#30: Erin Go Bragh, Chicago Style

 

(google image via gallagher.com)

It’s late on Friday night. When we check into the Fairmont Hotel at Millennium Park, I tell the guy behind the desk we’re in town for the St. Patrick’s Day festivities. His hair is black and his eyes are bright blue; I think he looks a bit Irish himself. I assume he’ll know the rundown of tomorrow’s events, and apparently he does: Chicago River turns green at 10:45 am, parade starts on Columbus Drive at noon, and then, all the drunken crazies come out. I thank him, grab the keys and steer my fellas to our room.

Our view is quite nice. We can see the river. I wonder aloud if we’ll be able to watch the greening of the water from the comfort of the 22^nd floor. This turns out to be the case, because when I happen by the window at 9:45 am on Saturday, I see a pool of green dye flowing downstream in a rush.

“Wait! We’re missing the greening!” I exclaim. At once, the guys run to the windows to see for themselves. They start throwing on shoes and coats, and in five minutes, we rush out onto the street.

It’s 40 degrees and overcast. It’s not frigid, thankfully, but let’s face it, it could be warmer. After making that basic observation, we remember we left our hats and gloves in our car, which is parked a long city block away in the dregs of public parking, and in the opposite direction of our path to the river.

We press on, and at the end of the stretch, we see this.

It really that green.

The mobile cameras of the city are working overtime. Couples smooch before the green water hoping a little luck will rub off on their relationships. My boys are equal parts grossed out and stealthily curious. We decide to keep moving, but not without first buying hats. (Geebus. The wind in this town.)

~*~

We walk for an hour, killing time before the parade. O is in full complain mode, uttering under his breath that he’s cold and hates parades and wants to go to the toy store. I feel for him and his four-year-old legs walking all over this windy, cold snap of town. I suspect I’m asking too much from him, so I pick him up and together we shuffle through the crowd. I get happy, unlimited hugs for the next 10 minutes until he grows drowsy and his little arms go slack. At first, I think he’s asleep. Then he mutters that the city has too many people and his fingers are cold and he’s tired.

We find a spot among the green and teeming masses of Irish men and women who have dug in their heels along Columbus Drive. A stranger hands the boys a sleeve of shamrock stickers; they peel them off the backing and slap them against our lapels until all four of us are covered in clovers and saucy Irish sayings. My guys are rosy-cheeked and happy now; they stay that way until two of our party suddenly realize that nature is calling.

So what should one do? The parade is 10 minutes from starting, bathrooms are four blocks away, everyone is cold and none of us really likes a parade much anyway. We wait long enough for the Color Guard to pass, stay for the bag pipes then turn on our heels to go.

It sounds like a waste, but it’s not. Here’s why:

On the way back to the hotel, GB carries a sleeping O while H and I swing hands and lead through the crowd. Eventually we find the hotel, step into the elevators, troll through the hallways and burst into the still of our cozy room. O sacks out cold on the bed and stays there in a steady snooze for the next two hours. GB and H decide to watch a little March Madness, so I crawl under the covers to try to get warm. It doesn’t take long to find a little nap for myself, too.

See? Does that sound like a waste to you? We could have done all of this at home, but the point is, we wouldn’t have.

When I said we’d attend the St. Patrick’s Day parade, that’s what I meant, and so that’s what we did. I never said we’d have to stay for the whole thing. By my book, mission accomplished.

~*~

It occurred to me Friday that we stumbled upon another 36×37 assignment this weekend, which is nice, especially now that I’m so close to the April 17 cut-off date. I’ll write all about it tomorrow.

In the meantime, as promised, I’ll leave you with a wee Irish tune to gear you up for this Thursday’s official St. Patrick’s Day’s festivities. I’ve decided not to post a traditional Irish tune today. Instead, I think I’ll stick to something a little more contemporary—Van Morrison—not only because he’s great and hails from Northern Ireland, but also because I know the artist choice will make my friend Sunshine happy.

Van Morrison – Gloria

More tomorrow. Top o’ the mornin’ (or evenin’) to all ye Irish at heart, and to all the rest of ye, too.

