Top 20 of 2007: Out of the Dark, Slowly

15. Mark Olson The Salvation Blues

Divorce is ugly.

In a world too easily desensitized to, well, everything, we often forget that a promise is a promise, and whenever that covenant bond is broken, it just plain hurts. I was shocked when I heard that ex-Jayhawk Olson and the sublime Victoria Williams had split. I was introduced to Victoria's music by my lovely wife, and I can truly say that I have never had the same visceral/spiritual reaction to seeing any artist as when Vic and Mark would ramble their family lovin' show into town (or when we would pack up and go find them somewhere along the road). We assumed that theirs was a forever story, and the news of their divorce was heartbreaking.

But joy comes in the morning, right? Sometimes. And sometimes you just remember the anguish of the day before. This is the space in which Olson gives us The Salvation Blues, a bittersweet rumination on loss and the redemption that can follow if you're brave enough to make it through the night. It's his first real solo record, as all seven(!) albums he put out after leaving the Jayhawks (under various versions of the Creekdippers name) were family affairs. There's not much new here musically, but it hardly matters when an artist has as compelling a sweet spot as Olson does. A true poet, he never shows all of his cards; even as a Jayhawk, his songs had a sweet mystery to them, and that trait continues here. Jayhawks mate Gary Louris shows up on a few songs, as he has been wont to do of late, and falls right into the glorious harmonies that made those early records so special.

I'm Just Sayin'. (interlude)

For anyone paying attention:

I have now exceeded my total number of 2007 posts, and it took only three weeks. Also, I now have enough posts that when you scroll down to the bottom of the page, you can click on "older posts."

I'm just sayin'.

Top 20 of 2007: The King Is Back

16. Jay-Z American Gangster

What does a rush of creativity sound like? Well, if your name is Shawn Carter, it sounds a lot like American Gangster, a positively massive record which had its genesis in a screening Hova took in of the Denzel Washington flick of the same name. (I haven't seen it yet, but i'm-a catch it at the dollar theatre. Star City -- holla!) He got inspired, and a few weeks later, boom. Another career highlight, a loose concept record based on his own personal "road not taken" story. Gangster is a course in savvy semi-autobiography, but leaves plenty of room left over to speak up on Don Imus. Whether he's out-stunting Lil' Wayne on "Hello Brooklyn 2.0" or riding with Nas over the freaky-deaky organ of "Success," Jay takes no prisoners. Nor, apparently, does he need hooks, as evidenced by the concise refrain of "No Hook": "I don't need no hook for this sheeeeeeit." (See?) And I didn't even mention the party-in-a-box horns of "Roc Boys (And The Winner Is...)," coming in just a hair behind Public Enemy's straight-out-of-nowhere "Harder Than You Think" in the "wildly exuberant horns that make you forget where you are and possibly embarrass yourself with public dancing" category.

(The PE record didn't make the Top 20, so I had to mention "Harder Than You Think." Nothing in 2007 rap made me happier than finding out that Chuck and Flav can still bring it in a big, bad way. A monster of a song that finds PE adding inspiration and poignancy to their always-righteous anger. Unreal. Anyway, back to your regularly scheduled programming.)

Now, I'm not in the first million to speak on Jay's no-paper writing method and effortless flow -- everybody knows he's the best MC alive -- but come on. He's ridiculous. One of the most nakedly obvious facets of hip-hop is that it's a young man's game, but here comes Jay: still clever, still astonishingly fluid, still making genius beat choices. Gangster is a thinking record, on its feet for the whole 60 minutes, daring you to listen twice. It'll take more.

Top 20 of 2007: The New Guy

17. James Morrison Undiscovered

Hands-down, my favourite new artist of 2007. It's ridiculous to me that no one has really heard of this guy. (Unless all the people who have are lame or from VH1, in which case I obviously wouldn't know about them, since I don't associate with lame people. Or VH1 people.) At any rate, in a world being quickly and seemingly irreversibly drained of singers -- or maybe just overfilled with folks that have no business singing (looking at you, Brandon Flowers), this kid can flat-out blow. It's an unlikely package: He's 22, British (didn't you see the "u" in "favourite?") and a shaggy-haired dead ringer for Chris Martin, but Morrison's voice, a 70/30 split between Stevie and early Rod, is a revelation.

