I heard this song on the radio this afternoon and it made me wish that I was doing donuts in a ratty old Firebird, smoking a joint, and rocking a Jeff Spicoli hairstyle. Instead I was puttering along in the Focus with my daughter in the backseat, headed to the Gap outlet. Either way you slice it, this is a great Friday afternoon song.
I’ve been living in Watertown for two months and I think I’m finally getting a lay of the land. I used to live in Allston, just a couple of miles from here, so you’d think I’d have a decent handle on this area, but I really didn’t know too much about it. For instance, did I know that you could get to Harvard Square from Watertown Square by zipping up Mt. Auburn Street? I did not, and I don’t even have a good excuse why I didn’t. A huge part of my job for the past five million years revolves around getting drivers quickly from Point A to Point B, so maps and routes fill up a large part of my cortex. That this simple straight-line navigation eluded me for so long is a huge embarrassment.
Anyway, I’m kind of getting the hang of the place. My daughter goes to school in Medford Square, and the first few times I drove her there I tried all sorts of “short cuts.” Let me tell you right now, if you’re ever with me in a car and I say I know a short cut, just ask me to let you out right away, because you’ll really be better off walking. For the sake of my own sanity I’ve settled on the most boring and obvious solution: I take the Pike to 93 North and then try to navigate the hell that is Medford Square. (I would like to say right here that most town squares are so illogically planned and laid out that they should be bombed into rubble and repaved in a way that lets me make a Goddamn left turn. I’m telling you that this whole turn-right-around-a-huge-confusing-fucking-rotary-thing-to-go-left deal that goes on here in MA just doesn’t exist in the rest of the country, and I’m really starting to get sick of it.)
The most important part of any neighborhood (aside from how to get to and get out of it) is how easy it is to locate essential goods. To me this means, “Where can I buy potato chips and beer?” Luckily, my options are many. Perhaps too many. Sometimes I skip food shopping altogether simply because I can’t decide where I want to go. Usually I hit the Star Market on Mt. Auburn Street in Cambridge because they sell beer and wine there, and also Lisa’s friend works there, and it’s always nice to visit with her. Though, I may have to boycott that store for a while because the last time I was there the snot-nosed kid at the register didn’t graciously scan his discount card after I told him I didn’t have my card, and it ended up costing me an arm and a leg. I’m a petty, petty bastard when I want to be.
In terms of quality of life, Watertown murders Chelsea to death. It’s much quieter. There’s a nice park across the street. There are three Starbucks within a mile or so from the house. The Spot Cafe is a great place for brunch and it serves a pastrami omlette that is blatantly, wonderfully obscene.
In fact, I’m kinda feeling like Eddie Murphy’s character in Trading Places: a derelict who is capriciously given a chance to life an opulent lifestyle.
obligatory world series post
Published 29 October 2009 Uncategorized 2 CommentsTags: Professional Hitter
So I’m watching Game Two between the Philadelphia Phillies (my favorite National League team because they have such miserable, spiteful fans) and the New York Yankees. I’m mainly interested to see if my former man-crush, and Absolutely The Greatest Pitcher Of Modern Times, Pedro Martinez can summon his former greatness to embarrass the Yankees in front of their home crowd.
In the second inning I was happy beyond measure to discover that Matt Stairs plays for Philadelphia. I don’t blame you for not knowing who Matt Stairs is, but he’s been a baseball favorite of mine for a long time. Not, certainly, because he’s such a good player, but because he kind of isn’t. He looks like a small-town volunteer fireman you’d see downing MGD at a slow-pitch softball game. He’s slow and a lousy fielder, but he’s a good enough hitter that there always seems to be a team (usually a crappy one) willing to sign him. He played briefly with the Red Sox in 1995, and for the past 14 years my friend and I have continually said, “I can’t believe he’s still playing,” whenever we saw him.
Major League Baseball wants to promote the superheros of the game: Albert Pujols and Ryan Howard and Derek Jeter. That’s fine, I guess, but just once I’d like to see an ad campaign built around the ham-and-eggers that comprise the rosters of most of the teams in the league. Guys like Matt Stairs. Guys who are talented enough to earn a Major League paycheck for 14 years but who wouldn’t merit a second-look if you saw them in the supermarket check-out line.
Even better, Stairs drove in the first run of the game with a bleeder that just went under A-Rod’s glove. I was always gonna root against the Yankees, but now I’ve found a real reason to root for the Phillies: Matt Stairs.
(Update: I don’t wanna bitch about cheap home-runs, but Matsui just hit the cheapest fucking homer to right field ever. The new Yankee Stadium is a fucking joke.)
