I was in Whole Foods the other day and they played this song:
And all I could think was What is it about stuttering rhythms, absurd stereo panning of individual bleats, bass lines that go nowhere, and nonsensical lyrics about teenage longing delivered in an overly dramatic (but not quite melodramatic) style that desperately makes me want to buy overpriced artisanal cheeses?
Where do we go from here? Which is the way that's clear?
So your mind works overtime. And you cling to something, anything.
Because you can't have it unexplained.
That way is madness. That way is horror. That way is terrifying.
Hundreds of years ago, this wouldn't have been a problem.
We knew there were a lot of things we didn't know. And yet our minds still spun in circles.
It's the explanations that were different. Otherworldly. Relying on magic and the supernatural to explain the most sublime of pleasures and the most terrifying of horrors.
Over on The Beatles Complete on Ukulele, Tred weighs in with one of the weirdest Beatle covers in history. Declaring "The Ballad of John & Yoko" as the world's first tweet (albeit in song form and with a lot more than 140 characters), Tred deconstructs the song.
He also claims it's the precursor of today's societal inability to distinguish between celebrity's private lives and their art.
In the black-light club, with the bass pounding, and the opening band screaming, she smiled.
And I thought again how beautiful she was when she smiled. How it was like a portal to another word.
And she did that thing girls do where they curl the hair in back of their ear. It's endearing as hell, especially if they can smile like the portal to another world.
But.
The light flashed.
And I looked at her arm. And saw the scars.
"What are the scars from?" But she didn't want to talk about it.
And from then on, I was obsessed with those scars. In the light of day, they seemed to vanish. But I found myself sneaking glances at them.
Maybe it was nothing.
For a long while it seemed like nothing.
And then a few weeks later, the scars looked fresh.
"Why do you have those scars?" I asked again.
She turned away. Didn't want to talk about it.
But I grabbed her hand. And ran my fingers along the scars. The fresh scars.
"Okay," she said. "I don't want to do it."
And she took her hand back and pulled her sleeve down. "Every day I tell myself it will be better. And most days it is. But when it's not... it's really not."
And she smiled. A sad smile. Still the portal to another world.
But not a world she wanted to live in. And not even a world I wanted to visit.
No matter how endearing it is when she tucked her hair behind her ear.
Or, Why I Hate Rochester (originally published January 13, 2010)
She wanted me to come visit her.
So I did. I plopped down two weeks of pay for the plane ticket and went to see her over the three-day weekend.
In the days before cell phones and Skype, we talked twice a week that summer. We wrote actual letters. She proclaimed her love over and over. Said she couldn't live without me.
And I had a bad feeling, but I went. (Link for Gmail subscribers.)
It was a horrible weekend.
She ignored me, was distant, and pretended not to know what I was talking about when I asked her what was wrong.
I kept thinking I shouldn't have come. I should have listened to the bad feeling.
I told her I was going to go back to the airport. Fly standby and go home.
Suddenly, she was all weepy. Crying and kissing me and telling me she couldn't live without me. Begging me to be patient with her.
And things almost seemed normal until I left.
Then she wasn't around when I called. She wouldn't call me back.
And I was stuck in another state doing a stupid summer job I hated, earning next to no money and living in a crappy sublet apartment with almost no furniture, a great stereo, and two crates full of records.
I met a girl I liked. She flirted with me shamelessly, but I didn't do anything. I had a girlfriend. Right?
And so I waited. I wrote her letters. I tried to call. I tried not to pay attention to the sinking feeling.
Two weeks later she finally called me back. When I asked what was wrong, she said "I thought we broke up two weeks ago."
As my world collapsed beneath my feet, I thought exactly three things:
1) It would have been nice for you to f*cking tell me.
2) Tom Petty was wrong. The Waiting wasn't the hardest part. Not by a long shot.
A Story About A Story Explaining Nothing (and maybe everything)
When I was growing up, Senator Dale Bumpers from Arkansas ran for President. His campaign seemed to last for about five minutes (and couldn't have stretched beyond a few weeks).
These days with the Google and the Wikipedia, you can learn all about Dale Bumpers in a few clicks. But for many years, all I knew about Dale Bumpers was this:
When he was campaigning to be President, a reporter asked him why he was running for President. He paused, then told this story:
There was a guy who was infamous in my home county for being the best fisherman around. When others would come home empty-handed, he would always have fish.
One day, the local Fish & Game Warden decided to investigate. So he followed the Fisherman out to a local lake. As the Warden watched, the Fisherman reached into a bag, picked out a stick of dynamite, lit it, and threw it in the water. A second later the dynamite exploded and a bunch of dead fish floated to the surface. The Fisherman calmly scooped them up with a net.
The Fish & Game Warden ran up to him, sputtering and furious. "You can't do that," he bellowed. "It's against the law, it's fundamentally unfair to the fish, and it's just plain wrong."
The Fisherman nodded, reached into his bag, grabbed another stick of dynamite, lit it, and handed it to the Warden. "I just have one question," said the Fisherman. "Are you gonna talk or are you gonna fish?"
There's a lot that I love about that story -- it's folksy, it's colorful, it's memorable, and it shows a healthy disregard for authority. But the best thing about might be that in no way does the story come close to answering the question.
Still, there are times in life when you need to ask yourself if you're gonna talk or are you gonna fish?
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