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.

This Was Supposed To Be Coherant

But when you start off the week with a migraine, your ability to put together anything that even remotely resembles a cohesive narrative definitely suffers. So what you’re left with is another rambling blog post about nothing in particular, but everything in general. Which, I suppose, isn’t all bad. So here we go:

- I need to write here more often, if only to remind myself what it’s like to write in first person. Having to use the royal “we” over at Houstonist is like nails on a chalkboard at times.

- Not that I’m complaining about Houstonist, mind you.

- Thanksgiving was nice in a “good grief, how’d I get so tired?” kind of way. When your compass points to Conroe and Katy and points in between all weekend, with precious little chill time, you end up longing for Monday if only to get out of your damn car.

- Not that I’m complaining about Vesper, mind you.

- December looks about as busy, but spread over a longer time period. Which is good, I guess. After spending the past couple of years celebrating my birthday in a pretty laid-back fashion, my birthday falls on a Monday (free beer at the Saucer!) and the lovely Miss McNamara is planning something delicious. Should be fun.

- Not that I’m complaining about my birthday, mind you. (I have no idea how long I can keep this up)

- I’m seen as something of an authority on baseball within my social circle now. How crazy is that? Sure, it seems as though I’ve got a stronger handle on what the Astros are doing this offseason than Richard Justice does (does he snuggle up at night under a blanket with Chris Burke’s face on it? and does that blanket swing at bad pitches like it’s going out of style?) but I’m hardly a real expert. Unless….*runs to see if he can interview Ed Wade*

- Not that I’m complaining about the Chronicle’s sports coverage, mind you. (actually I am. this whole conceit dies here.)

- One of these days, I’ll actually interview a band or person on Houstonist that I’m not friends with, or where I have no previous connection. Until then, time to review Monica Pope’s new restaurant!

- I found my ticket stub from the Explosions In The Sky show in March (!), and that got me to thinking about the shows I’ve seen this year. Here they are, as best I can recall: Mute Math, Explosions In The Sky, The Hold Steady (with Illinois), Okkervil River, Guy Forsyth (3X), Trout Fishing In America, Junior Brown, The Avett Brothers, Girl Talk, Nickel Creek (2X), Zookeeper (2X), Ethan Durelle (2X), Two Tons of Steel (2X), The Church of Philadelphia (2X), Hollywood Black, and last but not least, Meryll. Throw in Asylum Street Spankers and possibly This Will Destroy You to finish the year, and the hits outweigh the misses (Bloc Party, Spoon, etc.) by far.

- New Favorite Nickname: Mr. Tummnus. This one will be nearly impossible to top. Especially when it’s delivered with the lisp of a 9 year old.

- Why oh why can’t we get these in the States?

Ok, that’s enough rambling. I will update more often because we are tired of we.

On Unclehood and Facebook

Over the past 72 hours, I’ve experienced two phenomena unique in my experience. One is an experience that has been shared (or will be shared) by most of humanity at some point, all throughout history. The other is so new that we’ve only just recently coined a term for it. I’ve had some time to try to reflect on these two events, to try to see if there is a common thread or unifying factor. I guess that’s why I’m typing this up, so that by thinking it out this way I can weave the two together.

First off, I’m officially an uncle now. While my parents have been laying claim to grandparentood for some time now, I count any familial relationship wherein one of the parties is still gestating as something less than legit. Not to say that Joshua Anthony Hays was any less of a person on Monday than he was when he emerged into this world on Tuesday, but the miracle of birth is the miracle of revelation. Of revealing something that was heretofore hidden. Nevertheless, I’m an uncle for real now, and the question of legitimacy is forever answered. For all the joking I’ve done over the past nine months about being the cool uncle, the corrupting uncle, (not that I’m going to set that aside) it’s a truly stunning thing to view your sibling’s offspring. Visions of eighteen years of birthday parties, speedy toddlers, t-ball games, and a mountain of diapers fly by so quickly that you can’t be sure if they’re your memories or premonitions of his. It’s a very cool thing, and it’ll be a sight to see as he grows older.