(Another update: Aaaaand of course, Stairs strikes out to end the game.)
The Guilty Pleasure Edition
Sure, I’m a music snob, but I freely admit that some songs are beyond the realm of criticism. These are songs that I know I shouldn’t like but do anyway. Feel free to mock my choices, but remember this: when I find out that you secretly love “Shadow Dancing” by Andy Gibb I will torture you for the rest of your natural life.
Oh man, Neal Peart must be the only lyricist to use the hopelessly pretentious “one” pronoun, as in “One likes to believe in the freedom of music.” Lyrics that stilted and awkward are normally a deal-breaker for me, but I find this song’s dorky sincerity endearing.
I was running an errand with an acquaintance the other day and this song came on the radio. It took all my willpower to suppress the urge to start singing along in my best falsetto. That would really have been awkward.
“That Thing You Do!” by the Wonders
I know, I know. This isn’t even a real band. It was recorded for a movie about a fictional 1960’s band. And the movie sucked, to boot. I might as well have posted a Josie and the Pussycats song.
Now I’m going to try to defend myself. The song was written by real-world ace pop songwriter, Adam Schlesinger. His main gig is with Fountains Of Wayne, whose first album is chock full of insanely great songs. The vocals are by the great Mike Viola of Candy Butchers, and I think he’s got a perfect pop-song kind of voice.
Plus, it’s got a good beat and you can dance to it. I give it an 85.
top 40 addiction
Published 18 October 2009 Uncategorized 5 CommentsTags: I'm a sucker for a good hook, Swift
I make it a point to avoid Top 40 radio, but I play it in the car when my daughter is with me because I’m cool like that. I’m obsessed by the song right now, and even though I can hear you laughing I don’t care.
This isn’t a perfect pop song by any means. The bridge is clunky and awkward, and the transition back into the chorus just doesn’t work at all. But the chorus melody is as catchy as anything I’ve ever heard and the secondary melody in the second verse (“You say you’re fine…”) is nothing short of fucking songwriting genius.
(Ed. note: I posted this video because it’s the Top 40 radio mix. It has lots of crunchy guitars, whereas the album version is more subdued and country-ish.)
Back in August of 2003 I paid a whopping $3,500 for a 1988 Acura Legend. It had low miles (70,000) and a manual transmission. I thought it was perfect. Over the past six years I’ve paid several thousand dollars in maintenance (new exhaust [twice], new brakes and rotors, two window regulators, new CV joints), but, as is often the case with old cars, things just kept on failing.
First it was the fan-motor, which meant no air-conditioning in the summer and no heat in the winter. Then the window regulator broke again which meant the driver’s-side window wouldn’t go all the way down and it also wouldn’t go all the way up. I just kept a towel in the car to wipe off my seat after it rained. I also had a warped front rotor which caused the entire car to shudder whenever I used the brakes. Fixing all the car’s problems would cost a small fortune, and the specter of catastrophic failure would still loom large. Clearly it was time for a change.
On Friday I picked up my “new” 2002 Ford Focus. It’s a shade of green that could charitably be called “unsightly.” It’s a fairly anonymous sedan with a sadly anemic four-cylinder engine. It’s got a manual transmission (which is good), and a clutch pedal with no feel whatsoever (which is bad). On the plus side, the heat works, the windows keep out the elements, and even though it’s pathetically slow it’s kinda fun to drive. The steering wheel actually feels like it’s connected to the front wheels, and, despite the lame clutch, it’s fun to row through the gears.
It also has anachronistic anti-features like a tape-player and roll-up windows, which give it a funky lo-fi vibe. In a perfect world I would have bought a 1974 Dodge Monaco with cop tires, cop suspension, and cop shocks, but if this car can give me six years of (mostly) trouble-free service I’ll be happy.
monday morning coming down
Published 12 October 2009 Uncategorized 4 CommentsTags: Victory Pilsner is the devil
Do the words “tragically hungover” mean anything to you? I feel like 10 pounds of shit in a 5-pound bag. I’d like to blame yesterday’s devastating losses by the Red Sox and Patriots for my present condition, but that would be rather disengenuous of me. The simple fact is that I’m a fucking retard. The worst thing is that I have to get ready to go to work. If anybody needs me I’ll be taking a very long, very hot shower.
“Red Red Wine” by the Replacements
If you change to title to “Cold Cold Beer” you’d perfectly encapsulate my night last night.
