Mundane Minutiae, Vol III: Spaghetti and Meatballs

A couple of weeks ago at work I was preparing to put my lunch in the microwave when a guy made the comment "Lasagna with a side order of lasagna, huh?" (The Tupperware container I was using had compartments, and they were all filled with pasta.)

"Yep."

"Nothin' like homemade food though, right?" he said.

"Indeed."

And that was the end of the conversation.

I was thinking about that conversation while I was walking home from the bus stop when I got to thinking about how I like Italian food, but only the common kinds. I like spaghetti, lasagna, and chicken parmesan, but you're not going to find me going much further than that.

Certain people like to kid me about my "pickiness" when it comes to food, chiding me by asking "Well, how do you know you don't like something if you haven't tried it?"

The truth is I don't know, but what does it matter? I know that if I order the chicken parmesan that it'll more than likely be good and I will enjoy my meal. What's wrong with that? (You're boring, you're not willing to take chances, that's no way to live life, I know...)

Then a weird thought popped in my head: My aversion to trying different foods is sort of like being a married couple -- or being in a long-term relationship, for that matter -- in a way.

Think about it: When you marry someone, you've decided that this is as good as its going to get. You don't know that this person is perfect in every way; maybe there's still someone out there with the same record collection, or who shares the same love of whiskey and the Brewers. (Note: I'm quite certain this person doesn't exist.) But you don't need to know, do you? If it feels right it feels right. When you're comfortable enough with someone to want to spend the rest of your life with them that's all that matters, right?

Of course, unlike taste in food no one's going to get on your case about not testing unknown waters. (Unless the marriage/relationship is a train wreck.)

So there you have it - marriage is like spaghetti and meatballs to me. And there's nothing wrong with that.

Concert review: Vampire Weekend at the Riverside

(h/t to @haleylandsman for the pic)

Vampire Weekend might be one of the most polarizing indie-rock bands around today, but that didn't deter their Milwaukee fans from selling out the Riverside Theater on Tuesday night.

Amidst a backdrop of a gigantic picture of their latest album cover -- apparently the girl's name is Kiersten -- and a bunch of chandeliers, the band played 60+ minutes of their polished, somewhat-wordly, but definitely danceable indie-pop.

Considering Vampire Weekend only has two albums under its belt, I was pleasantly surprised to find how tight and comfortable the band sounded. They opened with two tracks from their new LP Contra, "White Sky" and the sunny, should-be-the-next-single "Holiday." The crowd that was formerly subdued by openers Abe Vigoda was now on its feet and wouldn't sit down for the rest of the set.

Lead singer Ezra Koenig didn't talk much, but was unfailingly polite when he did. He acknowledged that though the show was in a theater, that people could still dance. "Sometimes the most fun you can have is in restricted spaces!" he said, as the band launched into the fantastic "A-Punk." You might not believe me, but in the floor area where they took out some of the seats there was indeed a couple of crowd-surfers for this song. I wasn't aware hipster douches knew how to have fun unironically.

The rest of the set was a mix of tracks from Vampire Weekend's debut album and their new one. I particularly enjoyed "M79" and "Oxford Comma," while the deliberately Auto-Tuned "California English" was a lowlight for me. Also, during the rather boring "Diplomat's Son" I went on a beer run for a $3 PBR Tallboy.

Vampire Weekend came out for a three-song encore, which was highlighted by set-closer "Walcott," which is probably my second-favorite song of theirs ("Oxford Comma" is the first). Overall, they set the tone perfectly; it was a show full of good vibes and fun times set to breezy, infinitely catchy pop music, lack of balls be damned.

Openers Abe Vigoda did not fare nearly as well. They sounded generic and the lead singer tried too hard to sound like Robert Smith of the Cure. The actual Abe Vigoda may or may not have been more entertaining.

