Phew.
So the race is over and I have to say that it turned out to be a nice little surprise. Finished with zero pain or discomfort, had great running weather, and came in at a respectable time, given my irresponsible approach to training. Fredo, my brah who flew in from Chicago to run it with me, was equally unprepared, but we both ended up having a downright pleasurable race! A recap;
Registration at the Expo
I hate Expos. For those who have never attended one, most races, especially large ones like Carlsbad (10,000 runners), have an expo for a day or two before the race. It's in some hotel or tent near the start/finish line, and it's where you pick up your race number. You also get a goodie bag full of protein bars and pamphlets for every marathon within two time zones of your race. There will be rows and rows of booths selling everything from running shoes and clothing to free chiropractic exams. You pick up your t-shirt at the expo (but it's bad luck to wear it until you've completed the race), and maybe buy some other race gear.
But the reason I hate them is that they're full of runners. Now, I know- I'm a runner. Or I used to be an avid runner. Now I'm just a guy who runs every now and then. But you'll see people at the expo who actually put on running gear to register. That's right- you'll see dudes wearing running tights and ear muffs to drive into a mall to pick up their number. It seems to be more of a guy thing than a girl thing. It's almost like their egos are so tied to running, that even at an event held ONLY FOR RUNNERS, and where everyone is presumed to be a runner, they want to make sure you know that they run.
Lots of these dudes will insist on wearing t-shirts and jackets from races past. They will also make sure they try every free sample available at the expo- protein drinks, chips of protein bars, bananas, etc. Runners are also notoriously cheap. Don't believe me? Cut a protein bar into 8 equally-sized pieces and put them on a plate on a small table outside your house. Look out your window after 15 minutes and you'll see a group of skinny people wearing long sleeved t-shirts with race logos and running tights, chewing away at the samples while complaining how dry they are.
Anyway, we registered, got our shirts, and got the hell out of there.
The Pre-race Meal:
Most people insist on carbo loading the night before a race. Technically you're supposed to do it two nights before, but whatever. You typically eat pasta to lay a base for the race the next day. You want to avoid crappy or greasy foods, and anything with lots of caffeine or alcohol, as they both dehydrate you.
Fredo and I went to Leucadia Pizza for dinner. I had four Diet Cokes and a small cheese pizza. When we got home, I ate a sleeve of chocolate chip cookies and went to bed. Slept like a damned baby.
Race Day:
Runners are encouraged to lay out their running outfit the night before, pinning on their number then so they're not looking for safety pins at the start. They generally get to the race 60-90 minutes before to stretch and get a good place at the start line.
We left the house about an hour before the gun went off, and thanks to a shortcut, got there in 20 minutes. We waited in the car until the national anthem, then walked over to the start line without stretching or warming up. Loads of people running around the parking lot doing sprints, stretching out, and getting into the zone with their iPods. Fredo and I basically just checked our Facebook accounts on our phones until the last possible minute.
We both had Wave 1 bibs, which meant that we could be in the first 100 runners. But being lazy and unprepared, we slinked into Wave 3. Which meant it was 6 minutes from the start of the race until we reached the start line. Which was fine.
The weather was cool and having neither stretched nor warmed up, we were primed for pulling muscles. But being in a wave of probably a thousand runners, we were banging shoulders with the other runners for the first mile. It took us over ten minutes to get from the start line to the first mile marker.
The next few miles we settled in a bit, and from mile 4 on, I don't think anyone passed us. We got up to an 8:20 pace at the turnaround (mile 6.6), which felt great. We actually felt like we were going a little easy, so we picked it up a bit. No one could have been more surprised than us when we got to mile 7 and noticed we had gone from 8:20 to 7:50.
The rest of the race were were under the 8 minute mile pace. We started joking nervously that had we known we'd feel so good, we might have actually tried in those first 6 miles. So we picked it up again, and I think our last mile was about 7 minutes.
Super fun time. The crowds were great. The worst part of the whole race was the classic rock cover band at mile 2. Shockingly inept vocalist warbling a Doors cover on the way out. On the way back in, at mile 11, they were still playing. I think they were still doing the Doors an hour later.
We grabbed some acai smoothies at the post-race expo and got the hell out of there. By 11:20 we were having breakfast at the Beachside on Hwy 101, dug in for the AFC Championship game.
Soreness hit both of us at around 7 p.m., mainly when going up or down stairs. Otherwise, a consequence-free run.
So pleasantly surprised at our "success" that on the drive home from watching football, Fredo said, "Yanno, that race sort of makes me wonder what we could do if we actually trained for a race. Yanno? If we did speed work, and really followed a program for a couple months. We could probably run a 1:25."
Then we both laughed and ordered a pizza for the second game.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Friday, January 15, 2010
Running on Empty
I'm registered in next weekend's Carlsbad Half Marathon and I am not remotely prepared.
The worst part about it is that I'm not nearly as concerned as I probably should be.
Last year I set a PR in the Carlsbad half, clocking in 13.1 miles in 93 minutes. That's a 7:08 pace for anyone who doesn't appreciate my awesomeness. Ok, that was braggery but HELL, if a brother can't brag on a 1:33, about what CAN he brag??
Anyway, my come-uppance is 9 days away, so shut it. You'll get your satisfaction. I like to get about 20-25 miles a week in when training for a half. I would normally do 2-3 five milers during the week and a tenner on Sunday. That simple program has gotten me through a hell of a lot of races. I keep using the word "hell" a lot. I must have Pat Robertson on the brain.
But since I've started doing yoga, running has become the ginger step child of my workout regimen. In the past three months, I've been chalking up somewhere between 10 and 15 miles a week. My long run has been 8 measly miles. I'm going to shoot for ten tomorrow.
Fredo's coming out from Chicago to run it with me, and he promised that we could take it easy. Then, in what he genuinely meant as a measure of comfort to me, he suggested that we "go out easy and pick it up after nine miles."
Right?
I mean, come on. After nine miles of a race for which I didn't train, the only thing I'm going to be picking up are the pieces of my ego left strewn along the route, as 90% of the race passes me by.
My strategy shall be thus: start out slow, and pull back.
Eek.
The worst part about it is that I'm not nearly as concerned as I probably should be.
Last year I set a PR in the Carlsbad half, clocking in 13.1 miles in 93 minutes. That's a 7:08 pace for anyone who doesn't appreciate my awesomeness. Ok, that was braggery but HELL, if a brother can't brag on a 1:33, about what CAN he brag??
Anyway, my come-uppance is 9 days away, so shut it. You'll get your satisfaction. I like to get about 20-25 miles a week in when training for a half. I would normally do 2-3 five milers during the week and a tenner on Sunday. That simple program has gotten me through a hell of a lot of races. I keep using the word "hell" a lot. I must have Pat Robertson on the brain.
