I'm lost. I know it's an increasingly popular sentiment in modern culture to feel at once distant and connected; the dichotomy of shrinking-planet interconnectivity and impersonal digital relationships has fractionated many an able psyche, mine included. Black Francis has been looking for twenty years now. What chance do I have?
I've been GPS-navigated to every corner of the state and haven't struggled with the endearing frustration of re-folding a Rand-McNally in years. I get every baseball broadcast on XM, basketball scores in a Google text, and temper snowboarding expectations with an hourly weather update on an iPhone. A month ago I was in a library and shivered in its obsolete silence. The friend I would ask, "What was the name of that artist who..." is now named Wiki, substituting presumed accuracy for the warmth of follow-up conversation. Little pieces of my digitized soul drift aimlessly online, trapped on social networking profiles I established years ago and have forgotten existed. For every avatar I've befriended and every old school chum I've recovered, a piece of my memory is auctioned off for cyborg replacement.
We can all be reached in an instant. Cell phones in our pockets like Spider-Tracers on our getaway personae. But I can dimly remember when life was very different. When I knew the location of virtually every payphone on Geary and Clement, and had many of the numbers memorized. Wait on the corner of 8th Avenue outside the Radio Shack; I'll call you when I get off the bus. Meeting people took on a since-forgotten sense of anticipation -- both from the uncertainty of arrival and the true sanctity of personal communication, unaffected by prior emails or cellular status reports. I was in middle school. What the hell did I know about conversation?
The school-age me is a distant creature from the students I deal with on a daily basis. I would have embraced this world of mp3s and handheld gaming devices; my mother would have grounded me for spending too much money on texting instead of too much money on comic books. What would I have gained? What would I have lost? Would I be any worse off? I'd undoubtedly feel less scattered... or, at least, I would live in blissful ignorance of my fragmented hard drive.
I distinctly remember my grandfather making a big deal out of a payphone rate increase. I must have been in sixth or seventh grade and phone calls home (or to a friend, or the payphone outside the Coronet, or to Best of Two Worlds on a Wednesday in the time before the internet told you in advance which comics were shipping that week and the wait-and-see approach was a scintillating lightning-in-a-bottle buzz of expectation) were going to cost me twenty cents now instead of ten. He filled up my hand with dimes. Always make sure you have dimes, he said.
Last night I owed $2.10 for an iced tea... and waited on ninety cents in change...
I've been GPS-navigated to every corner of the state and haven't struggled with the endearing frustration of re-folding a Rand-McNally in years. I get every baseball broadcast on XM, basketball scores in a Google text, and temper snowboarding expectations with an hourly weather update on an iPhone. A month ago I was in a library and shivered in its obsolete silence. The friend I would ask, "What was the name of that artist who..." is now named Wiki, substituting presumed accuracy for the warmth of follow-up conversation. Little pieces of my digitized soul drift aimlessly online, trapped on social networking profiles I established years ago and have forgotten existed. For every avatar I've befriended and every old school chum I've recovered, a piece of my memory is auctioned off for cyborg replacement.
We can all be reached in an instant. Cell phones in our pockets like Spider-Tracers on our getaway personae. But I can dimly remember when life was very different. When I knew the location of virtually every payphone on Geary and Clement, and had many of the numbers memorized. Wait on the corner of 8th Avenue outside the Radio Shack; I'll call you when I get off the bus. Meeting people took on a since-forgotten sense of anticipation -- both from the uncertainty of arrival and the true sanctity of personal communication, unaffected by prior emails or cellular status reports. I was in middle school. What the hell did I know about conversation?
The school-age me is a distant creature from the students I deal with on a daily basis. I would have embraced this world of mp3s and handheld gaming devices; my mother would have grounded me for spending too much money on texting instead of too much money on comic books. What would I have gained? What would I have lost? Would I be any worse off? I'd undoubtedly feel less scattered... or, at least, I would live in blissful ignorance of my fragmented hard drive.
I distinctly remember my grandfather making a big deal out of a payphone rate increase. I must have been in sixth or seventh grade and phone calls home (or to a friend, or the payphone outside the Coronet, or to Best of Two Worlds on a Wednesday in the time before the internet told you in advance which comics were shipping that week and the wait-and-see approach was a scintillating lightning-in-a-bottle buzz of expectation) were going to cost me twenty cents now instead of ten. He filled up my hand with dimes. Always make sure you have dimes, he said.
Last night I owed $2.10 for an iced tea... and waited on ninety cents in change...
Has it really been almost a year...?
I still blog, but I do it here: Justifications for Idleness
I still ramble, rove, and love life.
I still blog, but I do it here: Justifications for Idleness
I still ramble, rove, and love life.
The Institute of Idle Time and the 2006 Year-in-Review
Forgive the obvious nod to our second-favorite record of the year and the following references to a CD mixtape you or may or may not have (and, if not, email me!) as the introduction below graced the case booklet of this year's compilation.
