Help you help me.

Retail is a merciless soul drainer. Having not worked a day of retail in over 10 years, I thought it might be fun to take a part-time job this holiday season. A proverbial "hoot" if you will. But, my accepting a position at a music and movie store ultimately put me out of the spirit.

So, now that Christmas is winding down from it's family-fueled rocket road trip of a frenzy, I can look back fondly on the last few months... laugh nervously and change the subject.

Seriously, how about:


• The customer who attempts to purchase every movie he's ever seen, all in one trip. And purchases vaguely. "Do you have this one dvd...I must've been 7 or so... only saw a little of it, because we were at the drive-in and Dad made me lay down in the back seat because of the scary parts...but there was this giant radioactive dog...it was really bad, but eh, I've gotta own it...and while you're looking for that one, what about the movie with that one guy..."
  
  Similarly:
  
• The customer who expects the 17 year old girl at the counter to be a walking IMDB. "Now, maybe I saw this movie when I was a kid, or maybe I just dreamed it happened. But there's this caveman...and he's got this magic horse..." I wish we could just hum movie plotlines.
  
  
• The guy and his kids, who stand mid-aisle and watch all of the in-store playing of "Shrek" or "Wizard Of Oz", from mid-film until the credits. This move would have saved me so much money on girlfriends in college, had I thought to make that the date. (Minus the awkward fumbling and apologetic PDA, of course. They frown on that in the Disney section, apparently.)
  
  
• The trench-coat wearing, patchouli reeking, tri-color-haired guy, who erroneously believes (through apparent character assessment) I share his love of Mexican horror films. And quit trying to turn me onto whatever obscure film by Antonio Blavazzablah blah you once saw at 3am on a UHF fuzzy-pictured knob-dial TV. Please...I'll not be upstaged in dispensing the irrelevant non-sequiters and useless knowledge, thank you.
  
  
• Standing mid-aisle, the customer who described to me the ending of a movie, capping with the phrase "...and then he gives her The Johnson." Additional acknowledgement for accompanying thrusting motion, bonus points for the use of both hands while said gesture is re-enacted. His gestures. Not mine.
  
  
• The hipster kids who debate loudly in the store, gesticulating to no one in particular. To impress us all with their knowledge of Godard or Truffaut. And then they buy "Death to Smoochy." In full screen no less. Disgrace.
  
  
• The girl professing her love of old movies. "You know, like from the mid-90's. "
  
  
• The customer who tells me how much she used to love when her mom played Nine Inch Nails...on their way to KINDERGARTEN. How old did I feel.
  
  
• The customer who lingers amongst the "late night" (read: pseudo adult cheapo Skinemax) titles, while I'm cleaning shelves. He leaves, comes back 10 minutes later, sees I'm still there, and then pretends to be interested in the adjourning music section before making the circuit again. I purposely keep cleaning long after I've finished, and just for added irritation, ask multiple times if I can help "find what you're looking for." I can be a real jerk sometimes. And I need to watch myself with that phrase. Lots of misunderstandings.
  
  
• How many times did I want to say, "No, I'm sorry. I can't possibly sell you this movie/ cd. I am putting my integrity and yours at risk, and I'm just gonna have to say no." How "High Fidelity" of me.

Minnimum wage for maximum joy.

How did it feel? Completely unknown.

Yesterday I decided to skip out of work and go see a movie.

Oh, I had plenty to finish up before the break - calls to return, final documents to send out to anxious field reps. I just had no motivation. Plenty of apathy to go around, though. You could overflow a sleigh with that. Everyone's just in a weird mood...the stark and worker-free office resembles a ghost town on a Thursday, to where you can almost see tumbleweeds blowing from a cold grey wind, into desolate cubicles. Casual Friday has been expanded to Casual December. The few remaining co-workers complain there's nothing to do, and you realize that, yes, they ARE indeed doing nothing. Nothing but going out to lunch every day and expensing to the Corporate Card, just to keep any budget from being left on the table (or bar stool.) Or making lingering passes through the common area kitchen, just in case someone left out a container of store-bought cookies. Still, It's hard to coerce enthusiasm from a gingersnap.

(And let's not forget all the traditional awkward hugging that inevitably comes with the office parties - do they blitz you with a hug, but you've already read the receiver's eyes and thrown an audible, mid-formation with the handshake?)

