tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-61683924690741265792023-11-15T11:42:57.060-06:00Busted Mouth: A Blog by J.W. BazThe ramblings of guy who never learned to shut up.J.W. Bazhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08279086405450057546noreply@blogger.comBlogger10125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6168392469074126579.post-87456418712841876802010-03-24T16:33:00.002-05:002010-03-24T16:38:45.031-05:00UPDATEDear Readers (both of you),<br /><br />This blog will exist here for a while, but will no longer be updated. Why? Because I have a real website now. The previously posted entries have already been moved over and all future poems, announcements, and essays will happen there. Thanks for reading. Now you can start reading here:<br /><a href="http://bustedmouth.com">BustedMouth.com</a><br /><br />The site was designed by John Paul Davis of <a href="http://livingpixeldesign.com">Living Pixel Design</a>. Holler at him if you're looking for a site of your own. I highly recommend his services. <br /><br />Booya,<br />BazJ.W. Bazhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08279086405450057546noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6168392469074126579.post-17812613970237386702009-12-29T23:32:00.003-06:002009-12-29T23:41:31.593-06:00Things I Know 12.09<ol><li> Clowns are not scary. It’s the people behind the makeup you need to worry about.<br /></li><li> Women be advised: unless you are a waitress in Alabama, calling a man “sweetie” or “honey” will lead to a perceived interest.<br /></li><li> Men be advised: referring to a woman by similar titles is just creepy unless you’ve had your tongue in her mouth a minimum of six times.<br /></li><li> It is the bartender’s job to flirt. You will not sleep with her. Probably.<br /></li><li> Writing in a coffeeshop doesn’t make you special. The chances of someone noticing you and or finding you intriguing are about as good as teaching a dog to operate a forklift.<br /></li><li>Ordering Patron doesn’t make you classy. Furthermore, insisting your shot be chilled makes you both a lemming and a moron- you just paid eight bucks for a shot that’s half water. How about a lime?<br /></li><li>People tend to get annoyed when you refer to their children as, “Sexually Transmitted Diseases.”<br /></li><li>It is counter-productive to get annoyed when you see a beautiful woman with a douchbag guy. Chances are, she’s a douchebag too.<br /></li><li>Contrary to prior belief, it is still rape even if you yell, “Surprise!”<br /></li><li>Most people don’t care what you have to say and are not interested in your stories. Similarly, when people ask how you’re doing, they’re not actually inquiring as to the state of your existence.</li></ol>J.W. Bazhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08279086405450057546noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6168392469074126579.post-83755762311542646032009-11-20T13:32:00.003-06:002009-11-20T13:34:49.826-06:00I Shall be Released<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">(This essay was written in October of 2008. I just never had the drive to post it. Also, I really need to write about something other than sex and Rock & Roll. Enjoy.)</span></span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">For the record, I have never paid for sex, at least not in the ‘cash for services rendered’ capacity. It’s not that I find anything fundamentally wrong with it. Honestly, I’ve considered it but have never gone through with any such encounter because the whole operation just seems kind of slimy. On the surface, it’s a victimless crime and has increasing appeal in today’s mating world. Let’s not lie to ourselves; sometimes you go out with someone on the sole motivation that you’ll see them naked and end the evening with an orgasm. Of course, if you’re any kind of man, you’ll probably be paying for almost everything on the date. It’s an investment on physical satisfaction with the occasional ancillary benefit of emotional fulfillment as well. Such exchanges have been going since the western world’s dissolution of the arranged marriage. If the investment ceases to “pay off” as it were, you’re now out a potentially-sizable sum of money and have no physical benefits to speak of.<span style=""> </span>Therefore, how can one not see any sort of appeal in paying money directly for the sex? It isn’t pretty, but sometimes you just want to get off. Anyway, I should probably rephrase the opening line of this essay. I <i style="">had</i> never paid for sex <i style="">with my own money</i> until recently.<br /></span></p><p style="font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">If you’re the squeamish type, stop reading now.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">A few weeks ago, I was having a rough week; I had just lost my job, was having a writer’s crisis, etc. That Friday night, I met up with a friend who was coincidentally having a similarly frustrating time. After a few minutes of back and forth malaise, he suggested (seemingly in jest) that we hit a “Rub & Tug,”<a style="" href="post-create.g?blogID=6168392469074126579#_ftn1" name="_ftnref1" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style=""><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--></span></span></a> for which he has an affinity. I laughed it off and continued with the conversation. As the minutes went on, he made it clear that he was in fact, not joking. My immediate response was “absolutely not” but kept pushing the issue. For every one of my specific objections he had a rebuttal. I said I just lost my job and couldn’t rationalize spending my cash on frivolous things, he said the trip would be his treat. I told him I felt slimy, he explained how un-slimy it was. For the sake of brevity, I won’t go into his entire discourse, but it centered on the way your average schlub justifies a strip club. (They provide a service, it’s the girls’ choice to work there, and so on.)<span style=""> </span>We argued back and forth for about fifteen minutes until he said the magic words: “C’mon it will make a great story.”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Now, I’m a firm believer in being an active participant in life. I’m not the type to sit back and watch. Being a writer, I’ll do anything once if it will make for a interesting reading material. He now had me pinned. Besides, who am I turn down a free massage? At the very least, I could enjoy the massage and decline the “release” portion. There is no law that says you must accept a handjob. There are several laws that say you can’t pay for one. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">After a quick stop at the ATM, my friend (henceforth referred to as “Steve”) climbed into the car and briefed me on how things were to go down. After all, one can’t just walk into a massage parlor and order a handjob off the menu. Steve told me that I’d enter like I would at any reputable spa: I would meet my masseur, she’d lead me to the room and turn on some soothing music, instruct me to get undressed. He told me the massage would be like any other, except at the end. Near the end of the session the woman would ask if there’s anything else I’d like, at which time I’d make reference to my nether region.<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Now,” Steve specifically noted, “She’s going to try to get you to pay $60 for the happy ending. I know for a fact that she’ll settle for $40.”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">“How often do you go to this place?”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Don’t worry about it. Just tell her $40. If she gives you any shit, tell her you heard from me that it’s $40 and<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">that’s all you have. She’s not going to turn it down.”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p style="font-style: italic;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">It was probably right here when I got nervous. I have a hard time correcting a waiter who fucks up my order, now I was going to have to haggle for a handjob.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">“I don’t know who’s working, but if Suki is on tonight, she’s mine. Don’t worry, the other girl is good too.”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">“You have a regular girl?”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Shut up.”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">“What if she won’t do it? I mean, what if…”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">“She knows the drill. Don’t worry, you’ll be fine.”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">“What about the tip? Do I have to tip her on top of the extra $40?”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">“No. The jerkoff money is the tip.”<a style="" href="post-create.g?blogID=6168392469074126579#_ftn2" name="_ftnref2" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style=""><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><!--[endif]--></span></span></a></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Steve and I walked in to the parlor and it was exactly like you’d expect. The place was small, but clean. The front window was steamy, adding to the neon-induced pink haze of the façade. The woman behind the front desk was older, well-kempt, and amiable. I hesitate to call her a “madam” but this was definitely her place. For a minute, I felt oddly guilty that such a nice older woman, probably someone’s grandmother, was running a handjob house. Then I thought that perhaps I’d soon be ejaculating at the grip of one of her grandchildren.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">“You both want massage?”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Yeah, the two of us,” Steve replied.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Is Suki in?” Steve inquired.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Yes but she with someone now. You want to wait? Two girls working tonight. If you come back in 45 minutes, we be ready. You want come back?”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Sure.”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">As if I wasn’t edgy enough, we now had to wait 45 minutes. Standing around thinking about the myriad things that could go wrong was exactly what I wanted. We did what anyone does when waiting for a handjob, we went for a beer. That beer might have been the most awkward of my life. Steve and I talked, but actively avoided eye contact. I checked the clock on my cell phone every 2 minutes until it was time to go. Why was I so nervous? It was not as if we were about to execute a mob hit. It was just a handjob. You ever gotten a tattoo or a more-serious-than-an-earlobe piercing? You know the feeling once you’ve paid and you’re just waiting for the artist/piercer to ready the station? That’s the feeling; that’s the best way I can describe it.