You Couldn’t Make a Safer Bet

LeMonade

I’m so anxious that I think I may have wet my pants.  Unfortunately, I can’t rotate my head downward enough to confirm this fear.  A quick pat-down of my Nomex race suit finds no wetness, so at very least I can feel confident in the liquid-retaining power of the fireproof material that’s bundled about me.  I’m snapped out of my reverie by the waving of my temporary teammate’s gloved hand.  The car is ready to get back on the track.

Three hours earlier, I arrived at Motorsport Ranch on a blustery February day to cover the 24 Hours of LeMons Gator-O-Rama for Houstonist.  The LeMons series is a circuit of car races around the country consisting of $500 cars.  Teams have a lot of character, and the similarities to the art car crowd are not unfounded, except that these maniacs drive these cars at unsafe speeds instead of cruising down Allen Parkway.  After watching the race from various vantage points in the early afternoon, the Evel Kweasel team was ready for me to take a turn in their prized 1982 Toyota Corolla.

Unlike any 80’s Japanese econobox I’d ever encountered, this one has a full roll cage, a fuel pump kill switch, and a steering wheel smaller than a pie plate.  Climbing into the cockpit was not a task for anyone with a huge amount of personal pride; being harnessed into the racing seat also brought me in very close physical contact with these guys who I’d only met hours before.  One of the race organizers provided me with a red, Nomex-lined race suit, matching shoes and gloves, and a white helmet with the LeMons logo wrapping around it, furthering the idea that this was a real, honest-to-God car race.

Of course, I already knew this by the time I got the wave to go: in fact, the wheel-to-wheel action I’d seen from my safe, journalistically detached perspectives was what was really causing my anxiety.  (Even writing this, two days later, my palms have begun to sweat and I can actually feel my heart rate climbing.)  Races have winners, and observers are the people in the grandstands surrounding the pit row where the Corolla now sits.  By crossing the concrete barrier between the pits and the spectators, I’ve ceased to be an observer: I’m a racer now.

Only the race car isn’t moving.  I’ve stalled it.  The combination of push button starter and my trembling left leg have caused me to stall the car.  And stall it again.  And again.  Finally, the guys give the car a rolling start, I find 1st gear and pop the clutch.  Success! I roll slowly toward the pit exit and find 2nd gear.  But a race track employee is flagging me down.  Is there a limit on the number of times you can stall the car before everyone realizes you’re a phony and they haul you away? No, she just needs to see my driver-only wristband.  But I’m trying to manage the wonky synchros of 2nd gear, steer toward the right hand turn that leads out of the pits, and control my metronome heartbeat.  I fumble my limbs around my shoulders like an epileptic making the Sign of the Cross before finally tugging my glove upward enough to display the yellow wristband.  She waves me through before I stall the car again.  I won’t stall it again all day.

I round the right hander onto the backside of the track.  The Corolla wails like a horrific chimera of a Harley-Davidson and an angry infant, shrill and blaring at the same time.  The car owes its voice to the loss of its exhaust system (everything back of the headers) about 10 laps into the race, before my wheel time began.  The blare becomes a drone as I shift into third and begin to learn the track.  Fortunately, a yellow caution flag waves on my second lap, allowing me to take a more leisurely pace without having to worry about other racers passing me or vice versa.  I settle in behind a red Ford Taurus and learn the turns. Soft right, chicane, right, hard left, hairpin, hard right, hard right, long soft left, right, straight, hairpin, repeat.  I’m close on the Taurus’ bumper, and I’m starting to look anxiously for the yellow to drop so I can pass him.  When the caution is finally lifted, I’m reminded of the difference between a regular Taurus and a Taurus SHO.  The Yamaha V6 lights up and he’s blasting down the straight, forever out of my reach.

Now the racing begins in earnest.  The faster cars are flying by me.  A gold MR2.  A blaring red Miata with a curly pig tail.  A huge Infiniti Q45.  I’m trying not to let the passing affect me, but it’s an ego blow after getting my hopes up under caution.  I focus on my lines.  I shift rarely, 3rd gear providing the torque to power out of the turns.  The brakes are mushy but adequate.  I make some tire-squealing approaches to the back turns, getting faster each time.  I navigate the traffic that occassionally builds near the chicane without tail-ending anyone.  My confidence is building.  Ahead, I see my quarry: a orange BMW 3-series.