When it comes to music, there are poor albums, lousy songs, ridiculous media-driven sales pushes for criminally untalented hotel heiresses, but, ultimately, there really is no such thing as a bad year. Not unlike a Chateau Lafite Bordeaux, pop the cork on an Idle Time year-end compilation, and you are guaranteed a lively, fragrant bouquet of pure ecstasy. That's an Institute guarantee. These twenty songs will serve as a musical time capsule, and when you listen and hearken back, years from now, on 2006, it won't be thoughts of Flaming Letdowns, mumblings of mediocrity, or an ever-widening expanse of real estate in the rock dinosaur tar pit clouding your memory. You'll hear everything that was good, fun, innovative, and inspirational from the '06 musical arena, and you'll thank us. Again.
This isn't to say that each year doesn't have its own unique quality, a signature flair that sets a disc apart from musical mélanges of prior seasons. Two things stick out in my mind for 2006, the first being a pop revival from a seemingly unlikely place, a land once recognized more for subjecting the world to ABBA, boxy cars, and sister-biting moose than anything else. It was late in '05, amidst a flurry of seminal recordings by the likes of The Shout Out Louds, The Concretes, and Suburban Kids With Biblical Names that all the lights in all the attics of all the Idle Time philosophers clicked on with the realization that we are, indeed, experiencing the Swedepop Renaissance. Swedish bands are certainly no strangers to American culture, but what sets the music of recent years apart from efforts of the past is a marked distinction between canned and frosted Europop, and a real, honest rebirth of the sensibilities that powered American soul music of the 60s, rock and roll of the 70s, and dance clubs of the 80s. We're remembering what makes music fun, and Sweden is reminding us. So between winning the hockey gold in Torino and the overall gold at the first ever Idle Time Games in Natomas (albeit through honorary Swedes), this Nordic Temple of Pop Magic contributed more than a dozen albums for Idle Time consideration with an impressive three making the final cut, including our Album of the Year. It won't be long before the far-reaching effects of this Renaissance will be felt throughout popular culture. A newsbyte from a recent issue of Harper's Bazaar (which I read exclusively for the naked pictures): "The catchy whistle tune that we couldn't get out of our heads during Fashion Week (it played at nearly every show, from Anne Klein to Zac Posen) revealed: "Young Folks" by Swedish pop band Peter Bjorn and John." Musically adept and fashion forward. And here you thought we were just four jackasses with little more to do than bitch about how decrepit Bob Dylan is.
The second defining element of '06 is the wake-up call experienced by so many fuzzy-faced and fuzzed-out American bands. The mantra of "less dream, more pop" invigorated the melodies and rhythms of shoegazing bands on both coasts, elevating the eyes-on-the-floor mope to an ass-on-the-floor shake, another much-needed reminder that good music celebrates some emotions more prominently than others, and when you're happy and you know itâââ¬Ã¦ you know, stomp the reverb. Thirteen American bands grace the list this year, a good half of which have been winced at in the past for turning musical layers into droning noise. What changed? A gentle reminder that less is more; that it is the song, not always the singer; or maybe an influential album or three from Stockholm found their way into hipster rotation. Whatever the reason, the result is that these bands have given new hope to the American music scene, particularly important during a time when far too many still-walking ghosts of rock and roll past are slumbering through tired attempts at paying mortgages on Malibu beach homes at the expense of deluded fans too devoted to see the forest fire for the Damn Torpedoes.
Of course, maybe you don't really care to know what tremors went into shaping the topography of this year's musical landscape. Maybe countries of origin, prior influences, or enological analogies don't mean a thing to you and you're really just looking for something that sounds good to throw in your CD player. Howsabout twenty fingers-off-the-skip key, begging-to-repeat-me tracks you'll be keeping in rotation until your dying day. In that case, get ready to thank us. Again.
And now, without further ado (and without liner notes that I, personally, did not write)... our Top 20 records of the year...
1. Peter Bjorn & John - Writer's Block
2. Belle & Sebastian - The Life Pursuit
3. The Decemberists - The Crane Wife
Colin Meloy and the gang made the major-label leap in '06 with their best album to date. A rousing prog-rock opus with sly hooks and slyer lyrics (nobody gets away from a Decemberists blurb without mentioning Meloy's creative writing degree), The Crane Wife may have turned these college radio mainstays into Stephen Colbert sketches and Starbucks background music, but it didn't turn them away from their devoted indie rock fanbase, every member of which applauds their success and agrees that it's about damn time.
4. Asobi Seksu - Citrus
This sophomore outing from Brooklyn's Asobi Seksu ("Play Sex," loosely translated) is another gorgeous cavalcade of crashing guitars, melodic keyboards, and rhythmic basslines that has helped redefine a new generation of shoegazing dreampop. And, yeah, I'll be honest, it helps that the lead singer sometimes sings in Japanese. We all dream in Japanese sometimes. Now, try singing along. Full-immersion rock 'n roll: language learnin', Idle Time-style.
