Loufest tickets = ACQUIRED.

After skirting the event for several years due to weather and only so-so lineups, THIS is the year we jump in with both feet.

LouFest 2013 Lineup:
The Killers
Wilco
The National
Alabama Shakes
Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros
Jim James
Local Natives
Fitz And The Tantrums
Toro Y Moi
Twin Shadow
Trampled By Turtles
WALK THE MOON
Ra Ra Riot
Court Yard Hounds
Icona Pop
Youngblood Hawke
Robert DeLong
Jukebox The Ghost
Wild Belle
The Mowgli’s
Brick + Mortar
Desert Noises
Space Capone
Wild Cub
J. Roddy Walston & The Business
Andrea Davidson
Modoc
The Lonely Biscuits
Kentucky Knife Fight
Tef Poe

I mean, Alabama Shakes and The MAH-FUGGING NATIONAL!? 

SOLD!

Not to mention obvious favorites like The Killers, Wilco and Edward  Sharpe, I can't wait to see Jim James perform AND shake my ass to some Icona Pop and Youngblood Hawke.

AND!  They moved it to September!   It's probably still going to be hot as a mother, but I care not.  It's time to party in the Lou.

I <3 Pop

"Before this river becomes an ocean / before you throw my heart back on the floor / I'll reconsider my foolish notion / Well I need someone to hold me but I'll wait for something more ..."

So, as you've been able to tell by now, I sort of have a soft spot the size of the Grand Canyon for pop music. Don't get me wrong, I love the independents, and believe they are the last vestiges of true artistry in rock 'n roll.

However, there's always been something about the infectious feeling -- that undeniably happy, hopeful feeling you get when you hear truly timeless pop song -- that I've been in love with since as long as I can remember.

Save for influences by my classical training is a flautist, my dad's obsession with AM talk and classic rock radio, my mother's love of 80s metal and Bob Seger, I was raised on top 40 radio from the age of at least 5, and pretty much that was the extent of my exposure to (and obsession with) music for the vast majority of my childhood.

Until I started working in a music store at age 17; the rest is history.

But my recent laziness in updating my iPod, refusal to waste precious GB on the iPhone on music, unwillingness to use any "free" streaming apps (Pandora, fuck YOU), laziness to dig out my old CD collection from the basement AND being left with a broken DC adapter for my Sirius receiver for the ELEVENTY-EFFING-BILLIONTH time -- and subsequent refusal to spend yet another $12 on its replacement -- I've been listening to a ton of top 40 terrestrial radio.

Because, apparently, that's the only format that exists in the St. Louis market. Literally 4 stations are almost identical; and all are peppered with "favorites" from days of yore.

It's that, NPR, an independent community station, some country stations, and conservative radio. The end.

It's largely grating and annoying; even the independent station is largely unlistenable (except for gems like Allen Dahm's Bittersweet Melody, which I always be sure to catch 5-7 Wednesday mornings on KDHX, and you should too), and I can only take so much NPR before I want to kill myself (news) or kill someone else (Diane Rehm's voice, among others).

So I find myself flipping a lot. Longtime favorites that recur are "Dancing Queen," "Under Pressure" (and pretty much everything Abba or Queen for that matter), "Turn to Stone" (and all ELO/Jeff Lynne), "What Is Life" (George Harrison), "Freedom" or "Faith" (George Michael, you know, the singer-songwriter).

But I slowly noticed some newer big, power-pop acts started creeping their way in. It started with Bruno Mars' "Locked Out of Heaven," which is one of the catchiest, sexiest dance tracks I've heard in a long time. Then it was Florence Welch feat. Calvin Harris' "Sweet Nothing," followed by Brittany and Will.i.am's "Scream and Shout," and most recently Icona Pop's "I Don't Care."

Well, wait; it actually all started out with Fun.'s "We Are Young." Followed by the rest of the catalog. I'm a fangirl. That's just fun, good pop that reminds me a bit of Simon and Garfunkel at times. I'm unashamed of my admission. To hell with those who disagree.

Of note: most of these are dance tracks. I think my not-so-subconscious is trying to tell me something ...

Perhaps it's time for a trip to the CLUB!

Also, too, to Radio Shack. I do need to get that receiver back in order. I miss my *good* independent radio. And Howard.