But since I've started doing yoga, running has become the ginger step child of my workout regimen. In the past three months, I've been chalking up somewhere between 10 and 15 miles a week. My long run has been 8 measly miles. I'm going to shoot for ten tomorrow.
Fredo's coming out from Chicago to run it with me, and he promised that we could take it easy. Then, in what he genuinely meant as a measure of comfort to me, he suggested that we "go out easy and pick it up after nine miles."
Right?
I mean, come on. After nine miles of a race for which I didn't train, the only thing I'm going to be picking up are the pieces of my ego left strewn along the route, as 90% of the race passes me by.
My strategy shall be thus: start out slow, and pull back.
Eek.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Lucky
(I've been going through some of my old writing, and found this. I think it's the favorite thing I've ever wrote. I'm going to post a couple more. Hope you enjoy.)
The only finger left on Danny’s body was his right index finger and he called it “Slim.”
One of Danny’s favorite actors had been Mr. Slim Pickens (R.I.P.), and he felt that the name honored both the actor and the finger. It was a good finger because it got shit done. Danny could still, believe it or not, wrap it around a pencil and write his own name. A shitty, scrawly, little-kid-wrote-it looking name, but for court documents and welfare maintenance forms, it did the trick.
Danny was happy. It was a positively gorgeous day and he was on his way to pick up $120 million dollars. At least that’s what tonight’s jackpot was. Danny Phelan was quite sure that tonight was his night. He felt it. A strange calm like he’d never known before. In fact, he had already passed through the initial stages of disbelief and euphoria- he was now sailing through the acceptance stage, knowing that in a matter of hours, his ship would sail in. Tonight would be the night that the chick who used to do the weather, (whose name he forgot but who had since been replaced by a black girl with long straight hair and curves like the Monte Carlo), would pull out, in succession: 7-13-15-28-33-42, with the lucky ball… 11!
It was weird how Danny could sense things. He remembered when he lost his first finger, how he saw it coming months away. Danny had looked at his hand one day and understood that his left finger was not long for his hand. Danny’s whole left hand had gradually gone numb, and then eventually cold. But it took a period of months for his hand to fully rot away, finger by finger, knuckle by knuckle, whatever the rest of the hand is called by whatever the rest of the hand is called. But that first motherfucking finger… that was the bitch of the bunch.
Danny was sitting in the lobby of Jiffy Lube, waiting for the portly Mexican to return his car to him. There was an array of magazines available, all current, and Danny selected US Weekly. He loved the bit at the end where comedians made fun of celebrities who showed up at big time functions wearing ridiculous outfits. He particularly liked the one where Kevin Costner was wearing some contrived surfer outfit, and one of the comedians commented, “Dresses With Wolves.” “Fuck Kevin Costner and fuck his ten fingers,” Danny had thought.
As Danny sat in Jiffy Lube, waiting for the verdict on his Impala, he noticed that his left hand and his pinky in particular, was cold. Too cold. He had long put off visiting a doctor because he had no health insurance, and he figured the coldness and loss of motion was due to a hockey injury. Still, the fact that his pinky had turned black and flaky had developed into a full-blown preoccupation for Danny. When no one was around (which was most of the time), Danny would talk out loud to his hand and try to bargain the finger back.
”OK- you stay on my hand, and I won’t use you to pick my nose.”
Silence.
Danny sensed that somehow the pinky knew that he was a right index finger nose picker from way back, so the pinky wouldn’t fall for that empty bargain.
“Alright, then if you stay on my hand, I’ll wash you every day. More than the other fingers. And I won’t touch anything hot with you, and I won’t use you in any fights. In fact, I’ll make you the president of all the fingers. You’ll be in charge. What do you think?”
No answer.
But the inevitable… well, it was inevitable.
Danny had been sitting in the Jiffy Lube waiting room, thumbing (with his right hand), through US Weekly, holding his left hand on his left lap. Occasionally, he would whack his left thigh with his left hand in the misguided hope that applying blunt trauma to his senseless limb would somehow resurrect its sensory capacities. By now it had become an unconscious habit- he’d bang on his thigh without even noticing. So it took a moment for him to recognize that at 1:17 p.m., he whacked his thigh and brought his hand back up one finger short.
There was his pinky, sitting on the floor like a little raccoon turd. Pleased as punch to be sitting there and offending everyone. Danny regarded his hand with something approximating admiration, rather than horror. “Holy shit,” he thought, “it’s gone.” Danny however, did not get up from his seat, nor did he place the magazine down.
While some might have seized such an opportunity to launch into a blood curdling stream of profane disbelief, Danny simply murmured, “Huh. That’s some fucked up shit there.”
Danny was nonplussed, because Danny was more laid- back than Ghandi on Xanax. He could observe the most shocking events with no more than bemused detachment. And so Danny looked at the departure of his finger with scientific curiosity, rather than abject terror. And so he simply sighed, picked the finger up with his left (and lighter) hand, and folded it in the US Weekly. The black, rotted little metacarpal would rest in the peace of a story about Christina Aguilera’s reported relationship with Justin Timberlake. Danny got up, threw the magazine and its little treasure into the trash can, and sat back down to wait for his car.
He wondered if there was some law that prohibited driving with less than ten fingers. He had no idea. He withdrew his left hand and noticed that the bloodless color that had consumed his erstwhile finger had spread to his left ring finger. It wasn’t looking good for the remaining tenants of his left hand.
As the next eight months unfolded, the remaining fingers on Danny’s left hand each made their exit one by one, like children going off to college. Perhaps the most embarrassing for Danny was his left index finger. He was in The High Street Pub, watching the baseball with the other regulars, when a base runner was thrown out attempting a steal. In fact, the base runner had been safe, and Danny loudly offered to no one in particular that the second baseman’s tag had never touched the runner. Reflexively, Danny pulled his left hand out of his pocket to point at the television (his right hand, growing more numb by the day, was clutching his Negro Modelo). As Danny pointed at the replay, the left index finger simply fell off as if it had been held there by a piece of tape. Ironically, the finger fell into his ash tray. Some elephants walk miles and miles to find their final resting place. Somehow they know. Danny wondered if this were the case with fingers as well.
The regulars, long aware of Danny’s declining finger population, pretended like they didn’t see anything, although for the rest of the afternoon, everyone’s liquor consumption increased dramatically.
Now, eight months and 9 finger departures later, Danny walked down North Avenue, just like he did every Saturday, with two Jim Beam and Cokes in his system, approximately half of one spleef, and a smile a mile wide. “Shit happens,” wasn’t just Danny’s philosophy, it was the phrase that woke his soul up every morning, sucked it off, and made it coffee. Danny still had two legs and a mind like a “government supercomputer,” as he’d tell people, and he was simply happy to be alive on this fine, fine day.
