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.

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.

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.

Loose Ends

Well, I’ve successfully procrastinated on several topics to the point that I won’t be able to do any of them the justice that they deserve. Instead, you, o patient reader, will get a half-assed summary of the past couple of weeks. It’s just that I’ve been reeling from my devastating loss in the Ladies… bracket and getting out of bed was hard enough. (yeah right.)

First up, the Hunniford wedding in Columbus and the road trip that it necessitated. The things I’m most proud about here: I can finally say that I know how to drive a manual transmission, I saw the Chunky River (it flows with Campbell’s Big Beefy Potato Stew), and I tried Skyline Chili. But most importantly, two of my favorite people were finally united in holy matrimony, ending the awkwardness of what on earth to call the house that they purchased this spring together. “I’m going to the Hunnifords to watch Lost.” “But they’re not the Hunnifords yet.” “Dammit. Now I’m late and I’ll never know why Jack’s full beard has less grey in it than his stubble.” Where was I? Oh yeah: I’ve determined that rural Ohio is a great place to be from. As a place to be, well…

Next, a quick note in praise of the Hummingbird Brewery. The new beers are being cranked out and released on a bi-weekly basis or so, which makes the whole experience of tasting each new home brew not unlike tuning in to a favorite tv show. Each visit brings some new palate moving experience. Keep up the good work, fellas.

I really intended to do a right proper review of the new Ethan Durelle album, Talks To The Dark, but time and other musical interludes have washed away the first impression that I had when I first received the album in the mail. My fandom of their music is certainly no secret around here, but this album is truly a leap forward for them. From the jazzy breakdown of Big Ending to the sinister drone of Downtown Man, there’s new territory being explored all over. The biggest revelation for me is the album closer, Horns of the Altar. Knowing some of the personal band history that likely influenced the writing of this song, its raw, broken vocals and bleak yet faithful hope are an encouragement and a sure-fire “hairs on the back of your neck” moment with each listen. I can’t wait to hear the newer songs live in August.

While we’re on the subject of music, the new White Stripes album is great. The dark experimentalism of Get Behind Me Satan is gone, in favor of the time-tested formula of earlier albums like White Blood Cells and De Stijl. Still crossing my fingers that they’re going to hit Dallas or Houston around ACL. Also, just recently found this band Cabin. Whoa. Just whoa.

I cried a little when Craig Biggio got his 3,000th hit. I realized that he’s been an Astro since I was six years old. Six! Think about what you were doing when you were six. That’s the year that he got his first hit. In an Astros uniform. Of the 27 players to get 3,000, only 7 or 8 did it with a single team. Craig is Houston baseball.

Finally, props to my little brother JM, for not realizing what happens when you have sex with your wife. In so doing, you’ve bought me 12 more months of grace about my current singleness. I knew you’d come through for me when I needed it most.

The Most Intense Shit You’ve Ever Seen

I’m not really one for frivolous profanity (there is, I believe, such a thing as non-frivolous profanity); this is one of the many things that Criss Angel and I do not have in common. The title of this post is a quote from his tv show, Mindfreak. During a lull in the action this weekend, we watched part of an episode where Mr. Angel promised to put on a display of magic that would include “the most intense shit you’ve ever seen.” The “shit” consisted of the age-old “cut the string and then have it return to one piece” gag and almost running over Carrot Top with a motorcycle. At least the latter promised to be satisfying, uplifting even, had things gone wrong. In the end, we all agreed we’d seen more intense shit elsewhere.

I begin with the example of the magic show to demonstrate that it’s often hard to meet people’s expectations. After a stunningly awesome introduction to the Hotel Room Five back in March, any reunion would almost necessarily be a letdown. Group dynamics over four days instead of twelve marathon hours would be different. The joy of discovery would have passed, replaced by heightened expectations and closer relationships than those that initially existed.

Now, don’t get me wrong: I had an absolute blast tooling around the District and NOVA this weekend. We made a new set of memories that are in a lot of ways more significant and lasting than the flash-in-a-pan nature of the first weekend together. New running jokes (like the Angel quote) and catch phrases evolved, shared experiences told deeper stories about the members of the group, and some phenomenal food was consumed in the process.

I would also be remiss if I didn’t make mention of our pentultimate destination on Sunday night. Brickskeller’s is a bar in the DuPont Circle area of DC that features a beer list so staggering that I just sat there with a stupid grin for the longest time before realizing that the nice lady needed me to pick out one of the hundreds of beers to drink myself. Additional fun was derived from being the de facto sommelier of the group, and picking out beers for the members of the group based on their tastes and personalities. Regardless, everyone got to try the beauty that is Belgian beer. Mission accomplished.

Now that I’m back in Houston, the companionship and comradarie that we had last weekend is coming into tighter focus. It’s particularly special to think that this same vibe can be instantly recreated in almost any place on the map. I guess November in Denver will tell for sure.

APACHE!