ping pong + internet = genius

So I've come to enjoy this new youtube.com service that the kids are so fond of. Today I had the brilliant idea to search for ping pong related videos, but imagine my horror at what I found. Loads of stupid home videos of people butchering the sport. I mean, look at this shit -- this is embarrassing for everyone involved. You sir, are only like Forrest Gump in the sense that you're retarded, and despite that girl's protests that other point most definitely did not count.

Why did you bother to upload that to the internet again? Just to cruelly torture me as I watch you butcher my favorite sport in the world?

Thankfully, youtube still came through. This is what ping pong should look like. I could watch that thing for hours on end. That's just a beautiful display of the beautiful game, and a good reminder that, although you may have to wade through some depressing shit along the way, the internet is still the greatest place in the world.

on 69 love songs and a sunny day

So this is an old post that I wrote about a year ago, but I always kind of liked the idea and meant to update it. Since I was writing about music and friendship again over the weekend (and since the same post helped me stop caring so much about my stupid privacy really, it's not like my secrets are that great), I finally found the inspiration to approach it again, and what you see is the revised edition. So yeah, the real reason I complain about writing about music and writing about myself is because I know deep down that's all I really want to do, and I'm ashamed. Anyway, here you go, hope you like it reading it (at least half) as much as I like writing it...

Once, on a spur-of-the-moment road trip during the middle of the summer with some of my best friends, our driver insisted on playing a tape of the Magnetic Fields 69 Love Songs, despite my constant demands to "listen to something fun, for Christ’s Sake." I was having some difficulty with my girlfriend at the time and the road trip was definitely being siezed as an opportunity to just get away and enjoy myself, forget about all the stress I was accumulating. Forgeting about my relationship was definitely one of the goals for the trip, and the Magnetic Fields definitely weren't helping me fulfill it.

Despite the differing taste in music I ended up enjoying myself on the trip to Oregon. My friends S., L., and I didn't do much besides enjoy each other's company for an evening and it was grand. We made drunken phone calls, we smoked in a California bar just to say we smoked in California bar, we ate fast food, and I befriended a very creepy Clipper fan when they had the gall to leave me alone. As long as I was outside of Arcata, I was able to easily forget about the troubles I was having back at home, no matter how much the 69 Love Songs tried to depress me on the road up.

Following the road trip, the relationship between the driver, S., and I continued to deteriorate, perhaps because of a difference in musical taste, perhaps because outside of those few days we always had trouble agreeing on exactly what constitutes "fun," perhaps because we just lost interest in each other. Before it was ping pong and chess at every opportunity, gossip and banter, but it moved towards uneasiness, and that uncomfortable feeling of being sentimental and loyal toward someone despite a lack of real reason to do so. We saw each other less, both of us finding lots of different distractions besides one another, and when we did get together it didn't have the same spark as before. I missed our friendship as much as I was annoyed by it, and that made me sad.

Despite my previous insistence upon the fact that there is indeed one objective "fun" to which I hold the key, I’ve decided to momentarily lapse my hard-line stance for the sake of this writing. Perhaps some people really enjoy the Magnetic Fields, and find it completely appropriate for a sunny summer day on the open road. The extent to which the reconsideration of my previous conviction coincides with my reading of Rick Moody’s appreciation of the album in my favorite magazine, The Believer, should not be understated. It’s not often you bother to read a 10-page meditation on an album you don’t really like, especially when you consider writing about music a questionable endeavor in the first place. Rick has done some smart things in his essay, such as whittling the 69 Love Songs down to only 31. Perhaps if I only listened to those 31, I could become a convert and fun would be had. (Although I notice "Reno Dakota" is #4 on his compilation, the song being one of the stronger impressions on my memory of what I just couldn’t "get into" on the album). He also admits a certain relation between some of the songs and the traditional musical, always a key sticking point for me. I, like Rick Moody, can’t stand musicals, so I admire his honest approach with the subject. Still his somewhat defensive (and realistically pretty weak) distinction between musicals and ballads does help me reconsider the album with less prejudice, at least a little bit. But even with Rick Moody on their side, a man whose writing and intellect I greatly admire, I still can’t bring myself to enjoy the Magnetic Fields.

