistakes of ignorant people. I feel like Inengo Montoye when his boss kept saying “inconceivable.” “I do not think it means what you think it means.”

music of 2007

I’m going to make a lot of people angry with my list (if anyone actually reads this thing). Keep in mind that this is my list. It will differ from everyone else’s. Please keep in mind that my judgments are my own. I firmly believe that everyone is entitled to his or her opinion. Please keep in mind that this includes myself. That being said, nuts to everyone. This is my list and I stand by it.

Top 5 albums of 2007

5) Cassadaga, Bright Eyes – Every list needs to start with something strong. We begin with Conor Oberst. I’m a sucker for outstanding lyrics, and he never lets me down. Conor has an uncanny ability to assess the world around him and come away with track after track of truth. He’ll bring you to your knees if you give him half a chance. I suggest you give him that chance.

4) Friend and Foe, Menomena – I had this as my album of the year for a long time, but other records grew on me and unseated it. Its descent takes nothing away from its strength. Friend and Foe is different. It’s compositionally mature in a time where generic indie rock is taking over. Each song moves like a caterpillar, slow enough to analyze the sections and make you understand just how difficult it is to write compelling music. This will be hard to follow-up, although Menomena already used it followed-up I Am the Fun Blame Monster. I hope they can do it again.

3) Neon Bible, Arcade Fire – Damn. What can I say about this that hasn’t already been said? I came in understanding that I wasn’t going to get Funeral again, and I loved everything I found. The lyrical phrases conjure memories of Bruce Springsteen. How about that for indie rock? Show your colors, Will and Regine. Fly them high and sure. Anything less would be safe, and this is the year that I spit upon the safe.

2) The Stage Names, Okkervil River – I bought this album for two reasons. First, I remembered listening to The President’s Dead with a friend and finding a unique lyrical style that read like prose, and I remembered loving it. Second, the cover was very pretty. Maybe not a very good secondary reason to buy something, but it paid off. This album grew on me with every listen, and this might be a case where seeing a band perform live made me love the record even more. I will admit that may be the case, but I will defend myself by saying my love for Okkervil River was steadily growing long before I saw them perform in Portland. This is a beautiful record from start to finish. I read one critic’s assessment that said Will Sheff is Conor Oberst, Colin Meloy, and Jeff Mangum all rolled into one. That’s a pretty high standard, but it’s well warranted. “It’s just a life story, so there’s no climax.” Amen.

1) Random Spirit Lover, Sunset Rubdown – This was a late entry for me, but it quickly knocked everything out of its path with a cow catcher. Spencer Krug’s side project shows that he’s a creative force to be reckoned with. I love the artsiness. I love the cheesy Legend-esque synthesizer. I love the emotion. I love what they do with the fucking guitar. I’m still hacking my way through the concept, but I’m loving every word, every phrase, every image. Believe me. It had to take an awful lot to knock Okkervil River off the top of the mountain. Maybe I’m biased because Random Spirit Lover is freshest in my mind, but this is the only album this year where I could sit down and say, “Wow. Two or three more listens and I’m absolutely falling in love with this.” If there’s one album this year that reaffirmed my love for music and made me glad I didn’t kill myself, it’s Random Spirit Lover. This is your record of the year, people.

Honorable Mentions

Holy Fuck, Holy Fuck – Something had to get knocked out of the top 5 when Sunset Rubdown came along. Unfortunately it was Holy Fuck. This was a breath of fresh air. They put on a hell of a live show, too.

In Our Bedroom After the War, Stars – Is it irony or poetic justice that Torq gets torched by the band he trashed in The Onion? I didn’t read the article, nor did it have any bearing on whether or not Stars made it to the top 5. This was just a little too safe for me. Let me say that again with the proper emphasis. This was just a LITTLE too safe for me. It’s still a must-have for 2007. Go out and get it right now.

Four Winds EP, Bright Eyes – I can’t honestly put a glorified single in my top 5 records, but this is solid. I have lots of love for bands that can write excellent B-sides (see my love for Sleater-Kinney). “Smoke Without Fire” is better than anything on Cassadaga, and “Tourist Trap” is a modern day country classic. “The road finally gave me back, but I don’t think I’ll unpack, because I’m not sure if I live here anymore.”

Wild Mountain Country, Blitzen Trapper – I’ve been listening to this one all day. Take Revolver, melt it in the same pot as “Mississippi Queen,” give it the unpredictability of the Bastards of Fate, and then stomp on it with the heel of a cowboy boot. That’s your record. Trippy shit.

Is Is, Yeah Yeah Yeah’s – This went under a lot of radars because it’s an EP, but it’s really good. I respect any band that can put together a strong EP. I think a lot of albums would be better off as EP’s. It gets rid of the filler. I have a prime example of this later.