So, I just finished some paperwork, threw it at a co-worker, and ran out the door laughing. With the holiday season wrapping frenzy around our necks like traditional ribbon, sometimes we all need a diversion. My solace has always been the movie theater.

But instead of blissfully entering the Yuletide celebration on a high note from some mega-blockbuster offering, or from a glossy, feel-fuzzy romantic syrup fest, I decided to be challenged. To ponder my existential existence. Maybe truly find the reason for the season. And what embodies this spirit more so than...Bob Dylan.

By which I mean, the Todd Haynes-helmed pseudo bio pic, "I'm Not There." Where six actors embody a Dylan-esque character throughout various stages of his life. Not really him, and not called by name, but seriously, with that voice and hair, who else would he be. It's an adventurous, truly risk-taking endeavor, with perhaps some of the finest acting performances committed to celluloid this year. The script is philosophical in tone, pondering the anointing of a man some would call a martyr for his generation, when he sees himself as just an old-souled troubadour, unsure of deserving the title he's been given. Alternating film stock between sharp black-and-white period pieces, and Technicolor dreaminess, the sprawling, experimental film is truly a groundbreaking vision. Mesmerizing in it's ambition and tone, and undeniably thought provoking.

I mostly thought about whether I could make it through the whole two and a half hours without my head exploding. Man, this film was ponderous.

Now, I'm all for artsy indie think pieces. Metaphors, symbolism. Sure, show me what you've brought to the screen, and I'll do my best to attach my own inner meanings. If not, I can just nod and hum. I'm all about something of importance to challenge me, and abhor mile away predictable endings. I don't like to be dumbed down for mass consumption. But just give me some structure! Doesn't even have to be completely linear - I can keep up with time juxtapositions, intertwining story lines, and complex narration. I get it. I'm not a cinema auteur myself, and never will be. I don't begrudge anyone who worked hard on this picture, poured their lives into outputting this singular vision. Awards and accolades are probably inevitable. But who possibly greenlighted this as written? Never have I gotten up to a more satisfying bathroom break, knowing I wouldn't miss any part of the story, because I had no fecking clue what had occurred the hour and a half before.

Now, I knew enough about Dylan to have been able to pick up on the sly references made throughout. Yeah, okay, there's the part where he plugged in his band, turned up his amp, and nothing but shouts of "Judas!" came back from the monitors. Oh right...Dylan introduced The Beatles to marijuana. (Hey, there they are, rolling around on the ground, in a wacky homage to "A Hard Days Night." Funny.) Oh, now he's found salvation in the seventies. Ha, he even gives one word answers like "Astronaut."; that's because he was a fame-eschewing pariah in his younger days, so there's the surly sneer and now de-rigour sunglasses. Very "Don't Look Back," indeed. Anyone else in the theatre need footnotes? I got you covered.

It was just so abstract, it hurt. Almost to the point of making me angry. Like, "sneaking into 'Enchanted' to punish myself for going to see this film" type of angry. I'm still debating which scene felt more representative of summation for this film to me: Dylan as a circus balloon, hovering listlessly over a cityscape with a big elephant rope tied to his feet. Or Alan Ginsburg rolling up in what appeared to be a golf cart; by this point in the film, a fish could have been pushing him around in a stroller, and I would have nodded to myself and said, "Hm, yes. That feels about right." At one point, Dylan's a cowboy, a young black child at another. Usually intermitant throughout. Keep up, sheep. This is mind bending art you should experience, form your own conclusions to. Not expect to be pandered to.

(Pandered? Sounds like panda. Oh. That's right! Remember that trailer before the movie? Where Jack Black is a talking panda? Is that not the most obvious casting in the world? How has my life progressed this long, and this has not happened already? I gotta see it. Ha.)

Overall, I was more engrossed in my totally missing the trash receptacle and dropping popcorn all over the floor, in my rush to flee once credits rolled.

Great music interpretations, though, of Dylan's songs by other artists. One scene toward the end, where a whiteface- painted Jim James from My Morning Jacket performs "Goin’ to Acapulco" at a funeral, is almost ethereal in it's beauty and sorrow. I actually felt almost redemption bestowed upon me for this cinematic experience nee' excruciating butt numbing, just from this scene. But not enough to forgive another shot of Heath Ledger's arse. Or Cate Blanchett asking a crucifix, "How does it feel?" Cringe.