Post-Birth WTF

In reading my last post, it's hilarious to note that my son very recently turned 2.

More hilarious is that by the time I decided that I was done nursing him (in his 7th month of life), I'd finished every one of those novels, either during many hours with the Medela in the "Mother's Room" at work, or while reading them aloud to my newborn son while he cooed on the floor, all blurry-eyed in his newly-born daze.

Well, all safe Infinite.  I'm one-half way in.  It is still fantastic. I am convinced I will finish it one day.

Digressing.

At times, I wondered if regaling him tales of Sci-Fi dweebs, drug addicts, homosexuals dying of AIDS and Horse-Tooth Jackasses was possibly not the best fodder for early-life cognitive development; but in the end, I just ran with it.  There's only so much you can do with a spitting, suckling, shitting little bag of life that a human is at that stage.

So I read.  And still do; only now, more age-appropriate titles, since he's spitting back every last word he can wrap his little tongue around these days.  We must be cautious.

Happy 2nd birthday, my little man.

Stay Tuned for more adventures of the pop-cultural kind.  Yes, I am keeping this old blog; I refuse to start anew, apologize for ghastly delays, or make any commitment of consistency of any kind, as always.

Don't call it a comeback ...

Pre-Birth Culture Panic

In addition to the stack of four or so parenting (and pregnancy and birthing) books we've accumulated, I've finally gotten back into reading actual novels again. Part of the exercise was brought about by having to fly (nothing better than an iPod and a book for such an occasion ... well, unless you have an ereader ... but all things in due time), but mostly because once I got into it, I realized how much I missed it.

I pretty much hate TV. It's such a time suck. Such an overwhelming waste of time. Sure, there are films and programs that I'm consumed with, but aside from re-runs of "The Larry Sanders Show" and "Portlandia," lately it's left me pretty much bored to tears.

So almost a year ago, my dear friend Diana gave me Patti Smith's Just Kids for my birthday, which she also was awesome enough to have signed by the author at a reading she'd attended. I dug into that a few months back and somehow got sidetracked.

Then I bought Gary Dell'Abate's memoir, They Call Me Baba Booey, for Brian around Christmas, which he read on vacation, and on the flight back from our vacation he finished it.  I'd also gotten David Sedaris' Squirrel Seeks Chipmunk, A Modest Bestiary at the airport in Tampa (which was short but cute, and I fully intend on reading it to my son) and finished it less than an hour into the flight back home, due to delay after delay at the gate.

So I started in on Baba Booey's book.  Which was really, really good. And inspired me to take Artie Lange's Too Fat To Fish off the bookshelf (where Brian had it stored) and dig a few chapters in.

Then I find out that Patton Oswalt has written a book, so I go pick up Zombie Spaceship Wasteland today and am currently halfway through the first chapter.

I also still have Wallace's Infinite Jest partially read from oh-so-long ago.  (Have I mentioned how overwhelming of an undertaking reading this book is?!) 

So here I am again. With four books started; all of which are very well written and compelling on their own merits ... but it begs the question, "Do I have enough time before this baby gets here?"

10 weeks (or less) and counting ...

Sounds of My Life: Come Sail Away

For all of my high school years, my absolute favorite activity was marching band. I'm not ashamed to admit it, and over the years it's gotten me a tremendous amount of jeering from my peers; but I'd also like to delude myself that on some level, there's also some sense of admiration for my commitment to and passion for music.

And football. Let us not forget the football; it was in marching band that my love for the game began and flourished, and while the NFL is surely flawed beyond all comprehension at this point, I still enjoy it.

Football aside, there was just something about the sense of accomplishment for me; a born klutz, I quickly developed an enormous sense of pride in being proficient in not only playing my piccolo while marching at the same time, but that every bit of it was done from memory.

Think about it. We're talking a set of 4-5 songs, of which each had roughly 5-7 drills or "formations" a piece. It wasn't easy, and we weren't even very good, but it was the first place in high school where I made a lot of friends and felt like I belonged.

While we were all geeks, I have many fond memories of practicing and performing and cheering along at the Friday night football games for 4 whole years in those god-awful green-and-white polyester suits with the hideously plumed plastic hats.