5. I'm From Barcelona - Let Me Introduce My Friends
Emanuel Lundrgen and his twenty-eight Swedish pals (one of whom, apparently, hails from Spain), are this year's answer to the frolicking sunshine pop heralded in by last year's Suburban Kids album. From a golden land bathed in catchy melodies and earnest rhythms, free of pretentious indie isolationism, Let Me Introduce My Friends is a warm, welcoming handshake backed by that most treasured of Idle Time virtues: unbridled enthusiasm. We're from Sweden. Nice to meet you. Sing along.
6. Destroyer - Destroyer's Rubies
7. Figurines - Skeleton
8. Portastatic - Be Still Please
9. The Hold Steady - Boys and Girls in America
10. Neko Case - The Fox Confessor Brings the Flood
11. Maritime - We, The Vehicles
Milwaukee's Maritime makes a repeat visit to the Idle Time board thanks to this pop gem: an enthusiastic thirtysomething's meditation on our modern "directionless hair" scene and where we all fit in. Davey von Bohlen, Eric Axelson, and Dan Dider (formerly of The Promise Ring and The Dismemberment Plan) slow down, look around, and share their optimistic views on love, life, and making music in the frenetic post-everything world of over-hyped and overwrought indie rock. Crafted by modern cocktail drinkers with thinning (or missing) hair, We, The Vehicles is validation for all of us who are growing older and loving it.
12. Band of Horses - Everything All the Time
13. Tapes 'n Tapes - The Loon
14. Dirty on Purpose - Hallelujah Sirens
15. Gnarls Barkley - St. Elsewhere
16. The Brother Kite - Waiting for the Time To Be Right
Providence, Rhode Island, does indeed have a heartbeat, and it's not the frenzied anger of a Portman-stalking Jewish rapper either. Sunshine-y surf rock hooks with an Atlantic Ocean backbone snuggled up with Midwest jangle make the Kite fraternity the best thing to come out of our smallest state since Peter Griffin. Sweeten your French roast feedback with some sugary hooks and you've got another member of the all-new, all-pop shoegaze cafe.
17. M. Ward - Post-War
18. Oh No! Oh My! - s/t
19. Yo La Tengo - I Am Not Afraid of You and I Will Beat Your Ass
20. Love Is All - Nine Times the Same Song
Forgive the obvious nod to our second-favorite record of the year and the following references to a CD mixtape you or may or may not have (and, if not, email me!) as the introduction below graced the case booklet of this year's compilation.
When it comes to music, there are poor albums, lousy songs, ridiculous media-driven sales pushes for criminally untalented hotel heiresses, but, ultimately, there really is no such thing as a bad year. Not unlike a Chateau Lafite Bordeaux, pop the cork on an Idle Time year-end compilation, and you are guaranteed a lively, fragrant bouquet of pure ecstasy. That's an Institute guarantee. These twenty songs will serve as a musical time capsule, and when you listen and hearken back, years from now, on 2006, it won't be thoughts of Flaming Letdowns, mumblings of mediocrity, or an ever-widening expanse of real estate in the rock dinosaur tar pit clouding your memory. You'll hear everything that was good, fun, innovative, and inspirational from the '06 musical arena, and you'll thank us. Again.
This isn't to say that each year doesn't have its own unique quality, a signature flair that sets a disc apart from musical mélanges of prior seasons. Two things stick out in my mind for 2006, the first being a pop revival from a seemingly unlikely place, a land once recognized more for subjecting the world to ABBA, boxy cars, and sister-biting moose than anything else. It was late in '05, amidst a flurry of seminal recordings by the likes of The Shout Out Louds, The Concretes, and Suburban Kids With Biblical Names that all the lights in all the attics of all the Idle Time philosophers clicked on with the realization that we are, indeed, experiencing the Swedepop Renaissance. Swedish bands are certainly no strangers to American culture, but what sets the music of recent years apart from efforts of the past is a marked distinction between canned and frosted Europop, and a real, honest rebirth of the sensibilities that powered American soul music of the 60s, rock and roll of the 70s, and dance clubs of the 80s. We're remembering what makes music fun, and Sweden is reminding us. So between winning the hockey gold in Torino and the overall gold at the first ever Idle Time Games in Natomas (albeit through honorary Swedes), this Nordic Temple of Pop Magic contributed more than a dozen albums for Idle Time consideration with an impressive three making the final cut, including our Album of the Year. It won't be long before the far-reaching effects of this Renaissance will be felt throughout popular culture. A newsbyte from a recent issue of Harper's Bazaar (which I read exclusively for the naked pictures): "The catchy whistle tune that we couldn't get out of our heads during Fashion Week (it played at nearly every show, from Anne Klein to Zac Posen) revealed: "Young Folks" by Swedish pop band Peter Bjorn and John." Musically adept and fashion forward. And here you thought we were just four jackasses with little more to do than bitch about how decrepit Bob Dylan is.