List of songs played in no particular order:

"Night Sky"
"Holiday"
"M79"
"Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa"
"Campus"
"Oxford Comma"
"California English"
"Cousins"
"A-Punk"
"One (Blake's Got A New Face)"
"Run"
"Giving Up the Gun"
"Diplomat's Son"

Encore:
"Horchata"
"Mansard Roof"
"Walcott"

Seven Songs: Song 2 - "Santa Monica" by Everclear

For most of my pre-pubescent to early pubescent life I was immersed firmly in the music of my parents. Sure, I once convinced my parents to buy me a Vanilla Ice tape ("Those lyrics are horrible!") and was sorta-kinda into really gay club music (Technotronic, Right Said Fred) and gangsta rap (Dr. Dre, Snoop Doggy Dogg), but I didn't have much emotional attachment to it. Aside from The Beatles -- and my feelings for it -- it was all Beach Boys and Herman's Hermits for me.

At 14 years old I had nothing music-wise to call my own. As a shy kid who mostly lived inside my own head -- as a grown man I still do most of the time -- it was imperative that something could speak for me. For all intents and purposes I had no voice.

/sidetrack time

This brings me to one of my favorite stories my dad told me about me.

I was a quiet little boy -- ya fuckin' think -- all of 2 or 3 years old and my parents were visiting with my dad's mom and his uncle. This is paraphrased because it was over 25 years ago, and I couldn't possibly remember it.

Me: /plays with alphabet blocks on the floor.
My dad: He doesn't talk much yet. That's not normal, is it?
Uncle Donnie: It'll come. Maybe he just doesn't have anything to say.

I smile every time I think about that little story.

/end sidetrack

Well, I discovered "alternative" rock radio in the 8th grade. I loved Nirvana (more sidetrack: my dad yelled at me when he saw the booklet for Nevermind with Kurt Cobain flipping off the camera; I thought that was awesome) and Oasis and the Smashing Pumpkins. And then there was Everclear.

I dared not ask for the album that first year -- in fact I bought Sparkle and Fade at a used CD store on my own -- because of song titles like "You Make Me Feel Like a Whore" and "My Sexual Life." But I loved the hell out of that album. It was just music to me at that point, but I still loved it.

Then I started high school. A public school. In a town I had lived in for all of a year and a half. I was optimistic, but I was also scared out of my mind. Still being shy and voiceless, being that proverbial fish out of water, I needed an anthem. I needed something to describe perfectly how I felt. I found "Santa Monica."

Say what you will about Everclear, but Art Alexakis knows his way around a hook. Those opening chords kicked in and I was taken away to my own little place. The first two verses represented my ticket out of Cudahy. I didn't hate suburban life as much as I hated being thrown in with a bunch of people I didn't know. It didn't help, being me, not being able to strike up a conversation with people. In September of 1996, I would have given just about anything to take "my big black boots and an old suitcase" and "find myself a new place."

And then that chorus. Jesus Christ that chorus influenced my worldview, and still does, as sad as that may seem:

We can live beside the ocean
Leave the fire behind
Swim out past the breakers
Watch the world die

Aside from the obvious angst in those lines, he does start it off with "we." Much like imagining myself being held to "With A Little Help From My Friends," I imagined swimming out past the breakers of Lake Michigan, finding some non-existent island with someone, anyone (hopefully a girl, though) to spend the rest of my days with, watching the world die before our eyes. She would soothe the pain of every pretty girl that would sneer at me -- of course, I never would have the courage or confidence to counter that, but what's the difference now? -- and every jock asshole that would make fun of me. Damn, the solution seemed so simple then.

That chorus is great, no doubt, but the couplet at the end of the song brings it all home. If there are two lines in all of 90's rock that I would have to pick as my favorite, I would be hard-pressed to pick something other than this:

I just want to feel some sunshine
I just want to find some place to be alone

In those high school days, it would take me away from those aforementioned sneering girls and laughing jocks; today it's a celebrity-obsessed culture; it's a bickering political wasteland; it's the guy with a high-paying job that he loves, who consumes things just to consume, obtains things just to obtain. I know I can't be bothered to just let go and have a good time -- this much I've known for years -- but I sure as hell can be bothered not to be deluded into thinking this world isn't just puppy dogs and rainbows.