And the tunes! Sweet Lord, the tunes! Naturally soulful (no small feat), familiar without being cloying -- when did it become a crime to just write great songs? The strenuous avoidance of pop is just so damn trying to me. Listen to "Wonderful World" or "Under the Influence" and try not to sing along. Morrison also scores major points with "The Pieces Don't Fit Anymore," a knockout of a ballad that just underscores the fact that no one writes good ballads anymore.

Man, reading that back, maybe I should have ranked him higher.

Top 20 of 2007: Pop Factory Blues

18. Fountains of Wayne Traffic and Weather

Usually, a Top 20 list (or a Top Anything list, i imagine) isn't the venue to air grievances, but I have a problem with Fountains of Wayne. They're arguably the finest pop songwriters working today, and I am convinced that there is a perfect album hidden inside each of their four releases. When they bring it, they're untouchable. The problem, however, is this: there are, with the possible exception of their debut record, one to three "Come on!! Why??" songs on each album. Not bad songs -- just too many steps down from the rest of the material. A little bit of what I like to call not bringin' it. A modest proposal: some quality control. Not Ryan Adams-level quality control, mind you. Just a bit.

That said, Traffic and Weather is another near-perfect record, and the first that I would classify as a grower. It's kinda refreshing to have an FoW record reveal its charms slowly; usually, I just leave my money on the pop nightstand and marvel at the effortlessness of it all. But the thing that most consistently knocks me out is their uncanny ability to wring genuine emotion from the seemingly mundane. Sure, they're clever. Sure, they're funny. And every once in a while, they're good for a kick-ass guitar solo. It's that extra layer, though -- the big-city loneliness of "Someone to Love," the restless ache of "New Routine," the unabashed sweetness of "Michael and Heather at the Baggage Claim" -- that makes them extraordinary.

I also got to see them live for the first time this year, and through a series of random acquaintances, had nachos and beer with the band after the show. Superfluous? You bet. But hey, that's blogging, folks.

Top 20 of 2007: ...And They're Great Live!

19. Rogue Wave Asleep At Heaven's Gate

The missus and I saw Rogue Wave open for Feist last October and were immediately smitten. It was one of those heard-of-'em-but-never-heard-'em scenarios, and show led to album purchase led to "ooooooh this is good" led to this here post. Swimming in wide-open melody, chiming guitars and inventive arrangements, Gate was one of the year's easiest listens, front-loaded with gems like "Chicago x 12" and the hand-clappinest indie-rock song of the year, "Lake Michigan."

Top 20 of 2007: I Say "20," You Say, "Double Down"

20. The Shins Wincing The Night Away // Band of Horses Cease To Begin

Sometimes, you just gotta call it like it is: 2007 was a year full of disappointing records. I've never seen a year where so many of my favorite artists were slated to put out records, and I was freaking out at the possibilities. And then...not so much. So let's take a minute to recognize those who did not bring their "A" game in the '07. Hell, some didn't even bring their "B-" game, but that's another list. Here goes: Interpol! (Man, oh man) Bloc Party! (Mmm...you hate to see it) The New Pornographers! (That one hurt) Kings of Leon! (OK, this bit is tired -- speed it up) Also not making the grade in shocking fashion were The Innocence Mission, Over The Rhine, Lucinda Williams and Patty Griffin. Notice how I threw all the ladies in at the end? Yeah, I don't know why either. But enough carping. As with any year, there were sure shots that delivered and surprises you never saw coming. That's why we do this, kids. That, and free records.

Crap. I need to get me some free records. Well, on with the show.

