With Nothing Much At Stake

The Rest Can Go To Hell

I don't remember a lot about kindergarten. But I remember this.

The wave of political correctness hadn't washed over the school yet, so we were sitting "Indian style." In a circle. On the carpet.

And our teacher asked us to all say what we wanted to be when we grew up.

It was the usual stuff -- fireman, football player, astronaut, doctor.

And then the question came around to my friend Dan. "I want to grow up to be David Bowie," he proudly announced.

Our teacher seemed momentarily flustered. She turned bright red. She almost asked a question, then stopped.

As an adult, I imagine what her question might have been. Early or late period Bowie? Bisexual Bowie? Nine Inch Nails wannabe Bowie? Fashion Bowie?

Or maybe she'd ask if Dan wanted to be a musician. Or a singer. Or to marry Iman. Or if he really just wanted to tour with a mime or convince Mick Ronson to take arranging instead of songwriting credit.

And why had our teacher blushed? Was there some hidden desire connected with Bowie? Some wild backstage antics from long ago?

But instead, we moved on. The next kid wanted to train horses. For the Navy. (Oddly, that answer didn't faze our teacher.)

After school, I asked Dan why he wanted to be David Bowie when he grew up. He thought about it for a minute, then said "No, not David Bowie. Kareem Abdul-Jabar."

Because somehow, when you're five and you're new to this whole strange people-being-on-TV thing, it's very briefly possible to mix those two up.

Another Perfect Pop Song

Third in a Very Occasional Series

The second summer of my working life, it rained every weekend. Rain on Saturday. Rain on Sunday.

Then, during the work week it was mostly clear and sunny.

This was a source of ironic amusement for most of June and July.

But by the time August came around, people were pissed. And you haven't experienced pissed until you've spent a hot, humid August surrounded by pissed-off New Englanders.

People who could do so took vacations (and got out of town if they had the means). Others called in sick so they could enjoy one or two days enjoying the sunshine and warm weather. But most of us gritted it out, refusing to believe God could be so cruel as to ruin every single summer weekend.

But He did.

And so, on the Monday of the week before Labor Day, with bright sunshine warming the wet grass, I went down into the subway, waited for the train, then squeezed into a crowded car.

Someone in the corner had one of those absurdly large boomboxes (which ate D batteries like kids eat Halloween candy). After the doors shut, he pushed play on the cassette deck and played this song:


After the song was done, he pushed Stop, stood up, and said loudly "Fourteen. Fourteen fucking weekends in a row." At exactly that moment, we got to the next station, the doors opened, and he exited the train, leading a mass exodus out from underground and up into the sunlight.

As I recall, it rained all three days of Labor Day weekend that year, too.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

I forget about this song for long periods of time, but everytime I hear it (like the other day in a supermarket), I stop to listen. Really, really listen.

And I'm amazed that it's not just a likable and forgettable piece of pop. So each time I hear it, I try to dissect all the wonderfully different things that make "Here Comes That Rainy Day Feeling" (by the Fortunes) a Perfect Pop Song.

Here are a few:

• The melody will be stuck in your head for days.
  
• The singer's voice is specific enough to stick in your brain but general enough to blend in (combining dozens of British Invasion singers with shadings of Franki Valli).
  
• Strings that propel the song forward without drowning it in cheese. (Arguably, the strings bring you right to the cheese border.)
  
• The goofy, percussive tinkling.
  
• The "bop bop" backing vocals mixed way down but still enough of a presence to lodge themselves in your brain.
  
• The surprising sophistication of the guitar and bass parts.
  
• Those great piano chords in the last third that signify importance and hope.
  
• The way the song fades out just before it gets to the happy ending. The song brings possibilities but it's always up to you to choose what you do with them.
  
• The way I always remember a horn section in this song even though you can't hear any horns.
  

Leo the Lion

The Brave Hunter is Low to the Ground

12 pounds of lithe, sinewy grace.

Ears twitch from the other side of the house. He senses something, presses his body low to the ground and moves quickly and silently across the carpet.

A second later, he's in place.

In stalk posture. Whiskers forward. Poised before the window.

His DNA infused with the knowledge and instinct of big cats 50 times his size. And, like most Leos, he believes at times that he is a big cat. King of the Jungle.

He's a rescue. Found on the street, a few inches long and less than half a pound.

Goofy from the first time we saw him, he tried to curl up in his food bowl at the shelter, mewing like something from the scene of a Fisher-Price car accident. But when he first settled into my palm and looked up at me, he instantly relaxed. Totally calm, totally content, totally sweet. (And totally melting my heart even though I've always been a dog person and never had much use for cats.)

He's grown in the past 8 years -- now 42 inches from paw to paw when he stretches out.

But he's still goofy.

He recognized his reflection in the mirror quickly, but never quite understood the difference between the inside of a glass (or a cardboard box) and the outside. And he still regularly jumps backwards up in the air, disturbed by something only cats can see.

To this day, he's doglike -- he loves baths (except for the rinse cycle), plays fetch, and comes when you call him. He doesn't exactly bark with glee at the thought of car rides, but he's relatively happy to ride in the car.