Most Overrated Album

Boxer, The National – The first two tracks on Boxer are solid enough, although I think “Fake Empire” needs another verse. “Mistaken For Strangers” gets me ready for the rest of the album, but the rest of the album falls short. I keep waiting for that same energy to re-emerge, but they never bring it back. Maybe that’s the point, but I don’t particularly care for it. A good album should have peaks and valleys. The National reach a peak and fall into a valley, and then it levels off far too much. This doesn’t mean I don’t like Boxer. I just don’t think it’s worthy of the attention.

Biggest Disappointment (tie)

The Reminder, Feist – Yes. Feist. This has nothing to do with the commercial. Feist could have taken a cue from the Yeah Yeah Yeah’s and simply released an EP. There are four songs on this record (the first four songs, actually) that make me swoon. The rest is filler. I can’t finish it.

Widow City, the Fiery Furnaces – Music shouldn’t be laborious. That’s what this album is. I know the Fiery Furnaces excel at inaccessibility, but I cannot listen to this album all the way through. Widow City makes me wish I were listening to something else.

Album That Grew On Me the Most

Seven Swans, Sufjan Stevens – I bought this one last year, but each time I listen to it I love it more and more. Go get it. For God’s sake, go get it.

Rediscovered and Loving It!

Vitalogy­, Pearl Jam – Hell, yes.

Top 10 Albums I Bought This Year

1) The Belle of Avenue A, the Fugs – Late 60’s outsider rock that doesn’t take itself too seriously. I haven’t laughed like this since I first listened to the Kennedys. Hands down the best record I bought this year.

The rest of this list is in no particular order:

Random Spirit Lover, Sunset Rubdown; The Stage Names, Okkervil River; The Dirt of Luck, Helium; Le Tigre, Le Tigre; Pussy Whipped, Bikini Kill; EP, the Fiery Furnaces; Broken Social Scene, Broken Social Scene; Another Side of Bob Dylan, Bob Dylan; Gyrate +, Pylon; Com Lag (2plus2is5), Radiohead

Okay. You know what? I started listening to Boxer as I wrote about it to get a feel for what I was writing about. Now I really like it. This is crazy because I really didn’t care for it last time I listened to it. Boxer is a heavy album. You have to be willing to carry it. I’ll put it in my Honorable Mentions. Music is a wonderfully funny thing.

dreams

I think they must be anxiety dreams.

When I was younger I used to have disturbing dreams about spiders and tornadoes. I would dream that I was out driving with my family under clouds as thick as smoke, and when we crested a hill there would be a thin funnel cloud moving across the distant landscape like a ghost. When I got older I still dreamed about tornadoes, but as I went through high school I started dreaming about spiders. They weren’t attacking me. They were just there – big hairy things that mindlessly crawled all over everything. I would wake up in the dark, absolutely sure that they were all over the blankets. The fear would paralyze me, and I may or may not convince myself they weren’t there before I fell asleep again.

As I went through college these dreams went away. I’m not sure why. Sometime during freshman year my dreams became normal, the kind where you know you dreamed something but when you wake up you can’t remember what the hell it was. Maybe I was comfortable for the first time in my life. Maybe academic life was more compatible with me than I like to think.

Lately, though, ever since I graduated four years ago, I’ve started having dreams where I lose my teeth. It’s to the point where losing my teeth is my biggest fear. Last night I had a very vivid dream where I was eating. I bit down on my left side and I felt one of my molars crunch on something. I worked my tongue in the mess and I felt my tooth break up into pieces with a little chunk still attached to the gum. It was like when you were little and you lost a baby tooth, how there would be that last section still stuck. Every time you moved your tongue on the tooth it hurt like you were peeling off a scab, and that was the worst part about pulling it out – that last bit of pain. Finally I worked it loose. If it’s going to come out anyway, you might as well get it over with. I held the pieces in my hand, and the difference between this and a baby tooth was that I pulled out the root. I touched the vacant hole with my tongue and it had the same metallic blood taste like when you lost a baby tooth, and the flesh was squishy slick. I bit down two or three times to see what my new mouth felt like, and that’s when I woke up. As I realized I had a head filled the correct number of teeth I fell back to sleep. This isn’t the first time I’ve had a dream like this, and I’m sure it won’t be the last.

Now I just wonder why I dream about losing my teeth. I think I’m worrying about selling my novel. It’s probably natural. It’s a long and tedious process. There’s lots of waiting. Waiting gives you time to worry. You try not to think about it too much, and just remember that dreams can’t hurt you. The thing is, I was dreaming about losing my teeth long before I began writing this thing. The other night I had another spider dream. I haven’t dreamed about spiders since the beginning of college.

a vow of classical?

Last week I nearly took a vow of classical. Fed up with band after band of My Morning Jacket imitators or Joy Division wanna-be’s, I cast off the indie rock cloak and drew a line in the sand. I was on the edge. The situation was coming to a head. I saw only one solution. When I drove in my car, it would be classical and classical only.

