Song for a Crappy Tuesday

You can hear Tuesday's footsteps approaching, and you kind of dread it.

All day has been a migration from one tedium to another. Your head flocks with grouses.

When Tuesday opens the door to see you on the couch, the questions will start: What's wrong? Did you have a tough day? Did you drop off that thing? Did you email those people and get that other thing cleared up that was bothering you? How did that meeting thing go? Did you eat something else besides that Rice Krispie Treat thing you had for lunch?

You sink further into the couch. You won't have any answers - at least, not any right ones.

The footsteps reach the landing, the key scratches its way into the lock.

Tuesday appears and closes the door. Tuesday looks pretty bad.

Your own questions flutter up. They are nearly identical to the ones you imagined Tuesday would ask.

The two of you look at each other for a moment. Then Tuesday shuffles over to the couch and sits next to you. You feel Tuesday's head on your shoulder, and the two of you sit not speaking - only the neighborhood sounds filter in through the half open window, and a burst of birds flies away from a tree just outside.

The Frames: Fitzcarraldo

Song for a Crappy Tuesday

It's only you and Tuesday in the Computer Lab.

You don't know this woman. In fact, you barely even noticed her entrance. It wasn't until you heard her banging on the keyboard of a neighboring computer and snorting out steamy breathes of rage that you sensed her.

The lab was silent before, but now you are in the hissing boiler room of her fit.

You half stop your own business, only to click the mouse every few seconds to camouflage your curiosity. The air is heavy. Every clicky clack or ticky tack on the keyboard fills your heart with dread. The gravity of her fury pulls you in, making everything your fault. You are somehow responsible.

Minutes slog past. Finally, with a grim chuckle, she clicks the mouse. The Poison Pica Letter is dispatched.

Tuesday picks up her stuff and stalks out of the room. You should feel relief, but the burrs of her mood have lodged themselves. Not even a parade of kittenpuppybaby videos will lighten your mood.

You know this, but google it anyway.

SUMMER IS COMING!

It's a little early yet, but in Chicago, at the very hint of temperatures above 40º we are wearing shorts, riding bikes and getting drunk in public. (The getting drunk in public part is not just a Summer thing, but no ice on the sidewalks makes us 8% less likely to fall after the Hour of Power Jagerbomb Smackdown at the Cubbie Bear.)

So, for us, it might as well be Summer.

Can I just say how much I love Earth, Wind and Fire? First, what a kick ass name. Second, these guys know how to groove. I can't think of a single song of theirs that doesn't make me happy. Instantly.

They are the soundtrack of trotting off to the beach and returning covered in sweat and suntan lotion. They smell like Finesse and Gee, Your Hair Smells Terrific. They taste like Zero Bars and Astro Pops. Earth Wind and Fire will never let you be cold again.

WELCOME SUMMER! I know you are not quite ready for my love, but I am totally stalking you on Facebook anyway!

September - one of the best songs ever.

And as a Special Bonus, here is the Magnificent Pomplamoose with their version!

Song for a Crappy Tuesday

"I hate you."

You are in the bathroom at work, washing your hands in the never-warm water. Tuesday is shuffling around in the stall behind you. There's the occasional whisper and soft chuckle. You wonder who she's talking to, because it certainly isn't you. Your brain asks the fleeting question, "What on earth is she doing in there?" since she occupied the restroom before you arrived. The question is immediately dismissed for more entertaining thoughts.

You are about to apply a coat of lip gloss, when the toilet flushes at last You try to ram the tube into your pocket and make a speedy exit.

Tuesday emerges from the stall and looks your way.

"I hate you." She says this with some resignation. You turn to face her, still gripping the gloss.

"Beg pardon?"

"I just-I don't know. I hate you, I guess. I thought you should know."

Can this be happening? Your heart races for a moment as your body floods with the queerest sense of relief. You knew it all along, that she despised you. And you despise her, too, though without any concrete reason. Your hate just is.

Now, your hate is just. No more covert cringing, no more self torture. Her hatred of you is a fact, and that is enough to confirm every suspected slight, every imagined undermining sneer. It was all true. You are not crazy.

The relief that buzzes through your head with the wings of a thousand caressing butterflies almost impulses you to love Tuesday. This was pretty forthright of her, after all, to admit such an adolescent notion as simply hating a co-worker for the hell of it. The two of you can regale each other with revenge fantasies and delight in a future of best-friendship. The divide wasn't so wide. In years to come, the inseparable pair of you will relate the story to your children, how your hate blossomed into the dearest bond. Don't judge a book by its cover. Even the ugliest duckling may yet turn into a swan of kinship.

Your hand is still grasping the tube of lip gloss. The two of you are silent. Tuesday erupts into a sudden barking laugh.

"I'm kidding! God, what a terrible thing to say to someone, righ?" (Christ. She never pronounces the T at the end of the word Right.)

"Yes," you muster, "That is." You try to laugh, but the sound is more akin to a chair scooted across the floor. You have squeezed the lip gloss tube to the point of bursting. The ooze of petroleum jelly trickles into your fist.

Tuesday doesn't wash her hands. She clops past you and pats you on the shoulder. "See y'out there!"

From out in the hallway, you can hear her voice cawing to another co-worker, "Guess what I just said!"

You are left in the humid restroom to stew in your own loathing. And lip gloss.

We saw the Magnetic Fields in concert on Sunday. It was a terrific concert. I join the throngs of Stephen Merritt's fans in saying that he is a brilliant lyricist, and the Magnetic Fields' arrangements are truly musically creative.

(Laura Barrett is also someone to check out. The spritely Toronto native is imaginative and has a lovely voice. She occasionally lingers on the Isle of Twee, but a couple of her songs were earnest and beautiful.)

My one complaint is that they didn't play one of my favorite songs.

With Whom to Dance.

Song for a Crappy Tuesday

Tuesday looks at you across the break room table. The two of you are eating, but not together. Tuesday has his usual microwaved burrito, you have your Bowl Appetite you got on sale at Walgreens (along with a New York Times impulse buy). The both of you eat in relative silence. Only the occasional self conscious chew or page turn.