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Caught in a Downpour

First, I’m absolutely lashing with apologies. Each time my iPhone dings, I see WordPress notices from friends who have written something new. Bloggers, I’m clamoring to read your posts and shower your words with comments.

But the truth is, someone resigned on me at the office this week, so I’m spending my free time redistributing work to the rest of my team. Once that’s finished, I can sit back and wait for someone to retaliate by: 1) egging my windows, 2) laying a flaming bag of poo on my doorstep, or 3) keying automotive-love-of-my-life, Jones. With a vengeance. And then I shall cry.

So: Here’s a post I wrote in July about rain, a stolen hour and music. Bloggers, my fingers are crossed that I’ll catch up with you on Friday to see what sort of trouble you’ve been getting yourselves into.

~*~

Caught in a Downpour – July 26, 2010

My original plan was to wake early and run before anyone missed me. When the alarm sounded at 6:30 AM, my groggy mind and sinus headache regarded each other, shook hands, and agreed to go back to sleep.

Now it’s 7:30 AM. The morning is dry and cool—perfect for running—but a pocket of grim and gathering clouds lines the northwest sky. So what then? Run in the rain? I’d kind of love that. The problem is, I don’t like to run without music. And since I’ve stored my favorite mp3s on my water-averse iPhone, I need to make a decision. The sky above me is eerie and yellow, but the storm is miles away. The rain could hold for 40 minutes or so—just long enough for a 5 mile workout.

I decide to test fate, and the first two miles are easy. The air is crisp and still. Then, half-way through mile 3, the trees begin to blow sideways. I hear the rain before I feel those first heavy drops land squarely on my forehead.

Oh, my sweet baby iTunes, I think. Things are about to take a nasty turn.

~*~

To date, I have exactly 424 mp3s and 540 photos locked in the sacred memory of my mobile device. I’ve never backed up those files because my company’s code of conduct says I can’t sync my phone on my laptop. If my iPhone gets wet, all those files will disappear. Hundreds of dollars plus hours of my listening enjoyment would be washed away with just a few well-placed raindrops.

I’m two blocks from my neighborhood Starbucks. If I sprint, maybe I can make it there before the sky drains all over this sidewalk.

So I run full tilt. I take a sharp left into a condo complex that juts up against my favorite hard-core caffeine supplier. What I’ve never realized until today—what I never had a reason to notice—is that a 5-feet tall chain link fence separates the two structures. I’m sure I can scale the fence, that’s not the problem. But by now, the storm has unleashed itself. I look around and see a long garage with a 2 ½ foot overhang. I’ll be fine out here under the gutters, I think. This kind of downpour can’t last long.

~*~

In movies, you can tell when the “rain” is really just the studio’s sprinkler system. The water pours down in visible streams and splashes all over the set. That’s exactly how this thunderstorm is. The drops fuse together into furious lines that strike loudly against the pavement; they don’t change direction. It’s just a straight shot from sky to ground.

I watch those drops fall, listening to the slush of cars edging wetly through the neighborhood. My shoes are damp from the dripping overhang, but my iTunes are bone dry. I call GB to tell him I’m fine, then spend the next half-hour shuffling through my favorite songs. I feel sleepy and relaxed, and I’m all settled in when GB calls to say he’ll come find me.

Pantha du Prince – Welt Am Draht (Animal Collective Remix)

~*~

In a way, I wish I could stay longer. It’s just a half hour I’m glad I’ve had. In this time, I’ve thought of next to nothing—just rain and music and rain again. I’ve been forced to be still and quiet—a bit like sleeping, I guess. For a chronic multitasker like me, that’s really kind of a gift.

When GB pulls up, I’m glad to see him. The boys are smiling through their red hooded rain jackets. They spend the ride home recounting the morning’s cartoons. I tell them I missed them and they kick their feet happily. The rain falls loudly for hours, and my house is noisy with play.

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
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Luv Songs.

(via static.technorati.com)

Love: Hard to describe.