I should give the reasoning that led me to my musical cul-de-sac. It wasn’t so much my own cul-de-sac as it was a cul-de-sac in which I felt music in general had wedged itself. This was a very slow year for music. We had a number of new giants releasing sophomore efforts along with some highly hyped albums, but in general I feel as though everything came up short. I know it’s unfair to think Arcade Fire could reproduce the profundity of Funeral or to want Stars to make me cry they way the did with Set Yourself On Fire. I went into both records understanding that Funeral has come and gone and Set Yourself On Fire was three years ago. I gave both bands the benefit of the doubt, and I liked both of their CD’s. I still like them. I think Neon Bible and In Our Bedroom After the War are two of the strongest records of the year, and maybe I give the wrong impression as I talk about them. They are strong records. They lead the pack. When it comes down to it, though, they lead a pack of bands that decided to play it safe.

Indie rock is sinking into a sound. Listen to any satellite radio indie station or watch MTV2’s Subterranean. Line up any given four indie bands that you’ve never heard before and ask yourself if these could all be the same band. Indie labels are beginning to find what works – what the mainstream accepts and wants to buy. The Decemberists broke through. The Shins broke through. Feist broke through. I’m not saying breaking through is a bad thing. If I could get paid the amount of money Feist must be making, I would absolutely take it, and I’m not saying artistic integrity is compromised when someone goes “mainstream.” The aftereffect of going mainstream, though, is a negative impression on indie music that comes next. What pays off? Feist. Let’s have more Feist’s, because people will buy her CD’s. Then the sound is created. Everyone is trying to be the Shins or the Decemberists or Feist or Bright Eyes because that’s what’s successful. Labels are gobbling it up because it’s successful. People are becoming complacent and playing it safe. Music will take a major blow.

As evidence for my argument, back in October I saw Stars play in Washington, DC. The opening act was a young woman calling herself New Buffalo. She hailed from Australia, and she put on a pure solo set. I’m impressed with anyone who can perform by themselves onstage, but a few bars into her first song I cringed. It was painfully obvious that Arts & Crafts are searching for the next Feist. It was the same old-timey singer-songwriter style. This is what we will be stuck with for years to come. What made me more irritated was a comment from someone standing near me. A friend showed up late and asked how New Buffalo was, and this guy said, rather astutely as though he had just sipped a fine wine, “She wasn’t bad. She was a singer-songwriter much in the same vein as Regina Spektor.” I think this is what raised my hair the most, not just his attitude about it but the fact that he was okay with it, coupled with the fact that he did not seem to hear the one-to-one resemblance with Feist. What this tells me is that people are expecting everyone to sound the same these days. We have reached a point where we have a sound that everyone approves of. Record labels know this, and they will continue looking for more and more bands that produce this sound. It’s safe. It sells. Let’s have more.

So every band sounds the same. That’s why I came within an inch of swearing off indie rock and listening to nothing but classical. Debussy’s Preludes lived in my car for three days and it was the best three days of driving in a long time. The next day it was Smetana and Sibelius. I was making plans for Beethoven and Mussorgsky, maybe a little Shostakovich, too. Then on Friday I had a few late entries for my indie collection, and they all reaffirmed my faith in music. I wouldn’t say they were all worthy of album of the year, but they were diverse and unique enough to tell me people are still taking a chance. That’s all I want to hear. Even if you make something I don’t particularly care for, as long as you show me you’re not just falling into the rank and file I’ll give you a fair listen and a fair chance. Music needs to rebel against the template. If everyone starts releasing the same record, music will become boring. Then I really will take the vow of classical.

Listen to more classical, people. It will do you a world of good.

5 favorites

It’s that time of year. I feel the dead weight of conformity crushing me like a dead weight. We all have favorite things. This is the time of year where we must talk about our favorite things. Here are five of mine.

1) & 2) Cats and dogs occupy the first two spots on my list of favorite things. Everyone who knows me knows that I want to get a cat. At this point in my life I could handle caring for a cat as opposed to a dog. Cats are very low maintenance. All you have to do is teach them where to do their business and then feed them on a regular basis. I’m the kind of guy who likes attention, but when I want to be left alone I can be pretty crass. I think I would get along fine with a cat. I want to pet the hell out of every cat I meet, but I also know a cat must soften up to you first. I’m a patient guy. Any cat I get would have to be one who reacts positively to me when I first meet it. As for dogs, I love dogs, too. Right now I love other people’s dogs the most, for the same reason why I believe I could handle a cat. Dogs are very high maintenance. I work far too much to safely own a dog. I could own a dog eventually. I think I will own a dog eventually. Just not right now. When it comes to cats and dogs, give me someone furry and cuddly and who is happy to see me and I’m a pleased man.

3) Gloves – When you have skin like mine, gloves are a hot commodity. This time of year is when I especially feel it. My skin is so dry. I wash my hands so much at work, too, that they get all red and irritated and itchy. My thumbs like to split in the middle. While they don’t bleed, they still hurt like a bitch. It sucks. When I wear gloves my hands feel cozy and protected. I notice the difference every day. Also when I wear gloves I feel very astute and proper, especially when I drive. It’s like I’m driving around some high-ranking military official or a crime boss. It’s silly.