And I realize it’s somewhat taboo to admit personal biases when "objectively" critiquing the merit of art, but that’s what I’m doing. Even though I will now also think of Rick’s love for this album every time I hear it, I will also never forget my friend S. and our relationship, our summer drive and everything else between us. If I were to say what the Magnetic Fields makes me think of, what distinct impression the music leaves upon me, those places it takes me to and the people it reminds me of, I would say, "S."

I recently "starred" in a student film alongside the lovely S.. One of the most obnoxious aspects was that it was a student film, and they didn’t have much film stock to shoot with. As such, all scenes were one-takes and if you screwed up one line you might wreck the whole damn project. What’s obnoxious about this is that S. and I would have been at our best if they just let the cameras roll, and just allowed us to joke back and forth. S. is one of the few women I’ve met who can not only stand up to my rude humor, but give it back as well. We have a strong relationship and part of the fun we always have together is trading wit back and forth.

And of course it's not just the jokes between us, or the ping pong or the chess. Of course there's more. I've listened to some of her personal ramblings as she found her way around, and she's put up with me at some of the lower points I've ever reached. It's odd on one hand feeling so close and so indebted to a person, yet having such uneasiness and frustration lingering between us as well. Maybe it is exactly this close relationship that engenders such animosity. In many ways, S. is more the family I never had than any close personal friend; I love her and I'm loyal to her, but our friendship hasn't been without its points of mutual frustration.

It is most likely these exact types of personal associations the 69 Love Songs has built its popularity upon, but for me it’s an insurmountable hindrance. And why is that? On S.’s last birthday I spent a good deal of my time at her party sitting at her typewriter, typing up a note explaining just how much I love her, and I meant every word. I’ve never written a love note before, and I never intend to again. (See what can happen when you start listening to the Magnetic Fields? Take this as a warning.) And it’s not that I regret the note, or our relationship, or anything like that. I'm as grateful for these things as I am grateful for S.'s continuing friendship. I actually think it has more to do with that sunny summer day, and our drive to Oregon, and our playful banter about exactly what "fun" is, and how much I want to have a day like that again.

And I know what you’re asking yourself, “Just what do you consider fun music to be, then?” Well, I could give lots of examples -– AC/DC, the Roots, Johnny Cash, Outkast, etc. –- but I would never say the Magnetic Fields. If it weren’t for that day on the highway, I would never think of sunshine when I heard their music, I would never get a smile on my face or laugh about private jokes. I would never be glad to reminisce and pine for a dear friend.

And now I know this is exactly what that album stands for, lost friends and old relationships and fun times that actually hurt a little to recall. Maybe that’s why I’m mad at S., because now I feel warm and nostalgic every time Claudia Gonson chews out Reno Dakota in that damn song mentioned above. That stupid “Dakota/iota/quota” rhyme doesn’t represent forced, trite, traditional-musical-esque lyricism, but instead a sunny stretch of open road, a dear friend like I'll never have again, my real family that I've discovered instead of inherited. I can’t say exactly why that upsets me, only that it does, and that I miss you S..

my stereo

I just got a stereo and the wire so that I can play all the music off my hard-drive. All I've done today is sit inside and listen to my stereo. It's awesome.

initially, I love everyone, or at least I try

All in all, moving to Australia for three months to stay with my dear friend P. was actually one of the better things I've done in my young life. Sure, I had my qualms with Brisbane (I mean, the weather was hot as hell), and yeah, it was all a little irresponsible of me looking back, but I really believed in what I was doing and I did it regardless. If anything, I'm mainly ashamed of my lack of resolve in following through with my desire to really travel around that part of the globe.

