Soundtrack of Our Lives: Xanadu

Jedi and I had a variety of babysitters when we were yoots:

Mrs. B—We stopped going to her because her sons both got crossbows for their birthdays and seemed a wee bit too into killing off all the fauna in their backyard. The younger one also got one of those kid-sized battery-powered cars and seemed a wee bit too into running into us with it.

Mrs. M—We stopped going to her because she had two kids who were way younger than Jedi and me, and it appeared, based on things like, oh, her constant leaving, that she wanted US to baby-sit HER kids, one of whom had a brain tumor and couldn't walk or stand right because the weight of the tumor was such that he couldn't hold up his head. Sad.

Mrs. S—We stopped going to her because under her watch, Jedi and I both got shocked on our heads by their electric fence (they had cows), and Jedi tore a gash in his shin the length of a ruler on the barbed wire surrounding said fence, in his haste to get away from both the fence and the oncoming cows.

Eventually, my mom found us a babysitter who A) didn't live on a farm, B) didn't have toddlers, and C) had sons who weren't psychopaths. Mrs. K was a friend of mom's, also a folk artist. If it was possible to live in a gingerbread house, Mrs. K's was the closest thing. It was cozy, warm, always smelled like apple pie or fresh-baked bread. She'd decorated it in a very Laura Ashley meets NASCAR fashion. Example, in the guest bathroom, there was a little sign that read:

If you sprinkle when you tinkle, be a sweetie: Wipe the Seatie!

But she'd painted it, see. On slate. With tole-painted accents around the edges.

Anyway, it wasn't the homemade cookies, MTV (we didn't have cable), and popsicles that I loved about Mrs. K's house; it was her sons, Brad and Robbie. They were high-school kids, both supremely talented athletes—baseball, I think. They were, to my seven-year-old mind, like rock stars. All-American good looks, wholesome, and more important, very, very nice. Every time the phone rang, it would be for one of them. Every time the door opened, it would be some friend of theirs. Every day, all the time, they were talking to or hanging out with someone. I'd never seen such popular kids in my life. They're just like Jessica and Elizabeth from Sweet Valley High, if only Sweet Valley High was boys and not twins and in Ohio! Other than that, it's the same thing! I thought.

When Brad and Robbie were both home, which was a rare treat, Jedi and I tried to get a little of their attention, too. Brad would shoot hoops with Jedi, talk about boring sci-fi stuff, while Robbie let me play with his drumsticks or look thorough his record collection. The record that I made him play the most—and by "the most," I mean "every, single time I was at their house"—was the Xanadu soundtrack. I was only five when the movie came out, and I never saw it in theatres, yet I knew it had two things that every girl who grew up in the early 1980s adored: roller-skating and ribbon barrettes. But it was the music that I really loved. I never had the money to buy the record, so the only way to hear the songs was to hope that the local AM-radio station would play "Magic" or "Suddenly." When that happened, you couldn't pry me away from the speakers.

So you can understand why, two years later, I was such a spaz when I found out that Robbie owned the record. We even had a little routine: I'd run into his room and jump around until he agreed to play it for me, going, "Pleasepleasepleaseplease, Robbie!" And he'd amble over to the stereo and put it on. Then he'd hand me the drumsticks and say, "You play the drums—I'm gonna play guitar and synth." He'd start the record on side 2, the predominately ELO side, and off we'd go, starting with "I'm Alive," skipping "Don't Walk Away," and through the glorious title track. Me pounding away on Robbie's pillows, and Robbie air-guitar-ing and synthesizer-ing his heart out, both of us singing at the top of our lungs.

It sounds weird now, in the retelling. I mean, what's a high-school sports star doing singing along to the Xanadu soundtrack with a seven-year-old kid, right? I wish my mind wouldn't try to turn a fantastic childhood memory into something slightly … peculiar—even if it was peculiar. Still, to this day, I can recall with amazing clarity Robbie's room, the drumsticks, his record player, the sound of our voices, and how, even for just a little while, I felt like a rock star, too.