I know, I know: co-20s. I can already hear you: "What's the matter, sissy boy? It's not a Top 21! Why don't you try again when you're not a woman?" (Oh, I know you. You would totally call me a sissy boy. Don't act like you wouldn't. Frankly, it demeans us both.)

Ahem.

The bottom of the list contains, really, two halves of the same coin: The January Album That Hasn't Really Been Played Out, But Still...and The Late Bloomer That You Are Powerless To Not Spin Over And Over But May Not Give A Crap About Six Months From Now.

See? Now who's a sissy boy? What's that? Still me? Damn. Shoulda seen that comin'.

In a year chock-full of potential awesomeness, Wincing The Night Away was 2007's shot across the bow and an attempt from Portland's never-miss kids to shake things up a bit. I grow tired of people who dismiss albums for not fitting "the band's sound," as if artistic growth was something to avoid. Now, Wincing wasn't Kid A or anything, but the hushed tension and noisy release of "Sleeping Lessons" was a great counterpoint to instant-classic Shinsy goodnesses like "Turn On Me" and "Australia." Not all the choices worked -- some songs were a bit proggy, of all things -- but James Mercer's melodic sense has yet to fail him. Or us.

I fell in love with Cease To Begin in my car. I never go far enough these days to get through an entire record, but Cease clocks in at under 35 minutes. Winner. Reminiscent of last year's Everything All The Time without being repetitive, the killer melodies and hazy, spectral beauty will get under your skin. Singer Ben Bridwell still sounds way too much like Jim James of My Morning Jacket, but damn if this record doesn't make for some fine night driving music.

2008 is the new 2007. or the old 2007. it's really too early to tell.

Hey hey, my my, it's time for the Top 20 of 2007. (Of course it doesn't rhyme. I'm a non-conformist.) Just wanted to make sure there were no tricky December releases that, like a woman or a fine grilled cheese, seduced my tender palette. Finding none, we shall -- how do you say? ah, yes -- begin.

Also, I've decided to try out normal capitalization for a while. Hold on.

daring to hope (damn right).

lest this dissolve into a blog solely devoted to my declining health, let us suffice to say that staying up to watch "nightline" last night was doing my body a grave disservice. but it was for a noble cause, a just and righteous cause that i am not afraid -- not afraid, i say! -- to shout to the winds right here on my blog that nobody reads:

i am hooked on democracy.

you read it right, friend(s). i simply cannot. get. enough. i knew who had won the caucuses before "nightline" came on, but i wanted to share in the experience. the history of it all. i wanted to watch charlie gibson and george stephanopoulos stand out in the des moines cold and break it down for me. (i don't have all the "fancy cable," with the "CNN" and the "MSNBC," so ABC News will have to do. truth be told, i'd only watch the cable channels for non-peak hours nerd coverage anyway.) i've always been idealistic, perhaps to the point of ridiculousness and definitely to the point of mass disappointment when things aren't as "West Wing"-y as i'd like. which, it goes without saying, has been very, very, VERY often these past seven-odd years. bearing witness to the worst administration in history can be, if you'll allow me, a drag. or, if you prefer, a bummer. that said, it seems like change may finally be in the air. i can't tell you how excited i would be with an obama-huckabee general election.

let's clear something up straightaway: i'm an obama man. i believe that he's an honest-to-God one man paradigm shift, and i think he represents the best shot at legitimate change in presidential politics since maybe bobby kennedy. wouldn't it then be joyful to, as a nation, a family, experience a race with two guys that both trade in the politics of hope? i gotta say -- i wouldn't vote for the guy, at least not over obama, but i have love for mike huckabee. i love that wall street hates him for the dastardly, un-Republican trait of realizing that spending money on education and roads is good for the electorate and, oh yeah, actually giving a shit about poor people. it's also massively encouraging to see a down-the-line conservative Christian candidate not being, in the charming words of my friend josh, "a retarded fuckstick." (i always promised that if i ever quoted you, shua, i'd do so warmly and accurately.)

anyway, to use the parlance of our time, i'm hella stoked. four days until new hampshire.

it's on.


photo courtesy of The New York Times.