One of the traps I fell into in Australia was remembering how good a friend P. was, realizing that I didn't want to move on as much as I just wanted to hang out with him. We'd met in Denmark, finally mingling on one of the last days of our orientation there. We had both recently beaten Resident Evil and we could both recite our favorite verses from Enter the 36 Chambers, so it was resolved pretty quickly that we should become fast friends. Recently I wrote a rather lengthy piece about how much his friendship means to me (but I didn't post it here as it definitely dipped its toes into the private end of the sharing pool ... I might revise it a little and put it up, we'll see, as this whole thing is going to definitely illuminate my privacy a little as well, why keep pretending?) so finally seeing him again in Australia was a very big deal. Basically P. is one of the most influential people I've ever met in my life, so spending time with him in Australia was a great thing.

One of our rituals with each other was watching this weekend program, I can't remember what it was called now, but it was just hours and hours of music videos, and instead of the incredibly lame, short-term memory deprived, teen-oriented programming which saturates all the MTV channels, this station would dig into vaults to choose videos I was actually interested in seeing. Another cool thing was they would allow guests hosts, usually American bands who were touring Australia at the time, program the whole show to their liking. Probably the best one of these that we saw together was the Black Eyed Peas, before they had that album with the Justin Timberlake single and all kinds of commercial success, when they were still interesting musicians and a cool rap group and not some cheesy pop group with a token hot chick singing about humps or lumps or whatever it is. When they were still cool, is what I'm saying.

That night the Peas' programming was great. If there was a song that they sampled or borrowed from, they would play it, tipping their hand to all kinds of basslines and hooks they had used. They also programmed just lots of great hip hop stuff because, like I said, they were still a good hip hop band at this point and they had good taste to back it up. One band they played, which they neither sampled from nor was it hip hop, was Stereolab. I had maybe heard the name before, or had someone recommend it to me, or maybe I just thought the name Stereolab was instantly cool, but I remember that one video very much. It wasn't your typical video, with a performance or some weird story line, it was just animated lines and designs, with large bricks of solid color moving around and lines jumping in between, and a really interesting song to keep it all moving along. I was intrigued.

I eventually returned to the States and I missed P. I was more settled, earning money now so that I had a little disposable income, and I started a long flirtation with Stereolab. I had decided that I wanted one of their CDs, but I wasn't sure which one. Every time I went to the record store there were lots of them, and they all had beautiful covers like this:






Straight lines and solid colors and cool design, I was definitely drawn in.

I spent a long time flipping through bins, going to different record stores, comparing prices, seeing which ones had the most songs and all that. I hadn't known anyone who was interested in Stereolab, no one who had recommended them to me or told me about them or let me listen to them so I was more or less on my own trying to find my way into their catalogue. Eventually I settled on this album:



I have a very strong memory of it because I got home and was eager to finally listen to the band that I'd been flirting with for the past month or so. I'd purchased a few albums that day, but Stereolab was definitely getting the first listen. I went home and settled in, preparing to play some sort of video game on my PC while I listened to my new music. Actually getting something done while listening to Stereolab, though, was wishful thinking. I think it's totally appropriate to say that I wasn't prepared for how much I would love this band.

Within two or three minutes of the first song I had to sit down and just listen. There was bizarre retro sounding instruments, there was musical self-indulgence as the first song went on for 9 minutes just building around this repeating French horn blast, it was jazzy and dance-y all at the same time, vocals were sparse, the song kept building throughout, and it was absolutely unlike anything I'd ever heard before. I was hooked.

I sat and listened to the entire CD front to back without doing anything else. I remember telling myself that even if the rest of the CD was garbage it was all okay because of that first song. Of course, it only got better from that first song, and by the time the album was over I had developed a new love. I was having a difficult time understanding how this music had been out there all this time and no one I knew had told me about it. What kind of friends did I have that would allow such a thing to pass me by? What had I been doing with my life when I wasn't listening to this stuff? Were all the other albums as good as this one? How was this not the most famous band that ever lived? Beatles shmeatles, in one listening I was ready to name Stereolab the greatest band ever.

I went to the record store first thing the next day and purchased two or three more albums. Even though the urge was there to just buy the whole bin, I realized that I would have to work my way through the albums slowly, taking the time to learn and absorb each one. I mean, maybe you think all this description here is stupid, but I'm dead serious about all this. I really fell in love with Stereolab that day and it really was a pretty profound moment for me, and I really have spent a good amount of time since then acquiring and obsessing over their albums. Maybe it's a problem with me, maybe it's a problem with everyone else for not getting it, but in a completely non-ironic and hopefully not overly cliche'ed way, I can say that Stereolab is one of the most influential things I've ever encountered in my life.