You can sense Tuesday's attentions have turned to the side of your head.

"Hey..." he says.

"Yeah?" You don't look up.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Mm-hm."

"It's kind of weird, but do you ever wake up one day and suddenly go, 'Shit, man, I'm not funny anymore.'?"

You never thought Tuesday was funny. Your eyes dart his way, but your head does not follow. "What are you talking about?"

Tuesday's face softens, he leans in, "You know...like you go around and you say things, but no one laughs...or your brain just hiccups and you can't think of anything...or - I don't know...."

You are terrified to ask the question, but here goes: "Um...are you talking about-" Your eyes glance below the table to your pant-zipper.

Tuesday lets out an explosive laugh. "What? NO. Really? JE-sus. That shit is working like a charm. Little TOO good, if you ask me...Aw, dude, do you have problems like that?"

A sigh escapes your lips. "No. No, Tuesday, I don't." You start to clean up your meal. "So, you're not funny anymore, huh?"

Tuesday makes a sharp return to despondence. "Jeez. Not so loud."

"Look, I don't know what to tell you. Maybe if you just relax and try not to think about it so much..."

Tuesday shakes his head, trying to brush it off. "Yeah...yeah...you're probably right."

You exit the break room and head back to your cubicle. On the way, you pass one of your co-workers.

"Afternoon." She says..

"I wish." You blurt out. She crinkles her brow at you, breezes past. For a split second you are unsure of what just happened. A flash of paranoia strikes you.

Suddenly, you aren't funny anymore.



Have you watched Billy Squier's Rock Me Tonight video, recently? Because, if you haven't, you really should.

The song itself is typical 80's Pop: a dancey, playful invitation to get it on. There is something about Rock Me Tonight that launches it in to the to stratosphere of cringe. The lyrics move from laughable (Guilty of love in the first degree) to downright naughty (Hold tight - you're in for a ride/Can you feel the blood poundin' way down inside).

And then there's the video. Satin sheets, keds, skippy dance moves, ripping his shirt off in favor of a pink and white tank top dealy, then putting on a NECK BANDANA. Never has a grown man made a more bizarre transformation into a 14-year-old girl. This video is the perfect storm of unrestrained adolescent sexuality.

Will a woman please do a cover of this song? If she made the video the exact same way, it would probably be banned for being too explicit.

Song for a Crappy Tuesday (February Covers Edition)

There is no way you are getting out here without taking something with you.

Towards the end of your visit with the Sisters of February Tuesdays, the anticipation of this creeps up through your stomach muscles. You wonder what it will be this time. Last year, it was three Tupperware containers full of aspic meat molds. In 2008, you left with 18 LP's of synthesized Mozart reinterpretations (each with a boudoir photo on the cover of a 1960's model dressed as a 1760's courtesan, her powdered wig askew and the laces on her corset loosened.) In 2004, it was a bucket full of tennis balls. ("You play tennis, don't you?" "Um...No." "You will. These can't go to waste.") Used camera flashbulbs, a sack of Spuds MacKenzie Spring Break '88 tee-shirts, Noxema.

These things find their way to your closet or freezer. You cannot bring yourself to throw them away, but you won't use them either.

Your time has come to bid them farewell. The Sisters rise, each reaching out and clutching your wrists with their boney fingers, the soft petals of their ancient skin pressing into yours. Comfort and Unease saturate you at once.

They guide you to the front door and open it out into the chilled air. The Eldest Sister delivers a nearly simian pat on the forehead. "Now you get along now. Get along before we all start to cry like a bunch of old ladies." She smiles and the four of them caw their farewells.

On the sidewalk, you realize that you have escaped without any dubious treasures. No Mismatched salt and pepper shakers, no Walter Mondale Campaign buttons. For a second, you are hurt.

The bus arrives a the corner. Stepping up you reach into your pocket for your wallet to discover a lumpy plastic bag. You pull it out. Inside it are 40, maybe 50, fast food soy sauce packets, and one solitary packet of dijonnaise.


Paul McCartney was my favorite Beatle. Okay? I said it. McCartney was the king of the hook, the tight as a drum arrangement, lyrics with laser precision. The perception floats around that McCartney was a commercial worker bee, while Lennon was the real musical genius. This is pretty short sighted. (It burns me up when I've admitted to liking McCartney more and the response is, "Well, he WAS the cute one." As if his relative cuteness was the deciding factor.)

Now, don't get me wrong. I think McCartney without Lennon tended to go off into more sentimental territory. Part of the glory of the Lennon/McCartney relationship was that each provided ballast for the other. Lennon would delve into metaphysical psychedelic worlds, while McCartney's imagery was more hardwood and three dimensional (Contrast Eleanor Rigby and Tomorrow Never Knows from the album Revolver. Or the differing styles in their collaboration A Day in the Life - which, as a matter of interest, is my favorite Beatles song of all time. I heard it for the first time when I was eleven and it may have altered the course of my personality forever.).

But, after all the saying and doing, I'm more of a McCartney fan. His song Got to Get You Into My Life, is fantastic reason why. What an emmer effing BUILD. It starts out with a brass section (usually a heralding sound) and then falls into a a confused sounding plod of lyrics as he describes how drab his life was before encountering this new and different thing. The Chorus explodes with an exuberant holler "GOT TO GET YOU INTO MY LIFE!"

I've heard that this song was actually about Pot. Which, at first bothered me. But upon further listening, I didn't really care. It can be about anything new - a person, a song, an experience. Part of McCartney's genius is that he could write about Elmer's Glue and wind up offering expansive insights.

Then we head into some fraught territory: The Beatles Cover. Plenty have attempted it, plenty have failed - and not even spectacularly. Mostly, they just wind up sounding like a Beatles knock off.

Got to Get You Into My Life was tailor made for Earth, Wind and Fire to cover. With their brass funk boogie sounds (Songs like Boogie Wonderland, September, and Let's Groove) it would almost be a crime not to.