The 3-series is loping along at an even slower rate than I am. I’m zeroing in on the Beemer, cutting tighter turns, waiting to brake and accelerating out of the turns with purpose.  I’m on his bumper as we enter the chicane, dodging right and juking left as we approach a right hand turn.  A sharp left looms ahead, after which the track narrows.  I want to avoid the claustrophobia of the narrow stretch leading to the horseshoe-shaped turn ahead, so the left is my chance.  I mash the gas and sneak inside my orange nemesis.  It’s a sharp turn to take such a narrow line on, but the Corolla’s forgiving chassis has given me reason to believe that this won’t be a huge mistake.  I hope. I squinch my eyes shut as I rocket through the turn.

No sound.  No crunching metal.  A vibrating orange shape in my rear-view mirror shows that I have successfully passed the BMW. Big exhale. But now I’ve waited too long to brake for the right-hand hairpin.  Slam on brakes, crank the wheel right.  Squeal squeal squeal. Lift gas. Correct. Mash gas.

After making the pass, I realized that my playtime probably needed to end soon.  I was getting passed a lot, and I didn’t want to hinder the Evel Kweasel team in the standings.  I signal out the window that I’ll make one more lap, and cruise into the pits soon thereafter.  I immediately regret turning the fuel pump switch off.  I want to go back.  I want to keep risking life and limb three weeks before my wedding, because this is a peak adrenaline experience unlike any I’ve had in years.  But the pit crew is coming to unbuckle me, and I have a story to write, not a race to win.  It’s time to get back on my side of the concrete barrier.

Racing is fun, but it’s not where I’m meant to be.  This is where I’m supposed to be: sitting in my office, writing about the experience.  And I’m supposed to be in one piece for my blushing bride’s sake, so I think I’d rather risk a keyboard injury than figure out just how well the roll cage in a $500 car holds up.  Race on, fellas, and I’ll see you again in October.

—

Once more for the record, a huge thanks to Nick Pon and the Team Evel Kweasel boys for making this all happen.  You ROCK!

Right song, right time

When in doubt, just make a list about music. It’s been working for Rolling Stone for the past two years, since all their long articles are just about how Barack Obama turns water into wine. Anyway, as I was driving around late one night, I got to thinking about how much music I listen to in my car, and how it provides something of a soundtrack to the moments that play out while I’m behind the wheel.

But some songs and some bands are much better suited to certain situations than to others. Would I listen to Eagles of Death Metal on the way to church? Probably not. But I also wouldn’t listen to Explosions In The Sky while driving to a pub. So without further ado, these are the bands that capture a mood for me, paired with the moods. (Note: I briefly considered making this a matching quiz that you could answer in the comments, but that’d just get confusing)

Band:Situation

The National: Driving to meet friends

Any metal, but let’s say Isis: Cooking

Ray Charles: Reading

Explosions In The Sky: night driving

Justice: Getting somewhere fast, late at night

M.I.A.: sunroof weather

Lyle Lovett: rain

Sam Cooke: wedding planning

The Avett Bros: road trip

The Racontuers: auditory caffeine boost

Queens of the Stone Age: driving really fast around the Dog Park (aka Waugh/Memorial cloverleaf)

Wild Sweet Orange: sunset

The Hold Steady: leaving work

Zookeeper: riding with my favorite passenger

Wilco: sing-along music

Stars: driving to the airport to pick up aforementioned passenger

Ok, that’s all I can really think of.  Naturally, this list is far from comprehensive, as it doesn’t cover all the artists to whom I listen, nor does it encompass all the situations of everyday life. (I prefer absolute silence when I’m brushing my teeth, for instance)  But regardless, every moment does have a soundtrack, even if it’s just La Bamba stuck in the back of your head.

Rambling down the aisle

I’m like a recovering alcoholic with this blog: I fall off the regular posting wagon with alarming regularity, and then return with renewed vigor and commitment to frequent posting only to repeat the cycle once again. But with the wedding on the horizon, a date all but set, and a scant three months before Mich moves back to Houston, I might as well take another swig of the Blog Juice.