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Back inside the massage parlor, things again went exactly as I expected, and almost to a cliché degree. Just like the movies, the grandmother from before ducked behind a screen and hollered something in Mandarin and a second later, two women, smiling like a window display and giggling, walked out and stood shoulder to shoulder in the lobby. We were introduced (Steve had a moment of “good to see you again,” the perv) and we were led back to our respective rooms. On my way back to the room, I had a miniature argument with myself about the stereotypical nature of the scene. While stereotypes are usual rooted in truth, this place almost seemed to be following a handbook entitled, <span style="font-style: italic;">“So, You’re Interested in Opening a Shady Massage House.”</span> I imagined my rather attractive masseur sitting in the break room smoking a cigarette when we walked in. In my head, she really had a Southside accent and after the madam gave her the signal, she mumbled, “Ah fuckin’ A, more of this crap,” before switching on the Hello Kitty Schoolgirl act. I used to work sales. Everyone turns into someone else when they hear the customer hit the floor. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Just as Steve laid out, we walked into the room and she turned on the stereo. Apparently, <span style="font-style: italic;">“So, You’re Interested in Opening a Shady Massage House”</span> comes with a free pan-flute-laden CD that you must play on repeat. She instructed me to get undressed and she’d be right back. I took off my clothes and hung my things on the hooks behind the door. I headed over toward the massage table and froze. At a reputable spa, the table is equipped with two sheets- you lay on one and the other covers your naked ass. This table though, had no sheets. Where the sheets were supposed to be was nothing but that Medical-grade butcher paper; the uninviting shit you see in a doctor’s office. I stood there for a minute scratching my head, stark naked. Surely, I wasn’t supposed to just sit there and wait, right? They’d at least supply me a gown and a copy of Highlights if that was the case, right? I heard her footsteps coming back down the hall and made a snap decision.<o:p> </o:p>Because I’m a genius, I deduced that this place’s sheets must actually be made of paper. And so I climbed under the butcher paper. Face Down.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">I heard the door open, a pause, a giggle, and an “um sir?” I turned to look over my shoulder and the lady was standing there with a fresh white sheet and a look on her face that screamed, “Jesus I have to touch this retard’s cock?” In her broken English she told me to lay ON TOP of the paper and she’d put a sheet over me, and I covered my behavior with something about<span style=""> </span>how I didn’t see sheets so I figured this is how it was done. Looking back, this is about the most embarrassed I’ve ever felt in my adult life, it even surpassed the time where I absent-mindedly tried to walk through the subway turnstile, without swiping my card, and in the middle of rush hour. Even though the subway incident was in front of many people who thought I was a moron, I was naked here. We have a new champion.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">This little nugget of stupid, in conjunction with the impending tug of war, made it almost impossible to enjoy the massage I was receiving. Normally, as a man being rubbed down by an attractive female masseur, the fear of an involuntary erection is always prancing about one’s consciousness. That evening I was face down in that massage table donut praying for a boner. What was I going to do if she went for the stickshift and I couldn’t get out of park? I’m sure she’d seen it a hundred times, but that was a level of embarrassment I couldn’t endure. I would have would out the front door naked and directly into oncoming traffic. Or worse, she’s jerking away to no avail and I get dressed dejected. Then what? Do I still have to give her $40? Does she only get half? Would it be ungentlemanly of me to ask for a refund? Is she entitled to an extra twenty because she had to work harder?</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">It also didn’t help that this massage was awful. It wasn’t quite, college-girl-reciprocating-half-heartedly, but relatively speaking it sucked. I liken that particular rubdown to a small child making bread with her mother. The little kid is just pushing the dough around the counter saying, “I’m helping.” Of course, she’s not actually of any assistance but you have to reaffirm her anyway. “Yes you are. You’re so helpful, Pumpkin.” Yes, I understand that analogy is a little apropos here but it’s the best I could possible describe it and it’s the actual vision I got in my head in between the flashes of boner apprehension.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Eventually, she turned me over to my back and (poorly) massaged my chest and arms. It was easy to see that she was working up to the grand finale. Every time she moved, she would elbow or nudge my cock without even a modicum of subtlety. She slowly worked down that way and took the necessary steps to “raise the flag,” as it were. Thankfully, there was no problem in that department. Just as she got me to full mast, she stopped and said, “massage here cost extra.” I think this technique is what some might call, “motivating a buyer.” Playing along, I asked her how much and, right on cue, she told me it would be $60. Also right on cue, I sheepishly said, “$40?”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">“You talked to your friend, huh? Ok, $40”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">She reached down and pulled out a bottle of oil. This wasn’t the bullshit they used on backs and arms, no sir. This was the good stuff. The shit they keep under the table. She oiled me up and got on with it. To most men, the handjob is the degenerate cousin of the sex family. You don’t want it out of the family, but you don’t want to be stuck with it either. The handjob is something nobody turns down, but no one is really excited to get. You don’t look a gift horse in the hand, after all. I’ve received quite a few in my lifetime. A few times I’ve been happy just to walk away with something, as if the manual crank was a consolation prize. More often than not, though, it’s just disappointing and damaging to the ego. You go home and wonder, “what, I’m not even blowjob worthy?” Moreover, handies are often poorly-executed. I know this equipment and work with it daily, all the more irritating when someone less-informed does a sub-par job. As an adult, removed from the years when someone else’s skin was enough to send my junk into fits, a handjob usually consists of me laying there, hoping for the best and eventually willing my way to orgasm.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">The handjob I received on said evening, however, was nothing of the sort. Almost immediately, I started feeling pangs of lightning in my abdomen (“oh shit, the chowder is nearing arrival”) kind of pangs. Thirty seconds later, I was in final countdown. A cascade of grunts poured from my mouth. She responded with moans and an ‘Oh God’ of her own, both of which were so convincing I ejaculated a small country. Honestly and without hyperbole, that orgasm was in the Top 5 ever. Ever. Under any other method of extraction. Ever.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">I laid there a minute, bewildered at what just happened, and she ran out the room. A minute later, she returned with a fresh, steamy towel and cleaned me up. By the time I was clean, I was still panting and amazed. I guess it pays to hire a professional. She didn’t even hustle me out of the room. She climbed up and sat on the edge of the table and made small talk. If this was part of her routine, as it probably was, she played it to perfection. She played a bit with my nipple piercing, batting them like a cat, and commented on how “cool” I was and how she’s so glad she met me. Granted, I am probably a little more hip and decent than the average yokel that wanders in there, but still beyond the call of duty. After any orgasm of consequence, one tends to feel a little shaky. I climbed off the table and in a manner reminiscent of Bambi on ice. I paid her, said goodbye, and headed out the door. I hung out in the lobby and shared some awkward glances with Grandma while waiting for Steve. Thankfully, I got a phone a call and excused myself out the front door before our interaction got any more cumbersome. I can’t imagine she and I would have much to talk about.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <span style="font-size:100%;">My friend from <st1:state st="on"><st1:place st="on">New York</st1:place></st1:state> was calling to relay an embarrassing story he incurred earlier that day. I was like, “Dude, you have no idea.” The whole time he was talking, I couldn’t get my mind off of what just happened and if writing about it was a little too much- even for me. Obviously, we see how that line of doubt ended up. Steve was right, it does make for a good story. When he first mentioned it I thought for sure I would work the humanist angle and how it’s a commentary on the status of male sexuality in modern <st1:place st="on"><st1:country-region st="on">America</st1:country-region></st1:place> or perhaps I’d study the sadness of immigration and sex work. Ultimately, I don’t feel like doing either. Sometimes a man just needs a handjob. Quite honestly, the transaction didn’t feel slimy and I don’t look upon it as anything more. It’s just a handjob. There are far dirtier and more degrading ways to make a living in this country. In fact, the bar job I lost at the beginning of that week was one of them. Maybe I’m being obtuse or insensitive or irresponsible, but trying to view this encounter through a broader scope almost feels, for lack of a better term, “whorish.” Sometimes a good story is just a good story</span>.J.W. Bazhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08279086405450057546noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6168392469074126579.post-85182414878766422802009-01-06T17:35:00.001-06:002009-01-06T17:36:17.126-06:00Greetings out there in the series of tubes known as the interwebs.<br /><br />For those of you who haven't heard, my first one-man show is in full swing and will debut in Chicago on February 20th. I'm currently whipping myself into shape to ensure the show is as good as I know it can be.<br /><br />If you're in Chicago, I implore you to check it out. It's easily the best and most important thing I've ever done. If you don't live in Chicago (or can't travel there in February, you lazy prick) don't worry. There are already talk of bringing to other cities including Seattle, Minneapolis, Columbus, Dallas, and New York City.<br /><br />For those of you who have asked or are wondering, my current profile pic is the promo shot for all the posters and other printed material. Just imagine: me in my drawers pasted all over this great land! My mother is very proud and I'm working on making a wallet-sized shot so she can show her Bridge Group. Really, who needs grandkids when you can show your everyone your son's timid bulge?