Scenes from a Relationship 1

So the other day, maybe a week or two ago, Karen and I were walking down 34th Street. There's an apartment building between 1st and 2nd Ave. that puts all the garbage out on the sidewalk every few days. And this is a big apartment building, so you can imagine, there's a lot of garbage. It's like a wall of garbage, maybe 4-5 feet tall, 30 feet long. Literally. All that garbage, out there on the street.

Anyways, we're walking by all this garbage, literally hundreds or even thousands of pounds of garbage. And at the same time, we notice a funky smell. So Karen turns to me and says, "Was that you?"

Just thought it was worth noting.

Live Report: Love Is All, The Knitting Factory, 3/24/06

Opening Act: I don't actually remember the name of the opening act, and as a public service to them I've chosen not to figure out what it was. They were from Toronto, that's as much warning as I can give you while still giving them some degree of anonymity. They were absolutely terrible. Screeching awfulness. Even worse, their drummer was apparently not completely socialized; throughout the three songs we watched prior to retreating to the back bar, he kept spitting in the air and pouring water all over himself. I'm not making that up. There were great geysers of spittle erupting from the back of the stage. I wonder if the rest of the band has meetings about that. "We've really got to do something about Jeremy and the spitting. Someone needs to maybe talk to him or something."

A redeeming feature: the lead singer made out with her boyfriend Jack while standing next to us during the run up to Love Is All taking the stage, so that has to count for something. In between-song banter (while the drummer dumped a bottle of water on himself) the singer told us about how Jack was her boyfriend and he had lost his backpack and his laptop and passport in a restaurant earlier that day. Hopefully he gets it back. I don't buy into all of the braggadocio about how New York is such a tough town, but seriously, I've seen Jack; he won't last long if left to fend for himself here.

caUSE co-MOTION: The second act on the bill, and an excellent one at that. That's a real hard name to write out. Very confusing, what with the capitalization and all. Anyways, they were a pleasant surprise. Punk energy, upbeat, but with surf guitar. That makes all the difference. It's surprising, because I've never heard a band with a sound like that but it sort of seems obvious when you think about it. I mean, everybody has heard a surf guitar, if only in Dick Dale and the Deltones doing "Miserlou" on Pulp Fiction. It's not some obscure sound or instrument from Outer Mongolia. And yet, this is the first of the hundreds or thousands of indie bands I've heard that incorporated surf guitar, and it definitely made them stand out. So far as I know, c-c hasn't released any proper singles or albums, but I'm fired up for them to do so. They were a helluva band and one I most definitely want to hear more from.

A slightly dissenting vote from Karen: while she liked the band as a whole, she was turned off by the lead singer's voice. We weren't sure if this was normal or if the guy had a cold or something, but he was very nasal and flat-toned. I've listened to enough indie rock and punk bands in my time that voice quality is almost meaningless to me. I can tolerate and even appreciate just about any off-key croak or growl ever layered over guitar and drums. (Call it a benefit of my apparent tone deafness.) So, while I thought the lead singer wasn't exactly a strong suit, I could overlook it. Your mileage may vary.

Love Is All: Tore it up. Just an energetic, engaging band with a lot of charisma. After "Ageing Had Never Been His Friend," I said, "These guys are FEROCIOUS." Karen said, "The lead singer is like a little anime character." And the thing is, we were both right.

For all of their energy as a live act, I have to invoke the Interpol Clause to describe their performance. I caught Interpol last year in DC on the Antics tour. They played sharp and held the stage, but I really came away from the concert impressed by the quality of their songs. I'm not an Interpol obsessive or completist, and I don't think they've yet put together an album where every single song is good, much less great. But their high points, like "Slow Hands" or "Evil" are brilliantly perfect songs. Absolutely flawless. So to some extent, it's really hard to have a bad concert when you have such good songs. Great songs + crisp performance = good concert.

So, I'm already on record as being madly in love with the new Love Is All album. It's fantastic, start to finish, and there's not a single bad song on there. Every single track is just exploding with, like, Raucous Energy. (Which is more bigger than regular Energy.) Listening to the album, it sounds like they've already captured a great live performance. So if they just played it note for note, you'd have a really good concert on your hands. The fact that they actually took it up a notch from that...well, that's what makes for a really great concert.

4 great moments that said, "This is motherfuckin' (indie) rock 'n roll!"

1. People were ululating in between songs, as a way of cheering. What does that mean? Is that a new thing? When did that happen? Anyways, it actually sounded kinda cool. Loud and all, like cheering, only more sustained and less, you know, gauche than calling out, "Woooo!!!!"

2. Love Is All, from Sweden, sang a happy birthday song for one of the guys from caUSE co-MOTION. In Swedish, so it was sort of a, you know, Swedish birthday song. The weird thing is, this isn't the first time Karen and I have seen a Swedish band sing a birthday song. It's like, just something the Swedes do or something. I guess. The Caesars did it last summer, too, only it was a different song. Yet still, apparently, about birthdays. So apparently there are multiple birthday songs in Sweden and all of their rock bands know how to play them. It's like I always say: "If I had a dollar for every time I've heard a Swedish indie rock band play a different and unique birthday song, I'd have two dollars."

3. Long line for the men's room, no line for the women's room. This has happened every time I've gone out lately. And the thing is, people were moving the process along. There was only one stall occupied by a couple of guys doing coke, the other stall and the three urinals were all about guys just doing their business and getting out. So either guys have somehow, through no apparent lack of effort, lost the ability to pee in public locations in a quick and efficient manner, or we all just have to pee more now. Whatever. Lines for the mens' room are the new black.