So, I'm wordy. I respect Todd Haynes work (he nailed fifties melodrama in "Far From Heaven"). Point is, maybe I just wasn't in the mind space to appreciate this film. All the performance elements didn't resonate inside me coherently enough to add up to a satisfying experience.

But I do know, "I'm Not There" = "I Wish I Hadn't Been, Either."

Do you understand the words that are coming out of my mouth?

I'm not a Southerner, but I play one in my extended family. Long southern dinners usually turn into long southern after-dinner conversations. And once the sweet tea gets a'flowing, well...even being a Northerner, you get around some good people and even my voice gets a little gruffer. Smokey drawls and "y'all's" ensues. And ma words start fixin' ta gittin' cut off.

Long ago, I commited to writing down some sayings I've heard from my father-in-law, but of course, only recently started doing so - Procrastinator Extrordinaire that I am (and no, that doesn't mean "pretty boy"). You might say I been "slower than Grandma in the bathroom when I'm tryin' to go out on Saturday night."

So for posterity's sake (and a reason to post a blog entry) here are a few I've had the pleasure to be told over the years. Feel free to drop them into any normal conversation, meeting, group presentation, or Sunday Mom call. From what I understand, usage is a fine art. And you can't just spout 'em on demand for the amusement of boys from the wrong side of the river. They have to just flow eloquently. Which is a fancy pants word by itself any way, and shouldn't be used by any self respecting Southerner. I f it's a word ya can't spell, then ya don't need'ta be sayin' it.

Hopefully, these are legacy-worthy to pass down to another generation. (Queen's English versions are all mine - because it's more ironic that way.)

• "Can't hit a bull in the arse with a bass fiddle."
• "Shakin' like a dog shiteing peach seeds." (Alt: "Shakin' like a cat shiteing razor blades.")
• "Hotter than a three-p*ckered billy goat."
• "Hotter than a whore on nickel night."
• "Slicker than a greased minnow's d*ck."
• "Colder than a well digger's arse." (Alt: "Colder than a witch's teet.")
• "Busier than a one-armed paper hanger on a windy day."
• "Busier than a one-legged man in an arse-kicking contest."
• "Can't drive a sharp stick up a cow's arse with both hands."
• "Went over like a fart in church."
• "Cuter than a speckled pup."
• "That ain't worth a 'kiss my arse.' "
• "(That) smells like arseholes and Fritos."
• "Tighter than five virgins in a Volkswagon."
• "(He) caught a case of the red arse." (Meaning, angry or worked up.)
• "Dummer than rock salt." (Spelling is intentional, and you gotta say it that way.)
• "Dumber than a box of two-year old animal crackers." (My Grandfather gets credit for this one.)
• "Drier than a popcorn fart."
• "I'm gonna hit you so hard it'll knock your d*ck stiff."
• "You and me are gonna go outside and tangle in the gravel."
• "(He's) 10 pounds of shite in a 5 pound sack."
• "Slower than smoke off dog shite." (Not sure where I heard this one, but it's a great visual.)
• "He wouldn't say shite if he had a mouth full of it."

Good people. Metaphors. Similes. Double entendre. I live for this stuff.

Karma from a stranger.

Maneuvering through a congested gas station lot today, I learned about karma.

Busy lunchtime hour, and every dispenser is full with activity. Some sort of grand re-opening going on, and the lot is abuzz with corporate faux-excitement. People on their lunch hour, waiting for spots... literally inching their cars nose first every few seconds, toward a currently occupied non-moving vehicle... hoping to get that much closer to a coveted turn in line. Taking their foot off the accelerator ever so gently, intermittently halving that hair-line interval between them and the car in front...as if the driver is anticipating that moment just before the lot might magically transform itself into a fault line, creating an earthquake of asphalt...their car inconveniently just out of reach from the hose. Annoying.

So ponderous to me that people can't pay at the pump. It takes three times as long for them to make a transaction. They find an open spot, walk into the station, prepay, walk back out to finish pumping gas, get in their cars with the engine running while gas is still dispensing. Maybe take a call or two on the cell phone. How about a chat with the spouse in the front seat, why not? "Kids, you ok back there? Anybody want anything?" Then walk back into the store to buy whatever the signs enticed their fat gobs to salivate, that they couldn't possibly have carried with open hands the first time.