Where they succeed is taking this song and elevating it with their own style. It's not ostensibly different, but there's not mistaking that this is EWF. (It was also featured in "Sgt. Pepper Lonely Hearts Club Band", perhaps one of the most unfortunate films ever made. Anyone up for a Triple Feature of this, "The Warriors" and "Xanadu"?)

This cover is definitely on my Beach Road trip jams of '77-'84. When I hear this song, I can almost smell the salt air and suntan lotion.

Song for a Crappy Tuesday (February Covers Edition)

Covers are a delicate art form. One "Too-Right" move, and your emo-indie-garage band with a respectable following can be catapulted into the national arena. This might be a dream for the hapless rockers who stumbled onto the pulse of American Pop Culture. But it can also sound their death nell.

Take, for instance, Alien Ant Farm and their cover of Michael Jackson's Smooth Criminal.

Alien Ant Farm's cover does exactly what a good cover should: It takes the original, remixes it in the signature style of the covering band, and (in the best cases) expands and illuminates the lyrical/musical themes already existing in the initial release.

The lyrics to Smooth Criminal are pretty violent - lots of references to bloodstains, broken glass, and being struck down. It's an action packed thriller (no pun intended) of a song. Who's Annie? Jeez. What happened to her?

The arrangement works, too, with the whispering danger and darting rhythm, then exploding in the chorus with cries of "Are you okay?"

Then we come to Alien Ant Farm. They take the original and exploit the violence with relentless neo-punk speed. The thing never lets up. It brings the romanticized Smoothness of MJ's hit into a grittier, meaner realm. When I hear this version I can't help but see myself in some Paul Greengrass chase sequence.

In Michael Jackson's version, Annie might still be alive. In Alien Ant Farm's she is so totally dead.

Regardless of AAF's virtuosity in claiming Smooth Criminal as their own, it landed them square in the viewfinder of the One Hit Wonder sniper. The band experienced quite a few stumbling blocks after this song's release - it must suck to play a gig and have most of the crowd go slack jaw until you play that one song they like.

At any rate, as covers go...this is a pretty good one.

Here is the late, great MJ in the Smooth Criminal original, featuring his patented Anti-Gravity Lean shoes, and the mini-movie format:



And now for Alien Ant Farm

Song for a Crappy Tuesday: February Covers Edition

You left late. It's your own fault, too.

No on else is to blame for the sluggish morning. Walking out the door right after you have one more cup of coffee and you don't really want to leave these dishes undone which reminds you about this really great idea you have for an art project so why don't you go ahead and do that and now look at the giant mess you've made so you'd better clean that up because you won't be getting home until later and look at the time you'd better get your shoes on but where are they you only lose them when you are late why is everything always right where you need it when you are on time which is only about half the time and did you ever get the dishes done nope but they can wait until you get home late and great its snowing and did you remember about the service cutbacks on the train you'd better run run run to the bus as it pulls away and that bus driver saw you you know she did that vindictive cow how could she doesn't she know you are running late who can you blame who can you blame only you only you only you.

Your heart clutches a little in your chest as you arrive, late, to your destination.

The grey decaying house creaks as you trudge up the steps.

The door opens.

The Second Eldest Sister of February Tuesdays stands at the entrance

You shake your head, near tears. "I'm sorry I'm late...it was the bus-" You stop. And then start over. "It's my own fault. I didn't leave in time."

The Second Eldest Sister opens her crinkled mouth with a partially toothed smile. "You're here now," she says "We're just glad you're safe."

Your eyes shrink wrap in tears. You enter and the house is filled with the familiar smell of burned chocolate and cedar shavings. The twins are fighting down the hall.

"Come in and try some soup," says the Second Eldest Sister, "It's made of butternut squash and gummed Easter Peeps. You always liked marshmallows."

Your stomach collapses as she closes the front door.





The Smiths
She & Him

Song for a Crappy Tuesday

"Oh, wow! This will be the perfect song for my blog post tomorrow, you guys!"

Both of your best friends, Jake and Cyprus lie on the couch in a Heartland Rock cum Calvin Klein ad cuddle lump. The wafting summer breeze frisking through the open deck windows smells like ocean air and charcoal. Jake's arm extends at an unnatural angle and hands you a CD.

"Take it." He smiles, "In fact, take as many CDs as you want." The walls of his house are lined with every possible album. The mass effect is dizzying.

Your heart is overwhelmed by a sense of well-being. As you take the CD, you look down at Jake's outstretched arm and notice that all of his intricate tattoos are blurry.

Huh.

Then, just like the end of Somewhere in Time with that effing penny, you wake up.


You're eyes bat open as you try to remember the awesome song that probably doesn't even exist to begin with.

Poof. Gone. Dag.


If I haven't mentioned it before, my three-year-old nephew, J., loves Booty Shaking Club Jams. When I'm driving him around in my sister's car, I tend to flip radio stations looking for bearable music. Without fail, when I hit B96 or KissFM he hollers, "I LIKE that one!"

And really, it doesn't matter which rump shaker it is. He seems charmed by Empire State and just about anything that uses Rhianna (which, let's face it, is pretty much everything). He is tickled by Lady Gaga and Jay Sean. I have to be careful, though, because, as we have seen, Hotel Room Service or LMFAO might have a catchy hook, but I'd feel compelled to turn myself into Child Services if I ever let him listen to it (Not to mention hosing my own self off).

The other day, on our way to Costco, Kiss FM was casting its bass driven spell when Don't Stop the Rock by Freestyle came on. I have never heard this group before, even though it's an older band (the song was released sometime in the 80's. The web has varying dates.). Jack was transfixed, so much so that we had to wait in the parking lot for the song it to wind down.

It's a fun single. Along the same lines as Freakazoid, this is a serious rhapsody de Casio.

I wonder if that talking sex robot has the same voice.

Song for a Crappy Tuesday (Connective Tissue Edition)

(Editor's Note: This post was done sort of on the fly, so I've reduced the main sentiments to outline form. If you need further instruction, I'll send the study guide out later.)