4. How indie rock is this? During the Love Is All show, and I swear I'm not making this up, someone threw their cardigan sweater on stage. It was beyond parody. I hope this is a new trend. Just as Rod Stewart is pelted with white cotton panties every time he steps on stage, so too should every sensitive young man with artfully disheveled hair and black horn rim glasses and a guitar be pelted with cardigans by his sexually excited fans, both male and female.

Hello Wily Mo Goodbye Arroyo

Add Bronson Arroyo to the list of 2004 Idiots who are now 2006 non-BoSox. I'm moderately excited about the arrival of Wily Mo Pena to the Sox. It seems that, like Coco Crisp in Cleveland, Wily Mo was a fan favorite in Cincy. So that's always nice.

Wily Mo sounds like a "one true outcome" type of hitter: it's either strikeouts or monster homeruns where Wily Mo is concerned. But he's young (24) and hopefully, with help from David Ortiz and Ron Jackson, he can develop some plate discipline and draw more walks. It's not unheard of--Sammy Sosa turned his career around when he learned not to swing at every single pitch at about the same age. And don't give me the knee-jerk complaint about Sosa and his alleged steroid use. The steroids probably changed a lot of Slammin' Sammy hits that would have stayed in the park into homeruns, but that's not what I'm talking about. I'm talking about plate discipline, being patient at the plate and making good decisions about whether a pitch was borderline strike or not. Say what you want about Sosa, but he made himself into a better hitter by improving his pitch selection and drawing more walks, and that has nothing to do with steroids. It sounds like Wily Mo has power to spare, so a bit of discipline could make him deadly.

Do I think it's likely that he'll magically be able to develop that kind of controlled hitting ability? I'm not certain. My most hopelessly optimistic guess is that he's got about a 60% chance of turning into a good OBP, moderately high BA hitter. That number's not based on anything, just a gut instinct guess on my part. (Take that, sabermetrics buffs!) So, I think we got a relatively decent player as is, and there's potential for him to become a star but it's not terribly likely.

Then again, on paper we didn't exactly give up a lot for him. Bronson Arroyo is a solid pitcher but probably no better than a 4/5 starter on a good team. What with the Sox' inability to trade David Wells or Matt Clement, Arroyo was the odd man out in a rotation with 7 starters and it was necessary to clear up some of the logjam there. I also suspect, based on some of Wells' recent comments, that if the situation wasn't a bit more cleared up Boomer might have just quit and the Sox would have lost a starter and gotten nothing in return. Given his age, his salary, and his place in the Sox staff (not good enough to be a regular starter, too valuable to waste away in the bullpen), dealing Arroyo was probably the right thing to do. We dealt from an excess of pitchers and added depth to our outfield in the form of a guy who can fill in at any position and make a great lefty/righty platoon mate with Trot. (And no matter how much I'd like to see a full season out of him, I put the over/under on Trot Nixon's games this season at 100--and sadly, I'm taking the under.)

But the problem with the whole deal, for me, is that it wasn't done completely on paper. I like Bronson Arroyo. He liked Boston and wanted to stay there. I'm not going to say that it's rare to find guys like that, but that has to be considered a pretty valuable, honorable intention in a player when he signs a below-market contract to stay in Boston. He was willing to do anything he could to stay with the Sox, whether that meant pitching as a starter, a reliever, or even tossing batting practice. He was friendly with the fans, of course. Basically he was just a really likeable guy, and I hate to see him go. Both the Sox front office and Arroyo himself have been more or less saying all the right things about the deal vis a vis the contract extension from January and whether that actually implied he wasn't going to be traded. In so many words, they're saying that it wasn't a complete sham, that there were no trades on the table at the time (and that was all he was guaranteed) but this thing came out of nowhere and it was a deal the Sox needed to make. Maybe so, but it still seems sketchy to me. I'm not questioning the deal on the baseball merits, but the way it happened and the guy it happened to? It leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

So I'm going to miss Bronson Arroyo in a Red Sox uniform. I'll be cheering for him with the Reds, and I hope he has nothing but success over there.

My Absence, Sort Of Explained

Sorry for being away for so long. I caught something, maybe the ebola or the bird flu or something. Whatever it was, it's taking its time clearing out. I'm going on two weeks now and I'm still not completely cleared up. wtf? But I'm back to, oh, 96% so I'll call it good. Now to get back to putting up some posts...

Reasons to Be Cheerful: The Joggers

I want to inaugurate a new occasional feature on the blog entitled "Reasons to Be Cheerful." These are going to be things that I particularly like: the songs or albums I just can't get out of my head, the movies that just blew my mind, the most excellent cream puffs at Beard Papa. Things of that nature. Basically the sort of little things that make life good, especially the living part of it. Sound a little too Pollyanna-ish for you? Yeah, it probably is. But it's a Friday afternoon, I'm in a good mood, and I'm looking forward to a nice weekend with some decent weather. Oh, and I'm listening to...

The Joggers, With a Cape and a Cane

I'll say right off that I don't have the critical vocabulary of the real professional critics out there. I can't sit here and pick out all of the unusual instrumentation choices, or tell you if the guitar parts are really complex and difficult to play, or how the mix muffled the upper registers, or if somehow the melody is contrapuntal to they rhythm. (I have no idea what that last phrase means. I read the word "contrapuntal" some where and just mashed it in, probably in a completely inappropriate way. Any musically inclined readers of this post probably want to kick me in the nuts right now, and frankly I can't blame them.)