the death of the party.

i've been married for ten years now (!), and the missus and i have a groovy Christmas Eve tradition which was initially intended to be a close-family-only gathering. After a few phone calls by a confused grandmother, however, it expanded, and has now evolved into a spirited free-for-all welcoming, well, anyone and everyone we've ever met.

and we serve chili.

don't ask -- there's no cultural/spiritual/pedagogical reason. we just like the hell out of some chili. and after ten years, we have a reputation to uphold. literally tens of people look to us to provide spirit (and spirits) each and every Christmas Eve. in short, we bring the party.

but not this year.

in an embarrassing addition to my already robust physical malady portfolio of 2007, i had what basically amounts to an angry ball of tissue removed from one of my vocal cords the week before Christmas. (i'd throw a link to the post where i talked about this, but it's literally two posts down from this one. more blogging in '08! ya heard??) following the surgery, i was on complete voice rest for six days. this will be something, i thought. i will retreat inside myself, and i will ponder faith and sex and God and the life of the mind. instead, i got a massive sinus infection and laid about moaning for a week. except that i couldn't moan. i just felt silently sorry for myself. after some "conversation" about it, the wife and i decided it was just too much work to pull off the party. my father-in-law came over (it was always part of the tradition that we open gifts with my wife's family after the last stragglers had gone home), and we had a bottle of wine and a bomb lasagna. except i didn't have any of that, because i had been told by my doctor that very morning that i was to be alcohol, caffeine and tomato-based-food-free for the next month. my leftover turkey was delightful.

Christmas came and went and was glorious, save for the rookie mistake we made in not pre-assembling the "big gift," a twisty crash-'em-up car track for our four-year-old. this set us back about an hour, during which we were exactly as occupied with putting the thing together as we were with keeping our one-year-old's Godzilla tendencies in check. (we're thinking of having his name legally changed to Jack the Destroyer. just has a ring to it.) young kids at Christmastime are exhausting and a pain in the ass and just about the best thing ever.

for New Year's, i carried around a beer bottle full of water all night long. come on.


the picture above was nicked from hecatedemetersdatter.blogspot.com, whose proprietor, hecate, describes herself as "a woman, a witch, a mother, a grandmother, an eco-feminist, a lawyer, a gardener, a reader, a writer, and a priestess of the Great Mother Earth." outstanding.

my very first record player (a few words for bradly).

i recently purchased a record player. after literally years of talking about it and actually amassing vinyl (i worked at a record store, so it came cheap, if not free), i finally have something to play all that vinyl loveliness on. a hi-fi, if you will. and i will. so for the first of what i hope will be many new adventures in hi-fi (if you think that pun is bad now, just wait), i am endeavouring -- nay, i have already begun to endeavour -- to immerse myself in R.E.M.'s early catalog using only vinyl.

(see?)

i've been a big R.E.M. fan for a long, long time, but i'm not as intimate with the first few records as i want to be. Chronic Town, Murmur, Reckoning...i'm comin' for ya. and i'm gonna love ya. i'm gonna spin you right 'round, baby. right 'round. like a...oh, all right. that's quite enough.

painting by colin ruffell.

if it's monday, it must be two surgeries.

i'm thirty-three years old, and my body has failed me. for starters, i have what's called a granuloma (basically a collection of angry acid reflux-related tissue) on one of my vocal cords. if you're not squeamish, this is what it looks like.

we'll wait for those brave enough to take the journey.

are you back? easy now -- those are vocal cords. although looking that up made me half-close my laptop lid for fear of being branded the coffee shop perv. anyhoo, one might surmise that such a hindrance may have the silver lining of giving the victim some measure of gravelly vocal sexiness. one would surmise wrong. or wrongly. kinda painted myself into a grammatical corner there. the point is that this thing makes me sound like i'm just about to cry, all the time. not cool.

so, aside from all the false heightened emotion around my house right now, i suppose it's not too bad. i have "the meds," and it'll get better. or it won't, and they'll cut it out of me.