1. Beethoven's Fifth
a. Most famous
b. Fate Knocks at the Door



2. A Fifth of Beethoven by Walter Murphy and the Big Apple Band
a. Disco
b. Released in 1976, featured on the 1977 Saturday Night Fever Soundtrack
c. Name a pun on hard liquor bottles
d. Inklings of future music in which Sampling is a large part. Also, kind of a "Suck it, Grampa!" to stodgy adults who hate youth culture**.




3. When I Get You Alone by Thicke
a. Alan Thicke's (Of Growing Pains) Kid
b. Samples not the original Beethoven's Fifth, but A Fifth of Beethoven
c. Not a Guilty Pleasure, just Guilty
d. Probably does not realize that Beethoven wrote the original (or who "Beeth-Oven" is)
e. Dumb video about a douche-y bike messenger
f. Confirms Grampa's hatred of youth culture.

**Which, incidentally, will kill your dog.

Song for a Crabby Tuesday

"Do you ever have one of those days where nothing goes wrong in particular, but nothing goes right either? You find yourself unsatisfied by music or movies (and you are aggravated by the very idea of television - although you haven't seen any yet today, you are already perturbed by the level of stultifying boredom it will no doubt bring), and even when something fun or exciting comes around, you just want to shut it down right away.

Ice Cream? Nettlesome.
Baby's Laugher? That'll end soon enough.
Champagne at Sunset? What did you do NOW?

A day when you are so peeved at your own ennui that you feel like saying something rotten just to get the juices flowing again?"

And Tuesday says:



You, loaded with malaise, can't even muster the energy to shove her.

Song for a Crappy Tuesday

"Second Tuesday in January" is gregarious and charismatic. You know this because he says that's how his friends describe him. This is also how you know that he is hilarious.

STiJ said this great thing one time, which he recounted, step by step: the set up, the dropped bomb of greatness, the immediate fallout, and his friends reactions for days. STiJ was getting phone calls even a couple of weeks later from friends so they could retell and relive the story together.

And then there was that other great thing that STiJ said. And then that other great thing.

STiJ has an unsettling habit of looking only at your mouth when you speak.

STiJ is impatient while you talk, but miffed when you don't invite him to look at your vacation pictures. STiJ constantly has his iPhone out (on which he has shown you every. single. app.), and gazes into its glowing, chimerical universe during conversations. Every so often he barks out an "Uh-huh."

STiJ has been temping in your office since New Year's...and now it looks like they are going to offer him a full time position. The cubicle next to you is vacant, and you fear that in a few days, it will become more so.


I used to like the Offspring, kind of. I never purchased one of their albums (though I think I wound up with one a few years ago - not sure how). They were invisibly woven into musical wallpaper of the early '90s - a band I didn't hate, but was never so moved to financially support.

I didn't even know the band's name until my roommate, Tina, was talking about the song she thought was funny, "Self Esteem".

"It's hilarious. This guy is talking about how his shitty girlfriend sleeps around on him, but he just can't break up with her." We talked about how the tone of the song would change drastically if a woman was singing it. How we'd judge her. How pathetic she'd be.

And the guy is pathetic, too. The turn-about is what makes this song even palatable. That, and the fact that, male or female, most of us have been in a relationship that demolished our ability to stand up for ourselves.

Still, I would not call myself an Offspring fan, but the thing I have to credit them for, is their sense of humor. They use a hard rock/punk sound as a vehicle for irony - a dude thrashing around about his relationship woes is pretty clever.

Song for a Crappy Tuesday

Tuesday looks across the table at you.

"You know what?" He says, "This meatloaf is really dry."

Your fork drops with a clang onto the plate and you stare at the crumbling ground beef.

"You just COULDN'T let it go, could you? We were doing really well and then- bam- you had to complain about SOMETHING. Jesus."

You knock your chair back from the dinner table, swipe up your plate and head to the kitchen. The house is silent, except the slow, labored chewing of Tuesday in the other room.

Neither of you is the good guy here. And that's worse than the dry meatloaf.



I was grocery shopping the other day when this song came over the speakers. It's pretty rare, anymore, to rediscover a song you love. Everything is so at-our-fingertips, that the happy accidents come fewer and farther between.

"You're the One" by the Vogues is one of those pre-Woodstock gems of doo-whop that gets lost in the shuffle. What a happy, unapologetic song. It starts out with this sweet lullaby verse and then breaks into an exuberant belt - like she just walked into the room and there's no containing himself.

The video is pretty funny, too. You have the Vogues, with no media savvy, paired with all the go-go dancers in back. I sort of long for the days when none of us were so aware of the cameras.

Song for a Crappy Tuesday

It's four o'clock in the morning. The sun has not risen and the city is in it's most quiet hour. Your dreams pulse from one image to the next, recycling conversations from days before, when, without warning, your body lurches up and your eyes spring wide.

What was that? What is your imagination, or did someone knock on your door?

knockknockknockknockknock.

Someone knocked.

Your brain tries to clear out the underbrush of sleep as you creep out of bed. You don't know anyone in your building, who would be knocking at this hour? The raps come again, this time with more force.

knockknockknockknockknock.

"Who is it?" you call, with a sudden clarity in order give the impression that you are, in fact, fully awake and lucid.

The muted answer comes back, "Open the door, please."

You stand in your socked feet, staring at the door. A pin spot of yellow light shines through the peep hole.

The knock comes again: knockknockkno-

"OKAY. I'm coming..." You pad over the stacks of "take care of later" papers and unread books on the floor. There is a pile of laundry in the corner that never seems to go away.

You press your hand to the doorknob and hold onto it for just a second. You think to look out the peep hole, but something in you still wants to be surprised. You turn the knob and crack the door.

Standing before you is a young man who looks something like a Bible salesman (or, at least, what you imagine one would look like, never having actually seen one first hand.). He smiles at you and says "Hello. Come with me."

Your head is still struggling to the shoreline of consciousness. "Beg pardon?"

"I said, 'Hello. Come with me.'"

"Yeah-yes. I got that part. How come? Is everything okay? Or, wait...first, who are you? Do I know you?"