Anyways, my point being: I lack the technical language to break down the music of bands I like. I have to rely more on how the music sounds to me, how it makes me feel, what it reminds me of. I can't tell you what it is about the Joggers that gives them such a unique sound, what ways they must tune and play their instruments to get such a distinctly off-kilter sound. I can tell you that it's very different from any of the other indie rock bands I've heard, in a way that I didn't quite "get" at first. But on repeated listenings, I've become absolutely hooked.

The thing about the Joggers is this: on first listen, it sounds somehow off. Like the notes are wrong, out of key. The songs are sharp, not smooth. They almost sound antiseptic, like the aural equivalent of drinking lemon juice. Another comparison: when I was a kid, I took piano lessons. Obviously I wasn't as dedicated as I should have been. See the previous paragraph for all the evidence in the world that I failed myself in the music education department. Still, I had my moments where I'd be playing a song and it was going well, it sounded smooth and proper, like a real song and all of the lessons were paying off and my teacher, Mrs. Hardy, was going to be proud of me next time I went for my lesson. But bear in mind, I wasn't actually a very good pianist and those stretches never lasted long; eventually, I'd hit a wrong note that would sound all the more out of place for coming in the middle of all the right notes. That note would be glaringly, gratingly obvious and in my mind, it seems like that wrong note was always on the one key on the piano that was not only the wrong key, it was also out of tune. When you first put the Joggers on, they sound like that out-of-place note.

And yet...and yet. I can't tell if it's in spite of the wrong-note-ness, or because of it, but there's something so beguiling about their sound that it drives me crazy. It could be a contrast thing, because the Joggers have a remarkable facility with hooks; from out of nowhere these choruses emerge in the songs that are amazingly catchy. Take "White Madam," for instance. It starts off with a jittery, scratchy guitar chord dominating through the beginning of the song. (The best comparison I can give that most people would be familiar with is the guitar on Red Hot Chili Peppers, "Give It Away.") It's urgent, nervous, I've-had-too-much-coffee-and-I-just-had-some more. But then, at the 1:50 mark, the chorus kicks in for the first time and that edgy sheen drops away and you fall into this great groove in the song. But before you get too comfortable, a jagged vocal bridge pops up, start-stop-start-stopping ("It's the only time we get / It's the only time we get"). Somehow, though, the chorus once again emerges at around the 3:00 mark to carry out to the end of the song. And that hook, man...it's just so great, so inviting that it pulls me right in. So maybe there's something to the Joggers' sound as being sort of a doling out of rewards: we'll give you some great hooks, but we're going to mix it in with some rough stuff and make you work to get to the good stuff.

And yet, the more I listen, the more I think that it's all the good stuff. It's like riding a rollercoaster. You ask anyone what the best part about the rollercoaster is, it's the rush and the whoosh as you're falling down that first big drop. But the real best part of the rollercoaster isn't that drop, it's the split second right before the drop. The tension and the excitement is at the highest point (literally and figuratively, I suppose), and the thrill of what's about to happen is even greater than the thrill as it happens. It's the last moment where you can consciously think and experience the ride before the adrenaline takes over. The whole ride up to the top of the first drop raises that tension. You hear the clanking of the chain dragging the rollercoaster cars up, you feel your weight settle in as the chair leans back, you look down on the ground below and get a sense of just how high up in the air you are...and you're slowly going higher and higher, which means that the eventual drop is going to be that much further. There's a crucial relationship here: the higher the tension, the greater the release.

So that's why I think the Joggers work so well. A lot of times when you hear about a band that has great "tension and release" it tends to be something like Mogwai, where the songs are much longer and at their finest they might drag out for 10 minutes or more, with several movements that rev up the tension further and further until the catharsis. But the Joggers play 3-4 minute indie rock songs, with verses and choruses. They don't play extended, ominous instrumental sections. And yet they're still able to create this tension as a product of their sound, which leads to the release in the hook. Not only that, but they do it well. That's why I think, as I said just before my rollercoaster digression, that it's all good stuff. I've overcome my initial instinct, which was, "This doesn't sound right, it sounds off, what's going on?" to marvel at the skill. These guys are brilliant, absolutely brilliant at establishing tension, and that's what makes their hooks so rewarding: the release is that much greater after the efficient compression that came before it.

Okay, I'm looking back at the this post and realizing that this is the sort of rave review that will result in absolutely nobody going out to check out the Joggers. "I love these guys, they sound out of tune like a wrong note!" Yeah, I'll call the record store and tell them to stock up. And yet, in all of the music I've consumed over the past several months, the Joggers have been one of the albums that I just keep coming back to. It's not the easiest album to love on your first run, but there's something about it, from the beginning, that connects and only gets better on repeated listens. It's a reason to be cheerful.

Mix Notes: Another Year 2005

This is something I've been meaning to get out for a while. It was originally intended to accompany my last mix disc, made at the end of 2k5 as sort of my own personal year in review of music. As it happened, only a handful of the intended CDs were ever given out, and none of them included my mix notes. I had the whole thing written up, but I just never got around to actually sending it out. So anyways, here goes. Bear in mind, this was written in December, which should make all the "Christmas letter" references and whatnot make more sense.

.......................................................................................

1. Bloc Party: So Here We Are

So here we are, end of another year. And with the end of the year comes, as is typical of me, an end-of-the-year mix. But just to raise the degree of difficulty score on this seasonal tradition, I've decided to mix it with another seasonal tradition: the Christmas letter. You hold in your hands mix notes, a music year in review, and a year in review of my life. And Karen's life, of course, because they're pretty well intertwined. But she sort of rolled her eyes when I told her about this idea, so it's mostly my telling. I sort of think she might issue her own companion piece with entries like, "Cary continued to get crazy ideas like that it would be great to combine mix notes with a Christmas letter, but I put up with him anyways."