And when I finally have to back into an open spot (because, of course, the one available pump faces the opposite side of my tank), I stand there annoyed. Cursing in the cold dry air because the receipt paper NEVER prints out at this far pump, and I have to make an annoyed journey up to the register. Damning the person who tells me the mechanism is probably jammed, when I know there's not been a roll of paper installed for months.

(I tend to not let life's small things bother me. I don't want to concern myself with minor inconveniences I have no intrinsic power over. Maybe growing up, I learned to be the antithesis of my father, who has gotten much better in his older years, but in my younger years could polarize at a moment's notice. )

Whatever. I'm failing to see the convenience of anything in life at this moment. Why does everything have to be so difficult?
For all the technological simplicities, everything a process now: "Talk to that person." "Go wait in that OTHER line." "Turn to the right. Turn to the left. Your other hand." Geez.

By now, I'm making a right turn from a stop sign, onto a right-turn only street. I just missed the light change from traffic on the left, so there's no chance of making a quick escape. And with holiday shoppers out in full force, the rush is steady. So, I gotta wait it out. But not without Soccer Mom in the Mini Van honking her horn at me. I look in my rear view, and she's motioning for me to turn right, with two rapid- fire succession finger jabs. What the...seriously?

This sets me off. She wants me to turn into this maniacal onslaught? Feck her. Now I'm not gonna turn at all, just to incense her further. I'll take my time, now, you old bag. And I'm cursing at her (well, really at her image, because I cowardly never took my eyes off her in the mirror). I stick up a single determined finger in a sign of defiance. Like, "Take THIS." And I shout it too (windows up of course). And then I speed off, mainly hoping to leave her eyes forever seered with my rebelliousness and disrespect of a delicate flower such as herself. But more so because, yes, I'm still a coward, pulling symbolic pony tails then running.

And I drive home, the whole time afire with the audacity of her actions burning a hole into my soul. I replay this scenario over and over, analyzing it frame by frame and taking cinematic liberty with my actions; thinking about how the situation would play out the next time she and I meet. Baseball bat to her headlights? No. Maybe I'll get out and flip her van over next time in an adrenaline rush. Yes. That would be cool.

So, as I get home, I've already framed an epic to tell: How I was nearly coerced by a stranger into committing an unsafe act. I could have been killed, mind you. And my eventual rise to power against a juice box-toting tyrant of middle suburban means. My finger has done a lot of talking over the years, but never have the words been more true.

However, this anticipated moment of adoration I would receive for making it home alive and unscathed soon vanished, when I noticed the right-sided gas cap hanging out from the fuel latch.

Oh.

Well, I'm sure she wronged someone else today, and I'm just a humble messenger. Karma comes from strange vessels.

Ahhh. Much better.

Do you validate without an emotional purchase?

Validation is a strange conceptual experiment. Proper definition, according to my exhaustive research (meaning Google), is thus: "to recognize, establish, or illustrate the worthiness or legitimacy of" something.

The process of validating can be meticulously involved, or it can incredibly unscientific. Bascially, we just bend and shape (through denial) what we already know to be true, until it resembles some distorted justification of what we ultimately want and how we want it to be. Then we bounce these principles against someone we feel might be generally accepting of our influence. Maybe even a complete stranger. They confirm, based on our smiling and fuzzy compliments. And we smile, feeling good about what we have done.

And then continue to doubt.

Not that I'VE ever done anything requiring validation. I've just heard stories...

Let's say you've done something in a moment full of yourself. Maybe in an intoxicated giddyness. But soon after, you realize, maybe if this was the last act you'd ever perform, your life legacy shaping might not want to be defined by this graceless act.