The second defining element of '06 is the wake-up call experienced by so many fuzzy-faced and fuzzed-out American bands. The mantra of "less dream, more pop" invigorated the melodies and rhythms of shoegazing bands on both coasts, elevating the eyes-on-the-floor mope to an ass-on-the-floor shake, another much-needed reminder that good music celebrates some emotions more prominently than others, and when you're happy and you know itâââ¬Ã¦ you know, stomp the reverb. Thirteen American bands grace the list this year, a good half of which have been winced at in the past for turning musical layers into droning noise. What changed? A gentle reminder that less is more; that it is the song, not always the singer; or maybe an influential album or three from Stockholm found their way into hipster rotation. Whatever the reason, the result is that these bands have given new hope to the American music scene, particularly important during a time when far too many still-walking ghosts of rock and roll past are slumbering through tired attempts at paying mortgages on Malibu beach homes at the expense of deluded fans too devoted to see the forest fire for the Damn Torpedoes.
Of course, maybe you don't really care to know what tremors went into shaping the topography of this year's musical landscape. Maybe countries of origin, prior influences, or enological analogies don't mean a thing to you and you're really just looking for something that sounds good to throw in your CD player. Howsabout twenty fingers-off-the-skip key, begging-to-repeat-me tracks you'll be keeping in rotation until your dying day. In that case, get ready to thank us. Again.
And now, without further ado (and without liner notes that I, personally, did not write)... our Top 20 records of the year...
1. Peter Bjorn & John - Writer's Block
2. Belle & Sebastian - The Life Pursuit
3. The Decemberists - The Crane Wife
Colin Meloy and the gang made the major-label leap in '06 with their best album to date. A rousing prog-rock opus with sly hooks and slyer lyrics (nobody gets away from a Decemberists blurb without mentioning Meloy's creative writing degree), The Crane Wife may have turned these college radio mainstays into Stephen Colbert sketches and Starbucks background music, but it didn't turn them away from their devoted indie rock fanbase, every member of which applauds their success and agrees that it's about damn time.
4. Asobi Seksu - Citrus
This sophomore outing from Brooklyn's Asobi Seksu ("Play Sex," loosely translated) is another gorgeous cavalcade of crashing guitars, melodic keyboards, and rhythmic basslines that has helped redefine a new generation of shoegazing dreampop. And, yeah, I'll be honest, it helps that the lead singer sometimes sings in Japanese. We all dream in Japanese sometimes. Now, try singing along. Full-immersion rock 'n roll: language learnin', Idle Time-style.
5. I'm From Barcelona - Let Me Introduce My Friends
Emanuel Lundrgen and his twenty-eight Swedish pals (one of whom, apparently, hails from Spain), are this year's answer to the frolicking sunshine pop heralded in by last year's Suburban Kids album. From a golden land bathed in catchy melodies and earnest rhythms, free of pretentious indie isolationism, Let Me Introduce My Friends is a warm, welcoming handshake backed by that most treasured of Idle Time virtues: unbridled enthusiasm. We're from Sweden. Nice to meet you. Sing along.
6. Destroyer - Destroyer's Rubies
7. Figurines - Skeleton
8. Portastatic - Be Still Please
9. The Hold Steady - Boys and Girls in America
10. Neko Case - The Fox Confessor Brings the Flood
11. Maritime - We, The Vehicles
Milwaukee's Maritime makes a repeat visit to the Idle Time board thanks to this pop gem: an enthusiastic thirtysomething's meditation on our modern "directionless hair" scene and where we all fit in. Davey von Bohlen, Eric Axelson, and Dan Dider (formerly of The Promise Ring and The Dismemberment Plan) slow down, look around, and share their optimistic views on love, life, and making music in the frenetic post-everything world of over-hyped and overwrought indie rock. Crafted by modern cocktail drinkers with thinning (or missing) hair, We, The Vehicles is validation for all of us who are growing older and loving it.
12. Band of Horses - Everything All the Time
13. Tapes 'n Tapes - The Loon
14. Dirty on Purpose - Hallelujah Sirens
15. Gnarls Barkley - St. Elsewhere
16. The Brother Kite - Waiting for the Time To Be Right
Providence, Rhode Island, does indeed have a heartbeat, and it's not the frenzied anger of a Portman-stalking Jewish rapper either. Sunshine-y surf rock hooks with an Atlantic Ocean backbone snuggled up with Midwest jangle make the Kite fraternity the best thing to come out of our smallest state since Peter Griffin. Sweeten your French roast feedback with some sugary hooks and you've got another member of the all-new, all-pop shoegaze cafe.
17. M. Ward - Post-War
18. Oh No! Oh My! - s/t
19. Yo La Tengo - I Am Not Afraid of You and I Will Beat Your Ass
20. Love Is All - Nine Times the Same Song
ci vediamo
I carried a moleskine around on my latest travels, determined not to let a moment linger too long in my short-term before committing it to prose. This was a highly effective way to get about, led to more introspection than I would have thought, and less of the kind of went-here-saw-this journaling my flashlight-enabled bus and train scribbling seemed to influence in others. I'm proud to look back, too, at my tenacity: entries logged while ridiculously intoxicated and swaggering in the moonlight, snippets of conversation I'd otherwise have misquoted or miscontrued (now I can misquote and know it), and initial reactions and assumptions that can never be truly, properly, recreated.