As Danny continued on, he wondered if there was some special group for lottery winners, where they could gather together socially and discuss the finer points of insane wealth. He hoped that if there were such a group, nickel and dime daily lotto winners weren’t invited. The top prize for the daily lotto was approximately $5,000.00. “What the hell would a five thousand dollar winner know about being rich,” Danny thought to himself as he chuckled his way down the street.
And then it happened.
Right there in broad daylight, Danny’s nose-picking days came to an abrupt, anti-climactic ending. With his left stump cradled in his jacked pocket, and his right stump in the other pocket, Danny instinctively knew that he was now fingerless. Having lost all sensation in his hand long ago, Danny did not have the capacity to recognize any sensation past either elbow. But somehow he knew, like a mother knows when her child is in danger, that at some point during the constitutional, his last remaining finger had bid him sweet adieu.
Danny resolved to put this one in a jar, with some of that liquid that preserves pigs and eggs and stuff. The finger deserved as much. It had once spent an evening charging and retreating into the nether regions of one Miss Melissa Boudreau, who had later gone on to a career as an exotic dancer at the John Steinbeck-themed strip club, “The Grapes of Snatch.”
Danny did not break stride, refusing to pull out and regard the stump where his last remaining finger once lived. He didn’t care. After tonight, he’d be able to buy ten new fingers and ten new toes (many of which were currently plotting an escape). Heck, he might even get one of those Hollywood plastic surgeons to give him a couple extra fingers, just in case.
Finally Danny arrived at the convenience store where he had played the various lottery games with religious zeal over the past 20 years. He ambled his way over to where a heavyset woman with brittle looking grey hair sat behind the counter. She smiled.
“Hiya Danny,” she said, “How ya feelin’?”
Danny smiled back and then ducked his head down into his shirt pocket and came back up with a five dollar bill in his teeth. He withdrew his finger-free stumps from either pocket, and used them like a pair of tongs to remove the bill from his mouth. He somewhat awkwardly placed the dollar on the counter and said, “How am I feeling? Lucky…”
The only finger left on Danny’s body was his right index finger and he called it “Slim.”
One of Danny’s favorite actors had been Mr. Slim Pickens (R.I.P.), and he felt that the name honored both the actor and the finger. It was a good finger because it got shit done. Danny could still, believe it or not, wrap it around a pencil and write his own name. A shitty, scrawly, little-kid-wrote-it looking name, but for court documents and welfare maintenance forms, it did the trick.
Danny was happy. It was a positively gorgeous day and he was on his way to pick up $120 million dollars. At least that’s what tonight’s jackpot was. Danny Phelan was quite sure that tonight was his night. He felt it. A strange calm like he’d never known before. In fact, he had already passed through the initial stages of disbelief and euphoria- he was now sailing through the acceptance stage, knowing that in a matter of hours, his ship would sail in. Tonight would be the night that the chick who used to do the weather, (whose name he forgot but who had since been replaced by a black girl with long straight hair and curves like the Monte Carlo), would pull out, in succession: 7-13-15-28-33-42, with the lucky ball… 11!
It was weird how Danny could sense things. He remembered when he lost his first finger, how he saw it coming months away. Danny had looked at his hand one day and understood that his left finger was not long for his hand. Danny’s whole left hand had gradually gone numb, and then eventually cold. But it took a period of months for his hand to fully rot away, finger by finger, knuckle by knuckle, whatever the rest of the hand is called by whatever the rest of the hand is called. But that first motherfucking finger… that was the bitch of the bunch.
Danny was sitting in the lobby of Jiffy Lube, waiting for the portly Mexican to return his car to him. There was an array of magazines available, all current, and Danny selected US Weekly. He loved the bit at the end where comedians made fun of celebrities who showed up at big time functions wearing ridiculous outfits. He particularly liked the one where Kevin Costner was wearing some contrived surfer outfit, and one of the comedians commented, “Dresses With Wolves.” “Fuck Kevin Costner and fuck his ten fingers,” Danny had thought.
As Danny sat in Jiffy Lube, waiting for the verdict on his Impala, he noticed that his left hand and his pinky in particular, was cold. Too cold. He had long put off visiting a doctor because he had no health insurance, and he figured the coldness and loss of motion was due to a hockey injury. Still, the fact that his pinky had turned black and flaky had developed into a full-blown preoccupation for Danny. When no one was around (which was most of the time), Danny would talk out loud to his hand and try to bargain the finger back.
”OK- you stay on my hand, and I won’t use you to pick my nose.”
Silence.
Danny sensed that somehow the pinky knew that he was a right index finger nose picker from way back, so the pinky wouldn’t fall for that empty bargain.
“Alright, then if you stay on my hand, I’ll wash you every day. More than the other fingers. And I won’t touch anything hot with you, and I won’t use you in any fights. In fact, I’ll make you the president of all the fingers. You’ll be in charge. What do you think?”
No answer.
But the inevitable… well, it was inevitable.
Danny had been sitting in the Jiffy Lube waiting room, thumbing (with his right hand), through US Weekly, holding his left hand on his left lap. Occasionally, he would whack his left thigh with his left hand in the misguided hope that applying blunt trauma to his senseless limb would somehow resurrect its sensory capacities. By now it had become an unconscious habit- he’d bang on his thigh without even noticing. So it took a moment for him to recognize that at 1:17 p.m., he whacked his thigh and brought his hand back up one finger short.
There was his pinky, sitting on the floor like a little raccoon turd. Pleased as punch to be sitting there and offending everyone. Danny regarded his hand with something approximating admiration, rather than horror. “Holy shit,” he thought, “it’s gone.” Danny however, did not get up from his seat, nor did he place the magazine down.
While some might have seized such an opportunity to launch into a blood curdling stream of profane disbelief, Danny simply murmured, “Huh. That’s some fucked up shit there.”
Danny was nonplussed, because Danny was more laid- back than Ghandi on Xanax. He could observe the most shocking events with no more than bemused detachment. And so Danny looked at the departure of his finger with scientific curiosity, rather than abject terror. And so he simply sighed, picked the finger up with his left (and lighter) hand, and folded it in the US Weekly. The black, rotted little metacarpal would rest in the peace of a story about Christina Aguilera’s reported relationship with Justin Timberlake. Danny got up, threw the magazine and its little treasure into the trash can, and sat back down to wait for his car.
He wondered if there was some law that prohibited driving with less than ten fingers. He had no idea. He withdrew his left hand and noticed that the bloodless color that had consumed his erstwhile finger had spread to his left ring finger. It wasn’t looking good for the remaining tenants of his left hand.
As the next eight months unfolded, the remaining fingers on Danny’s left hand each made their exit one by one, like children going off to college. Perhaps the most embarrassing for Danny was his left index finger. He was in The High Street Pub, watching the baseball with the other regulars, when a base runner was thrown out attempting a steal. In fact, the base runner had been safe, and Danny loudly offered to no one in particular that the second baseman’s tag had never touched the runner. Reflexively, Danny pulled his left hand out of his pocket to point at the television (his right hand, growing more numb by the day, was clutching his Negro Modelo). As Danny pointed at the replay, the left index finger simply fell off as if it had been held there by a piece of tape. Ironically, the finger fell into his ash tray. Some elephants walk miles and miles to find their final resting place. Somehow they know. Danny wondered if this were the case with fingers as well.