The steps kind of go something like this:

1. The Drop - "Holy hell, I should have seen (heard) what I just did (said). "
2. The Blow Off - "No one pays attention to me anyway. It was all in the moment. Being spontaneous is encouragable, right? Impossible for anyone to even notice. I mean, quick, what did I wear yesterday? See...no one remembers."
3. The Bucket - "Well, maybe they will notice. But this was the only time. I've practiced being a good boy all year, so I've earned this one mis-step. There's bad buckets and good buckets of intention. This one is definitely in the good bucket, if everyone looks the other way."
4. The Ledge - "Maybe I shall be eaten by ravenous wolves tonight. That'll fix everything. Wait, it's a Wednesday. Does that mean I'll ruin everyone's weekend? Now they'll hate me eternally. Wonderful..."
5. The Glimmer Ray - "Seriously, it is what it is. No charges were filed, no one lost an appendage due to gross negligence."
6. The Resolution - Calm reassurance from someone else, wrapped up in truth paper we already knew we had, just around a different box. Like, "You acted on emotion and left it at that. Far worse things have happened, and you shouldn't apologize for it. Just owe yourself the dignity to not beat yourself up. "

Awe.

The lesson here is, never try.

Waiting for the night.

The Young Marcus would totally be horrified at the fact that Old Marcus completely lost track of yesterday's announcement of the Grammy nominations. If only because I completely missed an opportunity for my favorite kind of workplace discussion: workplace discussion that's not actually work-centric.

Ultimately, I find myself consistently disappointed in the actual Award Show itself. Say what you want about fading relevance, and I'll probably half heartedly agree. Too many year-after-year award sweeps by another long-suffering workhorse who finally gets their due, having previously been nominated multiple times in their career but consistently shut out. Or a long overdue nostalgia fest for some old road-worn troubadour who got tapped on the back to work with a producer du'jour, recording the (now) requisite syrupy over-orchestrated duets album of ubiquitous "standards" - and warbled without even sharing the same studio space with his/ her partner in the first place. The end result just gets pasted together with Pro Tools. So much for chemistry.

Performers need not even be human - let's not forget the Grammy-winning video featuring a certain inimitable MC Skat Kat as proof. Artists need not even be alive. Anyone for Lisa Marie and Elvis' patched together post-mortem "In The Ghetto"? Who was the target audience on that one? Imagine being in that focus group.

Much can be also said of the increasing out-of-touch nominations which elicit much debate year to year. Every once and awhile, the token "hip but in that pseudo 'hey, look! We know what the kids like these days' but actually the nod is years past when the kids cared about the band once thought to be hip. And who says 'hip' any more these days, anyway. Old man." apparition will transpire. Only to come and go with a shut out.

I think the Foo Fighters, for Album Of The Year, are this year's shout out to the kids. Kids like me. Kids like me who are 30 plus. Who vocally will admonish the album's liberal use of strings and piano, but internally appreciate the artistic growth. We justify only to ourselves a rapid approchement toward that golden age where we like softer, gentler instrumentation anyway, so that... explains that ...(hand motion wiping hands clean). And we welcome Dave toning down his emo-scream. Because he can make our ears bleed. All the while, we still jab fingers in the air and proclaim "But I was THERE man, when Nirvana broke!"

(Citation required for the younger crowd: See, Dave Grohl was this guy who used to be the drummer in this band who...

...oh never mind. But that's what it feels like having to explain to anyone under 28 the significance of this nomination. It represents my Gen X era getting proper due. Of course, the Foos won't win because of Amy Winehouse. Because she sounds like Motown. And old people like Motown. Old people like me.)

Anyway, most times, I consider the Grammys just a dismissive but necessary viewing. Tolerable to my wife only for the fact they are shown once a year (although the remote is always mine anyway), and it gives me something to shake my head about the next day when your favorite wins. Which is always welcoming, as I love to wag fingers, debunk widespread belief, and dismiss commonly held musical adoration. And criticize the musical taste of others, while maintaining a "But if it makes you happy..." stance. All in the spirit of being convenient to my judgment and approval.

Like The Beatles:

"Yeah, they were okay, I guess; nice melodies, but they were only around for maybe 7 years. Catalog's kind of limited, huh?. Pretty word trains, though. Same songs get played all the time though. Don'cha think maybe they've reached their critical mass saturation? Look, I've finally honed my reflex reaction so finitely, my finger changes the preset with just the first note. I get them. I do. They used a sitar. Groundbreaking. But Brian Wilson had a sandbox in his living room, and lived in his pajamas for months. That's way cooler."

But I digress as I am wont to do.