That's the beauty of band. No one cares if you're a geek, because you're all geeks banded together. (That's not to say we didn't judge within our own walls ... I won't even mention what we used to say about the flag girls.)

"But Janelle," you ask. "What the hell does any of this have to do with Styx?!"

Shut up.

I'm getting there.

Mr. Sharkey was a student teacher in the district when I was in 8th grade; so I'd seen him around in class. All I knew at the time was that he was young, Canadian, and pretty shy. Totally the opposite of the current high school band director, whose name escapes me at this moment, but suffice it to say all I can remember is that the upperclassmen referred to him as "Applehead."

He was an arrogant jerk, and no one liked being directed by him.

So it was a pleasant surprise when it was announced before my freshman year that Applehead was moving onto another school and Mr. Sharkey was going to be the big cheese at my high school.

I realize now that Mr. Sharkey was in the unenviable position as a freshman himself -- a freshman who pronounced tomorrow "tomoorrow," no less -- fresh meat being thrown to the proverbial wolves.

He was nice. Too nice. Easy to bully, which is never a good thing, even if we're talking about a bunch of geeks here; as it stood, we had a bit too much of a Bad News Bears element in us as a group.

As I'd mentioned, Mr. Sharkey was a young guy; probably 24-25 or so by the time he got the job in 1994, and as such, he had affectations that such young men of the time had.

Early on, he made the mistake of making the "Do Or Do Not, There Is No Try," Star Wars reference as his motivational tool in practice, which quickly earned him the nickname Yoda. And being from Calgary, he was a die-hard Flames fan; at one point, a bet between the band and Mr. Sharkey ensued over our motivation and, long story short, resulted in him wearing a Blues jersey for an entire day.

Most relevantly, though; he loved classic rock. Jazz rock, acid rock, prog rock. A few of the songs in our routine in my freshman year were Nugent's "Cat Scratch Fever," Santana's "Oye Como Va," and Mangione's "Land of Make Believe."

Everything else is fuzzy, but my sophomore year's routine featured Joel's "Scenes from an Italian Restaurant," and, you guessed it, Styx's "Come Sail Away." You know the beginning synth flute part? I even had a little featured quartet with another flautist and 2 trumpeters for that part of the song.

So a few days ago, when Brian and I were watching the episode of Freaks and Geeks where Seth Rogen's character develops a crush on a sousaphone-lugging band nerd, and as the group looks on at the marching band practicing, Jason Segel's character makes a comment about how horribly the band is butchering a rock song, it took me back to Mr. Sharkey and the Panther Pride Marching Band and all of the shenanigans we pulled and fun we had.

Yesterday, as I'm driving to work and I see "Styx" on the artist list on the Sirius, I had to tune in; just to see. Since it was the Classic Vinyl station, chances of it being either "Come Sail Away" or "Mr. Roboto" were pretty high.

As luck would have it, it wasn't only "Come Sail Away," but the song had just started. So I rocked out and remembered and sang at the top of my lungs all the way into the office parking lot.

High school was brutal, but some times, I really miss those guys.

Artist: Styx

So here's the thing ...

Given my admitted soft spot for all things chintzy-pop, I am an love with the viral video du jour; and let's face it, the featured band in said video.



Partly because their music is catchy, poppy, happy, and goofy; partly because their lyrics are actually quite clever (even if trite and contrived); and partly, to state the obvious, because their videos are consistently awesome.

But the largest selling point for me was OKGO's frontman's op-ed piece for the Times that was published a few weeks ago appropriately-entitled "Whose Tube," which ironically supports the very idea of me posting their video.

Being American, I love things that are right and whole in a moment in time. This is one of those things.

Do watch the video and enjoy along.

Nothing short of ...

A film this year that meets up to the hype is certainly Wes Anderson's new creation, The Fantastic Mr. Fox.

What I love about this film, is that it's no different than any of his other films; one that is meant not so much to be watched as it is consumed. With the small exception, of course, only in that his cast is voiced-over an incredibly animated stop-motion world.