The regulars, long aware of Danny’s declining finger population, pretended like they didn’t see anything, although for the rest of the afternoon, everyone’s liquor consumption increased dramatically.
Now, eight months and 9 finger departures later, Danny walked down North Avenue, just like he did every Saturday, with two Jim Beam and Cokes in his system, approximately half of one spleef, and a smile a mile wide. “Shit happens,” wasn’t just Danny’s philosophy, it was the phrase that woke his soul up every morning, sucked it off, and made it coffee. Danny still had two legs and a mind like a “government supercomputer,” as he’d tell people, and he was simply happy to be alive on this fine, fine day.
As Danny continued on, he wondered if there was some special group for lottery winners, where they could gather together socially and discuss the finer points of insane wealth. He hoped that if there were such a group, nickel and dime daily lotto winners weren’t invited. The top prize for the daily lotto was approximately $5,000.00. “What the hell would a five thousand dollar winner know about being rich,” Danny thought to himself as he chuckled his way down the street.
And then it happened.
Right there in broad daylight, Danny’s nose-picking days came to an abrupt, anti-climactic ending. With his left stump cradled in his jacked pocket, and his right stump in the other pocket, Danny instinctively knew that he was now fingerless. Having lost all sensation in his hand long ago, Danny did not have the capacity to recognize any sensation past either elbow. But somehow he knew, like a mother knows when her child is in danger, that at some point during the constitutional, his last remaining finger had bid him sweet adieu.
Danny resolved to put this one in a jar, with some of that liquid that preserves pigs and eggs and stuff. The finger deserved as much. It had once spent an evening charging and retreating into the nether regions of one Miss Melissa Boudreau, who had later gone on to a career as an exotic dancer at the John Steinbeck-themed strip club, “The Grapes of Snatch.”
Danny did not break stride, refusing to pull out and regard the stump where his last remaining finger once lived. He didn’t care. After tonight, he’d be able to buy ten new fingers and ten new toes (many of which were currently plotting an escape). Heck, he might even get one of those Hollywood plastic surgeons to give him a couple extra fingers, just in case.
Finally Danny arrived at the convenience store where he had played the various lottery games with religious zeal over the past 20 years. He ambled his way over to where a heavyset woman with brittle looking grey hair sat behind the counter. She smiled.
“Hiya Danny,” she said, “How ya feelin’?”
Danny smiled back and then ducked his head down into his shirt pocket and came back up with a five dollar bill in his teeth. He withdrew his finger-free stumps from either pocket, and used them like a pair of tongs to remove the bill from his mouth. He somewhat awkwardly placed the dollar on the counter and said, “How am I feeling? Lucky…”
Thursday, December 31, 2009
It Was a Very Good Year
I keep reading how the world is collectively stoked on kicking 2009 to the curb. One article alleged that hating on 2009 is the only thing on which American political parties can agree. People like Tiger Woods and Charlie Sheen will be happy to see it go, and people like Bernie Madoff and Roman Polanski leave 2009 as perhaps their last year as free citizens. Conservatives take on the new role of attacking the President and somewhat surprisingly, the Democrats are not rallying to defend the Commander in Chief. Oh, and the hated Yankees once again are MLB champions. A bizarre year.
But I liked 2009. And it pretty much began with me losing my job.
I hated being a financial advisor. I'm not cut out for sales, which is something I had suspected and which a career as a financial advisor only confirmed. It would be hard enough for me to sell people something I'm not sure they need, but to try to sell financial products during a recession was a recipe for disaster. So when Bank of America let go nearly all of its new brokers here in the Del Mar office, I was relieved.
The only sweat there was that I was buying my home in Encinitas, and being gainfully employed was a requirement for the sale to close. Thankfully I made the cut, just barely, and in April I moved into my kickass little house on the rim of a canyon in Encinitas, California.
For two months I got the house furnished, cleaned, and fixed. Cabo and Lola freaking love it. They had more space, great trails, and a cool sun room for lounging. They have been in heaven.
For me, I've fallen in love with North County. Everything that my old neighborhood (UTC) lacked is present in abundance in Encinitas- mom and pop stores, beaches close by, and an unusual mix of canyon, farm, beach, and city all within a small area. The vibe is peaceful and sleepier, but full of flavor and groove.
At the suggestion of my buddy Noel, I took up hot yoga in May. My first class was brutal, but I have since overcome my aversion to pulverizing heat and I go about 6 days a week now. I am fully addicted to the practice of yoga, but I'm just as equally attracted to the vibe at the yoga studio, which is full of happy, outgoing, interesting people. I usually show up for class a half hour early just to hang out before class with my peeps there.
I traveled. Trips home to Boston were great, and I met my new (and first) niece- Grace. What a trip that was. It was an amazing experience to welcome this beautiful new life into my world. And of course, seeing the family and friends back home is good for the soul. Although the old neighborhood is looking roooooough...
I went to Denver with a bunch of friends where I took second place in a 5K! I ran two other half marathons this year before abandoning running for yoga.
Finally I made my long-awaited return to Sweden, which was the highlight of the year. I'd be lying if I didn't admit to having some apprehension about returning to the scene of so many crimes, and I was blown away at how easily I fell back into the old neighborhoods, the old friends, and the Scandinavian mindset which has always attracted me like a physicist to a cold fusion lecture. I spent time down in Denmark as well, and again found myself fighting the urge to move back to that neck of the woods. It was awesome.
I've made assloads of new friends, downloaded tons of great new music, bought three guitars that I don't need but which I love, and have found a great new job that I find interesting and exciting, and which affords me the time to enjoy my favorite things- spending time with my dogs, yoga, and just chilling.
I have no gripes with 2009. I wish it were a hundred days longer. But 2010 is a few hours away, and I say "Bring it on, baby!"
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
The Pringles Incident (or Reason 1067 of Why I No Longer Drink)
March, 1997
I was on my way to France for an enjoyable week of visiting with my sister (living in Paris at the time), and my bb (best brah) Steve, who was playing a show in Paris that very same week. It promised to be an epic week of culture, buffoonery, music, and R&R.
At the time, my pre-flight regimen prior to boarding ANY flight, was to down as many beers as the clock would allow. If this meant leaving for the airport two to three hours early, just in case um... security was tight, then so be it. And so immediately upon crossing through the hallowed metal detectors at Chicago's O'Hare International Airport, I found my bar and slipped loose the dogs of war (on sobriety).
