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.”

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.

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.

The Pitcher

It was halfway through my last day at my old job when the phone rang, the caller ID displaying an unfamiliar, out of state number. I muted the sound on my laptop so that the bleeps and pings of my chat conversation wouldn’t interrupt the call.

“This is Rob.”

“Hey Rob. This is Lou from the M2 Gallery opening a couple weekends ago. My restaurant did the catering. How’s sportswriting treating you?”

“Good, good. What can I do for you?”

“Well, since you’re the sports guy at Houstonist and everything, and we’d talked about you coming in to check things out here at the restaurant, I wanted you to know that after the game tonight, there’re going to be some baseball players coming in. The Pitcher has some friends in town, and they’re all coming here. You should come by.”

I did a silent dance and regained my composure.

Press Pass

The dog days of summer can lead to crippling introspection, and this summer has been no different. I’ve been pondering what I want to be when I grow up lately, and while I haven’t reached any firm conclusions, I’ve certainly got the scent of the trail.

Most of you who read this blog (if not all) know me personally and have been reading my ramblings since the Xanga days. I’ve heard from several of you over the years that I’m a good writer, but I didn’t (and don’t, still) believe it. Flannery O’Connor is a good writer. C.S. Lewis is a good writer. P.J. O’Rourke is a good writer. P.G. Woodehouse is a good writer. Hell, Ezra Dyer is a good writer. I’m a hack with a blog. But I have taken to believing some of the hype.

Anyway, as part of the whole hype-believing thing has gotten off the ground, my job has been floundering, mired in uncertainty. I’ve been searching for a way to bring those two concerns together. The first step is what I’m here writing about now. Last week, Houstonist, a local lifestyle/news blog put out a call for sports writers. I’m not Bill Simmons or Rick Reilly or (shudder) Peter King, but I can rail and wail like a fan like nobody’s business. I applied, and got the job. And by job I mean “volunteer writer position that takes a remarkable amount of time”.

My first article ran on Tuesday, and I’m committed to 2 posts a week over there. In a even more head-spinning development, I’ve already been promoted. I’m the sports editor now, which means…um, I think it means that I’m required to buy beer for the other sports writers when we meet. There’s a link to my article page on the right hand side of this blog from now on. Go read Houstonist anyway, though; they’re good folks out to show people that this city is a lot more fun than it looks like from the freeways and suburbs.

The nuts and bolts here is that I now have semi-formal writing experience under my belt, which will look nice if I ever want to get paid to write. Now I have to build the confidence that’s required to put myself (and my considerable ego) at risk by selling my work to other publications. I’ll keep y’all posted.

Dog Days

Summer malaise is upon us. The cicadas and bugs trill to stay cool or get laid, the cats at our apartment complex lay in the sun and stare at you as though you were supposed to bring them a silver platter of delicacies, and every car A/C unit cowers in fear for the first ten minutes of every drive. It’s the perfect weather for staying inside and doing nothing all day, and then venturing outside only to feed and drink after dark. It makes you feel like some kind of predatory mammal on the African savanna.

It wrecks other changes in your life. I’ve switched wholesale from hot coffee to iced. I’ve started using Gold Bond powder to keep from soaking through t-shirts and so that I can continue in my ongoing quest to turn into a 73 year old man by the time I’m 30. I buy seersucker compulsively now, for the comfort and coolness instead of the style points. I read a lot more because you don’t sweat when you read. The Farmer’s Market has gone from the highlight of my week to a grueling endurance race against dehydration.

Is there any deeper meaning here? Does the weather presage a personal or professional doldrums? Not really, at least in my case. Though I feel like I’ve said this multiple times since moving to Christ the King almost three years ago, things seem to be coming together quite nicely. The summer has given me time to sit back (in the shade) and take it all in. It seems that the weather is the only thing that’s causing me to sweat these days.

Credo

We’re currently caught in the summer doldrums of weather and sports in Houston. The Astros are staggering through late May and June like a gazelle on the Discovery channel just before the cheetah goes into Super Pursuit Mode, and the daily downpours are a constant reminder that this part of the country is truly sub-tropical. For reasons that will become apparent with time, I hope to encapsulate here what it means to be a Houston sports fan in a city where the losses and heartbreak can be as stifling and soul-crushing as the humidity. It’s not all doom and gloom, but it is what it is.

I believe in the Astros, the Rockets, the Dynamo, and the Texans. In that order.

I believe in Mike Scott, Luke Scott, and Scotty Brooks.

I believe in the Dream, The Ryan Express, and the Tyler Rose.

I believe that J.R. Richard’s stroke was the worst thing that ever happened to a Houston team.

I believe that Jeff Van Gundy is an accountant in his spare time. And Rudy T trains prizefighters.

I believe that Jose Cruz could hear me yelling to him from the Rainbow seats at the Astrodome.

I believe Hakeem’s car wash is overpriced.

I believe that David Carr would only have succeeded if he’d played for the Patriots. And his name was Tom Brady.

I believe that Yao Ming is a wimp. When you’re 7′6″, your primary offensive weapon should not be a fall-away jumper.

I believe that Mark Loretta should start more often than Craig Biggio.

I believe that emulating Jeff Bagwell’s batting stance made me a better hitter in my first year of kid’s pitch.

I believe that Kevin Bass should be forgiven.

I believe that Tracy McGrady is the illegitmate son of Sleepy Floyd.

I believe and am assured that I will never deliberately go to Buffalo.

I believe that Ken Caminiti was the most tragic story of MLB in the 90’s.

I believe in the Astrodome.

I believe that my mom would’ve crashed the minivan when we cruised Westheimer waving a broom out the window after the Rockets swept the Magic had that guy really tried to grab our broom.

I believe I will go to an MLS game this year. And not when Beckham is in town.

I believe that Albert Pujols, Walt Weiss, Jeff Hostetler, Shawn Kemp, and the 1986 Mets may all burn in hell.

I believe that I will see another Houston championship in my lifetime, maybe even in a sport that I really care about.

Amen.