Xanadu, Motion Picture Soundtrack, featuring ELO, Cliff Richard, and Miss Olivia Newton-John
Released sometime in the 1980s...

Soundtrack of Our Lies: Genesis, Invisible Touch

There have only been a handful of Wizard of Oz moments in my life. You know—times when the curtain was thrown back and you saw or learned things you weren't meant to see or learn. The most obvious one is, naturally, when I realized that "Santa's" handwriting looked an awful lot like my Mom's. The others are as follows:

1. When I read about how far Disney theme parks go to keep the illusion alive.
2. When I saw a jug of something called "ButterFat" on the counter next to the popcorn machine at the movies. (You mean they don't use REAL butter? No, unless if by "real butter" you mean "real butter CONCENTRATE." Of course, I knew they didn't throw sticks of Land O' Lakes in there; I just didn't need to know what they DID throw in there.)
3. When I went to pick up a bracelet at Tiffany's and they lost the Tiffany-blue suede pouch it came in and the salesperson opened up a drawer filled to bursting with extra pouches. She actually said, "Uh, you weren't supposed to see that."

And this one:

My parents never fought. Not once. Sure, they had their typical marital disagreements from time to time, mostly about money, or our serious lack thereof. But you couldn't say they ever "fought" in the yelling sense. I suppose it would be more accurate to call what they did "serious discussion." Their lack of fighting, however, didn't mean their relationship was wine and roses—far from it. They didn't avoid each other, but they weren't exactly bursting with passion, either; instead, they gave each other lukewarm "hello" and "goodbye" kisses, some quick hugs here and there, a few hapless slow dances at family weddings. Mom wanted Dad to be more romantic. "Joanie's husband brings her flowers each week," she would tell him. "Well Joanie's husband is a senior vice president and can afford things like that," he shot back. Mom would pout for a few days, then Dad would finally realize that he needed to make some gesture at romanticism, usually involving taking her out to their favorite restaurant and actually having dessert. This was like their reset switch and worked fine—until some other neighborhood husband did something else to trip it. Still, I never thought much about my parents' relationship; based on what I'd seen of my friends' parents, this was Normal.

The summer before my tenth-grade year, my Mom spent a lot of time visiting her dad—Poppa—and my grandma in B______ while Poppa got chemo. He died in early fall. When he died, something in her seemed to die, too, which was odd, given the stories she'd told me about how controlling Poppa was; how when she got a scholarship to college, he didn't let her go; that he thought she should go to trade school and become a seamstress; how strict he was. I don't mean to imply that she didn't love him or that she shouldn't have been sad about his death, but I never had a lot of warm and fuzzy feelings for Poppa, a lot of which I attributed to the things Mom said about him. Also, Poppa never made secret the dislike he had for my Dad. Family Lore went that right before she got married, Poppa pulled Mom aside, gave her a stiff drink, and said, "You know, you don't have to do this." Mom always said that part of the reason she married my dad was to piss Poppa off. She'd say this with a laugh, but the look in her eyes never quite made it believable.

After the funeral, my mom was making weekly trips up to B______ to take care of Grammie. Grammie was a strong, tough lady who had been prepared for Poppa's death ever since he'd been diagnosed, so I suspected it was more Grammie who was taking care of Mom. Her visits, at first, were overnights, then weekends, then long weekends, then weeks. And when she was home, she was doing only two things: Listening to Genesis' Invisible Touch album and getting ready for her next trip to B______. I don't know what made her bust out that particular album, then, and the tape was pretty garbled in parts. The last time I'd listened to it was five or six years earlier when I made up an awesome interpretive dance to their prog-rock classic, "The Brazilian." Before—because things were suddenly being measured by Before (where Mom was Mom) and Now (where Mom was … Different)—I'd come home from school and she'd be folding laundry or making dinner, singing along to "Tonight, Tonight, Tonight," or, if she was in a very good mood, "Invisible Touch." But Now, she'd mostly play "Throwing It All Away" over and over. Sometimes I'd catch her sitting on the floor, listening, crying and she'd jump when she saw me standing there, with a "Oh, hi, honey. I didn't hear you come in," quickly drying her eyes on the handkerchief that had become a permanent part of her wardrobe, Now.