There are so many people. So many goddam wonderful lightning-bug twinkly-eyed people in this world. I may be in love with each and every one of them. Or, at least, the nice ones. I love being knee-deep in humanity: people I travel with, people I meet while traveling, people who have traveled through me. When a group of us got together immediately after our trip to share photos (god bless the digital age; I'm taking a film developing class in a few weeks so as to not lose touch with the lusty tangible side of photography, but still...) we all noticed how few pictures I'd actually taken of things -- places, statues, signs -- and how many I'd taken of people. "Where's this? The background's blurry." I remember where that is. It's in the first alley behind the Piazza Ognisanti where we met the guy who went to Stanford and then moved to Firenze to open a bar and the hot Cuban girl who Shelley said "reeked of attraction." I remember people and phrases and names and aces. I think I like sculpture more than architecture. I think rivers make me sad in a good way and the ocean makes me happy in a terrifying way. I think I keep learning things about myself. And I always will.
I need to travel some more.
Greece, anyone?
Forza Azzurri!
This victory tomorrow is going to make two weeks in Bella Italia all the more amazing.
This victory tomorrow is going to make two weeks in Bella Italia all the more amazing.
Las Vegas is ridiculous.
I want to go back. I don't ever want to go back. I can't decide.
I want to go back. I don't ever want to go back. I can't decide.
In the spring of 2001 a friend and coworker left a CD on my desk at work. We were (and are still) in the habit of recommending music to each other constantly, labeling every new find and must-listen as the best thing since the last record we swore would save rock and roll. This CD had a different sort of note attached; it was a different sort of record and required a more appropriate hook to give it a place atop of my need-to-listen pile.
The note reads (I'm not insensitive to the photo's lack of clarity or the hundreds of readers who visit from outside this community and are looking at a duct-taped Suicide Girl rather than a CD-R and it's memo):
Mike, Turn off the lights and curl up with this record. It will wreck you like a ninth grade romance. Keep a hankie close by. - Will. Oh, Inverted World!
The album was, of course, Oh, Inverted World, the sublime debut by New Mexico's The Shins. And it is a record with a place.
I listen to a ridiculous amount of music. Tuesdays are my Fridays and the latter half of the week is spent in frenetic caffeinated states of stereophoria. Oftentimes a record gets one chance to grab my attention before its relegated to the back of the pack and has to wait for a window in the cycle of new releases and mood-specific mixes for a second shot at roping me in. Gone are the days when every CD in an undergrads backseat carried a story, a memory, a reflection of a time and event and place. Blame the internet, blame my attention-span, blame Bush, blame whomever you please thats just the way it is.
So when a record does sink into my psyche, when it does make me stop what Im doing and hang on a lyric, or a chord, or a wistful NewSlanged melody, then that must truly be something to cherish. Revisit and restore. Clear the muck, shake the Etch-a-Sketch playlist in my head and bring back some semblance of order to an otherwise overstimulated and sorely disheveled head of hair.
06 is about half-over. And there have been some real winners. The Figurines, Oh No! Oh My!, Tapes n Tapes, Gnarls Barkley, Pelle Carlberg, Maritime, Belle and Sebastian, Asobi Seksu to name a few but there has also been a lot of filler: forgettable, unforgivable, and tidal areas in between. The video for New Slang was playing last night and it made me stop, and remember, just for about as long as I needed, that I still do love every second of it.
The note reads (I'm not insensitive to the photo's lack of clarity or the hundreds of readers who visit from outside this community and are looking at a duct-taped Suicide Girl rather than a CD-R and it's memo):
Mike, Turn off the lights and curl up with this record. It will wreck you like a ninth grade romance. Keep a hankie close by. - Will. Oh, Inverted World!
The album was, of course, Oh, Inverted World, the sublime debut by New Mexico's The Shins. And it is a record with a place.
I listen to a ridiculous amount of music. Tuesdays are my Fridays and the latter half of the week is spent in frenetic caffeinated states of stereophoria. Oftentimes a record gets one chance to grab my attention before its relegated to the back of the pack and has to wait for a window in the cycle of new releases and mood-specific mixes for a second shot at roping me in. Gone are the days when every CD in an undergrads backseat carried a story, a memory, a reflection of a time and event and place. Blame the internet, blame my attention-span, blame Bush, blame whomever you please thats just the way it is.
So when a record does sink into my psyche, when it does make me stop what Im doing and hang on a lyric, or a chord, or a wistful NewSlanged melody, then that must truly be something to cherish. Revisit and restore. Clear the muck, shake the Etch-a-Sketch playlist in my head and bring back some semblance of order to an otherwise overstimulated and sorely disheveled head of hair.