<br /><br />Here's the official show description:<br /><br />After touring extensively for years throughout the US and Canada, renowned performance poet and humorist, J.W. Baz presents <em>No One Can Fix You:</em> a one-man dramedy about sex, drugs and poetry. On the wings of his raucous live shows, Baz has developed a reputation as one of spoken word's most exciting characters and now presents his first full-length stage play right here in Chicago. Laced with poetry, humor, and some extraordinarily awkward stories, <em>No One Can Fix You</em> is a hilarious and poignant account of the author's trials in love and addiction. You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll be glad none of it happened to you.<br /><br />Friday, February 20th, 8PM<br />Saturday, February 21st, 8PM<br />Friday, February 27th, 8PM<br />Saturday, February 28th, 8PM<br /><br />All seats $12. 2-for-1 admission with Student ID<br /><br />For tickets call (773) 598-4549 or visit GorillaTango.com<br /><br />Gorilla Tango Theater1919 N. Milwaukee Ave.Chicago, IL 60647<br />Just off the Western Blue LineJ.W. Bazhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08279086405450057546noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6168392469074126579.post-12657681348934608372009-01-06T17:30:00.001-06:002009-01-06T17:34:18.696-06:00No One Can Fix YouGreetings out there in the series of tubes known as the interwebs.<br /><br />For those of you who haven't heard, my first one-man show is in full swing and will debut in Chicago on February 20th. I'm currently whipping myself into shape to ensure the show is as good as I know it can be.<br /><br />If you're in Chicago, I implore you to check it out. It's easily the best and most important thing I've ever done. If you don't live in Chicago (or can't travel there in February, you lazy prick) don't worry. There are already talk of bringing to other cities including Seattle, Minneapolis, Columbus, Dallas, and New York City.<br /><br />For those of you who have asked or are wondering, my current profile pic is the promo shot for all the posters and other printed material. Just imagine: me in my drawers pasted all over this great land! My mother is very proud and I'm working on making a wallet-sized shot so she can show her Bridge Group. Really, who needs grandkids when you can show your everyone your son's timid bulge?<br /><br />Here's the official show description:<br /><br />After touring extensively for years throughout the US and Canada, renowned performance poet and humorist, J.W. Baz presents <em>No One Can Fix You:</em> a one-man dramedy about sex, drugs and poetry. On the wings of his raucous live shows, Baz has developed a reputation as one of spoken word's most exciting characters and now presents his first full-length stage play right here in Chicago. Laced with poetry, humor, and some extraordinarily awkward stories, <em>No One Can Fix You</em> is a hilarious and poignant account of the author's trials in love and addiction. You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll be glad none of it happened to you.<br /><br />Friday, February 20th, 8PM<br />Saturday, February 21st, 8PM<br />Friday, February 27th, 8PM<br />Saturday, February 28th, 8PM<br /><br />All seats $12. 2-for-1 admission with Student ID<br /><br />For tickets call (773) 598-4549 or visit GorillaTango.com<br /><br />Gorilla Tango Theater<br />1919 N. Milwaukee Ave.<br />Chicago, IL 60647<br />Just off the Western Blue LineJ.W. Bazhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08279086405450057546noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6168392469074126579.post-61771120811884541622008-10-07T03:06:00.003-05:002008-10-07T03:13:52.191-05:00State of the Union 10.06.08<em><span style="font-size:85%;">This began as a poignant piece of socio-economic commentary. Then it kinda, got away from me.</span></em><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong>My fellow Americans, this is a time for panic.</strong></span><br /><br />Were I a headline-doctor or a speechwriter or a fear-monger, surely this would be my maxim. The country finds itself in a state of utter crisis. The people who make the news would have us believe that we are all supposed to clawing at our jowls, wondering how we’ll ever recover. Plus, it’s an election year- ain’t life grand? I read today that the Dow Jones swan-dove itself to below 10,000 and I couldn’t possibly care less. <em>What? The Dow Jones is falling? People, grab your Bibles!</em> I don’t even know what the Dow Jones is and I can’t even muster enough interest to Google it. Call it the curse of the young and free. Call it the mark of the fiscally irresponsible; just don’t call it ignorant because us whiny liberals hate that word.<br /><br />Look on the bright side, at least the financial analysts will have an easier job for a while. Wouldn’t you like to be able to reduce your working responsibilities to telling people what they already know? Personally, I’d spend most of my day coming up with interesting ways to say, <em>it’s shitty out there.</em> Perhaps this is the universe’s way of telling us that there are way too many financial analysts and brokers and the like to begin with. I bet some of those motherfuckers are kicking themselves for never learning a trade or cultivating a talent. Really, I don’t mean to scoff. Actually, I do mean to scoff. I am fully engaged in scoffery, head thrown back, laughing at the irony.<br /><br />The hilarity comes from the fact that I <em>already</em> have nothing. In keeping with the stereotype, I am completely broke. I have no money and can barely pay my modest bills. I work shitty jobs for shit money. I rent. My investment portfolio is $700 in a 401k I accrued when my restaurant went corporate. I write poems, tell grimy jokes and act like a clown. I subsist on the good nature of a small culture of people like me who are willing to part with a few bucks to be entertained or inspired or distracted. The only thing six-figured about me is my car’s mileage. But guess what, dickbag? That bitch is paid for.<br /><br />The beauty of my situation is in the operative word, <em>broke.</em> It could be worse. I could be <em>bankrupt</em>, the affluent person’s word for “hopelessly in the red.” (See also: over-extended, destitute, or up shit creek and paddling with the limbs of the dead.) They can’t even afford to be broke. The well-to-do types of the world are completely reliant on the economy; they have good jobs, they have mortgages and investments. So, when the market flounders and the banks go down, the upwardly mobile couple next door is fucked. Meanwhile, with the economy in the proverbial toilet, it isn’t like I notice the water smelling any different.<br /><br />People like myself have been the object of white-collar scorn for years now because of our choice to be modest and un-tethered. The country at large hates our unwillingness to work 80 hours a week and wear ties or rock pantsuits. Instead, we wear stupid fucking hats and take your order, please. Prepare yourself the comeuppance, Trevor. I hope you can afford a bucket, Tiffany, because your pampered ass is gonna be washing a lot of windshields.<br /><br />So, should the market continue to plummet, should we fall into crippling depression, should there be riots in the streets, people burning Benjamins in shoddy garbage cans for warmth, it will be the artists in full guffaw at the top of the bell tower with thesaurus in hand because we have inherited the earth.<br /><br />We were never the meek, just the one’s with shit else to lose.J.W. Bazhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08279086405450057546noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6168392469074126579.post-21877885830979828612008-08-18T03:13:00.007-05:002008-08-18T03:40:42.449-05:00Boom or Bust<em><span style="font-size:85%;">This essay was written in late March of 2008. On the day in question, I was doing a show in Boston and had several hours to kill before the venue opened. I had nowhere to go but a local coffeeshop, I missed my girlfriend, and the '08 NFL Draft was approaching. Ergo, I wrote this bit of foolishness. It should be noted that I am posting it because I was all but chided into it. Some friends of mine have been breaking my balls about posting a new piece on here and this is the only thing anwhere in the vicinity of finished. It should also be noted that since this was written Beyonce married Jay-Z, Miami selected the unglamorous Jake Long with the top pick, and my girlfriend turned out to be a succubus. Well, perhaps succubus is unfair but heartless-demon-seed isn't completely accurate either. Enjoy!</span></em><br /><br />The NFL draft is an intricate process, decidedly more involved than the draft of any other sport, probably because a standard football team has far more specialized positions than any other sport. Even each position has its own specializations. The Linebacker spot alone has three different individual distinctions, and that’s not even taking into account the Nickel and Dime packages and whether or not the team’s defensive set calls for a designated edge rusher. Regardless of the cause, the end-result is an (arguably) exciting weekend, one that has millions of fans adhered to radios and televisions sets for hours at a time.<br /><br />Within the draft itself, teams employ a highly detailed ratings system based on the order in which each prospect is selected. Every pick is assigned a point value. The first overall pick is assigned 3000 points; the second overall is worth 2600, and so on. In theory, the points indicate the probable effect a player will have on his team’s future. Again, in theory, the first pick is the best player in the draft and will impact his team (immediately or otherwise) to a greater degree than say, the 15th. Teams always look at this point system when trading picks and players. It is hardly a perfect system, but it does the job as well as anything else. If one were analytical or shallow enough (or an essayist constructing an overdrawn analogy), one could implement a similar system in his romantic life. For example, when rating women, each would be assigned a point value based on factors like looks, personality, notoriety and difficulty to obtain. Now, I’m not advocating this system. It is concurrently shallow, silly, and devoid of humanity (not to mention borderline sexist) but it could be done.<a title="" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn1" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=6168392469074126579#_ftn1" name="_ftnref1">[1]</a><br /><br />Hypothetically, let’s say you were trying to sleep with Beyonce. Ms. Knowles is wealthy, beyond famous, and insanely attractive. Even your average celebrity would have, and has had, an extremely difficult time getting her into a coffee shop. Wrangling her into a bedroom is next to impossible.<a title="" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn2" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=6168392469074126579#_ftn2" name="_ftnref2">[2]</a> Beyonce is the caliber of a franchise pick; her numerical value would be 3000 (but in reality closer to 4 million). However, the slightly-better-than-average-looking woman from your office with the great legs is not nearly as hard to obtain, not as universally attractive, and probably would not have an impact on your life to the degree that Beyonce would. For the sake of argument, let’s call her number, 27- an early sixth round selection with a good work ethic but a lack of bankable talent.