4) My new car – This is so fucking vain I want to puke, but I love my new car. I love driving my new car. I love sitting in my new car. I love looking at my new car. I love steering my new car. I love playing music in my new car. I love everything about my new car. I love the tires on my new car. A car should be a sanctuary. It should be your own little world when you’re driving. Obviously you should pay attention to the road, but when you’re in your car you should feel as though the world is locked out. It’s your space. You need to drive in comfort. When I still owned my Pontiac I felt like I was strapping it on when I drove. That was a great feeling. The Subaru feels like I’m climbing in, which is different, but it’s just as comforting. I’m climbing into my universe. This is my temple. Driving is such a big part of my day. If I don’t feel like I’ve spent time in my temple it throws me for a loop. Your car should be an extension of yourself. That’s why you should test drive before you buy. You need to know if this car truly is meant for you, if you can accept this as your sanctuary for a long time to come. My new car passed the test. Driving is the best part of my day.

5) My afghan – My mother made this afghan for me…God, I guess it was twenty years ago. I’ve had it for as long as I can remember. It’s burgundy-ish. It’s long. It’s warm. It smells like home. I use it every night in the winter. I use it when I’m chilling out on the couch. It’s the best thing waiting for me every night. What’s even better is when I curl up under my afghan with Blackie, my panther. That’s the perfect ending to a day – falling asleep to Sports Center or the Simpsons or Futurama while I’m holding Blackie under my afghan. I’m hanging out at Starkey as I write this, and I already can’t wait to get home to it. That’s really weird. It’s the simple pleasures that mean the most, though. Afghan and Blackie are perfect enough for now, at least until I get a cat. Or a dog. Or both. Eventually.

my roaster, my daughter

When you work with a machine on a regular basis you form an emotional attachment to that machine. Most people feel this way about their car. I know I was very close to my Pontiac. As crunch time approached and I stood in the parking lot outside of First Team, I told the salesman that I needed to get a few things out of the Sunbird. I did need to get a few things, but I really just wanted to spend a few last moments with her before cutting her loose. I wouldn’t say it felt like I was breaking up with a lover of four years. Or maybe it was. It was amicable, as though she got a job somewhere else and I couldn’t move with her. I stood next to her in the twilight for a few minutes, feeling her, telling her to be good to whoever falls in love with her next. Call me silly and sentimental. I deserve it.

I feel the same way about my roaster at work. When you roast as much as I have you start to think of the machine as your baby girl. I’m so anal about cleaning that thing. Fires will start if you become negligent, and the last thing I want to do is hurt my baby girl. She’s been so good to me. The least I can do is return the favor.

Imagine my surprise and heartache when I learned yesterday that we had a low-key fire. Apparently the chaff melted and smoldered at some point. I called in our maintenance guy to clean the roaster and examine it, and he told me what he found. I was relieved to learn that nothing was damaged. My girl is strong enough to handle any internal strife. It just made me hurt to know what happened to her.

I asked our guy if keeping up with cleaning the machine would prevent what happened, and he said that’s probably what started the fire – neglecting to clean it thoroughly. I’m not spreading around blame, but I’m not the only person who roasts in my store. I always clean my baby girl before I roast. I always clean the nooks and crannies that you’re supposed to. When I roasted recently after a week or two layoff – a week or two because others were roasting – a lot of soot and chaff came out of her. This tells me people don’t clean my baby girl the way they’re supposed to. This makes me want to be the only one roasting in our store, because I don’t want anyone hurting my baby girl. Someone’s uncaring hands have been operating my roaster. I will cut them off if I find out for sure that they caused a fire.

If I ever leave Starkey Road I want to be positive that my roaster will be in the most deserving hands. You can’t just have anyone roast who wants to. Whoever roasts needs to treat that thing like it’s their daughter. They need to be a fussy parent, making sure she’s clean, making sure she has everything she needs, making sure she has everything she wants. When you roast, you live and die for that machine. You take the fall for what happens. If I ever move on, I want to be sure I’m leaving my baby girl in a shape where she can be good to whoever inherits her. I also want to know that whoever inherits her will treat her with the love and respect she deserves. That’s what I’m getting paid for.

celebrity sightings

I serve famous people at my coffee shop. They’re not so much famous people as people who look like famous people. Eric Clapton, Ben Gibbard, and Sean Connery come into my shop on a regular basis. There’s a guy who orders two vanilla lattes and a muffin in the evening. Sarah started calling him Eric Clapton, because she thinks he looks like Eric Clapton. I don’t particularly see the resemblance, but that’s how these things work. When Sarah told me the sandwich I was making was for Eric Clapton I looked at her like she just told me she went born-again. These look-alikes are hard to notice unless you make the connection on your own. Like the Ben Gibbard kid – he has the exact same haircut and the glasses. I want to ask him what settling sounds like, and then once the new year rolls around I’ll ask him if he feels any different. No one else will know who I’m talking about if I tell them, but I call him Ben Gibbard to myself and I smile. I’m sure everyone knows someone like this. There’s that one person you see on a semi-daily basis who should be the identical twin of random hilarious celebrity.