In any case, this document right here is some history in the making. It's wildly indulgent, overlong, and crammed with information that may only be of interest to me. But hey, the CD is 75 minutes long, so it might be fitting that the accompanying letter takes you that same amount of time to read.

2. Wolf Parade: Shine a Light
3. Clap Your Hands Say Yeah: By the Skin of My Yellow Country Teeth

It worked out pretty nicely that Bloc Party, Wolf Parade, and CYHSY lead off this disc, because I'd probably have to pick these three albums as my top albums of the year. They've certainly been the ones that were played the most in our apartment(s).

4. Broken Social Scene: 7/4 (Shoreline)

Seems as good a place as any to talk about all of the traveling Karen and I did this year, much of it in the weeks just before and after 7/4 and much of it up and down the (Shoreline) of the Eastern Seaboard. (I know, it's a weak connection. I'm struggling a bit here, this is harder to write than I thought it would be. Bear with me.)

As is probably to be expected for someone of my age (27) and social caste (overeducated kids just now entering the "real world" and finding it too terrifying to go it alone), weddings were almost alarmingly frequent occurrences. (Which reminds me: Ben and Biana, Dave and Liz, Kyle and Rachel, Mike and Peishan, and Andy and Jenny–Congratulations!) My final totals: one Vegas bachelor party, one Atlantic City bachelor party, one New York City bachelor party; three weddings actually attended (out of four attempts–long embarrassing story there–with a fifth wedding in the mix where I could not attend because it was on the same day as one of the others) in such geographically diverse locations as northern New Jersey, Boston, and New Hampshire. I was a groomsman in two of the weddings, and a former roommate to four of the five grooms. Open bars were raided, dance floors were shimmied upon. Sadly, not once–NOT ONCE!–did I get to see anyone object to the wedding in the middle of the ceremony. I really, really want to see that happen. In fact, I'm getting a little itchy to make it happen. If I don't see it soon, I fully intend to do it myself. So, you know, fair warning to all of you getting married in the near future.

5. Dungen: Panda

Swedish psychedelic rock! The whole album sounds like this, it's fantastic. If you're struggling with the lyrics on this one, it's because they're sung in Swedish. (The Caesars, track 6, are also Swedish. But they sing in English. Which you probably have noticed already, if you've skipped ahead to track 6.) As it turns out, real Swedish doesn't sound exactly like the Swedish Chef from the Muppets, which is disappointing to me on many levels. I assume that the song is about Butterstick, the new panda at the National Zoo. (The Man keeps trying to tell us the panda's name is Tai Shan, but we know better.) Karen and I are huge fans of Butterstick, and every so often if she spots a picture of him she just starts giggling hysterically and saying "You're so cute! Yes you are, you're so cute! Aren't you so cute? Yes! Yes you are! Woojy woojy woojy woo!" It sort of devolves from there. But here's the interesting thing: Karen's panda talk actually sounds sort of Swedish, or at least Swedish Chef, so it brings us right back to the song. Connection? Almost definitely.

6. The Caesars: Over Fore It Started (Live in Detroit)
7. The Go! Team: Huddle Formation (Glasgow Beat 106 FM Session)

Some fun live stuff from two of the many bands we saw this year. In addition to the Go! Team and the Caesars, we saw the Arcade Fire, Bloc Party (twice), M83, British Sea Power, Ambulance LTD, Wilco, the Roots, M.I.A., LCD Soundsystem, Interpol...just a great year for concerts. I developed an arcane set of rules to determine who would and would not appear on this mix, which in its initial form ran for just over five hours. Karen wisely convinced me to keep it to one disc, but otherwise it would have included pretty much every one of those bands. Their absence says more about the lack of space than about their worthiness. LCD Soundsystem... M.I.A....Arcade Fire...can you ever forgive me?

As for the Caesars and the Go! Team, more needs to be said. The Go! Team are probably the best band in the world that would be appropriate for 4-year-olds. They're giddy and silly and exciting and just generally excellent, and as good as the album is (it's fantastic–like some weird cross between cheerleaders, Sesame Street, and theme music from '70s cop shows), the live show tops it.

The Caesars, meanwhile, are a really odd case. We saw them in July at the 9:30 Club in Washington DC, where they were touring in support of their great and utterly overlooked album, Paper Tigers. The whole album is catchy and diverse, with a great '60s psychedelic feel, and they got a lot of exposure because their song "Jerk It Out" was featured on the iPod commercials. So it was baffling that the 9:30 Club was 2/3 empty for their show. Have you ever seen a band give an outstanding, engaging, just plain rawkin' performance in front of a near-empty house? It's weird. So anyways, I've taken it upon myself to push these guys in the hopes that they'll get some recognition and come back again, because as good as their show was, it would have been killer if it had been in front of a full audience that was fired up and into the music. So, my deal to you: if you like this song and go out and get Paper Tigers, I'll hook you up with a bootleg of the Detroit show where this song came from. Cool?

8. French Kicks: The Trial of the Century

For Karen and I, the big trial of the year was the New York bar exam that we took in July. It was not, in fact, calm and pleasant like "The Trial of the Century." Nevertheless, we soldiered through and both passed with flying colors, or at least passing scores. Taking a bar exam is a deeply crappy experience, the sort of thing that ruins a whole summer because you study intensively from late May to the end of July. In August you look around and wonder where the time went, and by the time you get your bearings, it's September. That's just the sort of test it is: a test without mercy, a test without remorse, a test with essay questions as well as multiple choice. Merciless, remorseless multiple choice.