Hope Springs Eternal

For the past year and a half, there has been a gaping hole in the soul of Houston, a scar on Shepherd and a blight on a city already struggling to build credibility. A place where people from many walks of life, with many differing opinions and tastes could convene under the shared banner of fandom, was taken from us too soon, a victim of years and replaced only with retail and a sad reminder in the form of a vacant sign. But all is no longer lost: forces have stirred, and the city of Houston has received a gift.

Cactus Records is back.

It’s not at the landmark location on the corner of Shepherd and Alabama, but it is in a similarly Art Deco location just a few blocks away. All the music is back, though the video rental has (like VHS) gone the way of the dinosaur. The in-store performances will be back. The manager of 20 years at the old location is back. It’s not a revival like the bastard Gilley’s that’s been discussed.

Finally, no more trips to Vinyl Exchange for lousy service and poor selection or Best Buy for hit-and-miss selection and technicolor sensory overload. Finally, a chance to slightly overpay for good music and feel like you’re actually helping the artists. Finally, a place to remember the past trips to Cactus (for Weezer rarities, local artists, and random releases) while building new memories.

In addition, the new location is going to have music-related art on site, too. The opening exhibit is Dia De Los Muertos-inspired depictions of famous dead musicians. Yup, sounds like Cactus. Time for 30 more great years.

Yoooooooooooou should really stop doing that.

After a soldier has served his country, he is welcomed back into society with appreciation and pride, with thanks for the work he has done protecting our freedom with his service. After a Soulja has served his country by making hundreds if not thousands of dorky white girls think they can dance, and forced college coaches to humiliate themselves to appeal to a younger demo, what next? As the Soulja Boy dance craze thing has gone to absurd heights that the Macarena could only hope to reach, the question looms: what will kill this phenomenon?

As a service to everyone, I’ve come up with a list of people who, if they post videos on Youtube of themselves doing the Soulja Boy, would finally kill the dance once and for all.

- Kansas University Mark Mangino. This one is pretty self-explanatory. We’ll know if/when it happens when Kansas experiences its first earthquake this century.

- Condi Rice. Wait, scratch that. That’d be hot.

- (tie) Casey Kasem or Dick Clark. Because it would signal that pop music is dead, too.

- GWAR. Arguably the worst band of all time, whose fans are a leading argument for a reasoned and thoughful reconsideration of eugenics. Plus, the likelihood that someone would lose their balance an impale themselves on something sharp are pretty strong; Youtube frowns on snuff films.

- JI

- JIM THOME. He’s an all-American lug, and doesn’t seem to understand complex things. So if he understands how to “Superman a ho” then America is truly over.

- Osama. Sorry, too easy.

- Christopher Walken. The greatest dancer/actor of our generation should not stoop so low.

I’m sure that there are some glaring omissions here, but that’s all I can come up with on a single cup of coffee. If anyone would like to fill in the blanks, please do so. Do it for the children.

Notes on a Weekend

Yet another filler post. Sue me. It can’t all be cavorting with professional athletes around here.

-Sometimes answered prayer looks completely different than you imagine it would. Sometimes having every expectation turned on its head is the best thing in the world. Sometimes it’s best when you’re not heard at all. When hesitant eyes become comfortable hands, and fears become safety, something truly amazing is happening. And sometimes a good weekend is just a good weekend.

- On the heels of the recommendation of their music a few posts back, The Avett Brothers are coming to Houston on November 3rd. They’ll be playing small, outer stage at Meridian, which should be appropriately claustrophobic. Be there for a foot-stomping good time.

-Great. Now that Astros season is over and the Rockets are still in pre-season, there’s not a single Houston sports team still playing that I really know much about. Don’t tell anyone at Houstonist, please.

- I’ve been to LaPorte twice in the past week, and I may be going again on Wednesday. I keep expecting to look at the passenger seat of my car and see Dante sitting there, recording my descent drive.

-Divine Reserve no. 5 is the best beer St. Arnold’s has ever made. It’s like espresso with 10% alcohol.

- Is this a job or a support group for web junkies like me?

All esoteric nonsense aside, I’ll post something legitimate at some point in the future. But I’m not making any promises.

She could…go…all…the…way

Oh. Oh. Oooooooooh.