Which, as it turns out, is really perfect for films of his own particular brand of self-created genre. This is only a snippet one of the many featurettes that are out there online:



And having watched the HBO First Look, which appears to have been the most extensive, Anderson had no idea how to make an animated film, which really seems to have been better for the whole project. He layered voice-overs that were recorded on location at a farm with a script that was written at Roald Dahl's home in the British countryside, and provided a film he shot starring himself in all the blocking he wanted the animatronic puppets to follow to the animators, who then storyboarded and acted the film out in painstaking detail.

Truth be told, I've never actually read the Dahl story; but as far as I can tell, it doesn't matter. Even the late author's wife, after watching the film, was quoted in the making-of featurette as stating he would have loved it.

As with all of his films, it's chock fulla counter-culture geekdoms; not the least of which is the guest appearance by Jarvis Cocker.

So I guess the real question is this: who's up for a game of Whack Bat?

Morning Drive-Time

I'm loving the satellite radio concept more and more each day. Now that I know how to work my receiver (not to mention that I now have a receiver that has a remote); I'm missing my iPod in the car less with each passing day.

Case in point, this morning's track list:

"Heavy Cross," Gossip (AltNation)
"Smile Like You Mean It," The Killers (AltNation)
"Big Poppa," Notorious BIG (Pop2K)
"To Be Young, Is To Be Sad ...," Ryan Adams (Outlaw Country)
"Linoleum," NOFX (Faction)
"Strange," Built To Spill (XMU)

Paired with the unmistakable feel of the season's first snow in the air, I get the feeling it's going to be a good day.

Derivation?

Many bands tread a fine line between derivation and simply being "influenced by" certain sounds, bands, scenes, etc.

This is one such song that reminds me of the phenomenon, even though such a link may not actually exist.



When I first heard the song on Sirius Alt Nation, my first instinct was ... catchy chorus, not much else going on. The chorus is happy, fun ... I instantly liked it, of course, but then after I heard it the second time I realized it reminded me of something.

Malajube's "Montreal -40c," to be precise.



One of my favorites of 2008; but for the fact that I can't speak French. Do you know how infuriating it is to have a favorite song to which you can't sing along?! Forget the fact that later in the year I overheard it in a Radioshack ad.

Sigh.

Anyway, these "The Features" guys are apparently the Kings of Leon's pet project; which is no surprise, since the lead singer sounds exactly like Leon's.

Thoughts? What is crossing the line of just plain derivative drivel and simply having a sound of a relative influential nature (The Decemberists & Neutral Milk Hotel being a good example of the latter ... at least in the earlier albums).

What ... the MOTHER FUCK?!

I apologize for my vulgarities. I try to limit them.

However, the number-FUCKING-ONE track on XMU's 15 this week is ... Grizzly Bear feat. Michael McDonald.

That's right. Ya-mo-blow-my-brains-out Michael McFUCKINGDonald.

The song makes me want to stab someone in the face. With a mother FUCKING vengeance.

Which begs the question. What the FUCK is going on with today's youth?!?!

Gut Reaction

As a fan-bordering-fanatic; I'm entitled a few quibbles with Wilco's new release. So here you go.



1) The stupid cover art. It's a first for Wilco that an actual full photograph is used for the cover, and it's an incredibly dumb one. As is the typeface.

2) It's pretentious title. Wilco (The Album). Not just a self titled release, it's specifically: "Wilco (The Album)." It makes the bile rise a little ...

3) It's pretentious, self-aggrandizing track 1, named simply: "Wilco."

4) The bevy of "borrowed" licks. Is that "Werewolves of London" ("Wilco")? How about "Every Day People" ("You Never Know")? A true sign that a strong influence of Nels' "experience" is, indeed, too much of a good thing.

5) Jesus, Tweedy. I thought you kicked your addiction and were onto sunnier days. What's with all the ballads?

6) Yes, I even have a problem with the collaboration with Feist ("You and I"). It's a good song, don't get me wrong, but Tweedy always saved "celebrity" collaborations for his side projects (see also: Golden Smog). Wilco was always his creative stronghold; this departure from that stance makes me fear for the future. Specifically, Jeff beginning to "phone in" his career because he's too lazy/busy/wants the commercial attention. This song screams "radio friendly." I have no problem with Wilco attaining commercial success like it did with Sky Blue Sky, because -- true or not -- that felt at least acccidental; this new album's sound makes it feel like they're actually reaching in that direction. Horrifying.