But in the end, it was worth it because it allowed Karen to come to New York City in September and start her job as an attorney at Arnold & Porter, following her graduation from Georgetown Law in May. And it allowed me to follow her to New York City and take a job with ____________, a prominent and exciting law firm/government agency/private consulting company/fast food joint (pick one). Okay, so that part of the story is still a bit fuzzy. I leave a blank so you can later fill it in when I do find a job. Hopefully not too much later.

It was a sad decision to leave Washington DC. I left behind a job with Ackerson Kauffman Fex, the law firm I worked at for the past year–good people, all. I left behind good friends, of course. Not to mention a really excellent record store, CD Warehouse–very pertinent for much of the music you're listening to now. And scarcely a day goes by that I don't miss my status as a regular at the local Quiznos, where everyone knew not to put tomatoes on my sandwiches. These are relationships you build up over time, and it was hard to leave that. But it was worth it to make the leap, as New York provides me with a much needed change. Not to mention that I get to be with Karen. As Karen goes, so goes my nation.

9. Koushik: Be With
10. Edan: Promised Land

The hipster rule of thumb, when making year end mixes or best-of lists, is that you must have at least one but no more than three hip hop artists/songs. Hence Koushik and Edan. Incidentally, Edan's Beauty and the Beat album was, hands down, my favorite hip hop album of the year, no contest. I'd put it up there with the Wolf Parade/CYHSY/Bloc Party albums, easily.

The reason for including the dash of hip hop is to show that we, the artsy, self-consciously "cool" hipsters listen to all sorts of diverse types of music and not just indie rock. In fairness, you might have gotten the idea that all I listened to this year was indie rock, at least from listening to this CD. However, there was a lot more in music this year that I enjoyed that just didn't fit in this mix. Diplo's incursions into more and more esoteric pockets of world music, favela funk from Brazil, M.I.A.'s strident provocation and thumping beats, the many variations and permutations and outgrowths of "minimalist" techno on labels like Kompakt, and more abrasive stuff like pretty much everything to come out on DFA Records all shared significant amounts of my headspace this year. So yeah, the B-Sides compilation to this mix is gonna sound completely different.

11. Sigur Ros: Glosoli

Sigur Ros is a band from Iceland that sings in an imaginary language that they made up. (I'm not kidding.) So, with the Dungen song, that makes one song in a foreign language that you don't know and one in a pretend language that no one knows. Only two non-English tracks on the whole disc? Well off my average. I'm losing my edge.

12. Clell Watson: "No Law" (from the Deadwood Soundtrack)
13. My Morning Jacket: Off the Record
14. Calexico / Iron & Wine: Sixteen, Maybe Less

Gotta have a Deadwood reference somewhere in here. Karen and I visited the actual Deadwood, South Dakota at the end of May. We didn't check to see if there is, in fact, no law at all in Deadwood now. I did check to make sure that there was a Taco Johns there, which was fully present and accounted for. Mmm...potato oles...

The visit home was nice. I suspect maybe a little bit intimidating for Karen, but she handled it like a pro. In South Dakota we were able to catch up with the family, always nice. Chris wasn't there, as he was busy all summer traipsing around Europe and getting engaged to Mikayla. When they get married next summer, Mikayla will become the sister I always wanted. The sister I actually got, Kelli, is so going to kick me in the shins for that last line. Kelli graduated from Sturgis High School last spring and just finished up her first semester at Mom and Dad's alma mater, Jamestown College in Jamestown, ND. Mom and Dad are making the adjustment to the empty nest pretty well, from what I can tell. I trade cooking tips with Mom and complain about politics with Dad, and we're now in the fourth month of negotiations to determine when and how they can get Karen and I to take Jackson to live with us. Jackson being the family basset hound. His hobbies include drooling and howling. So do mine, come to think of it.

I only recently got the My Morning Jacket album and it's excellent, so good in fact that I feel bad to have missed out on the couple of albums they've released before now. So I'm no expert yet, but I'll work on it. The Calexico / Iron & Wine, meanwhile, was recommended by my Dad. I suspect he would have recommended the song "History of Lovers" off the album, and that might be an even better song than this. Couldn't hurt to check out the album ( In the Reins), it's really good from top to bottom and it won't set you back since it's only like $7. Which is a fair price to pay for some of the most beautiful, melodic country-tinged rock music you'll hear all year.

15. Trespassers William: Vapour Trail
16. Sia: Breath Me

Karen and I each had a favorite Mazzy Star-esque breathy-female-vocals-backed-by-lush-pretty-music song this year. For me it was "Vapour Trail," for Karen it was "Breathe Me." We're both too moody and melancholic not to have a couple songs like this on here. If you'd like, this would be a good time to take a deep sigh and look longingly out the window.

17. The Magic Numbers: Hymn for Her
18. Wolf Parade: This Heart's on Fire

Finally, two songs at the end of the mix for and about Karen, who has proven to be the greatest friend, collaborator, and partner-in-crime I have ever known. She has made her appearances throughout this letter, and in truth I can't imagine any part of this year without her. Through all of my experiences this year she's been my rock and my support. I'd like to think I've been her rock too, at least in the sense of being a big heavy object that weighs her down. (My preferred term for myself is "ballast.") I seem to make her smile from time to time, and that's more than enough to make me happy. Which leads to me smiling too, which tends to make her smile more. It's a good system.