So hard, in fact, that the Greeks have four different words for it: Storge (love of family); Philia (affection between friends); Eros (sexual attraction) and Agape (unconditional love).

That linguistic breakdown helps, but it still doesn’t get it quite right. Love is too large and nuanced to divide into simple quarters. Each relationship would need to pick and evolve its own title to represent itself fully.

Consider: How is your relationship like anyone else’s? It isn’t. Therefore, let the writers in the room line up and shoot me for saying this: Words are too pedestrian to do the job.

That’s where music steps in as the great, bold communicator of the heart. With the right lyrics, composition and requisite bass drum, it can trap you in an emotion like you’re seated in a room, thinking eerily: “I’ve been in this place before. I’ve been here, and everything is exactly as I left it.”

So. On this great Hallmark Holiday of love, I give you a Valentine’s Day soundtrack of the most universal “rooms” I can think of. (We’ll stick with the Eros/Agape wings of the house today—after all, they’re the fussy little architects behind the strange confection of February 14.) May you find a room that suits you so you can sit for a while. Then may you stay put or move on as Cupid dictates.

~*~

Hopeful risk taking

Or, sullen denial

Elated discovery

Wistful Longevity

Unraveling

Getting the bad news

Stunned heartbreak

Low-down, busted dejectedness

Obstinate resolve

loneliness, longing and regret

Moving on

(Happy Valentine’s Day to All)

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
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The World’s Most Ridiculous Vocal Duets

We all have our prejudices. Here’s mine: I cannot tolerate vocal duets.

It’s hard to explain. Even if the musical arrangement is perfect, and the first vocalist is spot-on, a second vocalist is too much for me. I can’t process the sudden distraction of a singer appearing out of nowhere, grabbing the mic, and interrupting a good thing. It’s too Kanye-West-Imma-Let-You-Finish for my taste, and I seriously cannot take it.

Plus, more often than not, a duet is attached to some sort of melodramatic love story. Trust me, I’m a sucker for a good love song. But two people singing about love to each other? Preposterous. Get a room, already.

Do me a favor. Don’t admit that your favorite song is “Islands in the Stream,” by Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton, or I will judge you for that, and I won’t judge kindly.

~*~

Here’s why I’m wasting your time with this issue: While baking Christmas cookies on Saturday night, this track popped up on Pandora’s Christmas channel…

David Bowie/ Bing Crosby – Little Drummer Boy

For the record: I dig Bowie—including the Ziggy Stardust years—so I swallowed my loathing for vocal duets and listened intently. Truly, I gave it the old college try.

As my colleague Jim said, “You can even see how uncomfortable it is on the video.”

He’s right. And so I got angry.

“This will not stand,” I thought. “I must do my part. I must forge a campaign to make sure this kind of travesty never, ever happens again.”

That’s why I’m here. I’m here for the cause.

~*~

There’s not much I need to say to state my case. I’ll let Exhibits A-C speak for themselves.

Magnet featuring Gemma Hayes – Lay Lady Lay

GB has a great recording of the Bob Dylan original. It’s saved on his Sirius satellite radio, and I think I love it because of how the DJ introduces it: “And now: The sound of Bob Dylan trying to get laid.”

Ha!

But this version? I can’t…I don’t… (Sigh.) I’m just speechless.

I like Magnet’s contribution to the project. But what’s this Gemma Hayes business? What a quick way to ruin a really great rendition.

Bob. How could they do this to you.

Jesse Malin/Bruce Springsteen – Broken Radio

Funny thing about GB—he knows my hatred for vocal duets, and so he has started to collect them.

The first time he played this track for me, he grinned the whole way through my horrified, confounded reaction.

When Jesse Malin kicks off the first verse, you think, “Meh. Let’s change the station.”

But then? Out of nowhere? The Boss! And he’s perfect. He sings, and you don’t want him to stop. But more importantly, you pray to all things holy that Jesse won’t grab the mic again.

When he does, you’re left with no choice but to question right from wrong, up from down, and the whole sorry state of the universe.