Not that the Grammys truly matter, anyway. They reflect an old guard establishment mentality that would rather reward well-polished dreck like Celine Dion. Or so-called "heavy metal" bands like Jethro Tull (by quotation, I mean 'not', you know). But to their credit, the Grammys in recent years have been making a noble attempt to change up their well-worn image and shed that accountant-like coldness. They might even look upon themselves as trendsetters for the music industry. Albeit, well after the trend has been played out ad nauseum. But, for all we know, the Academy's non- public personified self-image might be about the balance of staying mainstream, but keeping with an old-timey sensibility of artistic integrity and still maintaining the edge a blogger can get behind. I myself would like to see Amy Winehouse sweep the awards, though - if only to see Kanye have a meltdown of apocalyptic biblical proportions and rush the stage in a "Kanye is for the children" kind of misguided rage. Insert your own "Back To Black" missive here.

The real head-bowing shame, though, undeniably has to be recognized in the ceremony becoming so sterile in this revisionist era of puritanical revival (censorship be damned), we can't even hope for a glimpse of...well, anything anymore. What good is my Tivo now? Worthless. Thanks, Janet.

(And I can't believe I have made two Jethro Tull references in as many days. I don't even like those old dinosaurs. Fecking flute math beard rock.)

My first time going all the way.

Certain things I've done in my life, I'm horribly ashamed of. There are irreparable life decsions made, that through guilt have only been imparted through vulnerable moments, and spoken about in confidentiality to trusted friends. We qualify these revelations with "This stays between the two of us," or "I've never told anyone about this." Some truths require a "Speak a word of this, and I will find you, pull out your betraying tongue, and tie it up like a bow."

I guess what I'm trying to say is...yes, I've seen Paula Abdul in concert. And...um... second row, too.

And Kenny G. But only once.

(Hey, My DAD wanted to go. That is the reprehensible tale I've stuck with for 20 years, and I will continue to recycle this non-truth if boldly confronted.)

Now, I have witnessed rock-era legends perform. Springsteen. James Brown. Elton John. I have surrendered hundereds of hours to live music from irrefutable musical gods. So, in their shadow, I can then hide my pop discretions, and still retain my integrity. Although I did just admit to Paula Abdul.

Let's see. Who else have I paid hard-earned disposable income to shamelessly adore all in the name of ignorance, lapse of taste, or taking one for the in-the-moment, short lived ego stroking adoration of a girl...Richard Marx. Tom Jones. Cirque Du Soleil. Justin Timberlake (oh c'mon, the guy's a master showman. Try to resist those dimples. I triple dog dare you.)


Whew. I'm absolved.

Oh, and in the spirit of full disclosure...(whistling)...maybe I'll just briefly mention Sly Fox. Oh, don't pretend to say "Who?" Yes. The same one-hit group from 1985. Now the truth can be revealed, I witnessed the perhaps one of the greatest 80's pre-manufactured spectacles, first hand. Twice. Both early and late shows. The funniest part about that to me, looking back, is not so much the actual one-hit wonder group I saw, but the fact they were booked for two engagements in the same night.

No, I guess even better is I not only saw them, but met them pre-show. And had a picture taken with them. Technically my first celebrity meet and greet. Nice guys.

"Go all the way," indeed.

Part I: How I found Salvation at a K-Mart.

Music has always been my internal monologue. Like a soundtrack to some well-worn film reel, it shapes and defines moments of awkward adolescence. It reminds me of things I should have never said, and more so of words I should have spoken. Music brings back the best and worst memories of my life, and I can usually tell you where or when I first heard a song. Case in point: “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” Taco Bell Drive- Thru. September 1991. I also have a habit of making relative time and age comparisons, by how old a person was when a certain album came out. Hm. My wife was only four when “Purple Rain” dropped. Yikes.

Music also evokes memories of growing up in my little shag carpeted room in the 70’s and early ’80. There, in a peach crate, lived my eclectic collective of albums yet to be fully discovered and properly appreciated until years later. They lived next to a well worn, white plastic hard-cased Fisher Price record player, paired with a black Radio Shack push-button tape recorder and cigar-sized microphone. These meager components served as my soundsystem for the first ten or so years of my life. My method of dubbing a record onto cassette involved complete silence and a steady hand. Careful needle drops and record-button synchronizing. And hoping Mom wouldn’t come in and tell me to turn it down, effectively ruining the recording with her voice coming in after a killer guitar solo. Thanks Mom...