"Hymn for Her" is just a really pretty song from a great album. At least, I think it's just a really pretty, melodic love song, but perhaps I should look up the lyrics before I make any assumptions. I have a tendency to fall in love with songs without ever really noticing the lyrics; sometimes only months or years later do I figure out that the song's lyrics are about something completely different from what I had in mind. I really like the harmony between the male and female vocalists on the chorus, and if this song doesn't mean what I think it does, it really probably should.

"This Heart's on Fire," meanwhile, may really be the most perfect lyrical summation of our relationship. Like the song says, "Sometimes we rock 'n roll, sometimes we stay at home." And it's so true! Sometimes we rock 'n roll, while at other times we stay at home. Actually, to be fair, most of the time we stay at home. If the song wanted to be completely, absolutely accurate, I suppose the line would be, "Most of the time we stay at home and order Chinese for delivery and watch Law & Order reruns, but on occasion we do go out and rock 'n roll." That would probably be a bit too wordy, though, and I'll let the original lyrics stand because the whole "rock 'n roll / stay at home" dichotomy is still appropriate. And fitting. More or less. Beyond that, though, the lyrics really do nail it. Not to get all soppy and sentimental on you here, but I can say, without reservation or qualification, that when it comes to Karen, this heart is on fire. It really is getting better all the time.

Barry Bonds = Steroid User. So What?

Eh. I don't disbelieve it, I'll say that. But it's not as big a deal to me as it is to other people. He doesn't bother me in particular, so that's one thing. (He seems to rub most people the wrong way.) Aside from the fact that he's about to pass Babe Ruth, I don't see why there's so much attention focused on him when there are so many other players, stars as well as scrubs, who also probably used steroids over the past decade or so. The only other relevant, currently productive (i.e., not Raffy Palmeiro) player who was hounded this much for steroids was Jason Giambi. Of course, once Giambi started playing well last year, people all of a sudden forgot all about his steroid use--and he's actually admitted to it, which Bonds hasn't done. (Giambi, because of his Yankee-ness, is the steroid user that I really hate. Of course, if he had been playing for Kansas City for the past 5 years, I'd care about him about as much as I care about Bonds.)

I know a lot of people are upset about steroid abuse in the game, but I figure that it wasn't against the rules at the time (so the players weren't cheating) and there's never been a set way of comparing players across different eras (so steroids didn't ruin the "integrity" of the game, inasmuch as there never really was any integrity to the game.)

I should say that I think there should have been rules against steroids, and it's bad that baseball is only now getting around to it. But I just can't work up the righteous indignation and outrage over Barry Bonds doing something that was within the rules of the game that was also apparently done by large numbers of other players, not just the handful of stars associated with steroids. Forgive me, I'm five years into the GW Bush administration, which has given me something new to be outraged about nearly every day. I've got outrage fatigue. Anyways, the steroids: they were stupid, yes, and short-sighted in terms of the health risks. And I suppose it set a bad example for the youths, but I've never really given that argument much weight, whether it was applied to star athlete steroid abusers or presidential blowjobs. I just can't bring myself to frothing anger against Barry Bonds personally. Your mileage may vary.

As for the integrity of the game, it's true that Babe Ruth didn't have steroids. But he also didn't have to play against black or Latino players. Look at the WBC. Perhaps the two most talented teams are the Dominicans and the Venezuelans, while the equally powerful American team is led by Alex Rodriguez, Derek Jeter, and Dontrelle Willis. Anyone who wants to put an asterisk by Barry Bonds' stats better also be willing to put an asterisk next to Babe Ruth's stats. Personally, I think the "stats inflated by not having to face many of the most potentially talented players in the world" asterisk should be bigger than the "stats inflated by taking drugs available to all of his competitors" asterisk. Maybe they'll put the Babe's in bold. Or italics. Or both, dare to dream.

(Quick digression: is it possible that 50 years from now we'll be looking back at today's game and saying that it was tainted because there are only a handful of East Asian and European players in the game and no South Asians or Africans? 50 years ago was only the beginning of the integration of the game with black and Latino players, and the demographics of the game are still shifting today. I see no reason to believe that it won't keep changing for decades to come, as other nations begin to develop players able to play at a major league level.)

Hank Aaron, meanwhile, didn't have the benefit of steroids, and he also didn't have the benefit of full-time strength coaches and nutritionists, or first-class flights to away games, or the latest advances in medical science. And he didn't have videotaped analysis of every one of his at-bats or highly trained specialists working on every aspect of his swing. But then again, neither did the pitchers he faced--today's pitchers have reaped the benefits of improved conditioning and analytical tools along with the hitters. Steroids have been one way that the modern player is an improved physical specimen over his predecessors, but certainly not the only one and maybe not even the most important one. Can you imagine what kind of numbers Mickey Mantle would have put up if he had the nutritionists and conditioning coaches and PR flacks ("Now, Mick, the Yankees are presenting a clean-cut image for the family audience out there--how about instead of the booze you have a nice cool glass of milk with dinner and get to bed early tonight?") that he'd have around him as a modern player? Or what Roger Clemens, with his year-round conditioning and preparation, would have done to 1940s lineups filled with hitters who spent the offseason working the counter at the local hardware store?