I got a nice check in the mail today for renting my condo. I immediately deposited it in the bank and went home to pay off a few pressing bills. (Lengthy aside: how did people manage their money before the internet and cash machines? I pay all my bills on-line. It save so much fucking time. Ten minutes on INGdirect and I’m all done. No writing, no stamps, no looking for a mailbox. I have a checkbook, but it’s been so long since I wrote a check that I don’t even know where it is. When I went to the supermarket branch down the street from my house I marveled at the long teller line. What were all those people doing that couldn’t be done through a cash machine? Finally, how did people pay for anything before ATMs and debit cards? Say it’s Saturday night and you wanted to get some cash to go out. The banks were closed, and unless you withdrew money on Friday, you were pretty much fucked. I’m old enough to have lived like that, but, for the life of me, I don’t know how I did it.)
Speaking of money, I read a long article about Merle Haggard in Rolling Stone this morning, and it said that on the day his youngest son was born Merle got a letter saying he owned 14 million dollars to various creditors. I’m gonna pause to let that number really sink in…
14 million fucking dollars! How on earth does that happen? It reminds me of all those fat people on The Biggest Loser. You don’t just wake up one morning weighing 450 pounds, and you don’t wake up one morning owing 14 mil all of a sudden. Haggard had to sell 700 acres of land and the rights to his back-catalogue in order to pay things off.
Actually, that gives me an idea. All I need now is 700 acres of land…
“I’ll Change Your Flat Tire, Merle” by Pure Prairie League
This is from a record my dad had when I was a kid. I haven’t thought about this song in forever, but it came to mind this afternoon while I was putting this post together in my head. It sounds exactly the way it did thirty-plus years ago.
I know I keep fucking with the site design, but I just can’t seem to find anything that I like. Plus I’m not posting as much and I’m hoping that screwing with the look of the site will confuse you, dear reader, into thinking that you’re reading something new.
Cheers!
Random Update Edition
I’m on the verge of renting my condo. If all goes as planned I’ll be getting a big fat check early next week. Which I will immediately deposit into my “Buy A Car With Functioning Heat Before Winter Comes For Real” fund.
I’ve had a terrible pain in my right arm for over a week. It feels like an uncomfortable tingling that runs from my shoulder down the back of my arm to my two middle fingers. And my wrist feels stiff and sore to boot (Stop it with your dirty mind!). Here’s the truly strange thing about it: it hurts more when I’m at work than when I’m not. I think my arm might be trying to tell me something…
Lisa and I need a new trashy TV show to watch. Our lives haven’t quite been the same since the season finale of Rock Of Love. We’ve been trying to make do with Kourtney & Khloé Take Miami, but it doesn’t have the same sort of bandana-and-cowboy-hat je ne sais quoi.
Actually, I’ve come up with a killer idea for a TV show. I want to expand on my Jimmy Page reality show concept and do a show that focuses on the lives of musicians. When I was a little kid I always envisioned musicians as inhabiting a particularly rarefied space. I imagined that everyone I heard on the radio lived like a modern-day Louis XIV, untouched by the concerns of regular mortals. One day I was looking at one of my dad’s album covers and saw a picture of the band (I forget which one. No, that’s a lie. It was the Ozark Mountain Daredevils.) sitting around eating. There was a bottle of Heinz ketchup on the table, and that single detail blew my tiny mind. A bottle just like that was sitting in the door of my fridge. How special could these guys be if they used the same ketchup I did? Like I said, I was pretty young, but it made me realize that bands I heard on the radio weren’t necessarily pampered princes.
So my idea for this show (and this whole thing probably should have been a separate post, but, fuck it, I’m on a roll here) would be to follow a musician around for a week just to get an idea of what they’re real life is like. It probably shouldn’t be anyone too famous, and it shouldn’t ever follow a musician when (s)he’s on tour. Do I wanna see Billie Joe from Green Day do a soundcheck in Omaha? No. Do I wanna see Billie Joe from Green Day coach his son’s little-league team? Yes.
I’ve been toying with this idea for a month or so now. Sometimes I think it’s lame, sometimes I think it’s brilliant. Lisa and I have been throwing out names of people we’d want to see on the show. I’d pay to see episodes about Paul Westerberg or Matthew Sweet. However, Lisa named the perfect person for a show like this: Patti Smith. What does Patti Smith do? Does she live off royalties? Does she work the night-shift at 7-11 to make ends meet? I wish someone would hurry up and get this project off the ground already.
Booker T & the MGs = the greatest band in history. Q.E.D.
Oh, am I ever gonna get shit for posting this. Fuck it, this song has great drumming and a really nasty bass sound. That’s two big thumbs up in my book.
The other day Lisa told me a funny Mark Sandman story that I’m not really at liberty to repeat here. This song is all you get. You’re welcome.