speaking of...

what a segue...or segway...whatever. either is a great way to get from here to there.

so i had a smallish mole on my leg excised a few weeks ago (if you really feel a link would be appropriate at this point, and you can handle it, then check it out here). not a huge deal -- it was a little bigger than they like 'em to be, so they got rid of it. when the biopsy came back (should i really be getting biopsies?? i'm tellin' ya, i'm falling apart), there was no cancerousness, but the cell structure was a little fishy. the docs decided to be safe and take a little more of my body away from me.

so monday, i went in for a little of the ol' outpatient surgery.

again, no great shakes. they wore masks, i tried not to look. they were wonderfully friendly and when it was over, they complimented each other on how glorious a thing they had just accomplished. (you know, the usual.) they wrapped me up and i was out. i picked up a pizza for the fam on the way home, like you do. beautiful august late afternoon, pimpin' back to the car with my hard-earned dinner reward...

what's that dripping on my foot?

turns out i'm walking down the street, leg bleeding everywhere, like i was just the unfortunate target of the world's lamest drive-by. so i stop, gaping like an idiot at the blood now pooling in my four-dollar flip-flops. (well, the left one, anyway.) what the hell do i do now? the surgery ended forty minutes ago, and it's after five. for all i know, my esteemed physicians are hoisting Jager bombs at college night by now. more importantly, how am i gonna get home without getting blood all over my car?

thankfully, the missus keeps old rags in the back for just these types of things and i got home, staggered up the front steps, delivering dinner for my family like the hunter-gatherer that i am -- and positively terrifying my three-year-old:

(him, ashen-faced)"Daddy, are those all boo-boos?!?"
(me, wiping leg furiously) "No, buddy. See? Comes right off. Doesn't hurt."
(him, ashen-faced)

after (no joke) breaking my phone on the way into the house, i managed to get hold of the on-call resident, and following some weird phone tag, i was cheerily summoned back to the crime scene for -- wait for it -- another surgery. this is not a shocking plot twist for those eagle-eyed readers who caught the foreshadowing in the title of this post, but it's slightly gobsmacking all the same.

thankfully, two of the docs who were in on the first surgery had managed to not go home yet, and we skedaddled into the closed (and now AC-less) office to see what was exactly what. it was like freakin' field medicine: hot, sweaty, lots of yelling over the sound of the Life Flight copters roaring past every five minutes. all that was missing was anthony edwards and the Soul Glo guy.

dramatic, i know. i was there. anyway, the crack diagnosis was a blown stitch caused by an overeager blood vessel, so they opened me back up, took care of the lil' bleeder and then closed me back up. again. but not before i got a peek at the open wound. my God, it was nasty. it looked like the Eye of Sauron right there on my leg. i know...gross and evil. oh, and when i said "closed me back up," what i really meant was "closed me back up except for the big hole at one end that they left open so they could stuff gauze in there and make sure it doesn't get infected and that i have to go back, like, 4 or 5 times to have checked out so that they can then close me up with full confidence that my leg won't fall off." yeah, that was it.

don't get moles, kids.

my son is way awesomer than Yoko Ono.

my 3-year old son writes songs.

constantly.

this, of course, is awesome. he composes for drums and piano (I am his manager -- don't even think it), and he is currently exploring Onoesque noise rock. mostly monochromatic. granted, not the most accessible stuff, but i'll be damned if i'm gonna let anyone compromise his vision.

as adept as he is instrumentally, tho, i happen to think his greatest gift lies in his lyric writing. here are some samples (copyright!):

from "Old Boy":

he was a boy
he was an old man
he saw a spider on the sidewalk
he picked him up and put him in the refrigerator
and then he left

from "Yes, I'm a King":

one day a king went to his house
yes yes yes
there was a flav there
yes yes yes i'm a king
a funny king kind of snake

i know. i know. (sniff.) genius. i'm not sure if the "flav" is a PE reference, but i'm content to let the mystery be. here are more song titles. i couldn't in a million years make this stuff up.