Wyclef Jean/Maxi Pries – Wild World

This is my very favorite example of musical collaboration gone wrong. Again, it’s part of the GB collection.

“You’ve got to hear this,” he said when he first found the track. “I like Wyclef, but what is he trying to do here?”

It begins with Wyclef setting the scene. I’m thankful for that, or I would never have figured it out for myself:

[Wyclef]: Wyclef is sitting here playing the guitar/Rhyming with Maxi Pries/Maxi Pries you need to tell her a-geh-hen.”

[Maxi]: Don’t go…

[Wyclef]: Tell her, Maxi…

[Maxi]: Don’t go…

[Wyclef]: Tell her …

Oh, friends. It gets worse. So much worse.

[Maxi]: Oooo, baby, baby it’s a wild world…

[Wyclef]: Oh ho ho ho ho ho ho

[Maxi]: It’s hard to get by just upon a smile girl

[Wyclef]: Yeah!

Honestly, it’s absurd.

I want to call Wyclef. Text him. Tap him on the back and say ruefully, “Wyclef. What exactly is your goal? Just what do you want to accomplish with this?”

I tell you, it’s more tragic than the Rob Thomas/Carlos Santana catastrophe of 1999.

~*~

Granted, I will make concessions. Take this track, for example.

Stevie Nicks & Tom Petty – Stop Draggin’ My Heart Around

As much as I want to protest this song in theory, I can’t because it’s fantastic.

But the rest? I’ll insist that a boycott is in order. If you doubt me at all, allow me to remind you of this:

Frank Sinatra & Bono – I’ve Got You Under My Skin

Bono. You know I love you. But it should not be like this. No, never like this.

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
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Songs of Snow and Heartbreak

 

(google image from tinyfarmblog.com)

Snow is falling again on Columbus. It has been all week, in a quiet, steady flurry from sky to ground. I’m breathlessly glad to see it, because this time of year, every year, I fall head over heels in love with Snow. I don’t mean for it to happen, it just does.

And so Snow and I rekindle an annual affair that lasts through January. We spend cozy nights at home watching movies and sipping cocoa while I gaze at it adoringly. I don’t notice at first that Snow is cold and unresponsive. Love is blind that way.

Finally, though, I do notice, and by February, I am done with Snow—done!—because by then, it has grown slovenly and gray. It stops being romantic, and it won’t clean up after itself. I ask it to leave and it won’t. Things grow sour when I tell it to stop tracking itself across the wooden floors, and in March, it disappears altogether. I’m glad to see it go, and I forget all about it…until December shows up again on my doorstep.

~*~

Snow must have its way with everyone, because it keeps popping up in some of the songs I love. My iTunes alone have nine songs that feature Snow as a lead character, and every one of those tracks is about unspeakable heartbreak, longing and loss.

So. I’m banking on something. I’m banking on YOUR affair with snow. It’s alright to admit it—I know how Snow gets around. That’s why I’m posting these songs today: so we can commiserate.

Bon Iver – Blood Bank

Basically, this song boils down to two people who have a strange conversation at a blood bank and end up making out in a car—that is covered in Snow! (I’m not surprised.) The track is gorgeous, and the instrumental end is absolutely devastating.

Winter ’05 – Ra Ra Riot

This song is about a man standing on the bank of a frozen river, crooning about a long-lost lover. The strings lend an undeniable warmth to the track, which makes me think Ra Ra Riot’s affair with Snow isn’t as conflicted as mine is.

In the New Year – The Walkmen

I had to post this, mostly because it’s one of my top-five favorite songs of all time. It’s about a man who tries to rally from heartbreak by telling himself—unconvincingly—that next year will be better. The ending lyrics are what get me the most: “My friends and my family–they are asking of me: “How long will you ramble?” But how long will you stay with me? Snow is still falling. I’m almost home. I’ll see you in the New Year.”

Winter – Tori Amos

I’ve said before that I’m not a crier, but I can’t make it through this song without feeling weepy. It’s about a daughter facing the loss of a parent, and Snow is a metaphor for death. Honestly, I don’t know how Tori can make it through even the first verse without breaking down completely. Best get your hanky ready. (It’s ok, I’ll wait while you find one.)