Flying out that evening meant I would miss celebrating the birthday of my other brah Fredo, who would be out on the town in Chicago that evening, ringing in another year with the rest of my crew. Being a stand up friend and general supporter of all aspects of bonhomie, I promised Fredo that at an appointed time in-flight, I would procure an alcoholic beverage, turn to the rear of the plane (recklessly assuming that would necessarily face me towards Chicago), and consume a large measure of that beverage in a birthday tribute to my friend. I was, if anything, a man of my word.
Now here's an important detail: I was in the very first row of economy, so there were no seats in front of me- just the wall dividing the two classes, on which the in-flight movie/map would be shown. I was seated in the left hand aisle seat, in the middle group of seats, which ran five across. Amazingly, as we were getting ready to back away from the gate, I was the only one sitting in the middle seats. And so I had a small sheaf of music magazines on the seat next to me, and I dug in for a leisurely flight.
Disappointingly, just before the plane backed up, a harried middle-aged couple breathlessly careened onto the plane and slumped into the other aisle seats to my right. That left two empty seats between us with the one next to me occupied with my magazines.
And this is where things started going south: before they sat down, the frizzy-haired woman in this couple blankly looked at me, then took my magazines and threw them on the floor.
WTF?
She then placed her carry on bag on the empty seat next to her. How's that for a great big F.O? Not only did she presume to throw my shit to the floor, but she didn't even have the good taste to then put her shit where my shit had once been! She simply wanted my stuff to be on the floor.
I was confused, livid, and oh yes, hammered as if there was a blacksmith still beating on me.
Resentments and anger cascaded over me like waves of acid, and I retreated into revenge fantasies featuring my new neighbors. Dinner was served, more drinks were consumed, and eventually the flight crew turned the lights off on the plane so people could get some shut eye.
I sat in darkness, seething under my red Air France blanket.
Then I noticed the time.
I called over the French steward and explained, in my slurriest French, that I needed a vino toute de suite. Being not just French, but gay as a daisy, he suggested that the only way to celebrate a birthday was with champagne, and so he brought me not one but two bottles of champers from First Class.
Filled with gratitude and amazement, I immediately made two resolutions: 1) be nicer to French people; and 2) I would drink both bottles- one for Fredo and one for myself.
Which I did at a speed rivaling that of the plane on which we flew.
Now battered beyond all my sensibilities, I realized that my prodigious bender had left me ravenous. I realized that I had foolishly brought no snacks with me, and there were several hours remaining in the flight yet I didn't want to bother the steward with a new request after his recent generosity. I was stumped, until...
I looked to my right, where the evil couple were sleeping in each others arms, and noticed that unlike myself, they had planned for snacking. In the woman's carry-on, an enticing cylinder of barbecue flavor Pringles protruded like King Arthur's sword from the Lake.
Immediately, bad ideas, flawed logic, anger, thrill-seeking, and emotion overtook me, and before I could stop myself, my right arm reached over and delicately plucked the cylinder from its cradle. With my eyes on my neighbors, I slowly slid the Pringles towards me, and then stowed it beneath the blanket that covered me.
I was exploding with both the excitement that only a thief can know, as well as the anticipation of beating back my rapacious hunger with a fistful of Pringles. Staring at the movie screen silently running in front of me, I removed the plastic lid from the Pringles can under the belt, only to realize the sleeve was sealed with the aluminum pull-top. It was a brand new can.
Merde!
This put me in a delicate predicament. To remove a few chips from an already-opened can of Pringles was a near-perfect crime. Surely no mortal could tell if a few chips had gone missing from a stack of Pringles, resting within their can. But to steal from a virgin can required that the very crime itself be exposed through the removal of the aluminum pull top which locked in the freshness of the salted booty within.
It was a barbecue flavored conundrum.
I could have, of course, tried to return the can. But having come that far, I realized that a more plausible Plan B would be to hide the body, as it were. I'd throw away the can and play dumb if anyone asked as to its whereabouts. And so with muted resolve, I ripped open the aluminum top under my little red blanket.
I had crossed the point of No Return.
Two issues then confronted me- first and most practical, the crunching of the thieved Pringles could conceivably wake my evil neighbors. Secondly there was the matter of the pull top, which needed to be discarded far from where I sat, in case there was an Incident and a search conducted.
Shit, shit, shit. Why did life have to be so hard? I just wanted a damned snack.
Then I noticed the restroom in front of me and the solution appeared like a beacon.
Holding the canister to the outer side of my left thigh, I stood up and awkwardly darted into the restroom. Once inside, I was overcome with triumph. I could control my giggling only by stuffing my face with fistfuls of Pringles in rapid succession. I gorged myself like a man recently back from a deserted island. In a matter of minutes, I ate the entire sleeve.
I was about to throw the can away in the restroom, before realizing that someone else might see it and recognize the crime that had just occurred. I was still of the delusion that if someone noticed that a sleeve of Pringles were missing, the flight crew would launch a relentless investigation. Why I thought this, I do not know.
Yet I again shunned logic, and after depositing the aluminum pull top into the trash, I returned to my seat again hiding the can beneath the red blanket. I slid the empty tube back into the carry on next to me, at which point I passed out, smug in my victory.
It could not have been much later that the lights of the plane came on for the in-flight breakfast service. I couldn't help but steal glances to my right to see if or when the couple would notice that they had been victimized. Still drunk, I found myself again giggling uncontrollably, which must have looked odd to anyone who noticed, as I was sitting by myself, covered in my blanket.
And then the wild-haired woman next to me went for her chips. She picked up the can from her bag and pulled off the plastic cap as I practically whistled with feigned innocence. Immediately noticing the emptiness of the can, she actually peered further into it, as if the chips were hiding in the basement.
She immediately looked over at me. She KNEW. I mean, to be fair, there was no one else around us, but nonetheless, I played dumb and acted like I didn't notice her.
I waited for her to say something. I prepared my denials. I readied myself to summon my gay French steward compatriot as a character witness, in case the woman's accusations required Air France intervention.
But nothing happened.
She gestured to her companion, who looked equally bewildered and uninterested in the fate of the barbecue-flavored chips. The woman then looked at me again, rose and looked at the seats behind her, and then sat back down, holding the empty can and undoubtedly trying to remember when she had opened and consumed the treats.
My smugness returned as my criminal success was now all but assured, and I chose this moment to stand up and return to the restroom. As I dropped my red Air France blanket back into my seat, triumph turned to horror as the woman turned to look at me, and I regarded my navy blue shirt, which was covered in Pringle crumbs and barbecue-flavored dust. It was like I had just been pulled out of a vat of potato chips.
She looked at me as if I had a baby seal stapled to my forehead. I looked away and ran for the bathroom. Looking in the bathroom mirror, my face was covered in brown barbecue flavored dust and some crumbs had made their way down my shirt. My triumph wasn't short lived, it never was.
When I returned to my seat, the woman continued to stare icily at me. To avoid confrontation, I chose to play possum the rest of the flight, faking sleep until it was time to exit the plane, at which point I grabbed my carry on, absconded from the plane, and descended into France. It was the beginning of a savagely great trip.