Dad and I just figured that she was having a really hard time with Poppa's death. Dad wasn't one for sentiment or grand emotional displays, so he was having an equally hard time trying to figure out what the heck he should do for, or say to, his grieving wife. He didn't do warm embraces; his shoulders weren't built for crying on. He didn't cry or anything when his own father died. Dad was a rock, which was one of the things I loved about him, so it was hard watching him try to express feelings he didn't know how to and failing. When he tried to talk to and comfort Mom, I'd watch her recoil and him look hurt. That would lead to one of those serious discussions, and our house was so small, the only place I could go to get out of earshot was outside. I'd walk for long stretches of time, sometimes not coming home until well after the streetlights fitzed on, sometimes missing dinner. My Dad had always been adamant, insistent, about me being home for dinner every night, no matter what, period, end of discussion. The first time I missed it, I was preparing myself for his ire. It never came. The second time, I thought for sure the ire was on its way. It wasn't. Because ire was Before, and this was Now.

One night, that winter, I was getting ready for bed and went into my parents' room to say goodnight to Mom, just as I'd been doing for time immemorial. We did our routine—she asked about my day, how school was, what I was doing that next day. She said, "I'm going to be spending more time at Grammie's house. She's…she needs someone to be with her right now. It's hard for her to be alone."
I stretched out and yawned, "Okay. No biggie."
"I'm going to be gone for awhile."
"How long is awhile?"
"Well, there are a lot of things that need to be done with the estate, and Gammie is moving to that apartment building, and we need to have the yard sale, still, and—"
I cut her off, "Ma, I don't need all the details. It's cool. Whatever."
She hugged me close and said, "No matter what happens, know that I love you very much, okay?"
When I looked up at her, she was crying. Completely my father's daughter, the tears were making me squirm, "Okay, I got it." I got up and gave her a quick hug. "Night, Mom."
She waved, "Goodnight, honey," and I went to bed.

The next day I came home from school early. I decided to skip all my afternoon classes in favor of a grilled-cheese sandwich and a nap. I'd been thinking about both since first period and I was such a geek that I'd already worked ahead in the classes I was going to miss so I wouldn't be behind. Pulling into our driveway, I saw that my dad's truck was there. "Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit," I muttered. This was unprecedented. My father's schedule was like clockwork—you really could set your watch to it. I panicked and immediately thought of a whole passel of fantastical things to explain why he would be home: he was having an affair, someone died, he got laid off, he finally won the office lottery, he was sick—that being the most outrageous of all the explanations because Dad had never ever, to my recollection, missed a day of work due to illness. Dad also had dog-level hearing, so I knew he must have heard me. I thought up the best excuse I could (felt sick from drinking expired milk in cafeteria), and went inside.

Dad was sitting on the couch, in the dark. Our house was plenty dark already, what with the tapestry-like curtains he hung on all the windows to "keep the heat in," so I felt pretty creeped out. "This is bad," I thought. "Dad? What's going on?"
He looked up at me, "Your mother—she's gone."
My heart raced, "Gone where? Dead?"
"No. Not dead. She went to B_____."
Now I was confused, "Yeah, I know. She told me last night."
He handed me a piece of paper, "She's not coming back." He put his head in his hands and began to sob.

Genesis, Invisible Touch
Released summer of 1986

Singles Going Steady: Jane's Addiction's "Ocean Size"

Exactly when Victor started doing cocaine is not clear to me. I do remember when I first found out, though. Victor had just finished his sophomore year of college and I had just graduated from high school. He'd decided to stay in Columbus that summer to work instead of coming home, and I was pretty broken up about that in a very annoying, very teenager-y way. My dad took pity on me—rather, he didn't want to spend an entire summer hearing me cry and moan about how much I missed Victor. So he gave me permission to drive down to Columbus to go with Victor to Lollapalooza 1994.