Now that I've lived with Stereolab for a while it's gained all those personal and sentimental ties that music inevitably does. I can't help but think of E. when I tell the story above, because I remember being super excited to tell her all about what I had just discovered. Of course there's P., who starts the story, and now there's L. and D. who I've discovered share my love (to an extent), R. who was the first person wise enough to get me some of their music as a gift, and all the other passing characters in my life that end up connected to the music. There are the places which get pulled in, like my room when I first heard that album, the numerous record bins I've dug through (I can specifically remember purchasing the brown covered album above in the Amoeba on Telegraph), my sunny, small apartment where I probably spent the most time listening to the band. It's what happens with all good music, but because Stereolab has been such a constant for me these past few years it's managed to work itself into an awful lot of my personal associations.

And so I recently had the opportunity to see Stereolab live in concert. My frothing fandom has died down a little (but as evidenced by this very post, I mean just a little). It was a good time, Laetitia Sadier became my new Offial #1 Celebrity Crush, and the music was beautiful.

But to be honest in the end I was actually more pleased with getting to see my old friends in the Bay Area. Spending time with M. and L. was the real highlight.

The reminder of what it's like to see dear friends inspired me to head to Portland in the last week as well. N. was up there and I missed him. It was simple for me to head to Seattle and spend some time with S., and even if we haven't been in constant contact with each other before last week, it was of no concern. When I'm around the people dearest to me it's always easy to remember our relationship. Things come easily and I'm always made happy without even trying. And again, I don't want this to be too cliche'ed and I don't mean for it to be ironic or anything, but there's nothing I value more than my friends.

So in some ways I guess Stereolab is another friend of mine, except they travel with me wherever I go. Sometimes I go through stages where I don't listen to them that much, but then whenever I do throw an album on all my other music suddenly starts sounding pale again. They're no substitute for my real, breathing, living, thinking friends, I know, but they're pretty good filler when no one else is around.

When I got back from the concert I obviously hit the back catalogue pretty hard. I made it a point to listen through all the Stereolab albums again without listening to anything else, and there's lots of albums. While this type of obsessive listening habits might make most people sick of whatever music they're hearing so much, it just makes me love Stereolab that much more. One of the songs that I got the opportunity to hear again was K-Stars, from the Peng! album that is their early material, good but not nearly as inspired as their later stuff. And for those of you who have read this far, this would more or less be the point of this whole post, the thing I'm trying to get at, the real connection I'm trying to make. K-Stars has great lyrics which always make me think of my beautiful friends, and how much I miss them:

They were young
in their mid-twenties
some in their teens
They were intelligent
and some believed
were geniuses
They were passionate
wildly in love
adventurous
Well they were exuberant
capable of hate
extreme anger
They were drawn
towards the exceptional
They avoided work
but worked hard on their laziness
and evermore
it seems they walked
wandering through Paris
was a genuine art

Now I'm not really one for bad poetry or false sentiments, but this song has always struck a chord with me. It's succinct and direct and it doesn't appear to have any winking or nudging or disingenuousness in it at all. It's an un-self-concious description of what I think we all dream about at this age, being inspired, finding an art, making a difference, being with other people who can help us along the way. Nobody wants to be ordinary, and I know I definitely don't want to be haning out with ordinary people either. I have my whole life ahead of me and I wouldn't mind if I was able to do some great things with it, whether it is on a large or a small scale, just something, on some level, which breaks from our stale everyday routines.

I've known great people -- R. who's off in New York now, A. who's finding happiness in the Santa Cruz mountains, D. and H. who are sailing in South America, N. who's finding his way in Portland, ditto for M. and D. and H. up there, P. who starts the story who's now moved on to Tokyo, our M. in San Francisco who, despite her craziness, probably has it more together than I ever will, S. who I just saw in Seattle making things happen like only she can, E. at the bookstore who might still have some love for me, A. and C. and D. and N. and R. and A. again here in Arcata trying hard to make a difference. There's a lot of people I've known in my short life, struggling through our youth in much the same way, trying to do something genius or inspired or novel or new, and I swear, if we could all just get together in one place it would be as simple as can be.