"Red Leopard Dog"
"Little Egg"
"Dolphin Tree Letters"
"Cymbals Low"
"I Don't Want a Ride"
"I Want It"
"I Go To Town"

enough material for at least a really strong EP. especially those last three...they sound like a trilogy. we could totally get the psych-rock/Lord of the Rings crowd. more as it develops.

God bless The Hold Steady.

when i figure out how to post photos and link things, this'll be way cooler. but i'll try to dazzle with just the words...

Traveled to a little club here in Pittsburgh the other night to catch The Hold Steady, a band i have been falling deeper and deeper in love with since being introduced to them last fall. 'Twas the first time in a long time that just me and my girl went in search of the rock (kids will, in fact, do that to ya), and the rock we surely found. We also found God and Springsteen and dead poets and drugs...and community, in a room full of people singing along 'till their faces were red to songs about God and dead poets and drugs and community...and maybe Springsteen too.

The Hold Steady are the poets laureate of bar rock, and the show was a stunner. They disarmed with a guileless exuberance and made an authentic connection with their Boss-tastic gospel-of-rock-and-roll delivery. Pure joy. The songs? Glorious and heartbreaking, tragic and grand and beautiful. Outside of U2, I can't remember a stronger sense of togetherness at a rock show. There was something other in the room, a spirit in the songs that said these are our magnificent, dissolute lives. Together we will make our way through this beautiful mess. All this from songs about boys and girls getting high? Talk about finding God in the trashbins...


"Citrus," from The Hold Steady's Boys and Girls in America
hey citrus
hey liquor
i love it when you touch each other
hey whiskey
hey ginger
i come to you with rigid fingers

i see judas in the hard eyes of the boys working the corners
i feel Jesus in the clumsiness of young and awkward lovers

hey barroom
hey tavern
i find hope in all the souls you gather
hey citrus
hey liquor
i love it when we come together

i feel Jesus in the clumsiness of young and awkward lovers
i feel judas in the long odds of the rackets on the corners
i feel Jesus in the tenderness of honest nervous lovers
i feel judas in the pistols and the pagers that come with all the powders

lost in fog and love and faithless fear
i've had kisses that make judas seem sincere

If I see a better show this year, it'll be a miracle.

meta-mustaches (writing is writing).

...so today, we're gonna deconstruct the content of context. not in some grad-school seminar way, either. i'm getting out the wrecking ball.

i've been mentally handcuffed for a year concerning this blog: what am i gonna write about? what is it gonna BE about? does it have to be about anything? should i keep things separate from each other -- music, writing itself, parenting, following Jesus, failing spectacularly at gainful employment, etc., etc.? should it be funny? should it be sincere? should it be intellectual? boxes upon boxes, within boxes, and no writing. a colombian drug lord's mansion's worth of rooms filled with context (and possible context) and no content.

i'm happy to say that i was saved by a mustache. (of course i was.) here's what happened:

i had a spirited exchange with my brother over the email this week about, among other, nerdier pursuits, mustaches. a little context first (but only a little): i am part of a group of guys that endeavors to take a yearly boys' weekend to balance out all the careening normalcy that tends to creep up as one approaches and enters one's thirties. standard boys' weekend rules apply -- lots of drinking and eating junk and sitting around, with the occasional ill-advised foray into physical activity, i.e. drunken football or, for the less adventurous, drunken billiards. i also think that mustaches are horribly, irreducibly funny. all the time. with no exceptions. naturally, i have for years been trying to organize a mass mustache event with any or all of these aforementioned guys. dinners out, amusement parks, baptisms -- you name it, i have tried to get a bunch of dudes with mustaches together to do it.

that sounded bad.