The young man nods his head and smiles. "The name's Before New Year's. Tuesday Before New Year's. You can call me Tuesday. Some people want to call me Mr. Before New Year's, but I think that's too many words."

Your eyes glaze for a second.

"So, come on." He beckons you towards the stairs.

You do know this guy. You're going to go with him no matter what. You can sit behind the door, but you know he will keep knocking. You have no choice but to go with him.

"Should I put on some clothes - er, do I need anything?"

"No. Just let's go."

A wave of clean exhilaration over takes you. You don't need anything, but just go.

It occurs to you that perhaps you are still sleeping in your bed - that this is just a product of your brain steeping in the tropical steam heat in your bedroom. Either way, you follow Mr. Before New Year's down the stairwell and leave last year behind.


I love the time between Christmas Day and New Year's Day. Whether or not we want to, we are compelled to look back over the year and make plans for the future. At the same time we are avalanched by Year End Round-ups and Top Ten Lists. (Ends of the Decade are the mother load. Not only are you offered a Year in Review, but you get a glimpse back at the past ten. 10 years ago, I had just closed a show about the End of Days called Apocalypse, and was furiously writing to finish my adaptation of Wise Blood by Flannery O'Connor.)

According to my iTunes play counts on a month by month basis, 2009 was a pretty random year. Below is my official Top Twelve List. Here are the songs I added to my library, month by month, and with the highest play counts. In some instances, I offer an explanation. In other...judge me if you will - I bet you have some pretty handsome musical skeletons in your library as well.

(To be fair, some of these with astronomically high play counts would be classified as "Running Music" or "Show Music". In other cases, who am I kidding? I love Justin Timberlake and Lady Gaga.)

1. Sober, P!ink (Added 1/24/09, played 42 times) I think I had a wound only Pink could salve.



2. Don't Phunk with My Heart, Black Eyed Peas (Added 2/8/09, Played 18 times)



3. Poker Face, Lady Gaga (Added 3/11/09, Played 65 times)



4. Soft Rocked by Me, Jonathan Coulton (Added 4/21/09, Played 12 times)



5. I hear the Bells, Mike Doughty (Added 5/18/09, Played 25 times)



6. My Life Would Suck Without You, Kelly Clarkson (Added 6/3/09, Played 60 times)

As lip dubbed by my Kerpatty! boys...



7. If My Heart Was a House, Owl City (Added 7/23/09, Played 29 times)




8. Please Please Please Let Me Get What I Want, Dream Academy (Added 8/7/09, Played 10 times)



9. In These Arms, The Swell Season (Added 9/17/09, Played 10 times)



10. Sexyback, Justin Timberlake (Added 10/9/09, Played 23 times)



11. Bad Romance, Lady Gaga (Added 11/9/09, Played 30 times)



12. Sovay, Andrew Bird (Added 12/9/09, Played 9 times)




What were your most listened to songs this year? (Not just the good ones...but the most listened to.)

Song for a Crappy Tuesday

Life is that period of time between being pushed into the pool, and hitting the water. It is graceless. Your legs jack knife in the air. There is no turning back.

Just as your feet leave the concrete, you catch a glimpse of the shovesome culprit.

Tuesday, the orange 47-year-old man in a purple speedo and braces, grins like an imp behind you.


Yesterday, I received my yearly Christmas compilation from JS. For pretty much as long as I can remember, JS. has been sending his "Christmas in December!" mixes, an alt-collection of holiday favorites, to his friends. It arrives on cue, mid-December and becomes an audio fixture for the next couple of weeks.

JS is one of my sister's friends from high school, a group I looked up to and admired for their brains and wits. JS is a master of the mixtape - and in the late 80's he created "Popsicles are Cool and Sticky" for my sister, a mix featuring the "Band called Biff and Janey". This particular mix hit legendary status in my wee mind and, after the first one was lost to time, he did me the great service of recreating the mix in the early '90s.

This one was slightly different - JS made a solid effort to give an exact replica, but some things can only be half remembered. This mix also featured Biff and Janey (The title of the mix comes from them - "Popsicles are cool and sticky/Whoa, dude bitchin'!/We are the MTV Generation, We are the MTV Generation!" This is one band Google has not touched, I assure you.) as well as: Stevie Wonder, The Jazz Butcher Conspiracy, The Spinners, The Colorblind James Experience, and Jonathan Richman.

For those of you unfamiliar with Jonathan Richman, he is the founder of the band The Modern Lovers (the members of which read like a who's who of New Wave Alternative) and they released the the songs Roadrunner and Pablo Picasso - both of which have been covered within an inch of their lives. Bands that claim Richman as an influence range from Art Brut to They Might Be Giants.

The song that landed on my version of PACAS is "I'm Straight" from Jonathan Richman & the Modern Lovers.

"I'm Straight" is hilarious and kind of heartbreaking. Richman's droning voice and pleading lyrics give us a peek into the future of our personal tensions with irony, sincerity, and authenticity. It starts slow and self conscious, but then breaks free - less afraid of the potential rejection.

Thanks to JS for his lasting influence on my musical taste...now, if you'll just recreate all the volumes of "I was a Teenage Dance Mix", I'd be much obliged.

Song for a Crappy Tuesday

Your socks are soaking wet.

The dusting of snow didn't look so bad in the early morning light. From the blur of sleep, your brain imaged the pair of wool socks you received as a Christmas present two years ago. They were expensive, covered in snowflakes and reindeer. Those should be fine, you thought. You and your brain shook on it and you headed to bathroom for a shower.

Nothing is lucky on mornings like these. On the train, a hulking teen aged girl and her anxious younger brother sandwiched you between them. You were invisible to them, and their loud recitation of the Twelve Days of Christmas - and how WRONG little brother was getting it - re-cancelled your noise canceling head phones. To your dismay, they got off at your stop, and swerved three or four times right into your path.

The five minute walk to your office took half an hour. With each step, your shoes - the good ones, too - flooded. Every snowflake carried five gallons of water.

You left your right glove on the train.