Growing up, you had music as an escape. The latest pop buzz served as common ground and a differentiation. As a sheltered white kid in a small, seemingly idyllic Ohio town (in reality, a pit stop for blue collar mentality, nestled between two far greater urban existences - where we all cursed our fate and upbringing to not have dropped us) what else was there to do? You listened to the radio, or bummed music from your buddy. We didn't have much choice...either the one am station or the one fm station that didn’t play easy-listening funeral dirge music. And you discussed the merits of said music with your friends. You played 45's, and bought 3 for $3 at Camelot or Musicland. (The first two were easy to pick. It was that third, final one that I always took forever to choose - it HAD to count, as if I might one day will it to my only son.) Maybe you took a bike ride to K-Mart with your lawn mowing money and gazed longingly at the racks of black circles. And you always made sure to carefully balance your choices in the name of self respect and majority rule, conforming to what might "play" during your class’ afternoon music free-time. But wanting to look cool at the same time. I mean, girls were starting to take notice. And they were starting to look less like tomboys. You didn’t want to be caught without the jams.

Part II: Or maybe it was in the closet.

My earliest recollection of musical memory formation would be the closet next to Mom and Dad's bedroom, built within an enclave nestled into the slant of the roof. That's where the records were kept. The stairs would creak with my every step, and I would wait until the sound passed before taking another, lest I get in trouble for waking Dad up too early. I'd pull back the sliding door, and the rush of cedar and mothballs smacked me in the face. And I'd crawl in, pushing mom's wedgie shoes and dad's plaid sport coats away from my direct line of mission.

Record covers enticed me like candy, each one an entirely different world into which my little suggestible mind could discover. Stacked haphazardly in a pile, one on top of the other (which today, I consider a mortal sin with inexcusable consequence), they piqued my interest. Usually I wasn’t allowed to listen at such a young age - not due to lyrical content, but for parental fear I would run a scrrrraaaaatch across the surface. But I didn't even have to touch needle to groove to be fascinated - I wasn’t even sure I was always allowed to touch them at all. I just wanted to look at them. Smell the collective fragrances of dust and cardboard. Read the crazy song titles. Look at the ads on the inner sleeves.


Pulling stacks out in clumps, I set them in the hallway to gaze in wonderment again at the artwork I'd looked at tens of times before.

Like Santana - the one with the crazy lion drawing.

Or Elton John - the cover that reminded me of blue jeans.

How about James Taylor (or was he named Mud Slide Slim?).

The Allman Brothers Band - that's a damn big peach on that truck, and what is going on in that gatefold sleeve? They might as well have included some seed residue in the spine grooves.

But most of all, who was this Isaac Hayes, the one calling himself "Black Moses", and doesn't he get a chilly breeze wearing only gold chains?

And let's not even dig into the box of 8 Tracks.

Wait - somebody tell me what's a "Superfly", and what's was it doing next to Lynn Anderson, The Kingston Trio, and Jethro Tull? One of these things is not like the other. Better yet, as I would wonder in later years, what are they doing next to Curtis Mayfield?

Part III: Put the needle on the record.

Being of preschool age, all I had were those Disney storybook records with the follow along books. Or albums my uncle would buy me at Christmas, full of spoken words and bad acting that taught you not to donate your broken toys to those kids less fortunate. I might have been only 4 or 5, but I certainly knew enough to shun this moral propaganda when I was getting ready to rock. Preachy pseudo-political records. I can't stand when they mix.

So, most of this time, I just took what I was given. Dad played the same country tapes in his Cutlass Supreme to where I knew to tell him to “play the blue one.” Or, “not the orange one again.” The radio was salvation, and once I had memorized some basic song lyrics of the day, it only made me hunger for more. If I didn't hear something to bop along to like Frank Mill's "Music Box Dancer” or Van McCoy's "Hustle" on the way to nursery school, I could sing along with Paul Simon and his 50 ways to leave. And in time, Dad finally let me "borrow" some of his records, with close supervision. If I could keep them on , I could listen with those big foam headphones that almost covered my whole head.