- Survived Ike safe and sound, thankfully without damage to the apt. Power was out for two weeks, so I stayed with my folks in Katy. The commute from The Boonies was great until the second week, when I-10 became the world’s largest parking lot. Being at the Chron during the storm recovery was a rush, and definitely a career highlight for me. (no, not just my not-even-half-year time at Texas St. The whole post-college career)

- Pleased with how the Astros finished the season, Ike notwithstanding. Resign Wolf and pick up another free agent pitcher, and we’ll be more than ok going into 2009. Also, someone please remind Hank Steinbrenner that the NL Central is baseball’s toughest division, not the AL East.

- Wedding planning is fun. Seriously. When else do you get to pick your own liturgy?

- Also, for the Ausmus-loving ladies in the readership, go to www.astros.com and view the tribute video that played before his last game here. Jeff Bagwell: great 1^st baseman, lousy comic timing.

- Bachelor party + friends who home brew = win.

- Among the songs that would be hilariously wrong as a wedding dance song: Better Man by Pearl Jam, Smack My Bitch Up by Prodigy, I Married Her Because She Looks Like You by Lyle Lovett, Fat Bottom Girls by Queen, I Will Survive as covered by Cake (now with 100% more F-bombs!), and I Love You Because I Have To by Dogs Die In Hot Cars. There are more. Lots more.

- I’m getting a custom shirt made at Billy Reid for the wedding. I’m way more excited about this than I should be. Now if only I could find a solid black suit with flat front pants, three buttons, and narrow lapels, and a skinny, black tonal-paisley tie.

- The Chron’s post-Ike power database was the best sociology experiment I’ve ever seen. The mood swings, the petulance and lack of perspective were all appalling and hilarious at the same time. Centerpoint, et al. did a helluva job in the days after the storm; they just need a new PR strategy and more honest customer service.

- Not especially blown away by the new St. Arnold’s Divine Reserve. It’s not bad, it’s actually quite good. But it’s not the home run in the way that the last two were.

- After becoming enamored with The Hold Steady after buying their “Boys and Girls in America” album, I’ve lately come to realize that their first album “…Almost Killed Me” is my favorite of theirs. Raw and rugged where their recent albums are more cohesive, confident and technically adept, the songs just fit their Midwestern bar band persona a lot better. It’s an uglier world, but it’s more exhilarating because it’s more scary.

- Finally, since it is Schadenfriday, I only have this to say to every Cubs fan who brought a sign cheering for Ike to the Astros’ “home” games in Milwaukee: do not tempt the Baseaball Gods, for they are cruel.  Have another lonely October, jerks.

So these are the soundtracks, the distractions and pressing concerns (minus a few unpublishable concerns) that are rattling around in my head at the moment. Naturally, as the wedding gets closer, this space should get a little bit more newsy, unless I’m just too busy to post.

If you feel like dancing

This is a sequel of sorts to my previous post on jukebox etiquitte, but with the twist that while it is possible (and proper) to dethrone the tyranny of the clown who picked several consecutive selections from Nirvana’s Nevermind, it’s impossible to stop today’s topic of discussion once it has begun.

I’m speaking, of course, of wedding dance songs. While the overall playlist for a wedding reception is also open to debate (except the inclusion of the Chicken Dance. There is never a right time and place for that crap), what we’re going to focus on today is the criteria for choosing a song for the first dance between you and your beloved. As with the jukebox stuff, there are many different facets to consider.