Furr – Blitzen Trapper

Finally!—A song that offers you Snow in all its December charm, rather than as the dysfunctional jerk we’ll see again in February. (I had to end on a high-note.)

This is just to say: We don’t always love what’s good for us. And so Snow, I’ll relish you while you’re here, and I’ll do so without apology. But please don’t think me unkind when I flee to Florida in January. It’s just that this year, I need to take matters into my own hands. I hope you’ll understand.

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
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Holiday Cheer in Strange Places

(Image from http://www.baxterboo.com)

It’s Tuesday at 7AM, and I’ve just admitted to Jim the Manager of the Honda Service Department that my last oil change was in June. Now my oil light is on (again). It’s lucky Jones [my car] and I made it here at all, if you want to know the truth.

The good news is that now I’m just hours from owning a working radio. Plus, the sign on the wall says “Free Car Wash!”  This early-morning trip to the dealership is totally worth it.

But the radio is my most pressing issue. “My car battery died in June,” I say to Jim the Manager of the Honda Service Department. “And since then, my radio won’t work—not even the CD player. I guess I’m supposed to enter some sort of code to reprogram it?”

“We can do that for you,” he says. Then he rests his chin on his hands and raises an eyebrow. “You’ve been six months without a radio?”

“It’s been awful. Lots of long, silent drives to work.”

He shakes his head in mock-commiseration. “Ok, so you need an oil change. And a radio reset. You have two recalls, too—wiper motor, and [something else I can’t remember]. Anything else?”

“That free car wash would be lovely!” I gush. Because, truly, Jones needs it. Along with an intense interior scrub-down. Nasty.

Jim the Manger of the Honda Service Department smirks at me. Then he looks at the bored-looking guy next to him. “Mike. We runnin’ the car wash today?”

Mike doesn’t look away from the Deep Space he’s staring into. “It’s 10 degrees.”

Jim the Manger of the Honda Service Department looks back at me. “Too cold.”

I glance at Jones and sigh. Sorry, buddy, I think. No bathtime for you until spring.

~*~

I trudge through the slushy parking lot and pass Jones on my way to GB’s nameless car. Now that I feel like an idiot for asking about the Free Car Wash! in freezing weather, my nerves are rubbed raw from embarrassment.

When I open the passenger side door, I can see that my three guys aren’t faring much better. The small ones are hungry and bored. The big one is frazzled from trying to keep the small ones from crying.

“I’m sorry, guys!” I say. “Thanks for waiting. Let’s go home and I’ll make you breakfast before I start working.”

“You were in there so wooooooong!” O wails.

“Dat took forEVer, Mama,” H chimes in. And while I’m attempting to soothe them, this comes on the radio:

The Singing Dogs ~ Jingle Bells (via YouTube)

I’m almost embarrassed to admit this, but that’s really all it takes. Two happy guys in the back seat, one happy guy in the front, and me, crying with laughter. I think under usual circumstances, this song wouldn’t be funny. But it is today.

Even better, the next song is this—my favorite Christmas carol arrangement of all time:

Johnny Mercer & The Pied Pipers ~ Santa Claus is Coming to Town (via YouTube)

Happiness. There’s just nothing like a Big Band horn section.

Later, Jim the Manger of the Honda Service Department calls to say my battery is old and needs to be replaced. I think he feels badly about the Free Car Wash! thing, because he gives me a 15% discount “on the sly.”

I suspect he’s upselling me, and that the discount is his way of reconciling his guilt. But I don’t really care to test my theory by saying no and driving around with a dying battery. Instead, I’ll tell myself that he heard The Singing Dog’s version of Jingle Bells, too, and now he’s full of holiday cheer, and as a result this discount is Honda’s gift to me.

It’s a Christmas miracle.