<br /><br />Many things go into a first overall prospect. Sometimes the player is not the best player in the draft by a long shot, but other factors surrounding him propel him to the position. JaMarcus Russell was hardly the “best” player in 2007’s draft. Many folks argued that he wasn’t even the best Quarterback. However, his upside, track record and competency in football’s most important position landed him in the coveted spot; thus making him the default best player available. Quite honestly, his freakish athleticism alone was enough to make Al Davis drool like a St. Bernard, but it just goes to show how sometimes certain aspects outweigh others in spite of standard logic.<br /><br />Last night, at the finest <em>Chili’s</em> in the greater Framingham, Massachusetts area, the standard Saturday night ‘one guy/one woman team’ operated the bar. Establishments for ages have employed this setup. The guy is a true hustler. He deals with the service bar, the waitresses, making drinks, running plates- basically all the bullshit a bartender job entails. The woman, however, is there to serve as “the face.” This is not to say she is incompetent or incapable of hustling, but that’s not her main priority. She is the one taking orders, flirting with the men, talking groups of guys into unnecessary rounds of drinks and always with a smile. She will be the only person anyone remembers. She is good at her job but knows she can’t do it without her male counterpart. The male knows that she is the reason the tip pool is larger than when he works alone. It is a tradeoff, it is symbiosis, it is oddly Marxist, and it is proven to work. This system is far from flawless, but everyone from the house to the busboy makes money using it.<br /><br />I’ve done everything there is to do in the bar and restaurant industry and since have developed the habit of watching the machine in full swing. I have also been at a lot of bars and I’m often alone when there. So last night, as the female bartender was flirting with me, I couldn’t help but ask myself if her behavior was genuine interest or strictly driven by financial gain. It took me all of nine seconds to conclude the latter. I was not always this good at spotting the formula. As a former drunk and a perpetual maverick, I have spent countless evenings pining over bartenders. More often than not, the bartender in question is not someone I would even cross a room to talk to. If you stare at something long enough, though, you’ll always want to have it. This is perhaps the primary reason everyone is at least 50% more attractive behind a bar. Naturally, the female bartender is no idiot. She knows precisely what she’s doing. She may be doe-eyed, but she is more dangerous than a wolverine on steady diet of PCP and PBR. She also does this a lot; she is in complete control and knows on her walk <em>to work</em> that she’ll be walking <em>home</em> alone. If any bartender were to bed even half the people she flirts with, her numbers would be of Chamberlinian proportions. This makes the degree of difficulty on this woman, henceforth known as Chili’s Finest, tremendously above standard. I’ve had Naked Time with several bartenders but never on the night they were behind the bar.<br /><br />It was shortly after the moment I realized she was not earnestly flirting that I began to ask myself the question: <em>What if she was?</em> Now, it should be stated that I have a girlfriend who makes me very happy. That doesn’t preclude my habit of noticing attractive women, though. The conquest gear in men doesn’t cease to work when we get in a relationship; an honorable man just learns to function with it detached from the transmission. By most standards, certainly by mine, Chili’s Finest is quite attractive and I would be a fool not to sleep with her if given the chance. This thought process led to the initial idea of the female rating system and here’s why:<br /><br />I have often heard of people in serious relationships have a sort of “5 Exceptions List.” Said list is basically a grouping of desirable celebrities a person is allowed to have sex with if given the implausible opportunity. The Exceptions list acts a tool to fool men into thinking that they will actually see a vagina other than their partner’s before he dies. Inversely, the woman in the relationship makes sure this will never happen by making sure the list is composed of starlets whom said man, in all likelihood, has absolutely no shot. Nary a woman in her right mind would allow such a list to exist if on it he included My Secretary, My Ex, or Your Sister. Again, this is a tradeoff. Celebrities act as perfect subjects because their theoretical point value is inordinately high. Generally, celebrities are first-rounders, giving them an average-minimum point value of about 1000.<br /><br />But if this point system were real and not just the figment of my argument’s imagination, if there was truly a standard unit of measure, would it affect one’s 5 Exceptions List? Would I then be able to sleep with a woman like Chili’s Finest if I so desired, provided her point value was above 1000?<br /><br />Chili’s Finest is generally attractive, gregarious, and seems to have an above average IQ. That would put her rating somewhere in the vicinity of the late 3rd round.<a title="" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn3" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=6168392469074126579#_ftn3" name="_ftnref3">[3]</a> However, should you add in the degree of difficulty and necessity of carnal encounter to a touring writer, one could make a case that she could be picked up late in the first round, probably by last year’s World Champion, which I definitely could be.<a title="" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn4" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=6168392469074126579#_ftn4" name="_ftnref4">[4]</a><br /><br />Ultimately, the brunt of this whole conversation is patently ludicrous. It’s ludicrous not only because it wouldn’t happen, but if I were to have an Exceptions List, why on earth would I put a woman like Chili’s Finest on it? Even if one could finagle a bartender into the theoretical first round, would she really be worth it? I’m thinking probably not. The vast majority of female bartenders are a pain in the ass. I don’t think there’s anything wrong on a genetic level, but enough time in the service industry damages everyone.<br /><br />You know how most of the inordinately attractive girls in high school were snotty and behaved like idiots? That wasn’t because they were born that way. Girls who are attractive at a young age are heaped with enough attention to make them assholes without their knowledge. If everyone you’ve ever met wants to be you or be near you, it’s only a matter of time before your conceit reaches critical mass. If those around you act as if you’re the center of the universe, osmosis gets the best of you. Popularity is not a healthy thing for a woman to undergo during a crucial point of development like adolescence. Now, I’m not siding with the popular girls. Fuck popular girls. Yes, popularity can be difficult, but it sure beats being invisible or spit upon or called a fag everyday for 6 years.<br /><br />Inevitably, for all the same reasons, female bartenders (attractive or otherwise) turn into snotty girls who behave like idiots. Most of them don’t even notice it until they’re 40 and no one wants to hire their aging ass. They share the same fate of the popular girls: they’re left with no marketable skills, a bunch of strictly cosmetic friends, and the personality of an especially annoying Poodle.<br /><br />Of course, there are those who somehow maintain immunity to the rule. For example, I went to high school with a girl named Erin who was equal parts gorgeous and affable.<a title="" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn5" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=6168392469074126579#_ftn5" name="_ftnref5">[5]</a> Chili’s Finest could fit a similarly rare archetype. She could be the attractive, humble service industry vet I know exists somewhere. However, it is far more unlikely that she would be one of hundreds of mistakes made in the first round. Not a year goes by where a team’s GM doesn’t lose his five favorite players on the board and instead of trading the pick or looking for depth and long-term success, he selects the head-case specimen he doesn’t want because everyone says he’s just too good to pass up. Chili’s Finest is that head case.<br /><br />At the end of the day, such a rating system doesn’t exist beyond my own imagination and it really shouldn’t. If your personal life is not like the draft, it has nothing to do with point values and signing bonuses. But the following does hold true: There is a draft every year whether you’re prepared or not, and it is always surrounded by senseless hype. All you can do is make the best decision possible with the information available when the opportunity arises. The majority of your hottest prospects will ultimately bust. There’s no way to predict it and it can’t be avoided. Every team goes through it. Chances are, your favorite player on the squad will be the diamond in the rough you picked up mid-fourth anyway.<br /><br /><br /><a title="" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn1" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=6168392469074126579#_ftnref1" name="_ftn1">[1]</a> Reader’s Note #1: We’re about to make some leaps in logic that will lead to lots of questions. Just stay with me here. Pretend you’re watching something in the <em>Saw</em> franchise. It will be fun, promise. Just go along for the ride.<br /><a title="" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn2" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=6168392469074126579#_ftnref2" name="_ftn2">[2]</a> Reader’s Note #2: 10 days after this was written, Beyonce married Jay-Z. I’m not sure how exactly this impacts the example, but it’s just interesting to note.<br /><a title="" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn3" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=6168392469074126579#_ftnref3" name="_ftn3">[3]</a> Not to mention she lives in a different state, a major bonus to most men because she could be avoided post-coitus. I know, we’re scum.<br /><a title="" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn4" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=6168392469074126579#_ftnref4" name="_ftn4">[4]</a> Provided of course that last year’s Champ was a team like last year’s Giants or the 2000 Ravens, who really weren’t that good. I certainly am not the ’85 Bears.<br /><a title="" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn5" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=6168392469074126579#_ftnref5" name="_ftn5">[5]</a> I heard she got married at 23. The good ones don’t last long in the draft. She deserves it even if she never returned my call in 2002 when we were supposed to hang out. Bigger fish, I’m sure.J.W. Bazhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08279086405450057546noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6168392469074126579.post-2646502503198367462008-07-18T15:09:00.006-05:002008-07-18T15:46:35.856-05:00Things I Know<strong>1. Walking away from a fight is almost always the smart play. Your friends may think you're a pussy but that's better than getting your ass kicked and giving them the proof they need to confirm.