The ding-donging Santa in front of the Walgreens grimaced at you.

Cathy, who sits in the cubicle opposite your own, didn't hold the elevator for you - even as the LED brooch on her snowman sweater sparkled through the crack in the door.

Finally, you squish into the office and collapse into your seat.

Wool socks are a lie, you think.

Every cubicle around you is decked with boughs of Christmas cards and dancing palm trees that sing "White Christmas". Cathy pokes her head up, the brooch dazzling her face every second or so.

"I am sorry about the elevator." she caws. "I didn't even see you until the last minute."

You let out a tired chuckle. "Yeah."

Just then, right past Cathy's head, you spot her.

It is Tuesday. She's gazing at the giant flakes of snow tumbling by the window. The grey light bathes her smiling cheeks. Her desk is free from holiday twinkles and tchotchke.

After a moment, she turns to see you, smiles and waves, and then returns to her thoughts.

Cathy is still talking probably, but whatever. You huff to yourself and fall back into your seat.

On top of everything else today, you have to go and get a crush.




I can only listen to Beirut so much. I like them (or, rather, him, I guess. It's pretty much Zachary Francis Condon's baby.) quite a bit, but with all the Bohemia and trumpets and longing, depending on my mood, I can hit super-saturation pretty fast.

It's a fun listen, though. The gypsy influenced pop has a great sense of depth. It borrows history by using brass and ukuleles and mandolins, and layers it with new world lyrics and technology. This is particularly true of the song Nantes, a combination of synthesized vibes, French samples and old rhythms. The build on it takes me by surprise every time.

Song for a Crappy Tuesday

I am headed to New York City today.

When I was younger, I believed I'd make New York City my home. Walking down the streets a couple of years ago, a blast of hot air blew up from a subway grate and I caught a lungful of exhaust, urine, oil, and old basement. An explosion of teen aged excitement roiled through me. Back in High School, my drama class would take a trip to New York every year. I only went a couple of times, but it was enough to cement a vision of the future that looked like a cross between the movie version of A Chorus Line and Working Girl. The smell that shot up through the grate flashed me right back to the 10th Grade...when I was an Actress.

(My sister describes the same sensation. We both just assumed that NYC was where we'd wind up. The smell in the streets was going to be our smell.)

Something about the city, with its unceasing energy and gotham gravity is also melancholy. Whenever I am there or read about it, I get an intense feeling of longing. I get this, too, when I'm in L.A. or anyplace where populations stake out their claims, set up fond dream manufacturies and eke out a trickle of freedom/joy/immortality.

The city is a self-perpetuating turbine of failure and hope.

There are hundreds of songs that name check New York City. But Lou Reed singing "Walk on the Wild Side" is possibly my favorite. His squeaky voice over an unassuming and gentle rhythm, lullabies desperation, self-delusion, and hope. One night, a junior in high school, I couldn't sleep and I listened to this song over and over - Play. Stop. Rewind. - until the weary batteries slowed Reed's voice to creepy speeds. I dreamed of scrapping it out on the streets, some tough cookie.

That would never be me, but it was an enticing fantasy.

Song for a Crappy Tuesday

she just got real cold allsuvasudden. she wont talk 2 me or evin look over here. i asked her what wuz wrong and she was all like i wasnt in the room. like she just looked right through me. i bet its because of that one time she called her own mom a bitch monkey and her mom heard her say it but she blamed it a on you and her mom told us all to get ut of the car and walk home. her mom is crazy even if she says she's not, i think she is. Whatever. i heard her mom stold twenty dollars out of the bake sale money and then donated it back and said it was hers own money. what a freak right? You can do better though you know. So what if she won't talk to you because of her mom. she's just crazy and embarrASSed, probably. anyway, dont send me to talk to her because she wont even talk to me neither.

You read and re-read the note a few times. It's faded and torn. You found it in the pocket of an eighteen-year-old jean jacket that you haven't picked up in over a decade. The paper now has the consistency of fabric, and the perforated edges fray at the tips.

You hold onto the jacket and try to wrap your mind around the fact that

A) You had for gotten that this jacket even existed.
B) You were looking through the closet, looking for your last box of checks
C) You opened one box that that had been sealed for some years that contained six Garfield calendars from 1984 - 1990.
D) And this jacket.
E) It still fit you.
F) You placed your hand in the pocket and discovered this note.

and, finally,

G) The subject of this note, the one who blamed you for calling her own mother a bitch-monkey, not seconds, SECONDS before, had friended you on Facebook.

You had forgotten her name until now.

It is Tuesday.

Song for a Crappy Tuesday (Guilty Pleasure Edition)

Tuesday is working the register at Walgreens. The store is nearly deserted, and only the strains of Extreme's "More than Words" trickle into the fog of your early morning consciousness.

You reach the counter and plunk down your orange juice.

"Would you like to try our Wow Buy today? Two Reece's Peanut Butter Cups for 50 cents."

"No thanks," you reflexively answer. Then you let out an embarrassed chuckle. "I have to keep a tight reign on my 50 cents right now."

He smiles and tells you to swipe your card.


When you get to work, you reach inside the bag to discover, next to the orange juice, a Reece's Peanut Butter cup. According to the receipt, Tuesday didn't charge you for it.

You are so overwhelmed by his gesture that you never return to that same Walgreens.


To say that I have philosophical problems with Britney Spears should come as no surprise. Some of these issue arise, sure, from her lack of vocal ability and her commodified hyper-sexuality, but these are pretty well worn gripes. There is little new to the complaints about her overly produced lip-syncing or her overt pleas for sexual attention.

The presence of Spears in our celebrity continuum highlights an interesting tension for those inclined as Free Women. There's a hastening to shake our fists at her booty wiggles, but it's these same women who dress up as Sexy Dorothy Parker for Halloween and dance with abandon to "Womanizer". It can be difficult to reconcile the desire to be a thinking, progressive female with the secret wish to be considered a crazy sexy hot mama.