Don't get me wrong, though. "Santa Monica" is far from a downer for me. It makes me feel wonderful every time I hear it. It gets my head bobbing -- and my fist pumping for the 'place to be alone' line -- whenever it comes on. It reminds me -- despite all of the confusion and hurt and hate -- of a time much simpler then the present. Then again with a present full of economic uncertainty, bitter political partisanship, soulless advertisers, pop music based on image (I'm looking at you, Lady Gaga) not songcraft, and reality television, who wouldn't want to swim out past the breakers and watch the world die?

Seven Songs: The Long-winded Intro/Song 1

I recently finished reading Nick Hornby's novel High Fidelity for the second time. If you've read the book or seen the movie – both are wonderful – you know that music plays a prominent role in both. In some promotional footage for the film, John Cusack – who plays Rob, the lead character – talks about how we experience music autobiographically. I have to agree with him wholeheartedly here.

Even more poignant than that, however, is this passage from the book (which also serves as the opening lines in the movie):

“What came first – the music or the misery? Did I listen to music because I was miserable? Or was I miserable because I listened to music? Do all those records turn you into a melancholy person?

People worry about kids playing with guns, and teenagers watching violent videos.; we are scared that some sort of culture of violence will take them over. Nobody worries about kids listening to thousands – literally thousands – of songs about broken hearts and rejection and pain and misery and loss.”

Hornby took those points one step further with 31 Songs, (not quite as good – I didn't recognize most of the songs) a series of essays about songs that affected him in some sort of way. Various authors took notice of this, and McSweeney's even published a bunch of them.

After reading through the songs I knew, I thought that I could do the same thing.

I picked seven songs that, throughout my life, really got to me. Going through them, I noticed that the tracks weren't necessarily connected to specific events; rather, they're concepts and themes that reflect who I was, who I am, and perhaps who I may become.

I hope writing about them doesn't take too long. The longer I get away from an idea, the easier it becomes for that idea to fade away. The songs will appear in roughly the chronological order of my life.

Without further ado, here is the first song in the series:

“With a Little Help From My Friends” – The Beatles

from: Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Heart's Club Band

The short version: Henry Rollins already described it better than I ever could.

***

I was 12, maybe 13 when I would come home from school each day and turn on the television. I watched after-school programs like everyone else – Animaniacs, anyone? – until I got bored. This is when I would scavenge through my dad's CD collection. Aside from the car radio, this is where I discovered the Beatles.

My favorite albums at the time were A Hard Day's Night and Sgt. Pepper. Right off the bat, I heard something in “With A Little Help From My Friends” that resonated with me. Only thing is, something was a little bit off: I didn't have any friends. Sure, I had guys I played basketball or video games with, but I wasn't close with them. I couldn't confide anything in them. They were just dudes who enjoyed my company enough not to tell me to fuck off.

That camaraderie in the chorus (“I get by.../I get high.../I'm gonna try... with a little help from my friends”) was something I longed for. It would kill me every time Ringo got to that second verse:

What do I do when my love is away?

(Does it worry you to be alone?)

How do I feel by the end of the day?

(Are you sad because you're on you're own?)

The third verse doesn't get any happier:

(Do you need anybody?)

I need somebody to love.

(Could it be anybody?)

I want somebody to love.

There were nights then (and throughout my adolescence) where I would hear those lines and imagine myself being held. If it wasn't out of loneliness it was out of the fact that I knew even then that those years of my life were going to be tough. To my feeble mind being held was adult and exotic; it was my ticket out of Hell.

As a child – and probably still somewhat as a grown man – many felt I was afflicted with this profound sense of sadness. Hearing those verses certainly brought it out in me then. I continue to be affected by such lyrics to this day.

Listening to the song now – and I think even then – I can find hope amidst the sadness. Ringo does have his friends to help him get by; I would eventually find friends of my own. Ringo believes in love at first sight; I would find love. Really, I could have picked any Beatles song here. As sad as that song made me feel at 13, it also made me feel human. In those seven years (1962-69, Let It Be was done way before it was released in 1970) the Beatles recorded music, they made songs of joy, exuberance, despair, hurt, love, loss, and a million other emotions and experiences. I can put on any one of those tracks, experience those feelings, and feel alive. It brings me back, in a way, to a time when those feelings were new and exciting.