<br /><br />2. "What are you thinking about?" is a bad question to ask if your partner places any value on honesty.<br /><br />3. Your government doesn't care about you.<br /><br />4. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Barack</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Obama</span> used to care but he traded you for lobbyists in a twisted game of 'Need em, Got em, Need em.'<br /><br />5. Though the learning process may be humbling, knowing how to properly perform oral sex is an invaluable <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">skillset</span>.<br /><br />6. Skinny Jeans are fucking lame. They always were. They always will be. Admit your fashion mistake and move on.<br /><br />7. Reading is a good idea.<br /><br />8. If you are dating someone that you think is amazing but your friends think he/she is an asshole, your friends are probably right.<br /><br />9. White-Urban-Educated-Liberal-Graphic Designers are not an accurate cross-section of the American populace.<br /><br />10. People who support the indoor smoking ban, but still have the nerve to complain about smokers crowding the sidewalk, are not to be trusted. Clearly, they have no grasp of critical thinking or the basics of cause/effect.</strong>J.W. Bazhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08279086405450057546noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6168392469074126579.post-52311194085324127902008-05-28T14:34:00.004-05:002008-05-28T14:46:34.186-05:00The Low Side of the Road<em><span style="font-size:85%;">The following is a 99% true story, names have been changed to protect me from lawsuits.</span></em><br /><br />For my entire life, the majority of my friends have been older than I and I always reveled in the perks I was afforded by having them. I had access to cigarettes first, I saw a real-live porno before anyone I knew, by the time I was 14 pot had become old-hat and in my sophomore year of high school I was granted access to senior parties. I was almost always the youngest person everywhere I went, but parties were a big deal because they were normally out of reach for anyone my age who wasn’t a relatively attractive and potentially slutty girl.<br /><br />Now, I went to high school in suburban Milwaukee. The houses were big, everyone had a car and money for booze, and the rift between the elite and the invisible was nightmarishly large. Ergo, it was a bit to my surprise when my friend John (a Senior) pulled up in front of Travis Mackie’s house one Saturday night in August. John and I were in choir together and by most accounts John was not one of the popular crowd.<a title="" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn1" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=6168392469074126579#_ftn1" name="_ftnref1">[1]</a> However, John played tennis; that made him cool-enough with the other cats on the tennis team and netted him certain privileges, one of which being party invites.<br /><br />Travis Mackie, though, was your prototypical rich kid. He played on the tennis team, he was condescendingly polite, dressed well, and his parents were almost always away for the weekend. When we pulled into his massive circle driveway around sundown he was standing on the porch in his typical rich-kid-in-1999-uniform: cargo shorts, pre-faded Abercrombie & Fitch tee, hemp necklace, Birkenstocks, and can of Bud Light.<a title="" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn2" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=6168392469074126579#_ftn2" name="_ftnref2">[2]</a> He approached the car with a slow, don’t-give-a-fuck-about-a-fuck saunter and his face and small talk for a minute before he asking us for our cover charge. ($5 all-you-can-drink parties were the norm)<br /><br />Behind Travis, a guy I recognized as Trent was leaning against his car attempting to prop up his Friends-Only date.<a title="" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn3" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=6168392469074126579#_ftn3" name="_ftnref3">[3]</a> His date, whose name I never caught and will henceforth be known as Drunk Girl, was already fucked up and the party hadn’t even started yet. She was thin and pretty with status-quo jeans and matching baby tee. It was abundantly clear that she shared with Trent the same type of relationship I shared with almost every pretty girl goodly enough to speak to me. You know, the pretty girl hangs out with the awkward guy because he always has her back, listens to her as if her every word could be the secret to cold fusion, and always volunteers to be her designated driver. In exchange, the Awkward Guy gets to be in love with her and occasionally accompany her in public.<a title="" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn4" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=6168392469074126579#_ftn4" name="_ftnref4">[4]</a><br /><br />As the night wore on and more people arrived, the party proceeded in typical fashion; people played Caps, drunkenly confessed to crushes and half-true sexual exploits, and spilled more than was necessary. I, also in typical fashion, found myself on the back porch nursing shitty beer and trying to convince girls I was cool in the 3 and half minutes it took them to smoke a cigarette, 90% of which were bummed from me anyway. At some point the energy of the soiree changed. I noticed a discernable lack of partiers and an almost lunar-esque pull toward the stairs. When I reached the top and followed the dull mutter to the Master Bedroom, I understood the exodus.<br /><br />A crowd of at least a dozen dudes had assembled in the spacious bathroom where Drunk Girl was in the shower fruitlessly trying to maintain her equilibrium. Sure, she was fully-clothed, but that had little effect on the near silence and copious number teenage jaws resting on the carpet. As proven by the immortal scene in the 1980’s film Porky’s, on the scale of all things exciting, getting to watch a girl shower is a mere one notch below receiving a Harrier Jet for your birthday.<br /><br />Apparently Trent, being the astute Awkward Guy he was, had gently coerced Drunk Girl to get in the shower as a means of sobering her up before she had to be home. To this day, I am not entirely sure why people believe the cold shower method is a viable option under the circumstances. I’ve been in numerous drunken stupors in my life and none of them has ever been assuaged by running water. I do, however, understand why guys continue to suggest it to girls. It’s a virtual porno film waiting to happen. I would venture to guess that most of these films are still waiting decades later, but that does nothing to alleviate the hopeful diligence of horny students everywhere. And why not be hopeful? There’s a female mere feet away, in a place where one is typically naked. And who knows? I mean, the amount of time one can stand a rush of frigid water is a short one. And what’s to keep her from turning the knob to “Hot” and in a fit of refreshment, dropping her clothes and inviting a partner to join in on the scrub-fest?<br />Even as I type this, a grown man who knows better, this scenario seems oddly possible. After all, drunk women are more likely to engage in acts of senseless fornication. I just wish any of us had the foresight to suggest the shower routine before girls were fall-down-in-a-pool-of vomit drunk. The only actual hope any man has in a situation like this one lies in the question, “How are her clothes going to get dry and what will she be forced to wear in the meantime?” Again, no foresight. I’ve come to understand that when one’s penis becomes even mildly erect, the blood is allocated directly from the Foresight Sector of the brain.<br /><br />While the rest of us feigned apprehension for her well-being and stood fascinated, half-waiting for her nipples to actually pierce all the way through her flimsy, sopping T-shirt, Trent’s gaze was a combination of embarrassment and chest-beating territorialism that is burned into mind, yet I still can’t accurately describe to proper justice. In truth, I probably had the same look when I orchestrated my own fruitless-but-ultimately-exciting version of this symphony during my Junior year.<br /><br />Stories like this one, while few and far between, are surprisingly common in a young man’s quest toward manhood. High school is weird time; and even with an abundance of stories like this one, most guys will look back at their four years with an attitude of bored disdain. Most of us never actually got laid and if we did, it was probably a disappointing experience with a girl we never liked in the first place. <a title="" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn5" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=6168392469074126579#_ftn5" name="_ftnref5">[5]</a> High school romance was a long series of Awkward Guy/Pretty Girl torture sessions culminating in a “Please-God-just-take-my-virginity” grope-a-thon with the only available bidder, usually a shy, smart, average-looking young woman that would make an excellent present-day girlfriend, if we had ever kept her phone number.<br /><br />The absolute pice du resistance in the Awkward/Pretty saga happened to me at the tail end of my Senior Year. Her name was Amy and to this day, she was one of the prettiest girls I’ve ever known. She is also possibly the hottest woman I’ve ever seen naked and in person at the same time to this day. You may be asking, “How did this happen? Does this not shatter the Pretty/Awkward mold, completely disproving everything said up to this point?” The answer is ultimately “no”. And here’s how it went down (or more accurately, didn’t):<br /><br />Coming into my final semester, I played the classic role of the tortured teenage artist desperate to break free from the chains of conformity. If this was going on today, I would have been labeled an Emo Kid. At that time, though, the term “Emo Kid” was not part of the lexicon. I was about 70 pounds overweight, an aspiring songwriter, the lead in the school play, and in serious danger of not actually graduating. I hated everything about school and never did homework or studied. I had made a career out of coasting by on talent and superior negotiating tactics and it had finally caught up with me. Therefore, it seemed only natural that I take Creative Writing as my final Senior elective class. It appeared to be something I could effortlessly glide through, especially considering my interest in the arts and penchant for the written word. On the first day of class I discovered two things: 1) this class was so rudimentary that a middle school degenerate could ace it and 2) Amy Keller was the sexiest girl in school. By the second week of class I was sitting behind her cultivating a serious crush and collecting puddles of drool on my notebook.