1. This should go without saying, but obviously the fact that I’m saying it means that that can’t possibly be true: pick a song that’s actually danceable. Example: you can’t do anything to the complex, if beautiful, compositions of Sufjan Stevens. No matter how much you like To Be Alone With You or Vito’s Ordination Song, there’s no sustaining backbeat that allows you to dance like anything other than a limp cod.
2. The aforementioned Vito’s brings us to another point. Pick a short song. People didn’t buy you a blender so that they could watch you enact an entire three-movement dance performance. Three and a half minutes, MAX. This (for me) rules out the otherwise-perfect South Texas Girl by Lyle Lovett, which clocks in at over six minutes. If someone tried to force you to watch them dance for even four minutes, you’d be running for the buffet pretty quickly, and by minute six, you’d be seeing if you could take those Wuesthoff knives back to Williams-Sonoma. Don’t antagonize your guests.
3. Pick something that’s not completely obscure. This KILLS me, but as much as I’d totally try to find an acoustic arrangement of the Cabin’s Dance With Me, my indie-ness would be my downfall as my grandmother falls asleep and anyone who is a staunch 94.5 The Buzz listener wonders why I didn’t use a Three Doors Down “ballad” instead. Pick a classic, new or old; I don’t care if it’s Michael Buble or Dean Martin, so long as it swings enough to meet #2’s requirements.
4. Do not pick You Are So Beautiful by Louis Armstrong. That is a father-daughter dance, you sicko.
5. All of this has been built on the assumption that you’re going to dance. Dance. Dance whether you’re any good or not, or even if you’re Baptist. Just do it. Especially if you’re Baptist, because if you’re not giving your guests booze, they should at least get some entertainment out of watching your goofy “waltz”.
6. Don’t pick anything intstrumental, unless it’s so completely well-known that everyone in the room, including your aunt who only watches the public broadcasts of city council meetings, will recognize it. Speaking to the dudes: you need to whisper the lyrics to your new wife. All of them.
7. You need to have a big finish, so pick a song that actually finishes. If it fades out at the end, no dice. How else will you know when to dip the bride?
8. Watch out for awkward lyrics. I watched an A&E special where Lyle and the Large Band were playing live, and taking requests from callers. One couple called in to say that they’d danced to Nobody Knows Me at their wedding; Lyle gently reminded them that it’s a cheating song. So many great love songs (particular the great R&B classics) are about unfaithful partners promising afresh that they will always be true. Awwwwwkward. Keep your love songs straigh forward. This same principle applies to any songs that get even borderline raunchy; nothing against raunchy, but it’s a simple moment for simple pleasures. Translation: probably skip Marvin Gaye.
9. If it’s a song that could also be played at a funeral, forget it. I’m looking at you, Wind Beneath My Wings.
10. Finally, pick something you like. Weddings are not performances, they’re parties for you. Don’t pick a song because anyone other than you and your intended think it’s cool.

So why am I obsessing about this? Eh, it’s been on my mind for a few months now, and I’ve been to enough weddings over the past decade to choke a horse. More importantly, what is my choice? After hours of research, I’ve found it: Come Rain or Come Shine, as sung by Ray Charles. Classic voice, classic song, only 2:45 long. Perfect.  But then again, this decision should be democratic, so discussions are ongoing.

I needed to get this down on paper before I introduced y’all to my fiancee. I love you, Mich; you’re my smile. Everybody else, block off some time next year and bring your dancing shoes.

She's my smile

Mistakes almost made

At my current workplace, I face a nigh daily delimma. When nature calls, the restroom closest to my desk presents a peculiar conundrum. Having been designed and constructed by what I can only assume were Soviet architects on an exchange program during the mid-70’s, the room has all the charm and comfort of a Komodo dragon. But that’s not the problem, really; you expect this sort of sterile brutalism from large corporate buildings of that era.

The problem is the fixtures. Any man who ever visited the Astrodome or any similarly-sized venue is no doubt familiar with the trough-style urinals that typify structures designed to hold tens of thousands of bladders. Upon entering the aforementioned restroom, you are immediately confronted with two rows of stainless steel troughs, separated by a concrete wall, and hung about 30″ above the floor. To a man with an overwhelming urge to take care of business, the obvious final destination has become clear.

But lo! Just as you reach a certain point in your preparations, a horrifying series of realizations begins. First, you notice your own reflection: there is a mirror, equal in length to the urinal trough, immediately in front of you. That’s not typical, is it? It is then that you notice the faucets, all six or so of them. Finally, in the mirror, you see (behind you) a row of sorta-gleaming porcelain urinals.

Panic panic panic!