To listen to the Beatles is to listen to life itself happening before your ears. “With A Little Help From My Friends” was the first song to lead me down that wonderful, terrifying (and, yes, long and winding) road.

Friday Five: Top Five Characters from the Major League movies

On the eve of the day that pitchers and catchers report to the Brewers spring training camp in Maryvale, Ariz., I thought it would be fun to rank my favorite five characters from the Major League movies (not the third one though, because though it was mildly funny, it is not on the same level of the first two), which are easily my favorite baseball movies of all time.

5. Johnny the fan (according to IMDB, that's his name in Major League 2)

Johnny represents the irrational sports fan in all of us. He's ecstatic when the team does something good: "We signed Parkman!" and will turn on a dime when things go bad: "NO! You rotten bums! You overpaid weenies! Mild thing, you make my butt sting! I *detest* you! You're all garbage! All of ya! Back up the truck! Back it up! " and (much like Brewers fans the past few years) is eternally hopeful "Yeah, they went 3-24 in spring training..." Even with the mood swings, it is obvious that he is a loyal die-hard fan (is there any other kind?) and thus is someone that anyone who is a fan can relate to. The comic relief only helps his case.

Best line/scene: After it is evident that Rick Vaughn and the rest of the team aren't as good as the year before, Johnny displays his disgust by turning his Indians cap inside out and having a big black "X" taped over his Indians t-shirt. That shit gets me every time.

4. Rube Baker (C)

Ah yes, a hillbilly backup catcher obsessed with Playboy who can't make the throw back to the pitcher. Not exactly a stock character if you ask me. Like most characters in a comedy movie, Rube is there for the laughs, but he is also kind of a redneck philosopher: "Women... you can't live with 'em, and they can't pee standing up." and "My momma always said it's better to eat shit than not eat at all," are some of his better thoughts. I also thoroughly enjoy when he finally stands up to his former teammate Jack Parkman: "You're on the train tracks, butthead, and the train is coming through!"

Best line/scene: [Rick Vaughn has been demoted to the bullpen, and he broke up with his girlfriend]
Rube: Hey. Ya know Ricky, breaking up with a girlfriend can be a very painful thing. But it don't have to keep ya down for long. I mean, let me tell ya something from my own personal experience. I've never had a regular girlfriend like you, but I did get kicked in the balls once by a mule. Now, I thought I would be hurting for the rest of my life. But you know what happened the very next week?
Rick: What?
Rube: My momma died. Hell, after that, I didn't care no more about my balls hurtin'. You see what I'm gettin' at?

3. Pedro Cerrano (RF) and Eddie Harris (SP) [tie]

It's hard to pick between the two because they're so intertwined in the first movie, so I just went with them both. You've got Cerrano the voodoo-loving stud home run hitter from Cuba, and Harris the down home wily old veteran who isn't beyond resorting to putting Crisco and Vagisil on his body to gain that extra edge over the young guys. They both play vital parts on their team -- much like any real MLB team -- and their clash of personalities make it that much more enjoyable.

Best line/scene:

Pedro: I'm pissed off now, Jobu. Look, I go to you. I stick up for you. You don't help me now. I say "Fuck you," Jobu, I do it myself.

[Pedro said to Harris that it is very bad to steal Jobu's rum. Harris proceeds to drink the rum after Pedro leaves. Harris walks out to the field.]
Harris: Hey bartender! Jobu needs a refill! *gets hit in the head with a flying bat*

2. Lou Brown (Manager)

Lou Brown doesn't take shit from anyone, and that is what makes him hilarious. Insufferable owner that only wants to see the team fail? He has no problem standing up to her, even if he is naked. Prima donna third baseman or center fielder? Brown tells it like it is: "Don't give me that "ole" bullshit!" or "Every time you pop one up, you owe me 20 push-ups!" I'm pretty sure if I were a professional baseball player, I would want to play for him.