<a title="" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn6" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=6168392469074126579#_ftn6" name="_ftnref6">[6]</a> Amy was different than every female I had ever encountered. She seemed to have her shit together in all the right places. She was insanely attractive by anyone’s standards, but also the type to never act is if she knew it<br /><br />As the semester progressed, we developed an interesting friendship. She liked me because I was this Pre-Emo Kid and didn’t think or behave like anyone in school. I was into music and books and film. I hated school-sponsored activities that weren’t focused on the arts. I may have well been the only guy she knew in that place who smoked cigarettes and wasn’t trying to either hide it or impress anyone with it. We would talk about the decline of rock music and the finer points of Tom Waits. In fact, she introduced me to Tom Waits. Before her, I only knew he existed and VH1 had listed him in their Top 100 Artists of Rock and Roll list. She came in one morning raving about his album, Mule Variations, which would later become my favorite of the year and win a Grammy. When she brought it up I pretended I had already heard it. In all likelihood, I probably dismissed it as, “Not bad, but it doesn’t really do it for me.” This is a phrase I used a lot when feigning knowledge about music and film I know nothing about but felt I probably should.<a title="" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn7" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=6168392469074126579#_ftn7" name="_ftnref7">[7]</a> It was not, however, her interest in Mule Variations that made me buy it. What made me buy it was the fact that she mentioned that she once performed a strip tease to the song “Low Side of the Road,” the album’s second track.<br /><br />Amy had a boyfriend, naturally. And naturally, it wasn’t anyone at our school. He was an older guy, 19, working on his GED. If my memory serves, he worked at gas station and drove a dilapidated Oldsmobile, which he once bragged about as being the vehicle involved in his successful outrunning of the local police. It seems girls like Amy always date chuds like this; perhaps it’s because it makes them feel even further removed from the usual high school girl. Regardless, Amy’s relationship with said boyfriend meant very little to me. He wasn’t around, therefore he didn’t exist. He couldn’t possibly understand and appreciate her the way I did. He didn’t see the way she looked at me. He also wasn’t there the day I took her shopping at the mall and helped her put together a new outfit, a skill I picked up from being raised in a family loaded with women, and a scenario that I understand now to be a non-negotiable ticket to the Friend Zone. Hell, it was a ticket to the only thing worse than the Friend Zone, the Possibly Gay Friend Zone.<br /><br />One weekend that Spring she and I finally spent some time together outside of class. My friend Mark had an apartment (again, an older friend) where I spent most of my time and I invited her over to hang out with us. This situation seemed perfect as it was somewhere private, but another guy was around so it seemed non-intimidating. There was also booze and a wealth of available ashtrays. I had relayed to Mark how much I liked her and undoubtedly described how hot she was, and when I told Mark about the Low Side of the Road Story, it was all I could do to prevent him from calling her himself. She came over and we hung around doing nothing note-worthy, mostly talking and drinking, until she had to split. She made an appearance at his apartment several times over the next few weeks and even brought her boyfriend once. I was actually happy to see him, as he instantly proved to be exactly what I thought he was - a nice guy but ultimately a douche who was no match for my supposed wit and charm. On the nights when he wasn’t present, the conversations ran the gamut from music to Robert DeNiro to sex. (Not sex with Robert DeNiro, mind you, but sex with her boyfriend.) I remember her talking about her inability to climax via masturbation and how her boyfriend could “hold his nut” for over an hour. This immediately placed nut-holding at the top of list of things to learn, second only to learning how to have sex with Amy while holding my nut.<br /><br />Sex was constantly discussed when we got together. More than likely it was because she was actively having it and I had only done it twice. I was earnestly interested in being a good lover, not just dry finger-banging some chick in the back of my Toyota. She actually once demonstrated her favorite sexual position to me on Mark’s living room floor. As she instructed me to position myself over one of her legs as she slid the other behind my head, seeing Amy naked became the most important thing to me since learning to play guitar. My crush had evolved from crush to infatuation. Amy even passed my Infatuation Test<br /><br />I could masturbate to anyone when I was a teenager. It didn’t even matter if I was remotely attracted to the person involved. Actually, most of the people I thought of while spanking it were not anyone I would even sleep with given the opportunity. (For one reason or another, this still holds true today.) It went so far that I physically could not jerk off to anyone I wanted to be with in real life. Even following a guided tour of the Kama Sutra, I wouldn’t allow the image of Amy or any other girl I was crushing on to enter my mind as I masturbated. I guess at the time I felt it was demeaning to girl involved and cheapened what we had, even if “what we had” was nothing more than my crush and her sibling-esque fondness for me. No one had ever turned me on more than Amy Keller but I still never once touched myself to her image until the incident that marked the decline of our friendship.<br /><br />The circumstances involving the night of said incident are hazy in my memory but the details of what went on are for the most part very clear. I’m not sure what day it was or at what point in the semester, though it was probably a Friday night. I have no idea how the actual subject of her alleged striptease came up, though I probably instigated it. All I remember clearly is the image of Mark sitting on one couch, me sitting on the other and Amy on the way down to the car to get her copy of Mule Variations. Chances are we all feigned something innocent, but everyone knew what was about to happen. Amy was going to re-enact the fabled striptease that up until that point existed as the pot of gold at the end of my awkward rainbow.<br /><br /><em>Reader's Note: I’ve toured the country on several occasions. I have played packed houses, and met most of my personal heroes. However, what happened over the next 2 hours that night is probably the coolest thing I have ever been privy to.</em><br /><br />As she re-entered the small apartment, now glowing under Mark’s beloved blacklight, she closed the door behind her and proceeded to the CD player that constituted Mark’s stereo system. “Low Side of the Road” filled the space like the Marlboro cigarette spewing from my anxious, gaping jaw. Low Side is an incredibly sexy song, and not just under the circumstances. It walks the line of creepy, low-fidelity and unabashed grime like few songs have in history. Waits’ gravely timbre and slinky guitar play so perfectly against the plodding pulse I would dare anyone to listen to it and not feel compelled to roll their hips against the air. By the start of the second verse, Amy was doing just that, grinding up against some phantom pelvis and gently mouthing the lyrics. At first, her clothes remained on and her eyes stayed firmly shut. She hinted that she was just about to remove her first layer when the song ended . For a moment, she broke character and out of the trance, her eyes popping open like Kim Cattral in Mannequin. Mark, being the stand up guy he is, reached over and started the song again. with the haste of a driver who just dropped a cigarette in his lap. In an instant, she fell back under the spell and began taking off her top. Until Mark, in a stroke of genius remembered his CD player has a repeat button, we carried on like this roughly every three minutes: Amy swirling about the carpeted floor, her hair whipping across her face, the track ends. Amy’s thumbs begin flirting with the straps of her bra, the track ends. The amazing part wasn’t her willingness to keep re-starting the process, it was the exasperated sigh that followed every stop. All signs pointed to her absolute desire to strip at length for two horny idiots, neither of whom was her boyfriend. But with the repeat button deployed, no longer would the tyranny of time stand in our way.<br />Amy’s perky, flawless breasts finally entered the equation. Shortly thereafter, her skirt and thong followed. For an entire rotation of the song, Amy stood there, wearing nothing but a scrap of fabric, tracing circles around her nipples, never missing a lyric. By the time the night was over, everyone in the room had the song memorized. We knew every line, guitar riff, and section cue- from the lick that accompanied the start of a new verse to the sloppy transition at the end of the bridge.<br /><br />I distinctly recall the throbbing of my dick as it jammed itself against the front of my jeans, I recall shifting it to one side just as it started to leak, and I especially remember a now-naked Amy crawling across the floor with her eyes locked on mine. She leaned in and whisper-moaned, “I want to see you touch yourselves.” The plural indicated that she meant Mark as well, which she made very clear when she crawled to the other couch and said the same to him. For a second I froze. You see, I was just getting to the point in my development where I could admit that I masturbated at all and now here was this girl asking me to do it in front of her and my best friend. It’s an odd thing to have to consider at the age of 18. When I saw police lights, I knew to run. Fight breaks out? Start swinging. Beautiful young woman asks you to take your dick out as she writhes naked on the floor? Freeze. Years later, having my dick out in front of my friends is still high on the list of things that make me uncomfortable. It’s not that I’m homophobic or have any issue with the idea of naked men, but when my friends are involved I’d much rather not masturbate in plain sight. I would go so far as to say that I’d take a bullet for a few of them, but I’d hesitate to drop trou with them in the room.<br /><br />For a second I contemplated my situation, never more unsure of what to do in my life. So, I did what any 18 year old Awkward Guy would do: I giggled like a little girl. A high-pitched, guffaw stifled by my hand sprung from me at an alarming rate. I couldn’t stop it to save my life. Seconds later, Mark stopped it for me.<br /><br />“Dude. Stop giggling. Just take care of business.”<br /><br />Mark, a recovering homophobe and generally conservative, already had his shorts undone. Not wanting to hold up the party, I followed in kind. When I removed my piece from my jeans, I was so aroused I thought my skin might tear. I was probably about 4 strokes from an orgasm of geyser-like proportions, but if jerking off in front of my friend was embarrassing, I only imagined how mortified I would feel after launching a massive brick on his furniture. Now with two young men openly stroking themselves, Amy was visibly aroused. She was panting and sweaty, writhing against the floor, her neatly trimmed vagina humping the air like a phantom cock. I convinced myself that I was the phantom she was thinking about and if we were alone we’d be going at it for real. It didn’t even matter if it were true. I just sat there, sloppy dick in my hand, the luckiest schlub in existence.