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
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The Ingredients of a Perfect Song

 

Famous Sony ad, courtesy of http://www.totalmedia.com

On my way to work last Wednesday, I was listening to my tunes, yo, when this song came on:

There are two reasons I still love this song. First, I’ll never forget my “mind officially blown” reaction to the song when it showed up all unannounced at the end of Cameron Crowe’s Say Anything. Secondly, that phased guitar! You just don’t hear that anymore.

But. Even as I carry this song around in a heart-shaped box in my memory, it’s still a dated little tune. It was released in April 1983 (when I was just a Duran Duran loving third-grader) and it sounds like it.

I started to think about what makes a song timeless. I’ve given this a lot of thought, and here’s what I’ve decided:

The most critical ingredient is the lyrics. They must be smart, poetic and emotionally exposed. Like this:

You have to back up those words with a strong guitar hook (in this clip it comes in at 1:02):

…hammered out by a jaw-dropping lead guitar:

…and the dark grind of a bass line:

Brilliant. I shake my head in awe. (The bass guitar is my favorite.)

Plus, drums. They have to almost knock you out of your chair.

It needs to surprise you (like in this clip, at 1:46):

And leave you devastated at the close. (This song kills me every single time.)

BONUS POINTS:

Strings:

Or a banjo:

Or a piano.

Put all of those elements together, and you have the perfect song. I haven’t found it yet, exactly, but this comes close.

No cowbell necessary.

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
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Side Story: Excuse Me, What Do You Want?

courtey of dianessweettreats.com

It’s Saturday night, and we’re celebrating our buddy TJ’s first birthday.

He has Erinn’s gorgeous blue eyes and Tyler’s quick smile. He also has joined the ranks of the walking, and for a little guy who took his first steps just weeks ago, he’s a speedy one.

I watch Erinn from across the room. She’s holding TJ and laughing with another guest. “What a fast year,” I say to Tyler.

“It really has gone fast,” he says. His eyes are on his son. “But now I can’t remember how things were without him. We’re really lucky.”

For the rest the evening, that’s what I notice: a funny, fast, adorable baby, and his parents’ quiet, doting gratitude. I’ve known Erinn and Tyler for years and years and so many years, and I’ve never seen them so happy.

There’s something about a first birthday party. Amid the grown-up cooing over toothy smiles and tiny pink cheeks, there’s an almost palpable sense of possibility—the wonderment at all the things this child could one day be.

~*~

Music always sounds best at night, on the road. Have you noticed?

On the way home from the party, GB flips through his saved songs and lands on John Lennon’s Isolation. The boys are asleep in the backseat, so we listen in silence.

“Wow. The talent on that guy,” I say.

GB shakes his head. “Can you imagine what else he could have accomplished if he were still alive?”

I spend the rest of the ride home feeling pensive.

The next day, I have an hour of exercise all to myself. The ground is slaked in an early-November frost, but the sun is shining and the golden piles of leaves at my feet are crisp and dry. My tunes are on shuffle, and as I round a corner, I hear the opening bars of this long-time personal favorite:

Robert Plant wrote the song after his girlfriend gave him an ultimatum: “Pick me or your music.” He chose his band, and wrote a song 10 years later about the heartbreak of wondering.

~*~

Since then, I’ve been thinking about chances: the ones we’re given, and the ones we wrest for ourselves. About John Lennon and his words snuffed out too early. Robert Plant looking back from atop his musical empire. My friends in their newborn parenthood. Other friends working toward or against their aspirations. And everyone else, really, who ever wanted something and believed in it.

They all are/were faced with two competing sentiments: Doubt and Hope. Hope and doubt. It’s hard to know which one to listen to. But in the end, if the hope is stronger, I tend to believe it will lead you to the right place—to the people and opportunities meant for you.

Hope is a motivating force. Call it faith if you think it fits. It makes you wonder how to separate what you are meant to do and what you simply want for yourself. Is there really a difference, if you believe in it strongly enough?  

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
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Side Story: The Saddest Song in the World

It’s 10 AM sharp on Monday. I’m in my orthodontist’s office, waiting for a set of braces, when this video comes on:

Have you heard this? I think it might just be the saddest song in the world. It’s about a young man who works in a home for the elderly. Each morning he brings coffee to a sweet but aged Alzheimer’s patient, and she confuses him for her son.