Best line/scene:
Dorn: Lou! Can I have a word with you, here?
Brown: Sure.
Dorn: See, I've got it right here in my contract. It says, "I don't have to do any calisthenics that I don't feel are necessary." So what do you think about that?
Brown: [drops the contract on the ground and urinates on it, then walks off]

1. Harry Doyle (announcer)

Bob Uecker stole the show playing Harry Doyle. From what I understand, the producers had a script in mind, but mostly let Bob be himself. Listening to Brewers games throughout my life, this is completely plausible. Bob is a funny guy by nature, and I think he takes his game up a notch with the Harry Doyle character. I don't think the Major League series would be the same without his comedic --yet honest -- takes on the ins and outs of a bumbling baseball franchise.

Best line/scene: There are far too many good ones to pick just one. "Juuuust a bit outside" is understandably a classic. His interactions with broadcast partner Monty are quite good. "The post game is brought you by... Christ, I can't find it. The hell with it!" is right up there. But I'm quite partial to, when, in the second movie while the Indians are playing the second game of a disastrous double-header, and Doyle is drunk: "Well, the Indians have a base runner. I think I'll wet my pants."

Mundane Minutiae, Vol. II: Even When I Win I Lose

Anyone reading this knows that I am not a conversationalist. This is perhaps highlighted by when someone asks me how I am doing. My standard response is usually "I'm all right." or "I'm okay." followed by silence. This is my message to the person that the conversation is over and that I'll be moving. Part of the reason I do this is indeed because I'm a prick and I don't care how you're doing. I will not deny this.

I am not completely a sociopath, however, as even though I don't ask, I still hope that everything's going just fine, even if you happen to be a complete stranger, even one that I don't particularly like.

There is a different reason that I don't reciprocate on this particular question, though. It is because, through many years of observation, that no one in the history of the world that, when asked that question, has responded something like: "Fucking shitty! My wife left me, my dog died, and when I went to a hooker to feel better, I caught a case of the crabs!" I'm exaggerating, obviously, but when you're having a bad day people tend not to confide in mere acquaintances in hallway; they bitch to their friends or significant others.

This, mercifully, brings me to my point.

A couple of girls that work upstairs bring me various FedEx packages and Priority Mails throughout the day, and usually they stop to talk to me for a few minutes. This is not because I am so awesome; it is because I think I represent a respite from their dull day and an escape from their boss whom I can say firsthand sucks ass.

This has been going on for a few months. The conversations aren't flirty -- they both have husbands and children from what I gather -- and they aren't particularly interesting. They've asked about my recent furniture shopping and usually query whether or not I got "wasted" on a particular weekend. (I think they think that I am an alcoholic that gets drunk by himself, which I can't technically dispute.) Usually the conversations end not because of an obvious "out" but because I am socially retarded and say things to them while walking away, or while not adding to a particular point I was making. Once, one of them -- upon learning I spent a night drinking in front of my computer -- mentioned that she had a friend that was particular lonely... my response? "I don't need any more friends."

Obviously there are no budding friendships between us.

Today, they came down as usual, and one of them -- let's call her K -- opened with "So when can I apply for the mail room position?"

I replied "I dunno, it'll probably be a long time."

"Aww, I'm about done with [my current position in the company]."

So I asked K against every bone in my body -- and every conversational experience I've ever had with anyone I've ever met that was not close to me -- "Sounds like you're having a bad day, huh?"

The two of them walked away while the other one -- A we'll call her -- said, "yeah, bad career even!"

I was kind of taken aback. I was being a decent fucking human being if only for a few seconds, and I was denied.

Perhaps it's as simple as that they were only supposed to come down and give me their FedEx packages and get upstairs because their boss was cracking the whip. This is entirely possible. But my cynicism (and low self-esteem) says it's something more like "Oh God, creepy dude from the mail room actually wants to talk me, what do I do? Oh yeah, bail!"

Now if this were the 23-year-old me, I would have written a 3000 word story about it and won an award in the process. But this is the 28-year-old me, and though I care enough to write about it, it doesn't bother me as much. I can just brush it off as interesting, and move on.

I'd Be A Horrible Teacher

I am in the process of training my co-worker -- an older gentleman -- on the afternoon duties at my job. I have never really had this responsibility before at any job I've ever had at any time in my life. I am almost certain this has to do with the fact that my social skills are inept at best, and downright retarded at the worst. But it is now my duty to make sure this guy can fill in for me when I go on vacation. He's picking up the afternoon stuff just fine thus far, but that's not what this post is about.