Monday, December 21, 2009
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
A Touch of David Gray
As much as I love metal and pretty much all rhythmic, guitar-driven music, sometimes I need to summon my inner bunny and retreat into more soothing, thoughtful, and melodic pastures. Lately I just can't stop listening to David Gray.
I have long been enamored of the music from this pasty, scratchy voiced folkie from the UK. I just am. Like haggis and Lars von Trier films, he's not for everybody. I'd say he falls somewhere between "indie" and "cult-like," which simply means only a small percentage of music lovers recognize his brilliance. So I'll call him "indie-like."
I first got turned on to him by a girl who spent the better part of a year treating my black little heart like a squirrel treats a walnut. I was whipped worse than Dred Scott at his homecoming party. If she had wanted me to punch out a pre-schooler, I would have gladly beaten him up and made his little pre-school girlfriend hold his lunchbox while I did it. It was not good. But, it was she who introduced me to the song "Babylon," which lit my fire as very few songs ever have.
It began when she popped by my apartment and said that she'd just come out of a spinning class, during which the instructor played this song called "Babylon," which she really liked. That, in and of itself, captured my attention because as a "little thing guy" (a guy who attempts to disarm girls with a series of small, thoughtful gestures to showcase how keenly he pays attention to them), I needed to know what turned her on.
As a side note to the parenthetical tangent, the whole goal of a "little thing guy" is for the girl to experience a perfectly orchestrated epiphany, wherein the guy she actually likes is revealed to be a total dick, while at the same moment she looks around the room and sees some little trinket the "little thing guy" got her, causing her to suddenly realize that "little thing guy," is in fact the man of her dreams, and spurring her to then hop in the car in the pouring rain, and race to "little thing guy's" apartment to profess both her love of "little thing guy" and her foolishness for ever liking the guy who's really a dick. This scenario has never ever happened in real life, to any "little thing guy." Yet we plod on...
Back to my apartment, post-spinning class. Said girl suggested to me, "You should play ["Babylon"] on guitar." Bingo. In my mind, I whipped up this fantasy of us sitting in some Turkish-themed den, sitting on big pillows and gazing at each other across the light of a candle, with me breaking out my Taylor and shattering her world with my rendition of that song. I think in my fantasy my voice probably sounded a lot better than it actually was. In fact, I would not be surprised if the Joe in my fantasy sounded more like Robbie Williams than Joe.
Anyhoo, my BFF Steve Poltz eventually walked me through a couple of the nuances of the song during one of my visits to San Diego. I learned the ever loving shit out of the song, but of course, chickened out on ever playing it for her, citing guitar problems, head colds, and a long stream of excuses. Honestly, I don't think she really cared. At all.
However, I did score two David Gray tickets for us when he played Chicago's Vic Theater. It was awesome. We stood off to the side of the stage were astounded by his live show. His music, quiet and thoughtful, took on a larger than life, explosive vibe that had the Vic shaking. The crowd sang, David Gray's skin was typically pasty, and his drummer was sublime, rattling off complex poly rhythms that sent the entire house off into space. David was ridiculously cool. He was everything that his album covers suggest- quiet, self-deprecating, sincere, and just a bit pissy.
He sang the up tempo songs (like "Babylon") at slowed down paces and turned his slower numbers into long, towering jams. I never thought I would see five thousand people dancing to David Gray, but that's what happened.
And in one of those lifelong awkward moments (those harmless little awkward decisions you make that cause you to physically crumple a bit when you recall them for the rest of your life), I invited her to slow dance during "Say Hello Wave Goodbye." Immediately upon sliding my arms around her waist, I realized that the little argument that we had before the show, that I thought had been resolved, was in fact, still alive and well. Her distaste was palpable in the way she stared off and looked at the wall while we danced. So halfway through the song we pulled apart awkwardly and I stared at the drummer, hoping that if he hit the drums fast enough, we could all time travel back to the point where I could rethink my decision to slow dance with an angry woman.
What? Sorry.
So yeah, the whole "White Ladder" album (on which "Babylon" appears), is spectacular. His voice is um... "distinct." Look, he's no Pavarotti. Hell, he's no Susan Boyle. In fact, I'd wager that back in the day, when he'd stand up for his turn at a pub sing along, you'd see a lot of people heading up to the bar for a fresh pint and a bag of crisps.
But like so many other musicians with equally ordinary voices, he has created a musical style that suits him. From his intellectual lyrical patterns to the seamless mix of folk and electronica, he has created a vehicle that many inhabit, but few truly own. In fact, I'll bet trained singers would sound like crap if they tried one of his tunes on for size. He looks, dresses, and sings like the Everyman, and his voice is its perfect expression. His limitations are his charm. I relate to his cracked confessional style far more deeply than anything from some golden throated warbler like Frank Sinatra.
There are no bad tunes on "White Ladder." Not one. The arrangements are sparse and delicate, and to listen to the album on ass-kickingly good speakers is to fully appreciate its brilliance. I want to point out two or three that I really like, but I dig the whole thing. OK, fine: "Nightblindness," "Say Hello Wave Goodbye," "Silver Lining," and "Babylon" all stand out as personal favorites. I feel like Meryl Streep in "Sophie's Choice"...
After "White Ladder" broke, the money boys at the labels greedily returned to the three albums he had previously released (and which they had previously ignored), and thus began the Parade of Repackaging. It was gross. You couldn't swing a dead cat without hitting some "demo" of "Babylon" or some "alternate version" of "Sail Away." They dusted off and re-released songs best left where they were, and for awhile, we all wondered if maybe "White Ladder" should have been more appropriately called "Black Swan."
Then in 2005, he released "Life in Slow Motion," which reminded me why I kept listening to him. "Life" was his first collection of new tunes in a number of years, and the production leaned more heavily towards... well, more production. But not too much. Surprisingly, while the guitar was not as prominently featured as it was on "White Ladder," I loved the album even more. Now, before you folkie snobs sigh loudly and head back over to your Richard Thompson discussion boards, there's still ass-loads of good guitar on "Life." It's just got a little more keyboard. Geez, get over yourselves...
In December of 2005, when I got this album, I was on my last legs. Everything in my world was crashing down around me, and as my first Christmas in San Diego approached, my world was surreal in its desperation. I was deep in isolation, watching my relationship fall apart, my health fade away, and my job situation reaching critical mass. Were it not for the constant presence, love, and sincerity of my three dogs, I might have imploded under the weight of it all.
My then-girlfriend had absconded to Mexico for a family wedding, to which I was not invited. Later reflection has led me to the conclusion that there was a direct correlation between my lack of invitation to this wedding and my rather pugnacious conduct at another wedding some months before. And so I found myself alone in the days approaching Christmas, driving around the paradise of La Jolla, with its paradoxical warm sunny weather and snow-themed ornaments.