So even I'm not certain exactly what point I'm trying to make here. Maybe it's an attempt to eulogize my wasted youth, or perhaps it just illuminates my recent loneliness, or maybe I just want to flatter my distant friends who take the time to read these things, who knows. Mainly it's just talking about myself, which is secretly everyone's favorite pasttime. At least I can say that it is all in earnest and that, at least a little, in spots, with unknown degrees of real success, I'm trying for once.

on debate and discourse

I've rarely gotten into verbal fights. Despite what my readers may think of me, I generally have the self-restraint to avoid getting into heated, venomous, personal, angry arguments. I'm very good at just shutting my mouth and walking way, creating the iciest wall of pure hate that I can in the process.

This is why I thought I should share two of my favorite phrases with you, stock replies for any good argument. They are my favorite bitter replies by far, as they're near universally applicable and I'm of the opinion that whoever manages to use them first always wins.

The first:

"You don't fucking know me."

The second, even more fun, always a winner:

"Keep my name out your mouth."

And of course, if you haven't predicted it already, there's the one-two combo, the perfect synergy between the two, the unbeatable pairing to win all heated disagreements, heretofore knows as the Irrefutible:

"You don't fucking know me so keep my name out your mouth."

There's no right or wrong way to employ these phrases, really. Any time you're arguing with someone and you're getting tired of it feel free to use any of them. Some people subscribe to the school of attempting to come up with witty jabs, or directly attacking specific traits about a person, but I'll tell you from what I've seen those people always end up on tired fallbacks themselves -- "shut up bitch!", "fuck you asshole!", "kiss my ass, fucker!", etc. -- and you can do equally well just throwing these out there.

I suppose it might be a little foolish of me to be tipping my hand on the internet like this, but the truth is that I so rarely get into arguments that I hardly ever get to use these phrases. Seriously, try saying them a little. It's fun. Imagine you're arguing with that one chick who thinks you said something bad about her last week, and whether or not you said something bad she deserved whatever she got, and you just want the conversation to end, and you drop the line, "Keep my name out your mouth." Or the person who is accusing you of not really knowing what you're talking about, or subscribing to a certain belief you don't actually hold, out comes the sure-fire winner, "You don't fucking know me."

So yeah, since I haven't been in a yelling match with anyone in quite some time, and since I probably won't be yelling at anyone any time soon, I wanted to be able to take what few opportunities I have to use these phrases. Try 'em on for size, you'll thank me later.

on talking to yourself

I was walking around Portland today and I was thinking about how much I enjoy writing dialogue. It's really not something I get to do that often in my academic writing, but those few times I've ever managed to work it in I've been terribly pleased with myself. There's just something about writing speech that is novel and fun, something that feels like a departure from the write-by-numbers holes that I always feel trapped in, something playful, something I actually like writing.

After I had been walking around a while, checking out the neighborhood, I turned toward N.'s apartment again, still thinking about the problem of finding ways to write more dialogue. As I walked by a large house with an interesting Virgin Mary display I said to myself, "I really need to figure out a way to get more dialogue into my blog. That's a great place to do things like screwing around with that type of writing."

But quickly I knew it wasn't the best idea, "You work it in when you work it in. You can't just go forcing it in where it doesn't belong."

"Look at the non-fiction writer you're reading now, though. He has dialogue all over the place -- extended pieces all from one person, short snippets in the middle of his voice, all kinds of stuff in all kinds of places. Why can't you do something like that, just fit it in where you feel like?"

I had to think about that a while, because what is really stopping me from writing dialogue when I damn well please?

"Well, I don't typically have extended quotes from people. And part of the reason for him to include the dialogue is obviously to be able to temporarily move into another voice. He's great at that, finding the different speech patterns and creating characters just from the dialogue alone. Those times that I do write dialogue I'm always convinced that no matter who I'm speaking for it ends up just sounding like myself."