And this is to say nothing of the way the game itself has changed, in terms of how it's played. Right now there's a big shift in tactics by teams like the Red Sox and Athletics to highly value on-base percentage and move away from giving away outs through sacrifices and stealing bases. Now, if you take that to an extreme, can't you say that Hank Aaron probably would have put up different numbers if he had always been trying to put every pitch into play (Sox/A's style) rather than occasionally taking good pitches so that a runner can steal, or swinging at bad pitches as part of a hit-and-run, or going for a sac fly because the situation called for it? Or, to give another example, the rise of the specialty reliever. How many of Hank Aaron's homeruns came off tired starting pitchers working into the 8th inning, north of 100 pitches, on 3 days of rest because of the four-man rotation? Because of the change in how managers use bullpens, Barry Bonds might see three different pitchers in four at-bats, all of whom were chosen to be the most difficult matchups for him to hit. Other considerations, just off the top of my head: the dilution of talent from expansion (offset by the increase in talent from other countries?) and the trend toward smaller, homerun-friendly ballparks. The game's always changing, so I'm not going to pretend that steroids are the only thing that ruins the integrity of the thing.

So...yeah. We'll be hearing a lot about Barry Bonds and steroids over the next few days/weeks/months. Hell, maybe even years. But I'll be interested to hear, in all of the chatter, how much of it actually considers what it means for Barry Bonds to "disrespect the purity of the game." I'm sure that 90%+ of the coverage will condemn him, but I suspect that a good portion of that will come from people who either dislike Bonds personally or who see the past through rose-tinted glasses and simply can't believe that the players today measure up to the greats from the past. The whole issue is a lot more complicated than all of the "Babe Ruth and Hank Aaron never used steroids" commentators are going to make it sound.

Crash for Best Picture?

I'm not talking about this bullshit.

Big Papi and the Path to Enlightenment

So the other night Karen was out of the apartment, giving me a temporary upper hand in the battle for control of the television, which could mean only one thing: time to savor, yet again, the Red Sox World Series victory. Although she was indulgent enough to get me the super deluxe Boston Red Sox World Series DVD set, Karen seems to view my Sox addiction as something for me to obsess over on my own, rather than as something she's fully willing to participate in. So, you know, if I want to watch the full, unedited videos of baseball games from two years ago, baseball games where I already know the outcome, the exact scores, and the full highlights, well, that's something she prefers I do alone. When she's not around. I can't claim to explain why she wouldn't want to sit and watch those games with me, but it's probably something to do with how girls are just weird and confusing. Chicks, man. What am I gonna tell you?

Anyways, with Karen out of the apartment I was able to spend some quality alone time with the Sox DVDs, and I skipped from game to game watching the highlights from the ALCS with the Yankees. Dave Roberts' steal, aka The Steal, in the ninth inning of Game 4. Big Papi's game-winning hits in Game 4 and Game 5. Mark Bellhorn's homerun in Game 6, the one that was initially ruled a ground-rule double but later overruled. A-Rod's girly slap to knock the ball out of Bronson Arroyo's glove later in Game 6, a call that was also overruled. (Still a pretty amazing turn of events, from a Sox fan's perspective: it's rare enough to have one call overruled in a game, much less two. And the video on both is clear, with absolutely no room for argument from Yankees fans out there. For those who believed in curses and bad luck and the existence of star-crossed franchises, those were two moments that should have gone against the Sox but somehow, miraculously, they didn't.) And of course Johnny Damon's backbreaking grand slam in game 7.

The funny thing is, even though I knew exactly what was going to happen next, I was still tense watching those games. My heart was racing when Roberts broke for second after Mariano River had thrown over to first again and again and again to try to pick him off. Seeing A-Rod on first and Jeter zipping around to third, I felt the bile rising in my throat because I hated seeing those cocky, preppy, too-pretty corporate Yankees coming back yet again to another inevitable win. And when Big Papi's Game 4 shot landed in the bullpen, I was on my feet, hands in the air. (In fairness to myself, I knew I was acting like a deluded crazy man. Not that the knowledge prevented me from acting a fool alone in my apartment, but still.)

Is it silly to claim that a couple of baseball games changed my life? Maybe, but it's undoubtedly true. I know it changed my life, and someday maybe I'll write my memoir of how October 2004 was a great turning point in my life and the moment when a lovable bunch of baseball players transcended space and time to make all of their fans happy, successful, and well-adjusted. I'll hold off on that account for now, though--there are already, give or take, about 548,722 such accounts, which means mine is a good 450,000+ from being ripe. I think the millionth "Boston Red Sox World Series Memoir" wins a prize, and I want to be that guy.

But suffice it to say this: the Red Sox World Series brings a smile to my face every time I think about it. Even a year and a half later, thinking about the events of that October bring joy and happiness to me in a way that few other things do. And I know I'm not alone; in the aftermath of 2004, the popular stereotype of the Red Sox fan has been "obnoxiously smug people who just can't stop talking about how great their team was", replacing "moaning, whiny, woe-is-me miserabilists who simply can't accept that their team is worse than the Yankees." Neither of these is terribly positive, of course, but there's a much higher degree of satisfaction in the new one. By definition, what with the whole "self-satisfied" aspect.

I still have some Midwestern sense of modesty and propriety, and I find it a bit embarrassing to see the ongoing celebration of the World Series victory. Even this offseason, with all of the talk about Johnny Damon signing with the Yankees, there's probably been more discussion of the 2004 Red Sox than of the 2005 White Sox. That's bad, and for Red Sox fans it reeks of self-involvement.