Sean Connery, though – he’s a special case. This man is Sean Connery. I absolutely can not get over it. When he talks he sounds like he’s from Virginia, and it irritates me. He’s Scottish! He needs to talk with a Scottish accent. If I serve him once more with his accent-less speech I might spontaneously combust. The first time he came into the shop he ordered food, and I took his order. Sarah didn’t see him. When his food was ready to take out I told her to look for Sean Connery, and she was understandably confused. She came back to the kitchen and broke out laughing. The man is Sean Connery. I’ll ask him to tell me about the rapists, or about swords. Then I’ll ask him if he wants me to verify range to target with one ping only. I’m sure he’ll understand.

What do you think people like this go through? Do you think they enjoy it when others mistake them for celebrities or when someone notices the resemblance? Do you think maybe these people made themselves up to resemble these people because they envy them and want to be like them? Maybe Ben Gibbard bought similar glasses and cut his hair because he’s obsessed with Death Cab. Maybe Sean Connery wanted to feel more virile and youthful, so he let his hair go grey. Actually, that’s a hard look to imitate. The only way to imitate Sean Connery is to be Sean Connery, and then you’re not imitating. This man has to be Sean Connery. There’s no other explanation. Next time he comes in I’ll tell him I always thought we were going a bridge too far.

fill my Christmas sock

Each Christmas at Starkey Road Mill Mountain Coffee and Tea the employees decorate stockings and pin them on the coffee shelves for customers and other employees to fill with goodies. For the past week Phil’s stocking was the only one pinned up. It looked so lonely. I kept reminding myself to bring my stocking with me some night either when I’m working or hanging out, since I’m always at work in one of those two regards. I kept forgetting, and Phil’s stocking remained lonely like that ostracized Magic Card kid in high school. Well, I was that Magic Card kid in high school, so yesterday at last I made myself pack my Christmas sock to join Phil’s on the shelf of isolation.

I don’t know what made me draw a mushroom cloud on my Christmas sock. I must have had “Search and Destroy” on the brain: “I’m a runaway son of the nuclear A-Bomb.” The cloud rises from some unseen ground zero – not unseen because it’s been vaporized but because I neglected to draw a bottom for the mushroom cloud. The little misty blast waves are ornamented with purple and gold balls, and in the billowing cloud itself is written “Noel.” I named myself Nuclear Nick. Merry Christmas, suckers!

So, what? Was I trying to piss off the Hunting Hills rich bitches with my metaphorical middle finger? Was this supposed to be some declaration of punk rock indifference to a co-opted holy day? I’m no punk. I’m about as punk as a broom. I listen to the Stooges, yes, and I jump for joy whenever Pussy Whipped shows up on my iTunes. I grew out my hair because I was tired of cutting it, but now it’s in my eyes all the time and I feel it on the back of my neck. It makes me fidgety, and my scalp itches a little. That’s so punk rock of you, Nick – fretting over your itchy scalp. I eat my dinner on my nights off and then hold my stuffed panther, not wanting to go do nothing at work too soon and do nothing for too long. Better pull the shutters over your Starbucks windows before I throw a garbage can through them.

I’m no punk. I’m just a music fan. I don’t think anyone is actually a punk, and if they are a punk they can’t maintain that personality for very long. Punks generally turn into yuppies. That’s the endpoint for so many. Once you get your hands on a little money you spend it on shit that would make you gag if you were really, truly a punk. Maybe I’m currently locked in that grand struggle, the kid with the ideals trying not to cave and transform into the nesting consumer. Look at me now. The runaway son of a nuclear A-Bomb is sitting in the First Team Auto waiting room while his new 2008 Subaru Outback is getting its paint and upholstery protection applied. That’s so punk rock I think I have to put on my Union Jack Converse and spin the old “London Calling” seven inch.

Just stop worrying about it. You’re listening to Billy Joel right now, and you love it. A bottle of red or a bottle of white? It all depends upon your appetite. It is interesting. I can shift from “Penetration” to “She’s Got A Way” with the greatest of ease, and I hardly even notice it. That’s just who I am. There’s a little bit of everything in me. I should try not to be too much of something for too long. I may go insane. Just hang the old Nuclear Nick Christmas sock next to Phil’s and hold your head high.