"That's true, but how are you going to ever change that if you never try? Hey -- I have an idea! How about you make a whole post about writing dialogue, and then you can really fool around and enjoy yourself with it. This is -- like -- exactly what you're talking about."

This idea made me nervous, though. It seemed a little too obvious, just making a post about dialogue full of dialogue. I had to talk myself out of it, "Come on man -- that's just one extended high concept joke, and like most high concept jokes probably wouldn't be very funny at all. Do you really want to bore to death those few readers you have just so you can feel clever? And the point of writing dialogue like you're talking about is to help you discover natural dialogue, and this would be a forced excercise that would ultimately fall flat. I mean, it's corny man. You're best to leave it alone."

"No, trust me. It will be fun. It's clever, people like clever stuff."

"You're crazy man, but whatever -- it is just my silly blog. I guess we can do it, but it still seems crazy to me."

Then I got back to N.'s house, picked up the book which had got me started on it in the first place, and eventually found my motivation. I would make a post about dialogue. So anyway, I did, and I still can't decide if it's just obnoxious or if it has some humor value.

a thing that should not be, pt. 2

Last night I slept on a leopard print futon, beneath a leopard print blanket, with my head lying on a leopard print pillow, with some extra leopard print pillows I couldn't use on the floor beside me. Surprisingly, I didn't have any bad dreams, although I did wake up from being cold a couple times.

a thing that should not be

I went to the Quality Food Center (which will now be called QFC) with N. recently and made a disturbing discovery. QFC charges $7.99 for a 12-pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon. In cans. And yes, that's American dollars. Bottles of High Life were (on sale) $7.49 and I got those instead. So anyway, these QFC people seem a little fishy to me, just thought I'd give you the heads up too.

my privacy, pt. 2

As most of us probably know, there's a service called myspace.com and it's pretty popular with the kids. There is, of course, the whole entertainment of watching a new little mini-culture be formed on the internet as people discover their various comfort levels with using a service that essentially an online stalker's dream. I've known people who have met significant others through myspace, I've known people who get into bitchy little gossip contests through the comments space, I've known people who have had parents check up on them through myspace, all kinds of interesting stuff. This very blog you're reading is linked through my very own myspace profile, so perhaps you're only here because of your little stalking jaunt gone wrong.

Either way, what I'm constantly surprised at is how people make use of the "comments" section of myspace, the place where you can leave a message to someone that is viewable by everyone who visits that profile. What I'm particularly surprised at is the frequency with which people don't realize that there's a private message feature, where one can send the exact same message except that it will only be readable by the recipient. Well, without further ado, I present a comment that I read off a friend of a friend's myspace profile, which I will now label Exhibit A in "Exactly the Type of Message You Might Consider Sending to the Person Privately":

i am glad we don't hate each other. but i still think we should be friends. we usually end up at the same after parties. even though i am pretty much over that. i need to focus on myself and my beautiful sister. we are going to la and japan this month. i hope you are doing well, riding that damn bike. that is your life. glad you found a girl who isn't a bitch like me. :) sorry i just wasn't ready to date or whatever the fuck we were doing. anyway i am really busy see you soon

Is she aware that I can read that as well? Are people really so free that they're unconcerned with what information others might have about them? Is there any sense of private messages, intimate communication, business which belongs only to the two participants involved? Do these people even have any sense of distinguishing between their private life and their public life?

Maybe it's just me, but I distinguish greatly between those two things, and no matter how much information I might disseminate about myself on the internet, trust I'm still making great efforts to maintain my privacy. Life wouldn't be too much fun for me without it.

sign o' the end times

Today, the day that my spring break begins, it snowed in Arcata. I was sitting in my last class before my freedom, forlornly staring out the window, imagining all the amazing things one could be doing in the wide world of freedom (even if it was raining) and suddenly it started snowing. It snowed for a good bit, and then that turned into a very solid, continued rain of hail. Eventually the grass and the bushes were tinted with a white color, covering most of their area. Eventually the sleet stopped, but its reminders were still there when I got out of class. People in the quad were making ice balls and throwing them at each other, every car I passed was coated with a good layer of ice, and the path I walked featured another person's footprints routinely printed ahead of me in the piles of white. It was pretty cool, although part of me can't help but think it would be a real bitch to bbq in this weather.