06 is about half-over. And there have been some real winners. The Figurines, Oh No! Oh My!, Tapes n Tapes, Gnarls Barkley, Pelle Carlberg, Maritime, Belle and Sebastian, Asobi Seksu to name a few but there has also been a lot of filler: forgettable, unforgivable, and tidal areas in between. The video for New Slang was playing last night and it made me stop, and remember, just for about as long as I needed, that I still do love every second of it.
This morning the student I have bribed to make my pot of coffee ("hot pot of coffee!!") every morning reported that there was barely enough ground to make two cups. I broke out an emergency vacuum-sealed pack of Jack Daniels-flavored coffee that wound its sinister way via one re-gifted basket o'crap or another into my hands. It lingered around more for novelty's sake than any real intention of ever being brewed, but I was having a particularly rough time of it this morning and relented. Brew the Jack, I said. Just... just brew it. It'll be fine.
I already don't like flavored coffee. I already would rather nothing other than water and ground up coffee beans (and, if given the choice, originating from New Guinea) be involved in my cup of coffee. Black and hot and black and hot. I want the smell and steam to be expelled through my nose. Cream makes me curl one side of my lip in disgust; fucking flavors elicit the full-on sneer. What's more is that, after a recent tour of the Java City brewing facility in Sacramento, I saw, through oily paned glass, two people in full-body haz-mat suits, looking like the monkey-chasers in Outbreak dousing a massive vat of roasted arabica with a chemical that spewed forth from metal spigots attached to shiny, cylindrical backpacks. The chemical was hazelnut flavoring.
I'm guessing all the other fun flavors, including my Tennessee Jack Jizz, issued forth in a similarly alarming state of biohazardous lockdown.
Once, when I was a kid, in the process of making my mom's post-dinner pot of coffee, I stuck a cinnamon stick in the filter basket. Thought it'd be fun, maybe even tasty. That was the one and only time I'd ever heard my mother use the f-word. Don't fuck with my coffee, she said. And she meant it.
I'm going to drink a lot this weekend. A lot of beer, probably some wine, and a whole hell of a lot of coffee. I'm looking forward to a late-night espresso in North Beach, a Saturday cup with breakfast at Java Beach, and the paper and two cups (one to go) from Royal Ground on Sunday.
Stop by. First cup's on me.
And I promise not to fuck with your coffee.
I already don't like flavored coffee. I already would rather nothing other than water and ground up coffee beans (and, if given the choice, originating from New Guinea) be involved in my cup of coffee. Black and hot and black and hot. I want the smell and steam to be expelled through my nose. Cream makes me curl one side of my lip in disgust; fucking flavors elicit the full-on sneer. What's more is that, after a recent tour of the Java City brewing facility in Sacramento, I saw, through oily paned glass, two people in full-body haz-mat suits, looking like the monkey-chasers in Outbreak dousing a massive vat of roasted arabica with a chemical that spewed forth from metal spigots attached to shiny, cylindrical backpacks. The chemical was hazelnut flavoring.
I'm guessing all the other fun flavors, including my Tennessee Jack Jizz, issued forth in a similarly alarming state of biohazardous lockdown.
Once, when I was a kid, in the process of making my mom's post-dinner pot of coffee, I stuck a cinnamon stick in the filter basket. Thought it'd be fun, maybe even tasty. That was the one and only time I'd ever heard my mother use the f-word. Don't fuck with my coffee, she said. And she meant it.
I'm going to drink a lot this weekend. A lot of beer, probably some wine, and a whole hell of a lot of coffee. I'm looking forward to a late-night espresso in North Beach, a Saturday cup with breakfast at Java Beach, and the paper and two cups (one to go) from Royal Ground on Sunday.
Stop by. First cup's on me.
And I promise not to fuck with your coffee.
Hell yes.
First hockey game I ever watched start to finish. Finnish. Hah.
Sending my love to Sweden... See y'all in '07...
First hockey game I ever watched start to finish. Finnish. Hah.
Sending my love to Sweden... See y'all in '07...
I blame staynobody for this.
I am suddenly, irreparably obsessed with Sweden and all things Swedish. How can such a small (talking population here) nondescript country generate so much cool? Observe: after perusing staynobodys year-in-review (which is quite good, actually, minus a few glaring omissions which well go into at a later date when our Idle Time Top 20 gets posted), one album caught my eye: #3 by Suburban Kids With Biblical Names. It has been in constant rotation in my car since this weekend.
Now, here, in a suitable-for-XM-radio play, is a (mostly) verbatim account of yesterdays drive and the conversation that spawned a movement.
Noise of traffic whizzing by. Noodles comes on over car radio, quiet at first, but volume increases following initial line of questioning.
RF (passenger seat): What is this?
MDG (driving): This? This, my friends, is something we missed. Suburban Kids With Biblical Names. The Swedish Magnetic Fields. Its fucking brilliant is what it is.
WH (backseat): He does sound like Stephen Merritt.