The only thing I was listening to that month was "Life in Motion." The first hit, "The One I Love," w is a powerful, jumpy, beautiful love song. I listened to it with a mixture of excitement at how great the song was, and regret, as I wished that I myself felt that way about someone. It made me wish I were back in those throes of early love, when reckless abandon was the only rule worth observing. I loved my girlfriend, but the days of hope had long snuck out the backdoor.
"Hospital Food" was the other song that really shook me into rapt attention. It really showcases how he takes his flat, unremarkable voice and uses different phrasings to make it shine. The bridge still kills me and back then, it hit me like a NASCAR driver going through the fence at 200 mph.
"Seeing it all so beautiful
The way it oughta be
Seeing it all so beautiful
And turning away
Turning away
Turning away"
The rest of the album is solid, although in this effort, there are a couple that don't resonate with me as much as the others. Still, I can and do listen to it beginning to end, nonstop. It never gets old. In fact, I find something new everytime I hear it. It's like the Benjamin Button of folk albums. Yes, I know I just called it "folk." Shut up.
His lyrics evoke poetry rather than irony, which is a pretty neat trick these days. Irony has become a cheap, tired, and overused safety net for lyricists who are incapable of saying who they are and what they feel. So they tell you what they're not and then paint the picture with overdone metaphors that come off like twinkies- sweet and forgettable.
But irony makes people feel smart because they see through to the underlying (and always obvious) meaning, so it appeals to the jaded, the disenfranchised, and the under 16. When used by guys like Neil Young, irony cuts like a sabre. When used by the guys in Blink-182, it sounds like a video game commercial.
This diatribe has been brought to you by Eastern Airlines and Turtle Wax.
My point is that David Gray does not go for the easy lyrical play. He doesn't just rattle off half-baked metaphors and he's not interested in sounding clever. He chooses his words like great cooks choose their tomatoes.
David Gray sings about his feelings without indulgence. His songs are wistful, yet not morose. He does not dumb anything down for the listener, and his lyrics they serve his style with unflinching deference. He's one of the few artists I listen to where I still sit down and read the lyrics and liner notes.
This year he released "Draw the Line," to mixed reviews. I tend to agree that more is less when it comes to David Gray. When I first heard the single "Fugitive," I thought that perhaps his shark had been jumped, and like I've done with so many albums, I turned it off after one absent-minded listen, assuming I'd never return to it.
That was back in September, just after the album was released. Then a couple weeks ago, I remembered that I had downloaded "Draw the Line" and that I hadn't really given it the attention that perhaps it deserved. And so I sat down and pressed play. I was ecstatic to realize that like a bottle of California red, the album just needed a little time. Ok, I needed just a little time to settle myself and come around for the album.
"Nemesis" was what did it for me. The simple, childlike melody that begins the song quite literally made me stop what I was doing and look at the stereo, as if David Gray might pop out and say, "See what you've been missing, jackass?" It is simply beautiful.
I won't do a track by track review. I've already written far too much (and if you're still with me here, thanks!). But like "Life in Slow Motion," it's got its weak spots, although they are far outweighed by the high points: "Nemesis," "Jackdaw," "Fugitive" (yes, it's grown on me), and "Stella the Artist" all stand out for me.
The nice surprise with the new album is that it comes in a Deluxe Edition, which includes a bunch of live tracks that are stellar reminders of how exciting his live performances are. It was nice to enjoy the music without the morbid embarrassment of an ill-advised slow dance. It was just nice to hear him reinterpret his classics. The album kicks ass, the music will not let you down, and at the end of the day, when you buy a record, that's all that matters.
I have long been enamored of the music from this pasty, scratchy voiced folkie from the UK. I just am. Like haggis and Lars von Trier films, he's not for everybody. I'd say he falls somewhere between "indie" and "cult-like," which simply means only a small percentage of music lovers recognize his brilliance. So I'll call him "indie-like."
I first got turned on to him by a girl who spent the better part of a year treating my black little heart like a squirrel treats a walnut. I was whipped worse than Dred Scott at his homecoming party. If she had wanted me to punch out a pre-schooler, I would have gladly beaten him up and made his little pre-school girlfriend hold his lunchbox while I did it. It was not good. But, it was she who introduced me to the song "Babylon," which lit my fire as very few songs ever have.
It began when she popped by my apartment and said that she'd just come out of a spinning class, during which the instructor played this song called "Babylon," which she really liked. That, in and of itself, captured my attention because as a "little thing guy" (a guy who attempts to disarm girls with a series of small, thoughtful gestures to showcase how keenly he pays attention to them), I needed to know what turned her on.
As a side note to the parenthetical tangent, the whole goal of a "little thing guy" is for the girl to experience a perfectly orchestrated epiphany, wherein the guy she actually likes is revealed to be a total dick, while at the same moment she looks around the room and sees some little trinket the "little thing guy" got her, causing her to suddenly realize that "little thing guy," is in fact the man of her dreams, and spurring her to then hop in the car in the pouring rain, and race to "little thing guy's" apartment to profess both her love of "little thing guy" and her foolishness for ever liking the guy who's really a dick. This scenario has never ever happened in real life, to any "little thing guy." Yet we plod on...
Back to my apartment, post-spinning class. Said girl suggested to me, "You should play ["Babylon"] on guitar." Bingo. In my mind, I whipped up this fantasy of us sitting in some Turkish-themed den, sitting on big pillows and gazing at each other across the light of a candle, with me breaking out my Taylor and shattering her world with my rendition of that song. I think in my fantasy my voice probably sounded a lot better than it actually was. In fact, I would not be surprised if the Joe in my fantasy sounded more like Robbie Williams than Joe.
Anyhoo, my BFF Steve Poltz eventually walked me through a couple of the nuances of the song during one of my visits to San Diego. I learned the ever loving shit out of the song, but of course, chickened out on ever playing it for her, citing guitar problems, head colds, and a long stream of excuses. Honestly, I don't think she really cared. At all.
However, I did score two David Gray tickets for us when he played Chicago's Vic Theater. It was awesome. We stood off to the side of the stage were astounded by his live show. His music, quiet and thoughtful, took on a larger than life, explosive vibe that had the Vic shaking. The crowd sang, David Gray's skin was typically pasty, and his drummer was sublime, rattling off complex poly rhythms that sent the entire house off into space. David was ridiculously cool. He was everything that his album covers suggest- quiet, self-deprecating, sincere, and just a bit pissy.
He sang the up tempo songs (like "Babylon") at slowed down paces and turned his slower numbers into long, towering jams. I never thought I would see five thousand people dancing to David Gray, but that's what happened.