on symbolism

So as I was walking home it started hailing and I was actually enjoying it. It was pretty small hail and I was wearing a ballcap, so in truth it was actually better than the rain because I wasn't getting wet and I got to watch all the little white balls of ice -- they almost look like salt pieces -- bounce against everything. It's disorienting to switch from the small splash of a rain drop to the sudden short hop of a tiny ball of ice, but disorienting in a good way. I was proud of myself for enjoying the poor weather instead of morbidly trying to find some way that it figured as a depressing omen for me.

Then as I stepped out of the Jolly Giant Creek trail and onto the road heading to my house, a truck drove by, through the rather large puddle right next to me, splashing a whole wave of water across my body. It was just like in the movies, the innocent bystander, the giant splash, the resultant large watermarks on my clothes. Only, for whatever reason, I had the presence to just continue walking. I didn't jump back, and I didn't raise my hands in disbelief, I didn't yell or scream or act outraged in any way. I just continued exactly as I was the moment before the wave of water struck me.

So anyway, if there's a point, I guess it's that my life is so full of depressing omens, I don't even react to them any more.

the dangers of music obsession

(1) THE OBVIOUS:

The love / hate relationship I have with every good record store. On the one hand, there's only certain shops I even consider worth my time or money, but on the other hand I know if I step foot inside I'll inevitably buy at least something, while talking myself out of 5-6 albums all at the same time. While it can obviously be very rewarding, it's also very costly and nerve-wracking.

(2) THE PETTY DISAGREEMENTS:

I've been cataloguing all the songs that my history professor opens class with. He, for some reason, thinks it's cool to play a song in the time before class as the students enter. So far, I've attended when he played Beck's "Where It's At", The Who's "My Generation", a song title I didn't know by the Foo Fighters, a song title I didn't know by the Gin Blossoms, and a song title I didn't know by the Dave Matthews Band. I know this because I've obsessively taken a specific note at the beginning of every class so that I can have an accurate record of all the various ways this specific professor has wronged me.

There's also the weird, completely irrational reactions I have toward certain music just because I'm a bizarre obsessive. I take note of how people feel about the Beach Boys v. the Beatles. I have difficulty feigning politeness when people recommend Sage Francis to me. And of course my difficulty with all things Belle and Sebastien (which I will give something of an explanation for below, although I can't promise that it will seem a particularly reasonable one).

(3) THE LONELINESS:

When you just go ahead and let yourself slide away into musical obsession, you can drop pretty far. It's rare that my friends ever want to just sit and listen to whatever music I spend my time obsessing about -- Stereolab, the Books, Prefuse 73, Slum Village, MF DOOM, etc. They're too busy leading healthy lives, interacting with other people, making something of themselves, to be too concerned with the reasonably hard to find Jay Dilla track with a beat made from a Stereolab sample I found. This is the type of stuff that can make a whole week for me.

(4) THE VULNERABILITY:

Those few times that you meet someone who does, or at least superficially appears, to share your musical passion, you're in trouble. You will inevitably over-value this person for this otherwise completely arbitrary reason. As I am something of a music obsessive, I am required to believe that there is something about musical taste which offers an insight into a person's values, philosophies, kiss-ability, etc., but it's always a constant struggle to not let that cloud my vision too much. J. is obsessed with classic rock and nothing else. This is okay, we can still be friends. Just because K. has good taste does not mean you have to sleep together. S. likes weepy emo crap way too much, but she's still a good person. As long as you bring something dance-y to her party so you don't have to suffer through her social selections, you should be fine.