We came back from the concert, all sunburned and ringing ears, and Victor and one of his roommates, Nick, had a party. They lived in one of those campus slum apartments on the South side of campus where the ratio of chained-up kegs to chained-up bikes with missing seats was 1:1. I was down in the living room, sitting with Alison. Alison was somebody's girlfriend—I was never quite sure whose. Alison was the sort of person who never talked to you first; she waited until you said "hi" or acknowledged her in some way, ignoring you until then. She had been one of the popular, cute-in-a-generic-way, super-trendy girls in high school, but college hadn't been as kind. Now she looked dull, like all the light had gone out of her. She'd adopted that lazy college-girl uniform of big, hooded sweatshirt (no doubt stolen from one of her boyfriends); too-long jeans with the back cuffs all shredded; puka-shell necklace; messy, half-assed ponytail; and some kind of Doc Martin sandals. I didn't like her, but she was friends with Victor and his friends (had dated most of them), so I resigned myself to the fact that she was always going to be around. Like a fixture, a drawer pull, a cabinet knob.

Alison was teaching me how to smoke a bong. "You have to really inhale," she said. "It's not like smoking a cigarette." She passed me the bong—green plastic with Grand Royal stickers decorating it—and lit the bowl while I sucked in. I couldn't get the water to bubble. "Try again," she said and held the lighter to the bowl. I sucked in as hard as I could and heard a gurgling sound. "You've got it," Alison said. "Now, keep going while I pull the stem out." When she did, I felt like my entire head was being drawn into the tube. A burning feeling crept into my throat and my eyes started tearing up. The huge cloud of smoke I exhaled made Alison laugh, "Damn! You've got some powerful lungs."

I started sputtering and coughing and felt like I wasn't going to be able to stop. My head felt light and tingly and once the coughing subsided, I couldn't stop smiling. I loved it, though my throat was incredibly dry. "I need a drink," I croaked, and stumbled into the kitchen. There were people everywhere and the floors were sticky from the keg. I got a beer and went back out to the living room to look for Victor, whom I hadn't seen in what seemed, then, anyway, like a very long time. He wasn't there, so I started upstairs.

The music, Jane's Addiction's Nothing's Shocking, was deafening; they listened to a lot of Jane's while they lived in that apartment. "Ocean Song" was blaring from Nick's bedroom and somebody was howling along:

Wish I was ocean size/
they cannot move you/
no one tries…

I suddenly felt like my ears had been packed full of cotton. People were yelling and singing and laughing and bumping into me. I started to panic because I felt a little out of my mind and nobody looked familiar. Fortunately, I ran into a very startled-looking Nick. "Hey—have you seen Victor?"
He looked at me then turned around and quickly turned back, "Uh, yeah. He's … on his way downstairs—soon."
"But is he in his room?" I started to walk toward it, but Nick stepped in front of me.
"Hey—come with me to get a beer." He grabbed my arm and tried to guide me back downstairs.
Behind Nick, down the hall, I could see two pairs of feet under Victor's door. "That's okay," I squeezed myself past him. "I'm fine." And I walked toward Victor's room. My head was throbbing and my sunburn started to hurt, too.

Victor's back was to me when I opened the door. There were two guys I didn't know standing there and they stopped talking when they saw me. Victor turned around, "Close the door," he hissed.
"That's okay, man," Random I said, "We're done. Late." Random I and Random II hurried out and Victor closed the door behind them.
"What was that about?" I asked. Victor was sniffling. "And why are you sniffling? What's with the mirror?"
He looked blankly at me, unsure whether to lie or be straight with me. I'd seen that look a lot. "They were doing some lines, okay? They didn't want to advertise it to the world."