<br /><br />Our collective sense of reality was gone. This was a consequence-free alternate universe, completely devoid of time and any other human being beside the three of us. I’m not sure exactly how long this scene had been going on, but it could have persisted until graduation. I would have gladly skipped the ceremony. It was a scene of suspended linear relativity. It was much like a long walk your last day at camp or on vacation. You know it has to end; eventually you will have to collect your things or hail a cab, but you tell yourself that if no one mentions it, sunrise will cease to arrive.<br /><br />Our sunrise did arrive, however, with the sound of annoyed footsteps coming up the wooden stairs and a violent knock at the door. We all launched into action; Amy scooped up her things and ran toward the bedroom, Mark zipped up and answered the door, and I crammed my still-erect penis back into its denim holster. I watched Amy’s shadow get dressed in the darkness of the next room as a man’s voice muttered something I couldn’t make out on the other side of the open door. It was the building manager. Someone across the alley had reported that the music was too loud. Because it was warm out and Mark’s building being old-style brick, we had the windows open. I guess the sound was traveling farther than we anticipated. I joked to myself that I was amazed anyone could hear the music over the wet, slapping symphony going on.<br />Mark closed the door and we looked at each other with a mix of disappointment and utter disbelief. It was almost the same look we would have shared had we just dumped a body in a ravine. He whispered something and motioned toward the bedroom. Mark is an unbelievably standup guy. He facilitated this whole scenario and wanted nothing in return. Sure, he got to see a show with the rarity of Halley’s Comet, but just about anyone else would have been clamoring to get a chance at being the guy who followed Amy into the bedroom. In theory, if I ever had a chance at closing the deal with Amy, now was the time but when I entered the bedroom, I found our alternate universe shattered. She was sprawled out across the bed, face-down in the pillow. She wasn’t crying, but as tense and pensive as anyone who just pranced around naked in front of two idiots, neither of which were her boyfriend, would be. I ran my hand gently up one of her legs, stopping mid thigh. As I started on to the next, she rolled over and looked at me.<br /><br />“I can’t. I just can’t.”<br /><br />Naturally, I understand why she couldn’t let this go beyond a spectator sport. (Even if she did technically grab my dick for like 2 seconds at one point) I mean, she did have a boyfriend. He was kind of a douche but he certainly didn’t deserve to be cheated on, even if he would never understand her like I did.<a title="" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn8" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=6168392469074126579#_ftn8" name="_ftnref8">[8]</a> And while I completely see how this could be viewed as cheating, it wasn’t for her. Amy was a very sexual, very exploratory being. From all accounts, she was active before almost anyone and was obviously an exhibitionist. She even told me that once when she was a girl, she had clubhouse that her father tore down when it came out that she was giving peepshows to the other neighborhood kids. (She vehemently denied the validity of the story, claiming that she never did any such thing, but it’s kind of hard to believe her in light of everything.) To her, the evening was just a chance for her to express her sexual urges in a “safe” environment. Amy loved a dirty little secret as much as anyone and while I viewed this whole experience as a clear indicator of her feelings for me, it was probably anything but.<br /><br />Amy and I talked about that night a few times as the semester drew to a close, but never in any context besides, “Man, that was weird.” If I remember correctly, she broke up with her boyfriend shortly thereafter and I made some attempt at asserting my feelings to no avail. From there we just drifted apart, I guess. Unrequited love is a hard thing for everyone involved. Once it’s uncovered, it is equally uncomfortable for both sides. No one wants to hurt someone they care about and nobody wants to be cared about outside of their own terms. Even now as an adult I’d rather not be with someone at all than exist as a friend with no hope of ever being anything more.<br /><br />Mark and I eventually talked about the event, but not until several weeks later. Once we called out the elephant, we continued to be best friends but never jerked it next to each other again. Sure, we attended strip clubs together a few times. We had a stripper in our shared room once in Vegas, but it wasn’t nearly as cool and our pieces stayed put. The mention of Tom Waits will still make us giggle. I slept with his wife once. To be fair, she wasn’t his wife at the time, but you get the picture. From that night forward, we became inextricably bound. When I gave the toast at his wedding, I really wanted to tell this story but his wife doesn’t have much of a sense of humor about these things. We don’t talk as much as we once did but we will always be close.<br />Technically, I ended up failing Creative Writing (Oh, The Irony!), but was allowed to pass through due to a modified final exam. While everyone else just turned in the poems and whatnot they’d spent the semester creating, the teacher told me if that if I typed up and played a few of my songs for the class, she’d pass me. For the record, I still tell everyone I failed Creative Writing and at least two of the songs I turned in were for Amy.<br /><br /><a title="" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn1" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=6168392469074126579#_ftnref1" name="_ftn1"><span style="font-size:85%;">[1]</span></a><span style="font-size:85%;"> He was actually kind of a dork.<br /></span><a title="" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn2" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=6168392469074126579#_ftnref2" name="_ftn2"><span style="font-size:85%;">[2]</span></a><span style="font-size:85%;"> Were he a middle-class “bro” he would have been drinking Natural Light.<br /></span><a title="" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn3" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=6168392469074126579#_ftnref3" name="_ftn3"><span style="font-size:85%;">[3]</span></a><span style="font-size:85%;"> Trent and John shared a special bond in that they both were included via history. Neither one of them really belonged here. John, Trent and Travis had all grown up playing tennis together and were thus all friends. But as Travis ascended to his natural place in the wealthy Diaspora, the other two didn’t come from that stock. They were just quiet, nice guys who half-heartedly played an ill-fitting sport<br /></span><a title="" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn4" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=6168392469074126579#_ftnref4" name="_ftn4"><span style="font-size:85%;">[4]</span></a><span style="font-size:85%;"> Personally, I hold popular cinema responsible for glorifying the awkward Guy archetype. That, however, is another essay altogether and Chuck Klosterman has already said it better than I could.<br /></span><a title="" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn5" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=6168392469074126579#_ftnref5" name="_ftn5"><span style="font-size:85%;">[5]</span></a><span style="font-size:85%;"> I realize this sounds callous, but I’m nothing if not appallingly honest<br /></span><a title="" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn6" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=6168392469074126579#_ftnref6" name="_ftn6"><span style="font-size:85%;">[6]</span></a><span style="font-size:85%;"> Crushes like this one were nothing out the ordinary. I had a string of them each year to the point that I found myself making actual lists to keep track of them all. At the time the Amy saga began, I was nursing a trampled heart from the end of a pseudo-relationship with a beautiful girl who was much too crazy for anyone’s good; a girl I still refer to as “my first love”.<br /></span><a title="" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn7" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=6168392469074126579#_ftnref7" name="_ftn7"><span style="font-size:85%;">[7]</span></a><span style="font-size:85%;"> In fact, if you ever hear me say this today, there is at least a 50% chance I have no idea what I’m talking about.<br /></span><a title="" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn8" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=6168392469074126579#_ftnref8" name="_ftn8"><span style="font-size:85%;">[8]</span></a><span style="font-size:85%;"> Part of me thinks this didn’t end here. I remember something about ice cubes. I’m not sure if this happened on the same night or a different one. Is it possible this happened more than once? My memory is awful do to genetics and recreational drug use. Damn them both.</span>J.W. Bazhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08279086405450057546noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6168392469074126579.post-91895513394819132992008-05-24T16:26:00.007-05:002008-07-18T15:08:58.724-05:00Life May Not Actually Be a Highway (But it still rocks out loud)It is often said, sometimes to exhausting degrees, that good art is timeless. This is, of course, inherently true regardless of the medium. At the time of its release, Casablanca was widely considered a great film, perhaps the greatest film ever made. To this day, the Bogart super-vehicle is listed near the top of every ‘Greatest Films’ list you can find, and a conversation among film buffs can’t transpire without mention of it- usually as the main touchstone in the timeless art debate. I often disagree with the superlative lists and consider film buffs to be blowhard dickweeds, but I can’t dispute Casablanca. It was an excellent piece of filmmaking.<br />The same contention holds true for every section of popular culture; it is the reason Classic Rock radio continues to thrive, and it’s not only because middle-aged men can’t let go. Some songs simply live on. “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” was recently voted by an association of songwriters as the greatest singular piece of popular music ever, despite the fact that it was written the better part of a century ago. The Beatles may always be adorned with the title of the “best band in history,” and they probably deserve it. And while iconography certainly plays a part in both The Fab Four and “Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” it cannot be denied that great songwriting will always be great songwriting.<br /><br />So where am I going with all this?