(5) THE BACKLASH:

Whereas you will have spent years connecting your beautiful music to private moments, that one voice to that whole era in your life, that brilliant interlude to the conclusion of that one novel, when you meet someone else who connects with your music, you're screwed. Sometimes you may be happy about it. For example listening to Brian Wilson's Smile is one part musical appreciation, one part remembering the fun times with my friend J. Other times it's going to suck. Based on a whole series of specifics (I won't really get into here) from a previous relationship, I honestly hate listening to Belle and Sebastien. Whatever opinion I held of the music before is now completely covered in a cloud of hurt, anger, and lonely musical obsession of the worst kind. I've sometimes had to go great lengths and work for years to be able to enjoy music which gets tied to things I don't like to remember, and it's all just lame bizarre obsession.

So anyway, I'm spending more time inside listening to music. I'm getting albums through various means faster than I can listen to them all and it's gotten me a little worried. Writing this should be a good reminder to just listen to some fucking Judas Priest from time to time, stop taking myself so seriously, and everything should be okay.

Also, as most of us probably know, writing about music obsession is pretty obsolete following Nick Hornby's High Fidelity. For those who haven't read it (or seen the movie), it's an incredible book. Funny that he also wrote Fever Pitch, which is a book about sports obsession that resonates with me all too strongly as well (both movies for that one really sucked, though (yes, they really tried and failed twice)). Both books serve as great ways to relieve some of the personal anxiety as I realize that I'm not the only person with such weird habits, while re-enforcing them by clearly defining and making them all too real for me at the same time. Oh well, I shouldn't think about this shit so much. I'm just going to go back to listening through all my Stereolab CDs while I watch the soccer game I recorded earlier today, and not worry one bit.

the sound of young america

I've heard a fair amount of sex in my time. And I'm not talking about in porn videos or whatever, I'm talking about two people getting down. There was that guy that lived above me in Australia and would occasionally come home on a weekend night with a girl. Just the other night my neighbors in the apartment I'm in right now were noisy enough to become audible over the TV. I've probably heard every roommate I ever had at least once or twice. Who knows how many times I've been overheard, but I can't really imagine it was never.

Most recently with P., there was a night where he was so noisy he actually woke me up from a drunken slumber. I can't say I was too happy to wake up dehydrated, with the beginning of a decent headache, still a little drunk, with nothing to drink besides tap water in the house, and a noisy couple going at it upstairs. Then the next morning P. and N. went over all the raunchy details, most of which I was none too happy to be hearing, especially given the way P. was talking about the women and some of the stuff he did. Fast forward to a few nights later, when the girl is coming over to hang out with P. again, and of course it's someone I know. Of course this relationship went on a while and I would hear them more times. Eventually when I knew P. was upstairs late at night I would just slap my headphones on and fool around on the internet. In the breaks between songs I would catch a little noise, quickly covered up as the next tune kicked in. Eventually P. would come down and see me in the headphones, flash me a thumbs up while grabbing some water before heading back upstairs, and then I knew it was safe to take the headphones off and lie down to sleep.

The loudest I ever heard was my old roommate M. It wasn't the participants as much it was the apartment. It's an old one that shakes and sways easily when you move around in certain parts, plus it didn't help that he had a poorly constructed wood frame bed from Ikea. It was another drunken slumber, only this time I woke up alarmed. There was a huge, incredibly loud banging above me, while the apartment was shaking below me, and it took me a few moments to even realize what was going on.

There was even one time when I was just walking on the sidewalk past an apartment complext I heard some very loud sex. It sounded as if they were right next to me. I don't know if they were in their enclosed backyard or just had a door or window open. I kept walking, a little curious, a little scandalized.

That's the thing, though. There's something weird about hearing sex. You notice it when you hear it and it becomes really difficult to ignore it. No matter how much you might try to tune it out, it's right there and it always makes you feel a little weird. Part of you is curious, part of you feels ashamed for prying in someone else's business, part of you is a little excited about it, part of you wishes there was some way, any way, to ignore it. Minus headphones, I haven't found one.

Also, before you go wondering about what makes me spend lengths of time writing about this, I was woken up at my friend L.'s place this morning by his roommates having sex in the room next to me. I had wanted to sleep in, but now I was awake and I couldn't fall back asleep as long as that was going on, so I had some time to think about it. I'm not some weird, perv-y, creep who likes to write about the sound of people getting busy.