Last year, he developed a urinary infection that was misdiagnosed by his old vet. This made him lethargic and he started gaining weight, eventually topping out at 18 pounds. His new vet quickly figured out the problem, gave him a course of antibiotics, and within 2 weeks his old energy was back.

So we put him on special diet food and put a bird feeder on the porch outside the living room window. Within 4 months, he was down to his bird-taunting goal weight of 12 pounds. He's an indoor cat, so he doesn't actually hunt down and kill the birds. But he'll stalk them from inside. And he'll charge the glass (or the screen) and make them fly away.

And always with a look that says "if it weren't for the window and screen, I'd be catching birds every single day!"

A few weeks ago, I was cleaning the porch and found a small dead bird. When I came inside, his whiskers were all forward. He gave me a knowing "urp" and a look that seemed to say "yeah, I killed that bird with my mind. We cats can do that, you know."


Happy Birthday, Sitka!

Update: For frequent commenter asiangrrrl, here's Sitka as a kitty, recommending one of his favorite books. (Teaching him to read was easy, getting him not to gnaw on the books was a lot harder...)

As you can see, his face has always been head-explodingly cute!

Another Blast of New Music

As the week after Shark Week draws to a close

When the Beatles went to India to study meditation with the Maharishi, it was worldwide news. Maybe enlightenment required more than pop hits.

I'm sure that John Lennon and/or Paul McCartney wouldn't have been able to escape all the press and journey to neighboring Pakistan. I'm equally sure they didn't write a long-lost Beatle hit on a borrowed sitar there.

And I'm positive that the sweat from their hands did not fall on the sitar that day only to drip on the forehead of a young boy years later.

I'm sure none of that happened.

And yet...

There is no other way to explain the music of Tee-M, a Pakistani-born musician now living in Los Angeles. Tee-M's first album, the very tasty Earthiotic... songsfromaoneroompalace has the DNA of '65-'66 Beatles dripping from every track. Here's a taste:


Sure, Tee-M claims he spent his youth listening to rock radio on the short-wave (and to Pakistani street musicians. I like my story better -- even if there's not a chance in the world it's true. Go here to listen to the best song on the album, "And I Was Gone."

If you're a fan of pop music, you're going to want to get this album.



Speaking of Pakistan, floods there have affected more than 20 million people and killed more than 1,500. If you want to help, consider giving to the Red Cross's Pakistani relief effort (or to some other reputable charitable organization).

Stuffed Animal Plots Revealed

It's the Dark Underbelly of Toy Story

With a little more new music for the week after shark week...

Kids (and some adults) are fascinated by stuffed animals. We give them personalities, hold conversations with them, perform musicals for them, lecture them about etiquette (and 18th century German literature), and love them until their stuffing falls out (and then a little longer).

But what are these stuffed animals really thinking? Are they trying to get on Craig Ferguson's show? Telling all your secrets to Mommy and Daddy? Or doing something even more nefarious?

With budget cuts in social services, there's just no money to fund a proper investigation. At least not in this country.

Thank God there are still countries that care about kids. And stuffed animals.

Countries like the United Kingdom, home to investigative journalists and musicians I Am Not Lefthanded... who clearly are not afraid to follow the clues and learn the truth.


So what's going on with the band? In their own words: “We don't play pop music, we don't write music for art's sake, we don't represent any movements, we're not hip, we're not cutting edge, we don't dress to be cool. We manage ourselves, we write our own songs, we do our own recordings, we shoot our own videos, we design our own covers, we run our own website. We're not generally negative people. Oh yes, and we're not lefthanded.”

You gotta admire a band that can stay positive even in the light of boorishly bad behavior on the part of a stuffed animal I will not name (but that they knew and loved).



If you like what you hear, you can contribute to helping the band record their first full-length album and get cool incentives (for 250 pounds, they'll come to your house and bake you 3 different types of cake!). For more info, click here.

Bonus Friday Cake-Fighting Words

New Music Overflows for the Week After Shark Week

What? Two posts on a Friday? How can that be?

Brandon Schott, a fantastic musician, songwriter, and performer, recently took to the rooftops of Facebook to proclaim the cake-frosting-goodness of the pride of Omaha, The Mynabirds.

To completely steal Brandon's line, they're "Dusty in Memphis meets Shelby Lynne meets Carol King." This is from their cool album What We Lost in the Fire, We Gained in the Flood. Enjoy.

Clowns to the Left of Me, Kittens to the Right

Following the Breadcrumbs of Hipsters

If you've been into this band for the past 18 months, you are much hipper than me (and you've probably moved on to 6 other bands you like better, none of which I'll ever hear of).

But for the rest of us, it's August. And the back-to-school sales make us cringe even when we no longer have a summer vacation (or a school to return to in September).

So, as the world continues to lose its collective mind and the bozos keep trying to throw us all under the bus, it's important to sometimes remember that the world can still be a pretty great place. Maybe all we need is important is the warmth of the sun. And a devoted friend (who doesn't seem like a clown to you). And a good song.