7) "Bull Black Nova" just blows. It makes me want to stab someone!

8) The repetitive phrasing! In the music and lyrics. It's everywhere, all over this album, in every song; and it's horribly grating!

Still hoping it'll grow on me ... but man; this is A Ghost Is Born all over again. Thankfully, that one did eventually find its way in; but even then, not in its entirety.

Today, though, I'm really missing Jay Bennett. I think I'd rather retreat with my copies of Summerteeth and YHF for the summer and save the new arrival for fall; which is where the heart of the album seems to belong anyway.

It's like a Reincarnation!

It occurs to me that I would be offended by Vampire Weekend's complete and total ripoff of Simon & Garfunkel's sound if it weren't for the fact that is so entirely pleasing.


Vampire Weekend - Oxford Comma - Vampire Weekend

It's like they took all the great parts from "Cecilia" and "Me and Julio Down By the Schoolyard" and forged a 10-song album from them.

As it turns out, sometimes hype is founded.

File Under: "I Just Don't Get It."

It happens. Writers, friends, random acquaintances; people who typically share your music tastes rave, swoon and obsess over a band you just have to experience.

So you do.

Annnnnd ... you don't get it.

Two such bands for me, that I just want to like with all the want that's there, are the The Fleet Foxes and Guided By Voices.

The Fleet Foxes, with their beautiful, lush harmonies somehow absentmindedly omit music from their music. I get it. You love you some CSNY. And The Band. You are all bearded, scruffy nomad-looking folk from the Pacific Northwest.

Why should I care when there's zero going on with your highly-lauded self titled release aside from four-part harmonies? Especially when I don't like beards? You could be so much more engaging, complex, and -- well -- enjoyable if a fraction of thought was put into more than how prettily we can sing together.

The only saving grace for them, which gives me hope for future releases, is that in this interview with Under The Radar Magazine, lead singer Robin Pecknold actually mourns the enthusiasm the press expressed over the release because it felt so incomplete to him.

Let's just hope the success doesn't go to his head.

Then there's Rob Pollard. The quintessential darling of Magnet Magazine, my alt-rock periodical of choice.

I've made my way through a large portion of the GBV catalog. There's a lot of catchy in there.

A lot of catchy, half-finished thoughts.

What is it with this guy? Is it just that he's a punk rocker trapped in an indie-rocker's body? Why can't he see a full phrase through? Most of the songs just trail off into oblivion without any semblance of finality. It seems to me that if he'd taken half of what he'd written, stew over the songs for a few days and actually go through the editing process, he'd come away a brilliant poet/lyricist/songwriter.

Instead, the result is just aggravating, frustrating, annoying ... but not noise, like punk rock is ... it's just so ...

Unsatisfying.

That's the word.

Rob Pollard's songwriting, to me, is sex without the courtesy of completion.

Or maybe I just need someone to explain it to me.

Summer of '98

This morning, while finalizing a mix for my brother, a bolt of genius struck my brain.

Why not make a time capsule mix for tonight's camping expedition? Say, perhaps, the summer of '98?

GENIUS!

This idea was actually partially sparked by Sirius Faction Thursday afternoon, when I happened to tune in right at the time "Sell Out" started. Volume cranking, and top-o-the-lungs singing ensued; I even contemplated stopping for a pack of Camel Lights for a split-second.

The Summer of '98 was one of my best, probably because it the summer between high school and college, the summer I moved out of my parents' for good, the summer I started working full time hours at Slackers, the summer I saw Pearl Jam from the front row at Riverport with my best friend ... so it was my real first taste of "freedom." I was a kid in an adult's world. And it was pretty awesome.

"Turn The Radio Off" was the #1 CD of that summer -- played in the old Corolla through my portable player via tape-deck adapter -- and a close second was Save Ferris' "It Means Everything;" in heavy rotation were also Less Than Jake's "Hello Rockview," Rancid's "And Out Come the Wolves," Sublime's self-titled and Squirrel Nut Zippers "The Inevitable." The hip hop tracks were all Tanya, my college roommate's, influence.