By way of a PS, everyone knows who Daniel Crandall is. His beard is a dead giveaway. I saw another frightening ad yesterday. Open on a lady sitting in a wheelchair. At the bottom of the screen it reads “Client Portrayal Is Simulated.” The lady is rubbing her forehead and worried. She must have been injured in an accident. She must not know what to do. Cut to the front door, and in walks Daniel Crandall to the rescue. This scares me more than it comforts me. Can he sniff out despair? Is his beard a despair detection device? This is all the more reason to lock your doors. The first time you feel a little down after stubbing your toe, Daniel Crandall might pay you an unannounced visit.

Plan 9 and Vanity Plates

I helped Plan 9 move out of Towers today. Sam and I loaded boxes and boxes of CD’s in the Ryder truck, and I left a little before 11. Hopefully they benefited from what little I did. I have to say it’s funny helping out a business I don’t work for. For as long as I’ve known them the people at Plan 9/Record Exchange have been like family to me, so it makes sense that I would volunteer. It’s just funny knowing that I’m helping them take a big step. The new location between Grandin Theater and Grace’s will be bigger and better. There will be more stuff to sell, and there will be in-store performances (I’m ready to mark my calendar for Doug Cheatwood). That’s where Record Exchange fell short. The store wasn’t big enough to host performances, and they didn’t really have anything I wanted to buy. I remember going to the Salem store freshman year at Roanoke College and being amazed at how much stuff they had, how much merchandise they had and all the indie CD’s I was just starting to discover. Early sophomore year I went back, and it was like a different store. There was absolutely nothing I wanted to buy. That isn’t a very smart way to do business. If you want to make a profit, be sure to sell stuff that people want to buy. Plan 9 fit itself into the same small space as the Towers Record Exchange, but the difference is that Plan 9 has CD’s and vinyl that interest me. Major plus. With the new location they should have even more, and I can blow even more money every week. I’ll have no one to blame but myself for how fast they move in. They’re right around the corner from me now, so I at least I can save on gas money.

While I was driving over there I saw a vanity plate that reminded me how much I want every vanity plate owner on the face of the Earth to be stabbed in the fucking taint. I took the Mick-Or-Mack road that leads to Windsor, and pulling in front of me on one of the roads further up the hill was an SUV with GODNHRT on its license plate. I paused in my enjoyment of “Neon Bible” to translate. That’s my first problem with vanity plates. Ninety percent of the time it takes too long to translate. If I have to exert the same energy as a crossword puzzle clue to translate your vanity plate, that’s a taint stabbing. I could only think of one thing it could possibly be: “God and Hurt.” Phonetically speaking, that’s how it translated. This made me even angrier that a vanity plate was in front of me. Who could possibly pay money for a vanity plate that reads “God and Hurt.” This has to be emo. That’s the only explanation. “The two most important things to me are God and Hurt.” Okay, Mr. Hawthorne Heights. Remind me later to plug your tailpipe with a hedgehog.

So maybe it was actually “God In Heart.” I appreciate how you need to use a soapbox to tell us how much you love God. I’m not annoyed that you love God. I’m annoyed by your vanity. Hence, vanity plate.

this movie won't let me go

I know I wrote about this movie on myspace, but I can’t stop thinking about it. The Coen brothers must have done something right if No Country For Old Men is still dominating my thoughts four days after the fact. My rear end is still very much on the fence. I’m still unsure if I liked it. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen a movie that I didn’t like but still made me think so long and hard.

It’s as though the characters in No Country For Old Men brought the world into focus, as though the movie served as the missing link to understanding how the Coen brothers think. Examine the two main characters – Llewellyn and Anton – and it’s clear as day how these two character types fit in with every Coen brothers movie. They form a struggle that appears in each story.

Llewellyn is an ordinary man who finds a break. Look at the main character of every Coen brothers movie and see his reflection. Nicolas Cage in Raising Arizona, Tim Robbins in The Hudsucker Proxy, Jeff Bridges in The Big Lebowski, John Turturro in Barton Fink – they are all outsiders trying to get in. Usually they are ordinary men trying to find their way into a life of crime, like Nicolas Cage and Jeff Bridges to an extent, but Tim Robbins fits this as the business school graduate trying to find his way to the top by starting out in the bowels of a corporation. Crime is the theme the Coen brothers return to regularly, so I’ll stick with that. Llewellyn Moss finds a bag full of money in the aftermath of a drug deal gone bad. He thinks he can use his blue collar cunning and every-man strength of will to outsmart his pursuers. He thinks he can play the game as easily as the hardened pros. Anton knows otherwise.