moving on, there always seems to be ample interest but little motivation for, say, Mustache Day at Sizzler, so i set my sights on Boys' Weekend. it would seem to be the perfect venue, no? i mean, how hard can it be? you grow your beard out for a while in advance of the event, you shave it down, and hilarity ensues. you've no-one to feel self-conscious around -- just the same bunch of dudes that haven't given a shit about what you look like for years. sadly, despite the seeming sartorial synergy, only two out of the 12-or-so attendees have committed (myself included), and we leave next weekend. so i've been recruiting. which leads me to my brother and the email exchange. here it is, edited for funny.

the players:
me -- me
shawn -- my brother and best editor
ben -- my co-conspirator and always the biggest supporter of Mustache Events.
Deep Creek -- Maryland, where most of these weekends take place
Kennywood -- legendary Pittsburgh amusement park

ME:
you should give further consideration to your participation
in Mustaches At Deep Creek In '07 (still working on the name...i know
it sounds a lot like Mustaches At Kennywood In '02. and '03. and
'04...you get the picture). now, ben and i are prepared to be alone
on this -- there's a lot of inherent "fuck you" in a mustache anyway,
and you gotta pay the cost to be the boss -- but at the end of the day
it's like the man say: "The Mo' Mustaches, The Mo' Better." there are
variations on it -- you may have heard it as "The Mo' Mustaches, The
Mo' Sammiches" or (of course) "The Mo' Mustaches, The Mo' Pony Rides."
when traveling europe, you may have heard, "The Mo' Mustaches, The Mo'
Unified Currency."

you get the picture. we're asking for your mustache.


SHAWN:
Mustaches. I don't know. Attitude toward the mustache has polarized the
house in recent days, and has captured far too many news cycles. Involving
the Europeans has only pissed them off. Except the Greeks, also known as
"The Guys That Invented the Mustache." They just snort and talk about how
they invented the mustache. I may just go centrist and avoid the situation
entirely while condemning both sides.

ME:
i am considering your global mustache concerns and will meet
with my staff to address them.

ME:
btw, you were right. the greek ambassador is gonna be a little bitch
on this mustache thing.

SHAWN:
I told you about the Greeks. Short bodies, long memories. And mustaches.

ME:
i tried the unified currency angle with those blasted hellenics, and
all they wanted to discuss was "moustaches" vs. "mustaches."
unbelievable.

SHAWN:
Yeah, bad tactical move with the currency. They INVENTED currency. And
democracy. And the gyro. The euro, feh. They wanted to call it the greeko,
but it turns out it infringed on some wrestling group's trademark.

ME:
i've decided i don't need greek support for Moustaches At Deep Creek In
'07 (they did have a good point with the "o," tho). the rest of the
world leaves them out of the decision-making; why should i be any
different? besides, we've got more than enough italian and french
support. say what you will about the frogs (hasn't everyone?), but
those testy gallic sons o' bitches know their way around a moustache.

let's leave the greeks to the goat meat.
(and...scene!)

so what? i had a vaguely vulgar, possibly-racist-although-admittedly-hilarious exchange about moustaches and now i'm saved? HALLELUJAH, everybody, i'm a-blogging? maybe. maybe not. maybe it just made me understand that no matter what i write about, it's still me writing about it. i don't have to narrow it down. people are at their best when they embrace their contradictions. life is just more interesting that way.

these things i know for sure:

1) it's hard as hell to raise kids right.
2) God is OK with it if music is your religion. if you think that's blasphemous, let's talk about it.
3) stephen colbert is a stone-cold, top-tier genius, and the fact that his faith informs his satire makes him not only borderline-revolutionary, but probably worthy of a CIA wiretap. or however else the government shows the love these days.

all the rest we'll figure out together. like the man say, we're looking for the baby Jesus under the trash.

ten YEARS! TEN YEARS!

...or maybe just the one. but let's face it: 2006 was a down year for blogging. barely anybody did it at all. totally on the way out.

i'm bringin' it back for the '07.

you're a handsome devil. what's your name?

you wanna do some blow?

the ideology shoppe is officially open for business. not selling, tho. i'm buying. got a dogma for me to gnaw on? i'm game. except for "dog guy." i've already ruled out "dog guy."

"skip to the end."
"for a while. for a while."