I know it seems like a juvenile mix, and there's so much pop here it kind of makes me cringe sharing it, but what the hell. I can't deny who I was -- who I am still, to a certain degree -- and although the following season was when I delved deep into teenage depression, and discovered the likes of Modest Mouse, Piebald, and the other reaches of indie and emo culture, I can't ignore the fact that even though I was working for the rekkid sto', I was still quite the pop princess.

... and blonde!

Me in the summer of '98 with my graduation cake.

My college roommie Tanya, me, and my best friend Kerri.


Summer of '98
Good Enough for Granddad Squirrel Nut Zippers
Red Sweater! The Aquabats
Doo Wop (That Thing) Lauryn Hill
I Can't Wait Hepcat
Where'd You Go? The Mighty Mighty Bosstones
You and Me and the Bottle Makes Three Big Bad Voodoo Daddies
History of a Boring Town Less Than Jake
Do the Evolution Pearl Jam
April 29, 1992 Sublime
Ghetto Superstar (That is What You Are) Pras w/Michel, ODB & Maya
Closer The Urge
Come On Eileen Save Ferris
Build Me Up Buttercup The Goops
Sell Out Reel Big Fish
Santeria Sublime
Gone Til November Wyclef Jean
Pharoah's Dreams Hepcat
Baby Got Going Liz Phair
My Skateboard Aquabats
She Has a Girlfriend Now Reel Big Fish
All My Best Friends Are Metalheads Less Than Jake
Roots Radicals Rancid
This Lonely Place Goldfinger
So Long-Farewell-Goodbye Big Bad Voodoo Daddy

Heima Sweet Heima

I just get the feeling that Sigur Ros is a band you either love or you just hate.

What's more, I have a feeling that I'd be more inclined to be a party member of the latter, had I not stumbled across Heima last night on the Sundance Channel. Rarely ever do I find myself flipping the channels for something to watch; normally I switch it off and head to bed or a book or the record player. But, while paging through the guide I recalled them being a band of note, and not one I'd ever paid much heed, "So what the hell," ... says I.

My first impression is that, alone, their music sounds a bit like Thom Yorke fronting the Arcade Fire; which, I'm sure to most indie rockers such as myself would find appealing. But I've never been a huge Thom Yorke, or Radiohead for that matter, fan. So it was mildly irritating at first impression.

However, there was something very eerie and beautiful about their music soundtracked behind the gorgeous shots of the Icelandic landscape.

What's more, once you get into the dialogue from the live music scenes, the film makes the Icelanders even more so a charming and fascinating people. The scene shot in the building that looks a bit like an American Legion hall is particularly quaint and sweet; it gives the impression of a family reunion, all the family members of different generations sitting together quietly over tea and cake to take in a nice afternoon recital.

In any event, if you're ever bored, and it's on the television, I highly recommend. I recommend even more to just buy it if you're a fan of Sigur Ros, or of great musical documentary film making, or, really, Iceland in general.

Say it Ain't So, Johnny!

NBC broadcaster John Madden retires

26 minutes ago

NEW YORK (AP)—John Madden, the burly former coach who has been one of pro football’s most popular broadcast analysts for three decades, is calling it quits.

Madden worked for the past three seasons on NBC “Sunday Night Football.” His last telecast was the Super Bowl between Arizona and Pittsburgh.

“It’s time,” Madden said. “I’m 73 years old. My 50th wedding anniversary is this fall. I have two great sons and their families and their five grandchildren are at an age now when they know when I’m home and, more importantly, when I’m not.”

Cris Collinsworth will replace Madden, moving over from the network’s studio show, NBC Sports chief Dick Ebersol said. Collinsworth filled in when Madden took a game off last October.

Read the rest here.

Love him or hate him, his fodder made the Sunday (and before that, Monday) night broadcasts. Collinsworth is just so ... uncodgery! Coherent! Such a departure form the norm!

This with the murmurs of an extended football season; well. I just don't know what to think of the NFL anymore. Flawed as it is, John Madden is one of the great figures that represented the heart and soul of the league as it once was.

It's just a good thing Mike Shannon is still around in St. Louis. I think the day he retires, I will cry. Like the little girl I am.

Kenny Powers: Just an Average Guy with Exceptional Hair

It took me all season to decide whether or not I really liked this show. Fortunately it was only 6 episodes long, and fortunately I ended up favoring it after all.