MDG: Are you getting the Cat Power? Im not. You get it.
WH: Yeah. And the Prince Billy Tortoise thing.
MDG: The Karaoke album?
WH: Shut up. Whatre you getting Rex?
RF: Nothing man. Im along for the ride. No money.
WH: You know theres going to be something
MDG: All shiny and new sale sticker calling you
WH: Like maybe a new Incubus or
RF: Fuck OFF! That was one time! Jesus! I swear I will never hear
MDG: Maybe the Test Icicles.
RF: Shut up! You know, though, Im really digging this.
WH: That is by far the stupidest goddam band name
RF: Suburban Kids ?
WH: No! Test Icicles. I dont even like saying it.
MDG: Whats really cool, although Im not positive, is I think theyre actually singing Noodles are the smell of denial.
RF: Maybe the language barrier screwed them up. Like they think theyre singing Noodles are the smell of delicious.
MDG: No, its just you know, Sweden, man. Theyre fucking awesome. Everything Swedish
RF: Swedish fish?
MDG: Yes! Exactly! I love Swedish fish! The predecessor to the gummi bear, right? Am I wrong?
WH: (singing) Noodles are the smell of denial, you will never
RF: No, I once bought a big, were talking really, like, you know, big bag of red Swedish Fish. I like the gummi worm quite a bit, so I figured but no, I got really sick.
MDG: Did you eat the whole bag?
WH: (singing) You will never grow up
RF: I dont think so.
MDG: Well, regardless, where would the gummi worm be if not for the Swedish Fish?
RF: Good point. And Swedish meatballs, yeah?
WH: Swedish meatballs, YES!
MDG: And bands. I mean, nowadays especially, every time I hear a new band and Ill be all Oooh, kinda like that. Wherere these guys from? the answer invariably comes back
WH: Sweden.
RF: Sweden. The Shout Out Louds are from Sweden.
MDG: Yes! See what I mean? And the Moonbabies
WH: Yeah, thats right. And that Jose Gonzalez guy.
RF: A guy named Gonzalez is from Sweden?
MDG: Jens Lekman. The Hives, obviously. Mando Diao. Soundtrack Of Our Lives, Hellacopters, Hotnights
RF: Mando What-o?
WH: Love Is All.
MDG: Love. Is. All. Ace. Of. Base. Jesus, what is this, a conspiracy? How does this happen? Whatre they doing over there in Sweden?
RF: You know what this means, dude. Swedish party.
MDG: Thats a really good idea.
RF: Swedish Fish, Abba, Swedish beer
WH: (singing) Noodles are the smell of denial Swedish ladies!
MDG: That is a really good idea. Im serious. Swedish beer, though? Help me out. And no Abba.
RF: Duh, Probably the Best Beer in the World
MDG: Carlsberg? Danish.
WH: Close enough. The Concretes are from Sweden. And the Caesars, I think.
RF: The International Noise Conspiracy. But they suck.
MDG: No, really, this is happening. They dont suck! Theyre not my favorite, but and then well all go to IKEA.
RF: Oh, come on.
MDG: I like buying furniture at IKEA. I like putting it together myself.
WH: And you like the fact that it falls apart if you try to move it to another room.
MDG: Because then I get to buy more furniture! Swedish movies! Ingmar Bergman, Swedish? Will?
WH: Yeeees. What about the original Insomnia? Isnt that Swedish?
MDG: I thought it was like Norwegian but, shit yeah! That movie was amazing!
RF: (singing) Noodles are the smell of denial, you will never grow up
WH: I think they speak both languages but I think its a Swedish film. So is, like Roger Federer your favorite tennis player?
MDG: Hes Swedish?!?
ALL: (singing) Noodles are the smell of denial, you will never grow uuuuuuuuuuuuup!
Fade out.
So help me out. You all are very smart people. Its why I associate with you of course. Am I wrong? Is everything Swedish not amazingly cool and interesting? Anybody know any words or phrases? Recommendations for facepaint? Im really feeling a gold-on-blue Swedish flag. Maybe die my hair blonde for a day. Im told I need to get my hands on some Aquaveet and eat cold crayfish with runny cheese. That sounds pretty good. Lingonberries! I love lingonberries. Im going to Sweden. 2007. Done, I said it. I will bask in Swedish glory in the summer of 2007 and (hopefully) finally come to understand what it is that makes Sweden so damn spot-on cool. But first, Swedish fiesta.
And, hopefully, this will pan out far better than that week last year when I became obsessed with pirates ech.
I am suddenly, irreparably obsessed with Sweden and all things Swedish. How can such a small (talking population here) nondescript country generate so much cool? Observe: after perusing staynobodys year-in-review (which is quite good, actually, minus a few glaring omissions which well go into at a later date when our Idle Time Top 20 gets posted), one album caught my eye: #3 by Suburban Kids With Biblical Names. It has been in constant rotation in my car since this weekend.