You check your peripheral vision to ensure that no one sees that you’ve almost desecrated the place where people wash their hands, and quickly whip around to face the correct instruments. Unseen and finally in the right place, your deep sigh replaces the ice cold chill that ran through your veins upon the realization.  You scurry back to your desk after washing your hands, not in the urinal, but in the trough-sink

The sad thing about this is that as many times as I’ve visited this particular restroom, I’m always somewhat drawn to the sink.  It just looks right: in a brief flash of childhood Astros fan nostalgia, I fully expect to emerge from this restroom, Narnia-like, into the 1988 Astrodome, ready to watch Glenn Davis and Billy Doran. Alas, exiting this bathroom only returns me to the cold hallway where it’s always been and back to the daily grind of the workday.

I’m not sure where I was really headed with any of this, so I’ll close with an old joke.   A couple from Philly are traveling through the Deep South and stop for the evening at a motel in Kentucky.  The room that they rent is dingy, mildewed, and smells like Salem Lights.  Upon entering the bathroom to brush his teeth for the evening, the hot water handle comes off in the husband’s hand.  Already flustered, he calls the front desk.  “I’ve got a leak in the sink!” he says.  The drawled reply comes back, “Well, go ahead.”

Remembering how to rock

Monday night, I stepped into the Wayback Machine.  I guess technically seven years isn’t waaaay back, but that notwithstanding, it did feel like I’d climbed back into skin I hadn’t worn in a long time. 

I went to see Living Sacrifice in concert on Monday, about seven years since the last time I saw them, at a sweaty, low-ceilinged show off of Highway 105 in Conroe.  For those of you who aren’t familiar, the mighty LS was/is a seminal Christian metal band that began recording in the mid-90’s and reached its peak with 2001’s The Hammering Process.  They’re respected outside the Christian “scene” as influential in blending metal and hardcore for one of the first times.  The show this week demonstrated that they hadn’t lost their fastball during their five-year hiatus.  For a longer recap, I wrote this, but that’s not really important right now.

I’m in my late twenties now, and was kinda bemused about the prospect of being one of the “old guys” at the metal concert. Well, at least one of the old guys without hair halfway down his back.  But then I got to show, saw the kids who were there, and began thinking about who I was the last time I heard “Reborn Empowered” live.

In July 2001, I was:

• About to enter my senior year of college.
• Driving my recently-purchased 1995 Chevy Silverado.
• Working for a biotech company in The Woodlands.
• Fully intending to have a long, successful career as a molecular geneticist.
• Listening to way too much metal and progressive hardcore.
• Still waiting for my first serious girlfriend (who I would meet about three months later)
• Not able to grow a full beard.
• Desperately trying to get my hair to not have a cowlick.
• Teaching a high school guys’ church group about Mere Christianity.
• Wearing sneakers every day.
• Not blogging, or even writing anything other than lab reports.

So it’s pretty different now in a lot of ways.  Mich and I were talking about it, and were both convinced that if we’d met back then, there’s no way we would’ve ever gotten together.  My desperation aggressiveness would’ve overwhelmed her, and I would’ve been an awful boyfriend even if we had gone out.  Which is probably just as well.  In a world governed by a benevolent, sovereign God, we met at just the right time.  But that doesn’t make me any less of a 20-year-old dork back when.

The even scarier thought is how I’ll look back on 27-year-old Rob in another 7 years. 

On blogging, success, and an $8 peanut butter sandwich

Many of you (and by “you” I mean the five people who read this blog regularly and the sixteen people who were Googling for Looney Tunes slash fiction) have noted that this blog has gone un-updated for a while.  You have my heartfelt apologies, but I really didn’t have a darned thing to say for months.  Really.

When I began blogging four years ago, I decided that my little corner of the internet wouldn’t be a forum for my moping and whining.  It’s all to easy to come across that way, and especially given the stream-of-consciousness composition method that I use when I write, I very easily could’ve written quite a few posts that would’ve made a sixteen year old with a sparkling, seizure-inducing MySpace blush.  So when I would consider writing on here this spring, I always demurred, because I didn’t want to talk about the pressing, real-life concerns in my world: unemployment, crime, relationships, disappointment, writer’s block (of course), and finances.  Believe me, you wouldn’t want to read that dreck.