And in one of those lifelong awkward moments (those harmless little awkward decisions you make that cause you to physically crumple a bit when you recall them for the rest of your life), I invited her to slow dance during "Say Hello Wave Goodbye." Immediately upon sliding my arms around her waist, I realized that the little argument that we had before the show, that I thought had been resolved, was in fact, still alive and well. Her distaste was palpable in the way she stared off and looked at the wall while we danced. So halfway through the song we pulled apart awkwardly and I stared at the drummer, hoping that if he hit the drums fast enough, we could all time travel back to the point where I could rethink my decision to slow dance with an angry woman.
What? Sorry.
So yeah, the whole "White Ladder" album (on which "Babylon" appears), is spectacular. His voice is um... "distinct." Look, he's no Pavarotti. Hell, he's no Susan Boyle. In fact, I'd wager that back in the day, when he'd stand up for his turn at a pub sing along, you'd see a lot of people heading up to the bar for a fresh pint and a bag of crisps.
But like so many other musicians with equally ordinary voices, he has created a musical style that suits him. From his intellectual lyrical patterns to the seamless mix of folk and electronica, he has created a vehicle that many inhabit, but few truly own. In fact, I'll bet trained singers would sound like crap if they tried one of his tunes on for size. He looks, dresses, and sings like the Everyman, and his voice is its perfect expression. His limitations are his charm. I relate to his cracked confessional style far more deeply than anything from some golden throated warbler like Frank Sinatra.
There are no bad tunes on "White Ladder." Not one. The arrangements are sparse and delicate, and to listen to the album on ass-kickingly good speakers is to fully appreciate its brilliance. I want to point out two or three that I really like, but I dig the whole thing. OK, fine: "Nightblindness," "Say Hello Wave Goodbye," "Silver Lining," and "Babylon" all stand out as personal favorites. I feel like Meryl Streep in "Sophie's Choice"...
After "White Ladder" broke, the money boys at the labels greedily returned to the three albums he had previously released (and which they had previously ignored), and thus began the Parade of Repackaging. It was gross. You couldn't swing a dead cat without hitting some "demo" of "Babylon" or some "alternate version" of "Sail Away." They dusted off and re-released songs best left where they were, and for awhile, we all wondered if maybe "White Ladder" should have been more appropriately called "Black Swan."
Then in 2005, he released "Life in Slow Motion," which reminded me why I kept listening to him. "Life" was his first collection of new tunes in a number of years, and the production leaned more heavily towards... well, more production. But not too much. Surprisingly, while the guitar was not as prominently featured as it was on "White Ladder," I loved the album even more. Now, before you folkie snobs sigh loudly and head back over to your Richard Thompson discussion boards, there's still ass-loads of good guitar on "Life." It's just got a little more keyboard. Geez, get over yourselves...
In December of 2005, when I got this album, I was on my last legs. Everything in my world was crashing down around me, and as my first Christmas in San Diego approached, my world was surreal in its desperation. I was deep in isolation, watching my relationship fall apart, my health fade away, and my job situation reaching critical mass. Were it not for the constant presence, love, and sincerity of my three dogs, I might have imploded under the weight of it all.
My then-girlfriend had absconded to Mexico for a family wedding, to which I was not invited. Later reflection has led me to the conclusion that there was a direct correlation between my lack of invitation to this wedding and my rather pugnacious conduct at another wedding some months before. And so I found myself alone in the days approaching Christmas, driving around the paradise of La Jolla, with its paradoxical warm sunny weather and snow-themed ornaments.
The only thing I was listening to that month was "Life in Motion." The first hit, "The One I Love," w is a powerful, jumpy, beautiful love song. I listened to it with a mixture of excitement at how great the song was, and regret, as I wished that I myself felt that way about someone. It made me wish I were back in those throes of early love, when reckless abandon was the only rule worth observing. I loved my girlfriend, but the days of hope had long snuck out the backdoor.
"Hospital Food" was the other song that really shook me into rapt attention. It really showcases how he takes his flat, unremarkable voice and uses different phrasings to make it shine. The bridge still kills me and back then, it hit me like a NASCAR driver going through the fence at 200 mph.
"Seeing it all so beautiful
The way it oughta be
Seeing it all so beautiful
And turning away
Turning away
Turning away"
The rest of the album is solid, although in this effort, there are a couple that don't resonate with me as much as the others. Still, I can and do listen to it beginning to end, nonstop. It never gets old. In fact, I find something new everytime I hear it. It's like the Benjamin Button of folk albums. Yes, I know I just called it "folk." Shut up.
His lyrics evoke poetry rather than irony, which is a pretty neat trick these days. Irony has become a cheap, tired, and overused safety net for lyricists who are incapable of saying who they are and what they feel. So they tell you what they're not and then paint the picture with overdone metaphors that come off like twinkies- sweet and forgettable.
But irony makes people feel smart because they see through to the underlying (and always obvious) meaning, so it appeals to the jaded, the disenfranchised, and the under 16. When used by guys like Neil Young, irony cuts like a sabre. When used by the guys in Blink-182, it sounds like a video game commercial.
This diatribe has been brought to you by Eastern Airlines and Turtle Wax.
My point is that David Gray does not go for the easy lyrical play. He doesn't just rattle off half-baked metaphors and he's not interested in sounding clever. He chooses his words like great cooks choose their tomatoes.
David Gray sings about his feelings without indulgence. His songs are wistful, yet not morose. He does not dumb anything down for the listener, and his lyrics they serve his style with unflinching deference. He's one of the few artists I listen to where I still sit down and read the lyrics and liner notes.
This year he released "Draw the Line," to mixed reviews. I tend to agree that more is less when it comes to David Gray. When I first heard the single "Fugitive," I thought that perhaps his shark had been jumped, and like I've done with so many albums, I turned it off after one absent-minded listen, assuming I'd never return to it.
That was back in September, just after the album was released. Then a couple weeks ago, I remembered that I had downloaded "Draw the Line" and that I hadn't really given it the attention that perhaps it deserved. And so I sat down and pressed play. I was ecstatic to realize that like a bottle of California red, the album just needed a little time. Ok, I needed just a little time to settle myself and come around for the album.
"Nemesis" was what did it for me. The simple, childlike melody that begins the song quite literally made me stop what I was doing and look at the stereo, as if David Gray might pop out and say, "See what you've been missing, jackass?" It is simply beautiful.
I won't do a track by track review. I've already written far too much (and if you're still with me here, thanks!). But like "Life in Slow Motion," it's got its weak spots, although they are far outweighed by the high points: "Nemesis," "Jackdaw," "Fugitive" (yes, it's grown on me), and "Stella the Artist" all stand out for me.
The nice surprise with the new album is that it comes in a Deluxe Edition, which includes a bunch of live tracks that are stellar reminders of how exciting his live performances are. It was nice to enjoy the music without the morbid embarrassment of an ill-advised slow dance. It was just nice to hear him reinterpret his classics. The album kicks ass, the music will not let you down, and at the end of the day, when you buy a record, that's all that matters.
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