It’s a beautiful, striking tune. It’s also a prime example of why I can’t listen to Country very often: I internalize lyrics too much. A song like “Raymond” will cut me to shreds. And the next thing I know, I’m sitting, waiting for my teeth bling, trying not to cry in a room full of strangers.

It makes me think of a game GB and I play sometimes when we’re on the road: Musical Combat! I’ll say something like: “What’s the saddest song in the world? Go!”

And he’ll shuffle his saved tunes to this:

Chris Isaak - Cheater’s Town (it’s just a link–no YouTube video available)

I’ll nod in agreement and say, “That’s a cold, cold song, but it’s not as sad as this:”

“It just wrecks me,” I’ll say. “I am wrecked.”

Then GB will counter, and I’ll counter-counter, and we’ll go back and forth until we’re both shaking our heads, feeling happily depressed.

It’s a fun game. And morbid. And fun.

~*~

Later, I consult the omniscient Google, and find:

• The 25 most exquisitely sad songs in the whole world (Including Bruce Springsteen’s “The River” and Radiohead’s “No Surprises”)
• The Top 100 Saddest Songs Ever Recorded (Including NIN/Johnny Cash’s “Hurt” and George Jones’ “He Stopped Loving Her Today”)
• The Walrus’ Top 30 Sad Songs (Including Kermit the Frog’s “It’s Not Easy Being Green” and The Smiths’ “There is a Light that Never Goes Out”)

I click around for a while, and I listen a bit. But oh! the sadness. It is too much.

~*~

Back to the bling…

Really, there’s not much to say about it. The first time I had braces—from 1986-1991 (!!!)—I figured I’d try to woo the world with the “I-have-glasses-AND-giant-silver-brackets-AND-the-teenage-angst-to-match-so-CHECK-out-THIS-action” look. It was really quite fetching.

Now that I’m older, I’ve opted for the more demure, unassuming clear brackets. They look better than the silver kind, but they still feel every bit as dorky.

And that’s cool. Dorkiness, I can do. Dorkiness is my badge of honor. Because this time, who the hell cares? There’s too much else to think about. Is my family happy? Am I keeping my promises? Am I focusing on what matters? Am I doing what I can? Yes, yes, yes, and God, I hope so.

I wish that’s how I’d looked at life all those years ago—with a bit less self-involved reluctance and a bit more quiet confidence. I’d like to sit next to my shy, younger self now, because I think we’d have a lot to say to each other.

It makes me think of a sad, sad song I heard last January when some friends invited us to a Brad Paisley concert. Again, not knowing much about country music, I didn’t know what to expect. I was blown away by his showmanship and his mad guitar skills. I could have walked away happy with just that. But then he sang this song:

…and the residual angst inside every heart in the room “Flicked a Bic” in quiet agreement:

google image from trueslant.com

It was the saddest, most hopeful, most universal song in the world.

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
~*~ Visit the 36×37 facebook page

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Tag! You’re it.

(google images from http://www.psdgraphics.com)

When I was growing up, the kids in my neighborhood spent many a summer night playing a game called Sardines in a Can. It was the exact opposite of playing Tag, and it was better than any other game we knew.

We’d start by assigning one kid to be the IT. He’d hide while the rest of us counted to 10. Then we’d scatter like billiards to find the IT before any of our other friends could.

It would all break down like this:

You’d find the IT, you’d stay with the IT, and together you’d wait and wait—until a pair of giggling players would swish through the grass to stand, puzzled, 10 ft from your hiding spot. You and the IT would shush each other excitedly and just loudly enough for the others to hear. Because, secretly, you both wanted to scoot over and let the other kids join you.

There’d be five of you suddenly. Seven. Then eight. Until just one poor kid would be left, shouting, “Guys! Where are you?” So you’d take pity on her and cough loudly until she’d stumble right into your spot. Everyone would laugh like crazy for a while then agree to play again.

That was a great game. As soon as my kids are old enough, I’m going to teach them how to play.