These two things are not mutually exclusive. And this is where some of my problems lie with the Britney. I'm not squeamish about a woman's expression of sexuality in music, art or movies. There are some schools of thought that hold conspicuous displays of female sexuality as a reclamation of gender power - sometimes I agree with this. Not in the case of Ms. Spears.

My problem is not in her gyrations, her lip-licking, or sex-driven lyrics. My problem is that I don't feel invited into her sexuality...nor is it particularly interesting.

Watching her videos and listening to her songs, the message is clear: we are her mirror. Her level of narcissism is intense and most certainly brought about by years of unceasing public scrutiny and an entourage willing to say yes to her every whim. Song after song is about us watching her, how we all want to get on that, and how we all want to be her. But is this true? After a while of being told how sexy she is, I kinda don't believe it anymore.

It's also a little boring - videos comprised of her dancing in some costume, writhing half naked, and then dancing in another costume using a series of thrusting power moves, over and over.

So, my problems with Britney don't come from her being all sexed up. They come from how pre-fab and unthoughtful it seems.

(However, do I own a few Spears singles on my iPod. Of course, I do.)

To be fair, my sexual iconography tends to run in the area of the "The Quirk":



Something odd, a touch of kink...maybe a little grandiosity to boot. This stuff is invigorating. Hell, I have to give Madonna her props for maintaining a sense of style, image, and message in everything she does. Sex is used as a tool in her arsenal...not a plea for a love that she never got. (I'm sure it started there, but it evolved.)

So now we come to Lady Gaga.

I'll wait while you stop laughing.*


I was quite happy to brush her off as another Brit wannabe, with no real ability. Her single Just Dance was one of the first I heard and was unimpressed. Standard pop beat, no interesting lyrics to speak of. Simply a fun little ditty, and that's it.

More singles followed (Love Game caused me to morn the death of subtlety), I would hear her name brought up. My sister once remarked that she'd never be able to say for sure what Lady Gaga looked like because she's constantly covered in all kinds of makeup and fur.

My friend Casey was talking to me about her one night before a show. In his assessment, she is a performance artist. I laughed. Then he showed me her performance at the 2009 VMAs:



I have to admit...I was taken. This is pretty impressive performance, done by a woman who is quite willing to take a substantial risk. And without lip syncing. (If you are not impressed by this, go try to sing Happy Birthday while doing jumping jacks. Then come talk to me.)

Gaga, in tandem with her extreme theatrical presentations, has a shape-shifting voice. Again, I first thought her voice the product of over production. Then I saw this performance on SNL. (which shows off her vocal prowess and a little sense of humor about herself.)


Watch Lady Gaga on Saturday Night Live HD SNL in Music | View More Free Videos Online at Veoh.com

Do the music and lyrics to Poker Face test the limits of human profundity? Nope.

But, I have to say, this chick is an active participant in her sexual image. I feel invited and intrigued. Not told something, male or female, is sexy just because it's naked.




*HT to the Fake AP Style Handbook.

Song for a Crappy Tuesday

What you don't know about Asperger's is a lot. Just the staticky fragments from a Dateline two nights ago, filtered through the parents' caustic whispers. Both caught your vague interest - the whisper-fit and the Dateline - but neither could be heard in full. Instead they blent into audio wallpaper, heard at crunching intervals as you finished your Cap'n Crunch for dinner.

Gary is a boy like any other in this-
"-this is the third parking tick-"
Difficulty reading social cues-
"...instead of letting me find out three-"
...lack of eye contact-
"...three times! And always when I'm stress-"
'There are three Walgreens within three blocks of my Mom's office.'

Election Tuesday, in your third grade class, was diagnosed with Asperger's. There was no big fuss made about it on the part of the teacher (a grey, indifferent woman, unable mask her perturbation at any unexpected change in plan), but Election Tuesday had no reserve in announcing it to all eighteen kids in line at the Bathroom Break.

Election Tuesday is unsettling to talk to - with the constant chatter of encyclopedic facts and his queer gaze at your left temple- so you avoid him whenever possible. (This is made difficult, however, by the alphabetic placement of your last names. Except when some kid is sick, you are the Craft Partner, The Buddy.)

He is also one of those kids. The kind with a laundry list of queezeries that upset and annoy: He ate three of Jodi's glue sticks within the first six days of school, one of his armpits sweats excessively, he has consistent booger hang, he bites his nails and leaves them on the left corner of your desk, he has no compunction pointing out unfavorable cross gender traits in the three more preyed upon kids, he slapped Georgie and took his applesauce.

Once he made his condition known to you, though, much was forgiven. There was a reason - he should be pitied, not reviled. And even if he still sits too close or licks your pencil eraser, it's not like it's on purpose.

You keep telling yourself this as the two of you sit outside the principal's office. A Rube Goldberg machine of events has put you there. Jodi still has her vision, despite her squealing, and, at any rate, this was not your doing. You just happened to be his Craft Partner today (Yesterday Daniel Buckman had the flu and you were placed with another kid. No such luck today. Daniel Buckman is such a faker anyway.) and Election Tuesday made a real mess of your decoupage.

But he couldn't hel-

"-help it." He finishes your thought out loud.

You look up at him. Election Tuesday's reddish gold hair has one or two clots of glue still in it. He stares down at his loose shoelaces.

"I wasn't trying to hurt anybody."

"Right, right, right." You say.

His teeth are tugging at the nail of his left index finger. You know where that's going to wind up.

"I guess I just can't control myself sometimes."

You scratch at your left cheek and a crust of red tissue paper and glue rolls off into your hand.

"Lucky people know I have asp-erger."

You stare at him. He is swaying and bopping from side to side, as if to unheard music. The mutterings of parents in the office behind is getting louder. The door opens and Election Tuesday's parents emerge. They rush to him, kissing and hugging his ruddy face.

"Get in here, now!" barks the lone voice of your father, still inside.

Election Tuesday is lead away by his father's hand. He turns back, looks you dead in the eye and grins. "See you at Snack."

He yanks what's left of the hangnail from his finger and stuffs it in his pocket for later.

"Right, right, right," you mutter and turn into the principle's office - ready to be disbelieved.