But why start writing now?  Well, I’m employed again (twice over) and haven’t had to talk to the police in almost a month, for starters.  Actually, that last part isn’t entirely true; I have had to talk about The Police.  For those of you who haven’t heard, I’m freelancing at the Houston Chronicle, and one of my recent assignments was to write a review of the Police/Elvis Costello show in the Woodlands.  Somehow, around the office here, this was deemed to be drawing the short straw.  For me, though, it was the first time in the five weeks that I’ve been here that I actually felt like something approaching a real journalist.  So that experience was the shot in the arm that I needed to start writing here again; it was something that I could re-tell here without it being so maudlin or boring that you’d click away to see what was posted on ManBabies today.

The quick timeline of writing the Police review, in chronological order: cracking myself up by thinking of fake interview questions for Sting (”what was it like playing the Goblin King in Labyrinth?”), figuring out how in the hell someone was going to edit my story at the ungodly hour it would be completed, receiving and then returning ALL the media tickets for the event, running into a nemesis,  cramming three people into Vesper for the return trip to town, a gigantic cup of coffee at Brasil, walking through the ghost town that Houston becomes on weekday nights, composing a caffiene-fueled piece while hoping not to be evicerated in the comments, meeting the creepy night editor, and slogging home too hyped up to sleep even though it was 3am.  Whew.

So back to the point, at heart I’m an optimist, and I’ve had plenty of reasons to support a more cheery outlook on life lately.  It even goes beyond the fact that I’ve got what amounts to my dream job right now (it is still a job, after), though.  On Wednesday, my post-deadline haze was rolled back under the influence of a sandwich and a conversation.  The role of the sandwich was played by the heavenly Fat Elvis at B’wiched on Westheimer, a pannini concoction of homemade peanut butter, caramelized bananas, and wild honey. (The King and the Big Puma would both be proud)  The conversation was provided by my dear old mum, who was somewhat out of the loop of recent developments in my life.  As I rattled through the litany of good things that’ve been happening, the act of relating them all in sequence brought to mind just how mind-numbingly blessed I’ve been lately.  As the great poets Chubawumba once said, I get knocked down, but I get up again, you’re never gonna keep me down.

(It’s stuck in your head now, isn’t it? You’re welcome.)

Anyway, on the heels of all this introspection and reflection, I rolled in to work this morning, intent on blogging, when I read this article.  While I don’t think I’ll ever have the attention of a large part of a major American city like she did, her experiences did really help me to coalesce the thoughts on my self-imposed hiatus, leading to the very entry you find here.  Writing has suddenly become not only my passion, but my livelihood, and I’m still wrestling with the implications of that.  Hopefully, it’ll make my writing here more vibrant and more focused, or it could just make this the one outlet for my not-suitable-for-print ramblings.

we. shall. see.

Writing Under The Influence of B-12 & Lidocaine

There are times that I consider abandoning any semblance of reasonable discourse on this blog, and just forge ahead with nothing but the rambling posts that compose an inordinate amount of my time here.  But then I wouldn’t have room for high-concept crap like the jukebox thing, and my forthcoming missive on the theology of football.  (really)   But for nights like tonight, when I feel guilty about the frequency with which I post (or don’t), nothing quite hits the spot like a little ramble.  Kind of like how as a beer snob, I have to be in just the right mood to want a cider, but when that hankering takes root, there’s nothing but a Strongbow that’ll satisfy it.  Now off to the races:

- Among the gifts that I received for Christmas, one was a gift certificate to Brooks Brothers.  While I wouldn’t ever be caught dead in one of their sweaters, or any of their pleated pants, they are a bastion of classic style, and so I purposed to get some classic accessories there.  I’m now the proud owner of a fistful of quality handkerchiefs and a burgundy and blue bow tie.  For some reason, I’m more excited about the hankies.  Maybe it’s because they’ve already come in handy during one recent emotional evening, or because they can stand in as a white pocket square in a pinch, but I’m glad I’ve got them.

-I also grabbed one of BB’s killer non-iron dress shirts, that don’t have to be dry cleaned.  Perfect for procrastinators like myself who sometimes need a shirt for a meeting the next day and only realize this fact after it’s too late to get to the cleaners.   Their tag line should be “shirts for incompetents who want to look competent”.