And yet...and yet. There really was something special about that team, as the other 548,000 memoirs have noted. It was a lovable bunch of guys who looked, talked, and played like they'd be the greatest group of guys to hang out with. They matched up with the Yankees in perfect slob-vs.-snob fashion, and American pop culture venerates the slobs in that matchup. There was the culmination of a compelling storyline that had begun in 2003, or 1986, or 1978, or 1975, or 1968, or 1948, or 1918, or since the dawn of time, depending on who was doing the telling. And of course, the Red Sox won in the most dramatic, improbable, amazing possible way. Let's put it this way: if you made a movie where a team came back from down 3 games to 0...and down by a run in the bottom of the 9th of Game 4, facing the greatest closer in the history of the game...well, there's not a movie-goer in America who wouldn't call bullshit on that. And I'm a guy who can happily accept that Bruce Willis can become a space miner in two weeks and save the world from a giant asteroid, so let's just say I'm not the most difficult person in the world when it comes to movie veracity. But if the Red Sox hadn't won the way they did, and I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I would never have believed it. It just would have been too good to be true.

So I can see why people have such a hard time letting that team go. I loved it as much as anyone, and I still do. There's definitely a bit of sadness, watching that team on those DVDs and knowing that it's not the same anymore. Take The Steal. Kevin Millar leads off and draws a walk. Dave Roberts replaces him and steals the Base Heard 'Round the World, in a moment that's still electric no matter how many times I see it. Then Bill Mueller steps up and somehow punches a single up the middle, scoring Roberts and restoring life to a team that was well and truly finished. The moment is pivotal, and without it 2004 would have been the year where the Yankees utterly and completely destroyed the Red Sox in a sweep. It would have been as devastating and traumatic a loss as it was an uplifting, life-changing win. And the three players involved in that moment? All gone now--Millar to Baltimore, Roberts to San Diego, and Mueller to the Dodgers. Of course, they're not the only 2004 Sox who aren't 2006 Sox. Johnny Damon, Pedro Martinez, Derek Lowe, Orlando Cabrera, Alan Embree, Mark Bellhorn and Mike Myers are all wearing other uniforms this spring.

Of all of these, Johnny Damon's signing with the Yankees...wait, excuse me, I mean to say his defection to the Yankees, as it's invariably described, seems to be receiving the most attention and anger from Sox fans. I was in Boston a few weeks ago and saw the t-shirts that said, "No Hair, No Beard, No Soul" and I've plenty of the Johnny-Damon-isn't-Jesus-he's-the-Anti-Christ jokes. It seems to me to be a lot of redirected anger and grief over losing that great 2004 team.

I've loved watching Johnny Damon play ever since he put on the Red Sox uniform. He's always seemed like a fun guy and there's never been a moment when I thought he wasn't giving everything he had. I want to wish him the best in the future, and I hope he continues to be a great player...okay, since he's a Yankee now, I can't say that. I want Nomar Garciaparra and Bill Mueller to have great seasons in Los Angeles, and Pedro to regain his health and pitch several more masterpieces this summer in Shea, and Millar to be loved and appreciated by the fans in Baltimore. I want Damon to...well, I want him to play poorly. Or better yet, I want him to play well on a Yankees team that wins only 60 games. But that's not because I'm mad at Damon, it's because I hate the Yankees. They're still the rival, still the infuriating team the Red Sox need to beat. As for Damon personally, I'm not angry. He had a much, much better offer on the table from the Yankees. An extra $12 million is pretty significant, and I can't in any way say he was wrong to take it. It's going to hurt to see him in pinstripes, of course, and for that reason I can't wholeheartedly be happy for him. But, in my qualified way, I wish him the best for the future. From a fan to a great player, he gave me a lot of great memories and I'm thankful for that.

But that sums up how it has to be with the Red Sox now. That 2004 team was really, truly a special team in a way that transcended the game; they were great characters, in a great story, and the whole ride was as exhilarating as any work of literature or art. Seriously. But it's time to let that team go and move on. Sox fans have always been cursed by the bad things that happened in our past; now we need to make sure not to become cursed by the greatest thing that ever happened to us.

As Red Sox fans, we have a clean slate at long last. Winning that World Series was truly an exorcism of all the bad spirits. Now the Sox are just another team, and that's a great thing. For me, the moment where I really saw the full extent of the exorcism was at the end of last summer. Although the Sox remained in contention, their season was marked by injury and disappointment, and rancor between fans and the team, and between the teammates themselves. It was not fun. And yet, I was okay with it. I still wanted the Sox to win just as much as ever. I still lived and died with the scores that night, and the difference between a good day and a bad day, for me, was still whether the Sox had won. But I could look at that team, with all of its pitching and defense problems, and I knew at the end of August that they just didn't have it. They were still good enough to make the playoffs, but I knew that the team I was watching wasn't going to go very far. And I was okay with that. Not happy about it. I still hoped they'd come through and reclaim that 2004 magic. But when they didn't, I wasn't as upset as I had been all the times before when they'd come close and fallen short. It wasn't the end of the world. I felt content knowing that they had won already, and they can and will win it again. People can talk about how it will never be the same again, that the next time the Red Sox win won't be as great and momentous as 2004, for all the reasons I talked about above. But I think the flip side is overlooked; winning might not ever be that good again, but losing will never be as bad, either.

So it's probably fitting that, in the absence of our Jesus Johnny Damon, the most visible player on the team is the positively Buddha-esque David Ortiz. As the Buddha would tell us, we must let go of those things that bind us. And the 2004 Red Sox bind us all. It's time to let go and move on. I've let go of my sentimental attachment to Jesus Johnny Damon. In a Zen-like state, I move confidently forward into the future; with Big Papi's warm smiling gaze shining down upon me, I know I am walking the path of the Baseball Buddha.