Now, here, in a suitable-for-XM-radio play, is a (mostly) verbatim account of yesterdays drive and the conversation that spawned a movement.
Noise of traffic whizzing by. Noodles comes on over car radio, quiet at first, but volume increases following initial line of questioning.
RF (passenger seat): What is this?
MDG (driving): This? This, my friends, is something we missed. Suburban Kids With Biblical Names. The Swedish Magnetic Fields. Its fucking brilliant is what it is.
WH (backseat): He does sound like Stephen Merritt.
MDG: Are you getting the Cat Power? Im not. You get it.
WH: Yeah. And the Prince Billy Tortoise thing.
MDG: The Karaoke album?
WH: Shut up. Whatre you getting Rex?
RF: Nothing man. Im along for the ride. No money.
WH: You know theres going to be something
MDG: All shiny and new sale sticker calling you
WH: Like maybe a new Incubus or
RF: Fuck OFF! That was one time! Jesus! I swear I will never hear
MDG: Maybe the Test Icicles.
RF: Shut up! You know, though, Im really digging this.
WH: That is by far the stupidest goddam band name
RF: Suburban Kids ?
WH: No! Test Icicles. I dont even like saying it.
MDG: Whats really cool, although Im not positive, is I think theyre actually singing Noodles are the smell of denial.
RF: Maybe the language barrier screwed them up. Like they think theyre singing Noodles are the smell of delicious.
MDG: No, its just you know, Sweden, man. Theyre fucking awesome. Everything Swedish
RF: Swedish fish?
MDG: Yes! Exactly! I love Swedish fish! The predecessor to the gummi bear, right? Am I wrong?
WH: (singing) Noodles are the smell of denial, you will never
RF: No, I once bought a big, were talking really, like, you know, big bag of red Swedish Fish. I like the gummi worm quite a bit, so I figured but no, I got really sick.
MDG: Did you eat the whole bag?
WH: (singing) You will never grow up
RF: I dont think so.
MDG: Well, regardless, where would the gummi worm be if not for the Swedish Fish?
RF: Good point. And Swedish meatballs, yeah?
WH: Swedish meatballs, YES!
MDG: And bands. I mean, nowadays especially, every time I hear a new band and Ill be all Oooh, kinda like that. Wherere these guys from? the answer invariably comes back
WH: Sweden.
RF: Sweden. The Shout Out Louds are from Sweden.
MDG: Yes! See what I mean? And the Moonbabies
WH: Yeah, thats right. And that Jose Gonzalez guy.
RF: A guy named Gonzalez is from Sweden?
MDG: Jens Lekman. The Hives, obviously. Mando Diao. Soundtrack Of Our Lives, Hellacopters, Hotnights
RF: Mando What-o?
WH: Love Is All.
MDG: Love. Is. All. Ace. Of. Base. Jesus, what is this, a conspiracy? How does this happen? Whatre they doing over there in Sweden?
RF: You know what this means, dude. Swedish party.
MDG: Thats a really good idea.
RF: Swedish Fish, Abba, Swedish beer
WH: (singing) Noodles are the smell of denial Swedish ladies!
MDG: That is a really good idea. Im serious. Swedish beer, though? Help me out. And no Abba.
RF: Duh, Probably the Best Beer in the World
MDG: Carlsberg? Danish.
WH: Close enough. The Concretes are from Sweden. And the Caesars, I think.
RF: The International Noise Conspiracy. But they suck.
MDG: No, really, this is happening. They dont suck! Theyre not my favorite, but and then well all go to IKEA.
RF: Oh, come on.
MDG: I like buying furniture at IKEA. I like putting it together myself.
WH: And you like the fact that it falls apart if you try to move it to another room.
MDG: Because then I get to buy more furniture! Swedish movies! Ingmar Bergman, Swedish? Will?
WH: Yeeees. What about the original Insomnia? Isnt that Swedish?
MDG: I thought it was like Norwegian but, shit yeah! That movie was amazing!
RF: (singing) Noodles are the smell of denial, you will never grow up
WH: I think they speak both languages but I think its a Swedish film. So is, like Roger Federer your favorite tennis player?
MDG: Hes Swedish?!?
ALL: (singing) Noodles are the smell of denial, you will never grow uuuuuuuuuuuuup!
Fade out.
So help me out. You all are very smart people. Its why I associate with you of course. Am I wrong? Is everything Swedish not amazingly cool and interesting? Anybody know any words or phrases? Recommendations for facepaint? Im really feeling a gold-on-blue Swedish flag. Maybe die my hair blonde for a day. Im told I need to get my hands on some Aquaveet and eat cold crayfish with runny cheese. That sounds pretty good. Lingonberries! I love lingonberries. Im going to Sweden. 2007. Done, I said it. I will bask in Swedish glory in the summer of 2007 and (hopefully) finally come to understand what it is that makes Sweden so damn spot-on cool. But first, Swedish fiesta.
And, hopefully, this will pan out far better than that week last year when I became obsessed with pirates ech.
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MAY 2008
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