- If I never hear the words “Roger” and “Clemens” again, it won’t be too soon.  Yeesh.  Look around, Rocket: no one else is going to these lengths to defend themselves against the Mitchell Report.  It doesn’t make you look innocent, it makes you look petulant like a kid who got caught stealing gum at the grocery store and tries to say that he had the gum already.

- The holiday season (and I say that not to infuriate Bill O’Reilly, but because I’m referring to both Christmas and New Year’s) was rather crazy, with several firsts established:  first Christmas where I didn’t actually see my folks on the 25th,  first New Year’s Eve spent at a hospital, first time to actually get a kiss at midnight, first time my current girlfriend didn’t break up with me on the 1st,  and first time to actually buck up and take back a gift that I didn’t really want instead of pretending I liked it and then have it sit in a forgotten corner of my apartment until I throw it out when I move.

- What a difference three weeks makes.

- I spent some time over the past couple of weeks catching up on the catalogs of musicians I’ve always been told that I’d enjoy, but never got into.  Several artists and albums stood out.  The artists: Fugazi, Ray Charles, Queens of the Stone Age, The Clash, and Minutemen.  The albums: Person Pitch by Panda Bear, Exile on Main Street by the Stones, Moondance by Van Morrison,  and In The Aeroplane Over The Sea by Neutral Milk Hotel.   The biggest surprise was Panda Bear; it’s a retarded band name that doesn’t fit their/his sound at all, but it’s beautiful, dreamy, meandering pop, the sort of stuff that Brian Wilson would’ve made in 1969 if he’d had the technology.  I guess Wilson was in bed for all those years with the hope that he’d wake up in 2007 and be able to make this album.  I’m not saying that it’ll necessarily age as well as Pet Sounds, but Panda Bear made me want to revise my Best of 2007 list.

-  Speaking of music, after listening to their music since Yankee Hotel Foxtrot came out and I made it my first-ever “I’m buying this because of the hype” music purchase (though I did the safe thing by buying it for my brother as a gift), I’m going to get to see Wilco live in March.  With the band as it exists circa Sky Blue Sky, this should be a fantastic evening.  I may even have some company for the occasion.

- After an entire season on the Texans beat for Houstonist, I’m a full fledged convert to fandom.  I don’t have any Texans gear (that’ll change as soon as it goes on end-of-season clearance at Academy), but my heart is Battle Red.  Eff the Titans and their inexplicable local fans (whether of the pathetic “they’re really the Oilers” variety or the “Vince Young parted the Red Sea” ilk), I’m going with a team on the upswing.  They’re young, fast, and defense-minded.  Watch ‘em next year; they were a running game and a bunch of injuries away from the playoffs.  One player won’t change that, but a couple additions in key areas will.

- Fearless Critic and Houston: It’s Worth It.  Two books, one Christmas present.  One awesome girlfriend.

Yeah, that’s about it.  Still just crappy rambling.   But some day soon, I’ll explain why sports writers need to stop writing snarky columns saying “like God cares about football.  Pssh!” every time a player says something about God wanting his team to win.  Ooooh, exciting, huh?

How To Be A Jukebox Hero

Life is generally not a difficult thing.  Get up, do your thing for 12 hours or so, eat a few times, try not to get yourself killed, sleep.  But there are some things that even the most educated among us sometimes struggle to grasp.  Among these things is proper care and feeding of a jukebox.

I’m a jukebox addict.  I can’t go into a bar without imposing my musical will on the patrons.  Whether it’s one of those new-fangled internet-enabled monstrosities (which tease you with the promise of a bottomless selection of music, if only you’re willing to use double the money to buy a song) or an old-school “listen to it click and whirr” classic, I always mosey over, throw in a helping of cash proportional to my estimated internment at the establishment, and wait for the opening strains of my first selection.  I try to select songs that I enjoy, as well as songs that capture the feel and flow of the venue, songs that should be universally tolerated if not lauded.

But for some people, their apparent goal is to drive everyone else from spending their hard-earned ducats at the bar, all while indulging their own questionable whims of taste.  So if you think you may be one of these people, read on and be healed, as I present the rules for proper jukebox etiquette.