Anton is a robot. His only function in life is to kill, and he kills with an agenda. He kills and kills and kills, each murder like a mile marker counting down to his goal, and his goal is one more kill. He’s a man bred to destroy. In Raising Arizona he’s the superhuman biker. In Miller’s Crossing he’s the Dane. In The Big Lebowski he was the nihilists, but even then they’re reduced to nothing when John Goodman beats the shit out of them and they’re exposed as outsiders like everyone else. In The Hudsucker Proxy he’s the clock keeper. All of these Anton’s have one reason for existing: to show the outsider who’s boss. Llewellyn Moss finds the bag of money and thinks he’s entitled to a share of sin. Anton is hell-bent to show him otherwise. Llewellyn has no business thinking he can get inside. The lifestyle itself will punish him. This is something Quentin Tarantino did in Pulp Fiction, and I think he did it better. Pulp Fiction is basically a story about outsiders trying to get in on a life of crime. It’s all about the briefcase. Long story short, the briefcase contains Marcellus Wallace’s soul. You can ask me later for my reasoning why. That’s not the task at hand. The briefcase contains the soul of a hardened criminal, and Samuel Jackson and John Travolta kill the foolish kids who think they can handle the soul of a criminal on their own. Jump to the end of the movie with Tim Roth and Honey Bunny holding up the diner, and Samuel Jackson schooling Tim Roth on what it takes to be a criminal. He’s been through too much to let the case get away again, and besides, Ringo. He’s trying real hard to be the shepherd. He’s seen enough. He can’t let another sheep go astray into a life of crime. Anton is this same character, although Anton is more tyranny than shepherd. All the Anton’s in every Coen brothers movie fits this description. They are the ultimate line of defense against the intrusion of outsiders. Anybody not already in should stay the fuck out, or else Anton will destroy the lock on your little world and blast you with a silenced shotgun. Like the poster for No Country says: “There are no clean getaways.”

So looking back, I think I can say that every Coen brothers movie is essentially a “fish out of water” story. Their characters want to change their station. Life doesn’t want them to, and so life sends a nemesis to straighten things out. It’s as though the intrusion of an outsider would throw the world out of alignment. Anton is necessary to keep the world running the way it is. The Coen brothers show the American Dream in all its grisly truth. Feel free to venture out and stake your claim on something more. Just don’t come crying when life sticks a knife in your neck.

After drawing this conclusion, I don’t know how I feel. Maybe I’ve cracked their code and shown how predictable their work is. Maybe I’ve realized that each of their movies is pretty much the same story rehashed again and again. Or maybe I’ve finally understood the way their minds work. It’s okay for an artist to get caught on a theme. The Coen brothers are obviously fascinated with this type of story, and they enjoy showing the extreme consequences. I enjoy watching them unfold. One thing is for sure. No Country For Old Men isn’t going to leave me alone for a long time. This is the first time the Coen brothers gave us a fish out of water story with a tragic ending.

a day in the life

So I decided to start a blog. In college my English professors used to assign what they called “small writings.” We wrote about whatever we wanted and did it in a single page, and then we made enough copies for the entire class. I didn’t particularly see the point in this, especially when it came in the middle of an American Writers class. What’s the purpose of dedicating an entire class period to something completely unrelated to the task at hand? I shouldered the task every time, and I suppose I wrote well enough that people liked my small writings. It just felt good, writing a page about whatever I wanted. That’s what I want this blog to be – a page about whatever I want. I’ll try to write a page a day and take time off on the weekends. I will probably write less frequently than a page a day.

For a kick-off to a new blog, how about a look at a day in the life of Nick? I guess people may be curious as to what I do with my days off, considering that people never see me anyway. Here is a rundown of what I did today. It’s not very exciting.

I generally wake up around ten o’clock, not because I set my alarm or because I’ve slept long enough, but because this is when I can no longer breathe comfortably. I broke my nose a few years ago (and I know who did it) and I haven’t been able to breathe right since then. After sleeping for six or seven hours, ten o’clock is when my nasal canal fills with mucus or closes enough that the flow of air dwindles to the point that I can no longer sustain sleep. I may lay in bed for another hour, but this is where sleep ends.

As I lay in bed I figure out my plan for the day. Today I knew I had to deposit my paycheck and tips, and that I also needed to open a savings account. Groceries were also on my list of essentials, and to round things out I fancied maybe a movie. As long as everything is done by early evening, five or six, I’ll feel comfortable.

First things first, shower. The Monday morning shower is key. I roast coffee beans on Sunday nights, and I’m imbued with coffee smoke. It’s in my flesh and in my hair. I can smell it as soon as the water hits me. It is not missed once it leaves. Second things second, brush the teeth. I love Listerine. I know it’s working when my gums have that tingle for a few minutes after swishing. Dental floss and Listerine are high on my list of necessities. I like my teeth. I would like to keep them.

Now I have to make my Internet rounds. Yahoo! always comes first, e-mail and fantasy football. No new messages in the old inbox, and I’m still leading my game like I was last night. I only have Ben Roethlisberger to play tonight. Unless he throws ten picks and gets sacked a dozen times I should win. Hit BBC for news, check the weather, and see if anyone commented on myspace. Nobody. Scroll down the bookmarks for Carrie’s blog. Did she post yet? Yes. She interviewed Laura Krafft from The Colbert Report. Funny stuff. Shit. I’ve been online for an hour. Get yourself going. But the bank is so far away and it’s going to take so long to get this done. Just do it. You want to pay your bills.