~*~

Now there’s a new game of Tag. I’ve seen it on a few of my favorite sites this week, and now the delightful, witty and always clever Wendy over at Herding Cats in Hammond River has tapped me on the shoulder to say it’s my turn. I’ll gladly play, because I’m a sucker for answering fun questions, and I feel like I owe her since I liked reading her answers so much. When I’m finished, I’ll tag eight other bloggers to play along, then I’ll direct you back to Wendy’s site. She really is an extremely fun (and extremely well-written) read, and you’d be doing yourself a favor to check her out.

1. If you could have any superpower, which one would you have and why?

I am fully prepared for this question. My boys discuss this topic daily. They’ve trained me to throw out quick, basic answers like superflight! superstrength! Tony-Stark-like superintelligence! And while those all sound supergreat!, none of them could possibly be my real answer.

Because honestly? I’d like the power of persuasion. I could get used to conversations that consistently go my way. Like this: “I think a totally unrealistic $50,000 raise is in order.” “The money is yours.” Or: “Officer, you’re mistaken. I’m not driving 85 mph in a construction zone.” “My apologies, ma’am. I must have misread my radar gun.” Or: “I look just like Gizelle. Just. Like. Gizelle.” “Of course. Your first-class tickets to Milan await you.”

While we’re doling out the superpowers, I’ll put my name down for Wonder Woman’s invisible jet. (And yes, SC, I’ve heard the joke about Wonder Woman and the Invisible Man.)

2. Who is your style icon?

Sex in the City’s Charlotte. The older I get, the more pearls-and-heels I become.

3. What is your favorite quote?

I have two three.

A writer must teach himself that the basest of all things is to be afraid. ~ My boy William Faulkner

Every last line of Bull Durham.

No, wait! Every last line of Office Space.

4. What is the best compliment you’ve ever received?

The looks on my kids’ faces when I come home from work are better than any words in the English language. (Although “conundrum” and “apocryphal” are pretty good.)

5. What playlist/cd is in your CD player/iPod right now?

Check out my Spin It page—it has YouTube videos for the best songs I’ve heard this year.

6. Are you a night owl or a morning person?

I’ll take whatever sleep I can get. But I’ll write all night if given the chance.

7. Do you prefer dogs or cats?

Dogs.

(Don’t tell O. It will crush him to the bottom of his feline-loving soul.)

8. What is the meaning behind your blog name?

I’m 36, and I have 36 things to accomplish before my 37^th birthday. Clever!

But honestly? Not so clever. Because now I have to figure out what I’ll do on my 37^th birthday:

• Change my blog name to 37×38?
• Keep “36×37” but add a disclosure?
• Drop the blog, follow Radiohead.

It’s a conundrum, I tell you.

Anyway.

Here are the eight 13 bloggers (yo, I make up the rulz on these here pages) I want to tag, because I think they’ll throw down some clever answers. (If I haven’t tagged you, it’s because: 1) I’ve tagged you for something before, 2) Someone else has tagged you for this particular game already, or 3) We both know you’re not into this kind of thing. It’s cool. I get it. It’s like talking on the phone; not everyone enjoys it.)

• Harsha from H is for Happiness
• Amanda from AmandaBroadfoot.com
• Sunshine from Sunshine in London
• Carol from Crazy Notebook
• Shannon from Written Permission
• Betsy from Supergoddess Me
• Amanda from Amanda’s Wrinkled Pages
• Jacque from Freedom in a Cup
• Rachel from One Glass of Water
• Ms. Pearl from Pearls and Prose
• Laborious Living
• Perpetually Peeved
• Melissa from Confessions of a Dr. Mom

Thanks again, Wendy over at Herding Cats in Hammond River, this was fun!

By the way: I’m just one day away from completing my 13^th 36×37 assignment. It will involve assembling a group of women who haven’t seen each other in far too long, then handing them wine, then asking them to paint a picture. Intrigued? As am I! Maybe it will prep me for my Vegas trip in October, no longer a wolf pack of one.

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
~*~ Visit the 36×37 facebook page

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