The accordion has long been labeled as a specialty instrument for Polka Bands and Nerd Rockers. And to be fair, for while it seemed as though those were the only people in pop culture who dabbled around with the accordion.

Want to show a fairly benign but alien culture? Give us a Swedish Polka Band.

Want to show how geeky a kid is? Give him accordion lessons.

My first associations with the accordion fell along these lines until I was introduced to the band They Might Be Giants my freshman year in high school. Even then it was a while before I realized the instrument was, in fact, the accordion. It was "That Famous Polka" really opened my eyes.

Since then I have come to hear just how versatile and evocative the accordion is. Accordions figure into Tango orchestrations from all over, giving sense of urgency with individual notes and longing as the chords are drawn out - Tension and release.

One os my favorite songs recently is by the indie rock band The Bowerbirds. "Beneath Your Tree" uses the accordion in a messy but tireless way - sounding something like a homemade gypsy caravan or funeral procession. Put together with the banging drums, and longing lyrics and the whole song plays out with weary but fierce resolve.

Like it wishes it could stop, but cannot.

Song for a Crappy Tuesday

I’ve been tapping myself on my own shoulder for a while now, whispering with a casual wave at my office door, “You know, whenever you get a minute…if we could talk about a couple of things- nothing big - that would be great.”

This meeting has been put off for weeks now. Probably months. And now I’m mad at Me and am threatening to quit if I don’t get a few minutes, for chrissake, in the conference room.

And you see what happens? I don’t take my urgings for a meeting seriously and the whole thing blows up in my face like a tired office analogy gone awry.

Ungh.

And I don’t think that’s the only analogy I’ll be using today.

I haven’t written in a while and what I’ve come to discover is just what a equalizer of my own sanity it is. I do a lot of talking to myself. A lot. My friend CP once remarked that in my head is where I live for the most part. Getting outside of it is something of a feat, one that writing helps me accomplish. I can see the words on the page or screen…I can convert whatever weirdo thing I think into something concrete, that I can see with my own two eyes.

When I ignore it or take it for granted, my brain spins around on itself and goes on a cubicle shooting spree.

See?

For those of you longtime readers, (and those, too, who know me personally) you might be aware of the fact that this last year has been a season of remarkable change in my circumstances, calling into question pretty much everything I do, and why I do it.

A year. A whole year. I can look back at my calendar and see what I was doing every day…and remember it with staggering clarity. With any big change, I suppose, there is a sense that eventually it will end, that the feelings of renewal or anguish (or renguish) will subside. Transformation complete. Resolution reached. Roll credits. Drop your 3D glasses in the bin on the way out.

The thing is, everyone has filed out of the theater and I’m still sitting here. I hesitate to go out into the real world. The movie was exciting…I don’t want to leave the theatre to discover that I’ve left my car windows rolled down in a rain storm and I got a parking ticket.

The change itself is a kind of escape, a Get Out of Jail Free card for getting behind on work or not keeping up with friends. Now that the year is over, I find myself in a weird state of trying to play like everything is fine. All better now. Please, the movie wasn’t that scary.

No. I’m not all better now. However, it is important to note that I am not quite so spectacularly out of my wits as I was. It’s just The Year After The Year of the Big Change.

I’m still having weird reactions to things, crazy bouts of sadness and uncertainty, difficulty contacting friends and family, realizing too late that, when budgeting, Food should also be an item on the list.

BUT…

Considering the trip to Abyss National Park I took last year, I’m doing okay.

I just have to get over the thought that somehow, I’m going to reach a denouement that turns me into that Beautiful Butterfly of Self-Actualization. Jeez. How insufferable.

********


On Sunday, Notnits got a text from a friend offering up Wilco tickets for the following night. Both of us thought it would be a great idea, so we accepted.

I’m not a huge Wilco fan. I realize, of course, that Jeff Tweedy and company speak to a wide generation of hipsters, indie nerds, and alt-country junkies. And with good reason. The songs are fun, occasionally lovey dovey, and authentic. This is a rarity these days when, in a Twittery second, any indie band can go from underground darlings to Alt-rRock Gods to Sell Out Hacks in a matter of a few hours. Wilco has its root deep in Alt-folk-country-rockabilly and has been around for years.

Some of the lyrics are fun and sweet. Others howl about addiction and depression. At one point I think I posted one Song for a Crappy Tuesday from “I Am Trying to Break Your Heart.” Jeff Tweedy is no stranger to self destructive behavior and he is able to translate that into sincere lyrics that reach an audience drenched in cologne d'Irony.

The concert itself was fine. Tortoise opened up for them and (forgive me fusion jazz lovers) I was praying for them to get off the stage. Perhaps in a smaller venue, where the drums and bass would not overwhelm any melodic nuance, I’d appreciate them more. But here it was just a bunch of banging by musicians who didn’t appear too interested in engaging the audience. I found it interesting that their most melodic piece was met with the greatest response.

At last, Wilco took the stage and in a frenzy of Bay City Rollers haircuts and country twang Tweedy and the band ended the North American leg of their tour.

A headache set in and, after standing for nearly three hours, Notnits and I left. I felt a little guilty for leaving before the concert was over, but my headache stopped me from enjoying the 12 minute long dissonant experiment Wilc chose to end with.

I have a weird tug in may heart about Wilco. I don’t want to like them. Back in the day, I was a bigger fan of the band Uncle Tupelo, formed by Jay Farrar and Jeff Tweedy. Part of me had always been more partial to Farrar’s voice and lyric style. (I also have a big problem with flighty “genius” types.) His band Son Volt never made it to the upper echelons of fame, but I still give him a casual listen.

Uncle Tupelo’s last album Anodyne, is a monument to the eroding relationship Tweedy and Farrar shared. Neither really play on each other’s songs and they each wrote blistering indictments of one another into their lyrics. Fifteen Keys is just such a song. It's hard to tell it on this track (this is a live version and Farrar sounds tired) but the melody contains a lovley twang in the guitar. Farrar's lyrics holler out about the end at hand with grim resignation. It's one of my favorites.