<br /><br />A few weeks ago, while driving home from a club at an obscene hour with no desirable CDs in the car and the iPod out of reach, I opted to check out the FM Radio option that comes standard on my Toyota. In my vehicle, this feature gets used less than virtually anything else. It’s not because I’m such a jaded critic that I think everything on the radio is garbage. I absolutely understand the basis for those that argue this ad nauseam, I just hate being associated with those people. It basically comes down to choice; why would I want to spend time sifting through commercials and a bunch of tunes I don’t like in hopes of finding one I do, especially when I almost always have thousands of tried-and-true songs at my fingertips? I am master of domain, and my domain is commercial-free. That said, (in longform, apparently) I looked upon said evening as an opportunity to re-connect with my FM roots. Throughout my childhood FM was the cornerstone of my musical diet. I, like most kids, didn’t own a lot of records. None of us had money to buy music and most of us didn’t have tape decks of our own anyway, (CDs existed in a far-off land at this point; a land comprised solely of rich people and grownups) aside from the occasional My First Sony boombox. So when I was a kid, the radio was the only beacon of audio to be had.<br /><br />I remember sitting in my parents’ basement cranking our archaic, multi-sectional stereo and rocking the fuck out to whatever Northern Indiana was broadcasting. This was the early 90’s, the heyday of power ballads and bad R&B with very few exceptions (Hip Hop had yet to reach mass market radio.<a title="" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn1" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=6168392469074126579#_ftn1" name="_ftnref1">[1]</a>) I like to think of this era of music as the unofficial soundtrack of Super Mario 3, because along with rocking the fuck out in my own adorable way, that’s what I usually was doing when the radio was on. While Tawny Kitaen was writhing on top of a car<a title="" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn2" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=6168392469074126579#_ftn2" name="_ftnref2">[2]</a>, I was figuring out how to make an animated plumber into a flying raccoon. The song was the same, but the visual was just a tad different.<br /><br />Anyway, back to the car.<br /><br />I’m scanning the dial looking for anything other Empire Carpet ads when I stumbled upon it: a song that made 1992 its bitch. And though I had come across said track in that basement hundreds of times, I had almost completely forgotten it ever existed. That song was none other than Tom Cochrane’s "Life is a Highway".<br /><br />"Life is a Highway" essentially exploded into the universe in 1992 like Genghis Kahn in a leather jacket, raping and pillaging the ears of America with a staunch disregard for our sanity. To this day, the song contains one of the most catchy, sing-along-friendly hooks pop music has ever seen. Cochrane wasn’t doing anything that hundreds of roots-heavy singer/songwriters before him hadn’t. He was simply applying the formula: Rumbling Train Rhythm + Basic Chords + Memorable Hook = Black Tar Heroin. Mix in a well-executed bridge, and an addictive sonic drug turns into the Hammer of Thor crushing your noggin until you have no choice but to squeal with glee and call your local station insisting the DJ plays it every hour, on the hour, for a minimum of nine months.<br /><br />Is it a perfect song? No. The lyrics in particular leave much to be desired. However, Tom could have been singing about raping barnyard animals and no one would have complained; everyone was too busy waiting for the chorus to come back in. The chorus, of course, did come back in, and it came back in roughly 94 times in the tune’s 4 minute and 26 second span. In fact, the lyrics on this tune are almost entirely pointless. I would wager all my worldly possessions on the notion that he wrote that monster hook and figured nobody would notice the rest- and he was absolutely right- resulting in verses that are only a tad better than patently ridiculous. Essentially, the song alludes to a failing relationship the narrator wants to get back on track. I surmise he and his lover are suffering from a tough situation within the constraints of nearly every place under the sun; a patchwork of cities of towns that squelch their affections. The only solution for these two wayward romantics is to hit the road because life is a highway he wants to drive all night long. Reading and re-reading the lyrics is an exercise in bad storytelling. Even if we are to believe that our fledgling lovers can peacefully coexist while on the road, how does this relate back to life being the crux of the argument? Or is the relationship the road, which is also like life, and even though it’s hard sometimes he still wants to ride on it? I know that most pop/rock lyrics are usually rudimentary and mainly an afterthought; but since I am taking the time to write at length about the merits, I feel the need to give a good pass under the microscope. Regardless of all my petty meandering, despite the song’s holes, when he hits that chorus (and ensuing wonky harmonica solo) all is forgiven.<br /><br />A song having major lyrical, and even structural flaws, doesn’t disqualify it from greatness. Many of your favorite songs have serious blemishes if you’re willing to look. But why look? If you love a song, the problems with it are of almost zero consequence.<br /><br />The thing that grabbed me most about my re-acquaintance with this track is that, even after 15-plus years, it is still exceedingly good and highly listenable. Most good songs fail to reach greatness based on the sole criterion of long-term listenability. The popular music of the 1980’s is especially suspect in that regard.<br /><br />At no time in prior history had technology and art been so intertwined. The advent of digital imaging and sound applications ran amok. The world was full of amazing new toys and it seemed everyone was eager to use them whether said toys had been perfected or not. It’s as if at no point did anyone stop and ask, “Does this synthesizer sound, I don’t know, a little chessy to anyone else?”<br /><br />Of course, technology will always advance; leaving present day critics to look at past artifacts with the guile of a disaffected uncle watching a toddler mow the lawn with his Fisher-Price Bubble Mower. The look and sound of 80s, however, is so clearly time-specific that the output dated itself almost immediately- sometimes visually and audibly in the same swoop. As a result, this entire decade of music is often looked upon as being the worst of the Rock and Roll Era.<br />Synthesizers, for one, are a distinctly 80s instrument. Even metal bands were getting in on the act. The true downfall of the technology was the sweeping realization that suddenly real instruments weren’t physically needed. Why employ a horn section when you can duplicate one on your keyboard? In retrospect, the answer to this question and others like it is: Because the technology is too new, and thus not advanced enough to do the job you’re asking of it. Also, the in vogue tones sound fucking ridiculous. Just because something sounds “new” and “modern” doesn’t mean it sounds good, McDouche. Tom Cochrane didn’t employ any such tactics. He used guitars and B3-style organs and harmonicas; you know, “antiquated” instruments. Timeless instruments. (And admittedly the drums sound over-produced, almost synthetic, but that is a small critique on a much greater soundscape).<br /><br /><em>A quick side note about drum production: Modern day bands use synthetic percussion all over the place. Those especially guilty are cats like Ben Gibbard. The Postal Service’s debut, and thus far only, album was dangerously addled with synthetic instruments alongside the standards. But therein lies the difference- today’s musicians have learned from past mistakes. The beats on modern albums, like said vehicle, aren’t trying to be a drum kit. The beats are supposed to sound like they were made electronically and are most often peppered in as an “ironic” or “interesting” sonic textured, whereas the Musicians of Christmas Past tried to make everything sound like they were actually sticks on skins. I’m not absolving today’s acts or posturing as if they are somehow superior. To be perfectly honest, I’m tired of the Electro-Rock movement and there are just as many hacks working today than there were two decades ago. The latter-day engineers simply have the benefit of advanced technology and hindsight.<br /></em><br />So, the question remains: is “Life Is a Highway” timeless? I would contend that it is. Granted, I cannot predict the future. I have no idea if people will still be playing this tune on Classic Rock stations 30 years from now, but I do believe all the necessary elements are certainly there. The song has a compelling vocal, apt production, instrumentation that will not go out of style anytime soon, and a bad ass chorus. I listened to this track more than several times throughout the course of this article’s composition and every time the hook dropped in, I still felt compelled to dance on a chair. Had I been in my car, I would have appeared suspiciously like Tom Cruise when he signed Jerry O’Connell to a long term contract in Jerry Maguire. And perhaps a long term contract is what Tom Cochrane needed to prove this tune’s durability. To the best of my knowledge, Cochrane never had a successful follow-up; thus, leaving him in the endless pool of One-Hit Wonders. Because so many OHWs are frivolous and forgettable, many residents of this pool never get the recognition they deserve, even if their one hit is undeniably great. I’m nothing if not a sucker for a well written Pop song. I don’t even care who records it. If Ashlee Fucking Simpson puts out a great single, I’m buying it. Hell, Simpson did put out a great single, Pieces of Me. I really enjoy that song, even if I roll up the windows when I listen to it. (I can deal with critical scorn. Rocks hurled at my windshield by teenager males, however, is completely different.)<br /><br />Perhaps the most telling of all arguments for this record is that it didn’t start to suck after multiple listens. Sure, I got fatigued from hearing the same song over and over, but no more than I would have listening to any piece of music I genuinely enjoy. I think I could probably hear this song once a day, every day, for the rest of my life and it never develop a disdain for it. In fact, I might do just that. Life IS a highway and I would like to drive it all night long. Whatever the hell that means.<br /><br /><br /><a title="" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn1" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=6168392469074126579#_ftnref1" name="_ftn1">[1]</a> Arrested Development’s Tennessee being the most notable exception<br /><a title="" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn2" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=6168392469074126579#_ftnref2" name="_ftn2">[2]</a> Northern Indiana radio stations fucking loved "Here I Go Again" years after its initial heyday. Shit, I still love "Here I Go Again."J.W. Bazhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08279086405450057546noreply@blogger.com0