1.  Location, Location, Location.  Know where you are.  Never play Jimmy Buffett at a place that doesn’t also have a sand volleyball pit out back and one of those showers for washing off your feet.  Don’t play Ride The Lightening-era Metallica unless you’re at a biker bar.  Don’t play Dave Matthews Band at a frat bar (don’t feed the trolls).  Choose your songs appropriate to the venue.  For instance, Dropkick Murphys at an Irish pub is basically a requirement.  Use geographical common sense.
2. Slow, Sad Sack Songs Are For Slow, Sad Sack Bars.  Last night, I was at the Ginger Man at 9:30pm or so, and some clown picked Hallelujah by Jeff Buckley.  Such a beautifully sad song.  Such a wrong moment. Never, ever play a sad song before 1 am, and even then gauge the mood.  Do not bring your sadness down on everyone else.  People do not go out and socialize with the purpose of feeling like someone just ran over their dog.  This pretty much means no Coldplay, and calls into question the wisdom of any jukebox manager who includes them on the menu.
3. Variety Is The Spice Of Life.  Never pick more than 2 tracks off of a single cd (unless it’s a various artists thing, but even then, be careful), and for the love of all that’s good and true, don’t put the 2 back to back.  Also last night: someone picked almost half of the most recent Kings of Leon cd, played almost contiguously with the odd Thom Yorke song (see #2 above) thrown in for “balance”.  I love that cd, but the beauty of a jukebox is that you have  500+ songs to choose from.  Seven songs by the same band isn’t showing everyone how awesome they are, it’s showing the whole place that you’re too illiterate to read the titles of any of the other options.
4. Don’t Be Too Obvious Or Too Obscure.  This is particularly tempting when you’ve got the super deluxe interweb equipped jukebox at your disposal.  Want to play Wilco’s cover of Woodie Guthrie’s Airline To Heaven?  Live or studio?  Who cares; they’re both available!  If you think that a certain song is better than any of the singles by a popular artist, be careful.  Is it really a good song, or just one you like?  Does it sound enough like the artist’s other material that people will recognize it as theirs? Will it make them curious enough to look at the jukebox to get the title of the song?  If you can answer yes, then you’ve got a winner.  On the flip-side, don’t be too obvious, either.  If you’re picking James Brown, don’t pick “I Feel Good”, grab “The Payback” or something.  If you’re picking Green Day, skip anything from Dookie.  (Actually, if you’re picking Green Day, please tell us where you got your fake ID.)
5. Don’t Be A Smart-Aleck.  There’s a bar that I know that has the Pulp Fiction soundtrack (in its entirety) on the jukebox.  Good soundtrack.  But it also has some spoken-word tracks, dialogue from the movie.  Track 16 is the Ezekiel 25:17 scene, complete with gunfire at the end.  At the sleepy Scottish pub where this track is housed, it is not entirely cool to select this track, and may well earn you a beating with a shillelagh.   If one of the cds on your favorite jukebox has a spoken track like this, or a song that’s otherwise deliberately annoying, select it only if you’re ready to face the consequences.  Playing Semisonic’s “Closing Time” at 10pm is a crime of this variety.
6. Get Your Money’s Worth. Long tracks are good.  You don’t want to feel cheated out of 50 cents by selecting something by Me First And The Gimme Gimmes that’s 50 seconds long.  Grab a slow burner like one of Lyle Lovett’s ballads or (best long song easily found on a jukebox) Ball & Biscuit.
7. Jukeboxes Are Not For Karaoke.  Thus, karaoke staples need not apply.  You want people to nod along, not attempt to belt out “Don’t Stop Believing” like they’re Steve Perry’s long-lost son.   If you’ve ever seen a fat girl or an “ironic” frat boy belt it out after a few too many Red Stripes, then pass on over.
8. You Can Never Go Wrong With A Classic.  A real classic is an song or artist who has stood the test of time.  Not of a year or even a decade.  Real time.  Cash. Ella.  The King.  B.B.  Slow Hand. Janis.  If they can be described in one word or a nickname, you’re in pretty flawless territory.

Remember, you’re creating what is basically an improv mixtape. Throwing a handful or a dozen of songs together in a way that ebbs and flows naturally is a skill, not a gift.  You get better with practice, so get out there and give it a shot.  Stick to the rules, and as always with music, innovation is only your friend when it works.  So strike with confidence and make sure it works.