Sportscenter babbles as I gather my tips and count out my change on the floor. I have ten dollars in quarters. Roll them up. Get my check. Endorse it. Make sure I’m not forgetting anything. Make sure I don’t lock myself out. Let’s go. I love my Outback. I love driving this damn thing. It’s such a big part of my day. If I didn’t have to go anywhere else I would just drive forever.

You have rent to pay and student loans, too. It has to wait. This lady is telling me my account options. I’ll have to go home before going to the grocery store. It’s just down the street, but it’s a pain in the ass. At least I get to drive again.

I pull into the Kroger parking lot and realize I forgot to go to the post office. I turn off the engine and see the two envelopes peeking from underneath Seven Swans in the passenger seat. Just hit it on the way back. It’s not that big of a deal.

Don’t go to Plan 9. Save your money. Wait until they open the new store. Then go. You’ll go anyway, and you’ll have your certificates. But this is my last chance to go before they close this location. Screw it. I’m going. Jamie Booker should be there, and probably Todd. Oh, wait. Only Sam. That’s okay. Say hello and browse. There’s my CD for today, and now peruse the vinyl. Nothing striking. Lots of bands I need to look into first. Go check out and…Mother Jones jumps from the shelf. “The moral dilemma of withdrawing from Iraq.” Buy that fucker. I’m buying it so I can read it and subscribe to it. I’ve never bought a copy of this magazine before in my life, nor have I heard of it, but I need to start reading more, and I need to start reading more news. This is where it begins.

Hey, there’s Jamie in Kroger. She’s at the customer service counter. She looks busy. Just say hello and pass on.

What the hell is this? Freestanding coolers of something called Café Latte? They could have called it something more colorful. Let’s see what it is. Hot dogs. Huh. Interesting.

I don’t need much. Get chicken for dinner. Get my eggs. English muffins. Backtrack for the milk. There’s Jamie again. She’s talking to that kid who always wears the yamaka (I don’t know how to spell it, and it’s less offensive than calling it the Jew hat). Should I say hello? She doesn’t see me. Get the milk. She still doesn’t see me. Go to the checkout. Just say hello. Fuck it. Check out.

You didn’t go the right way for the post office. You’ll have to turn left onto Grandin if you go this way. I’ll go later. God I love driving this car.

Vacuum the carpet after putting away the groceries. I hate it when I track leaves and shit into the apartment, but I always leave it for weeks. Kill it now. Should I see a movie today? I could invite the neighbors when they get home from work, make it a house trip, interact with them somewhere outside of the coffee shop. I never see them anywhere else (two of my neighbors work there now). I guess…I suddenly have a hankering for LA Confidential. I’ll watch that instead and kill a couple of hours before I make dinner (I eat lunch at dinnertime).

Every day off I eat the same dinner. I fry chicken in a pan with some soy sauce and cover it with Monterey seasoning. My side dish is always Taste of Thai jasmine rice. It’s good. It provides sustenance. Maybe it’s getting old. Around the Horn is on now and PTI is next. Same old same old. My dishes are stacked enough to make me seriously consider washing them. Might as well. By Friday I’ll be thankful I did it.

Pack up the lap-top and take off for the coffee shop. It’s where I hang out every night. Sarah is working with Ginger tonight. Jason should be in at some point. The regular crew. We just have nothing better to do in this town.

Wait for the line to go away before I get my coffee. It doesn’t wake me up anymore, but it makes me feel good. I’m addicted. I know it. It all tastes the same now. Browse the internet again before getting down to my magazine reading. Put in my new CD as background music while I read. Let it play twice while I finish the article. Good stuff. I know I won’t subscribe. I’ll pretend I will.

Periodically check my game to make sure I’m still winning, even though I’m ahead. What the fuck? Roethlisberger has negative points? Maybe I will lose. Look up David Garrard. I just need people who will score positively. That’s all I ask.

The night isn’t over yet, but I’m pretty sure I know what I’m going to do. I’ll hang around and joke with Jason. I’ll keep periodically checking the game to make sure I’m not losing yet, checking it like I just did and will when this sentence is finished. We’ll tease Sarah about how little she eats. Ginger will leave around one or so. We’ll talk about music and act like we’re not elitist, even though we are. I’ll get tired around two and head out, maybe with Jason and Sarah in tow, maybe not yet. Maybe we’ll hit Waffle House. Maybe not. I’ll love driving my car at night. I’ll dive into the mailbox for my rejection notices from publishers. I’ll look for the downstairs neighbor’s light, check to see if she’s still awake. I’ll seep into my home and put my computer back on my desk. I’ll turn on Sportscenter and properly bookend my day, and I’ll hold my stuffed panther best friend as I wonder when and if I will ever get a cat. Blackie is enough cat for now. Then I will brush my teeth and go to bed. I won’t set the alarm, even though I work tomorrow. I don’t work until 3:30. My broken nose always wakes up at ten o’clock, so it doesn’t matter.