But by kindergarten, I needed some horizon broadening. I'd have to go across the street to my friend's house, and stack some records on this suitcase of a record player with fold out speakers. It was a monster, but we played that thing like a work horse. And by the late 70's, we had christened the "Theme From S.W.A.T" as greatest-instrumental-with-police-sirens ever, and had carefully memorized the soundtracks to "Grease" (the film of which I had seen twice) and "Saturday Night Fever" (which I wasn't allowed to see, but I pretty much thought I had the whole movie figured out by the pictures in the inside sleeve ). And thanks to his mom being coolest on the block, this was also the start of my pop music back-history education of the late 60's, which we played like they were current top ten hits.

It was the mid to late 70's, and early 80's. So much artistic experimentation was birthing a lot of today’s musical direction, which we now take for granted as always being around. For that period's time capsule to be defined by today's CD compilations solely by Fleetwood Mac, The Bee Gees, or even Michael Jackson, it just doesn't do the period justice. In those days, the charts held a plethora of music styles, and to my young ears, anything "new", I just had to hear. I would scan the Sunday paper's reprints of the Billboard Top 40, just to find one song I didn't know. And then sit by the radio for the Casey Kasem countdown, in hopes of finding out just what that song might mean to me. It was like finding religion sometimes.

Part IV: Mercy for the man at the bottom of a pile.

I was just in love with melody and syncopated rhythm. And I am huge on lyrics to this day. I love a good pop song and demand structure within reason, but if the lyrics are inane, it's gone. Well, most times it's gone. If it has a beat and I can bug out to it, fine. I have this weird habit of focusing on rhythm lines and little guitar and keyboard flourishes. Not main-song structure, but little production additions, built up wall of sound like, as if they were teenage symphonies to young love. And I had my phases. Countless pencil renditions of Kiss (what 10 year old boy wasn't fascinated by fire and makeup? Well, ok, the fire part....), pretend all-knowing expertise with disco, and I even pride myself for being a rap "pioneer" with having purchased a then-brand-new 12" single of "Rapper's Delight" as one of my very first vinyl acquisitions with my own hard earned sister-sitting money; the music was so new and foreign to me, to this day, I can recite every word flawlessly, from repeated analysis. I credit my fourth grade friend Nicki for writing the words down on a napkin for me.

I wore out Joe Walsh's "Life's Been Good." I even tried to write lyrics to the instrumental B-Side when I was maybe 11 years old (no, I didn't save them.) I had Rod Stewart and Blondie singles in my locker for the longest time. Our teacher wouldn't allow us to play Pink Floyd in the afternoon, what with the "we don't need no education" refrain. I even confused "Dirty Mind"-era Prince with Freddy Prinze for the longest time. That SAME guy on "Chico And The Man" wears leg warmers and a shark tooth necklace? Huh. Never woulda guessed. It was a time of showing off to your friends, and who's older sibling had the cooler records.

But I believe I can trace back to one defining moment at the roller skating rink. A Friday night. Me, out on the floor by myself, long losing my friends to video games and pizza. The floor teaming with raging hormones and judging junior high insecurities. Skating personal space less than a forearm's length. And that robotic, synthesized monster of an intro..."Don't worry/ I won't hurt you/ I only want you/ To have...some...fun." And the crush began. Four-wheeled skates stomping like an army. I turned around in my confusion, trying to get the beat down in concentrating on this song I'd never heard, but wanting to move my mouth like I could sing along. And saw a crazed mob of delirious teenagers in a hysterical pop induced frenzy heading toward me. What was this music? Who was it? I needed to know. I mean, I was all for boundary pushing. But THIS...this was nothing like I'd ever heard. This was a blast of pure perfection. The beat was huge, and the guitar walked all over my psyche. And once "1999" was complete, all 3:35 of the 7" edit, and once I pulled myself out from underneath that pile of sweat, Stetson cologne, and flailing bodies...me and my musical discrimination were changed forever.

This was a rebirth of sorts. I needed something challenging, to latch onto and call my own. And I found it not just through Prince, but through Kate Bush. Miles Davis. By way of Depeche Mode and The Smiths. James Taylor. New Order. Oasis. More roots-oriented rock by Bob Dylan or The Allman Brothers Band. Even Merle Haggard. Many more to whom I have opened up my mind, not just to listen, but experience. I learned later, the most brilliant piece of tonal heaven didn't need a verse-chorus-verse structure. It didn't even need words. The song just had to speak to me.

And I have been all ears since.