I think it's because Danny McBride's (and Will Farrell's) brand of comedy isn't necessarily "haw-haw" funny; it's so subversive and dry to the point that it almost takes itself too seriously to even be considered comedy.

So once you accept that the story's hero is a complete and total unrepentant prick, it's scenes like this totally make the show thoroughly enjoyable.

Sounds Of My Life: Elizabeth on the Bathroom Floor

The year was 1998, Electroshock Blues was just released, and my mind was effectively blown. Beautiful, clever, cynical yet hopeful pop songs. Wow. This guy was just my speed.

This song reminds me of a particularly awkward social moment in my life, which echoes many of the foot-in-mouth moments I have and will relive over and over again. Try as I might, in practical application, my gob just isn't as eloquent as my mind wants it to be.

At the record store, I absent-mindedly mention to one of the new hires that her name reminds me of a lyric in an Eels song. The song itself is beautiful and complex, but instead of going into all of that, I lquote a portion of it to her:

"My name's Elizabeth ... my life is shit and piss."

This girl was very much an Elizabeth, not Liz or Beth; Elizabeth to the core. I realize, immediately, as I say this that this was a horrible thing to say to someone I've just met; even though I didn't mean it to be derogatory or negative in any way. I was having a moment where I wanted to share the profundity of the tune with someone ... but ruined it. Horribly.

Fortunately she was a sweet-natured enough girl that she didn't seem phased ... but, even worse, I didn't apologize for my misstep. That was the weird thing about this moment, and so many others that I've lived since: I make these incredibly bone-headed comments, realizing immediately the unintended double entendre, but utter no word of apology largely because I just don't want to dig the whole deeper (a la Larry David).

I just go on with the conversation, hoping the slip is just ignored or that it just is understood that I realize what a putz I am. Instead, the whole world probably just sees me as the gigantic, unapologetic a-hole that I am.

Artist: The Eels


PS I finished E's autobiography a couple of days ago. It was just what I expected (this is a good thing).

The Best Show You're (probably) Not Watching

Hal. He was everyone's favorite Malcolm in the Middle character. Ever the scene-thief Bryan Cranston constantly stole the show with his dopey, lovable retard-husband-of-a-hen-pecking-wife antics; really, he was the dad we all always wanted.

So it's really no surprise that his follow-up to the defunct series is as Papa Bear on another series based in a Southwestern landscape.

Only this time, it's serious.

Set in the sleepy backdrop of Albuquerque, NM (and thankfully not Franklin Co, MO), Breaking Bad touts the city as the Meth Capitol of the Universe where Walt White holds sway ... or would be if only he could get a methed-out Latino drug lord or his DEA brother-in-law off his trail.

Did I mention this guy is a hen-pecked-husband/father-of-a-disabled-son-with-another-on-the-way who also happens to be a high school chemistry teacher that was recently diagnosed with inoperable lung cancer and given months to live?

So many layers. So many incredible actors. Such great writing. So many reasons to watch.

And yet, since its home network is AMC, I wouldn't be surprised to find that no one really is.

WHAT is happening?!

I'm dying to know if Norman Gentle (Nick, whatever) made the cut into the final 12. We find out tonight!



OH MY GOD!!! I'M A MONSTER!!!

In all honesty though, he's the best thing to ever happen to Idol. Outside of the awesomeness that is the cringe-fest of the Hollywood auditions, the show is so sickeningly disturbing that I normally don't watch past the first 2 weeks. By Hollywood week, it's just a row of 40-50somethings sitting back and telling teen-20somethings how marketable "they" are or could be if only "they" were completely different from the person that was on stage performing.

Thrilling.

But this is why I love Norman/Nick. He's totally, hysterically true-blue regardless of what the judges think or say, which makes him incredibly lovable.

And I think it's enough for him to make it; and for some reason that makes me happy. Due to the underdog quotient? Probably. But that's a stretch ... he's going up against some Latinas Fantasticas (the producers really seem to be pushing a Latin-American winner year), a blind guy, and -- the most dangerous of all -- an early favorite of the judges, a 20something widower who has the face of Robert Downey, Jr. and a voice that melts buttah.

More likely it's due to the fact that a completely odd duck has forged a nook in the most ghastly display of the commercialized monstrosity that is the recording industry.