This little training session reminded me of a question I get every single time, without fail, any time I reveal that I have a degree in English. That question, of course, is "What did you want to do with that, be an English teacher?"

The answer every time, of course, is a resounding "no."

If I wanted to be an English teacher, I would have become one. I imagine getting a license to teach isn't all that difficult, and finding a job isn't too much harder... if you don't care where you teach.

But my reasons are a little deeper than that. Namely, I would be horrible at it. Let's look at the reasons why.

I'll start at the beginning by saying that I coasted through grade school -- a private one no less, so no blaming the public school systems! -- and high school. I didn't have to study for anything. People in my classes always asked me, the awkward, quiet kid if they could copy my work. Naturally, I obliged because I didn't really care. (And maybe because I secretly wanted more friends.) The reason I had it so easy is not because I'm really smart (this would be disproved in college) but because I'm apparently really good at remembering shit. With years of reflection, I still believe this to be the key to succeeding in school, at least through 12th grade: rote memorization. With standardized testing being the norm in our great country, I don't think this has changed any since I was in school.

This would not be a good way to be a teacher, as my solution to the problem of someone not knowing something is usually to just give them the answer. Even when I was school, concepts were of no importance to me. I was told 6+4=10, and I couldn't care less why it equaled that; I just remembered it was 10 so I could move on to the next one. This is obviously not a good way to teach anyone anything, and would only be setting those poor kids up for failure, even if the little bastards would score highly on state tests under my tutelage.

I mentioned my lack of social skills before, and they would also come into play here. I was explaining to my co-worker how to use the mail metering machine and FedEx online, and during the course of the conversation, I could feel my voice getting hoarse. It occurred to me that my throat and vocal cords hadn't been used like that in some time. Hell, my own girlfriend hasn't heard me talk that much, but I'm supposed to get up in front of a bunch of kids for 50 minutes at a time, 6 times a day for 180 days? But it's not even the physical limitation that bothers me; my body would get used to it.

The real problem is that I very rarely have anything of substance to say to anyone, much less a bunch of strangers. And even when I do, I have a whole hell of a lot of trouble actually saying it. Isn't that kind of what teaching is? Let's not even get into my impatience for stupidity or my ability to get bent out of shape over the most trivial things. I would be fired in the first week after some smart-assed punk mouthed off to me about how "boring" Shakespeare is.

Shakespeare brings me to the final point, which is curriculum. If I were to take a job at a local high school, I would have to "teach" what the state wanted me to teach. Most of the shit you read in high school is boring as hell. I thought it was then, and if I were to revisit it now I would probably feel the same way. This, not-so-coincidentally, is the same reason you don't find me being a copywriter or technical writer or writing for any publication that will have me: when it comes to writing, I am not a whore. I won't write whatever you tell me just to get my name out there. Nor can I bring my heart and soul -- which I think is the strength of my writing -- to soulless renditions of procedural manuals or reviews of bands that I couldn't give a shit about. Fuck that.

It is no secret that when I didn't care about something when I was in school, whether grade or high school or college, that I didn't apply myself. This is why I nearly failed my final math class in high school, or my foray into the Spanish language in college. This is also why I would fail as a teacher, because if I think "Romeo and Juliet" is a piece of shit (I don't, but stay with me) it will come across to my students. I could never fake interest in a subject.

Not that you are, but if you were wondering what my syllabus would be for a high school English class, it might start with these books: Brave New World by Aldous Huxley, Cash: The Autobiography by Johnny Cash, High Fidelity by Nick Hornby, and Leaving Las Vegas by John O'Brien.

Essentially I think I would be the Craig Counsell of teachers. He's been a member of two World Series-winning teams; I got mostly good grades in school, specifically in English. He is thought of as someone that just knows how to play the game the right way, without any flash; I may not have a good understanding of the human condition, but I know that it is the force that drives good literature. But in the end he's more than likely going to take his walks and play adequate defense, but will end up hitting .230 and drive in 20 runs. Not someone you want to put out there every day -- last season excepted -- but a decent backup.

I should not be a teacher of any sort, not even a substitute.