I was pretty shocked. I mean, we were good kids from the heartland. Cocaine was a real drug. It never in a million years occurred to me that anyone I knew would ever get into real drugs—especially that one. We grew up in the Nancy Reagan, Just-Say-No 80s, right? We knew from watching "Miami Vice" that the bad guys were the ones with the drugs, and Crockett and Tubbs dealt out swift and mighty justice to the cocaine smugglers, while remaining blazingly fashionable. Like, every episode seemed to deal with the breaking up of some Colombian or Bolivian drug ring. Didn't Victor remember that? Didn't he know all the words to "Smuggler's Blues"? I sure did.
"Did you do it, too?"
Victor looked up at the ceiling, "Yes."
"Did Nick?"
He nodded.
"Have you done it before?"
Victor was getting irritated. "Iseult, it's no big deal, okay? Would you just relax? I only did a little bit." He kept pinching his nose and wincing.

Jane's Addiction, "Ocean Size," from the album, Nothing's Shocking
Released August 1988

Favorite Sounds, Nonmusical Variety

• The opening of a soda can
  
• The "ffftttt" of a rotary-dial telephone, especially when dialed from a high digit
  
• The zipper on my floor-length puffy coat
  
• The snap on my green windbreaker, circa 1986
  
• The tiny bell on my keychain that my mom gave me
  
• The "thwunk" of a stapler when stapling a large amount of paper
  
• The "plink" when I pull the cord on the bus to let the driver know it's my stop
  
• The cracking when you break off part of a pappadum
  
• A train whistle
  
• The "fitzzzz" of the ramen noodles re-hydrating when hit by boiling water
  
• Bare feet on a hardwood floor
  
• The turning of the lock when Fibonacci comes home
  
• The "thwup" of the toast popping up
  
• Rain, anywhere, anytime
  
• The crinkle of the wrapper surrounding a Goetze's Bulls Eye caramel cream
  
• Skatie's laugh and Campbell's laugh—it's a tie
  
• Fibonacci, when he sings Johnny Cash
  
• The busty traffic-cop lady when she yells at tourists crossing Michigan Avenue because they don't seem to understand that that searing-red flashing-hand signal doesn't mean "Go ahead and run, you might just make it, unless you have bags from American Girl or Crate & Barrel, in which case, everyone will wait for your globular, Applebee's-eating ass to waddle along to the other side, Allah forbid that your parcels get jostled! Take your time."
  
• The "chh-chh" noise the jumbo mouthwash bottle at the gym makes when I press down on the pump and the mouthwash splashes into the Dixie cup
  
• The lint brush doing its job on a sweater
  
• The lighting of a match, especially a wooden match
  
• The "ssschssssch" of packing peanuts when my hands rummage through them
  
• When Skatie's kid calls and yells, "Zia! I lurve ya!"
  
• How when you put a dollar in the vending machine on my floor, it makes a "blong" sound that's exactly like the first note of "Sunday Bloody Sunday"
  

Grammy Recap + Stripping Music = Random Post

Grammy Recap, Brief

• Kanye West had a Come to Jesus with the whole US of A! His was the best stage show I'd seen in a long time--until homey busted out with the angel wings. There was where he lost me. Still, Mavis Staples killed it. John Legend, on the other hand, had no business being up there with her OR the Blind Boys of Alabama. He's a decent singer, but compared with those other talents, his voice sounded tinny and thin.
  
• Maroon 5: They're the new Matchbox 20, right? Or the new Eve 6? Sum 41? Blink-182? 3 Doors Down? 311? UB40? Yo, U2 is the only band with a number in its name to ever be successful. Remember that.
  
• Alicia Keys cold rocks the party. She looked hot as hell and sounded fantastic.
  
• Don't you feel like every time you've seen Gwen Stefani lately, she's trying to sell you something? Either blantantly or subliminally? Like, recently, I've seen/heard her pimping her clothing line, her album, tourism to Harajuku, and that Tom Petty video for "Don't Come Around Here No More." I'm confused. What is the message here??? Whatever it is, it's working: Next month, Fibonacci and I are going to Tokyo AND I've been listening to a LOT of Tom Petty. OMG!
  

Stripping Music
Someone once told me that the best stripper he'd ever seen stripped to the Melvins's "Hooch." I was all, "Huh. Is that right?" I mean, she gets snaps for originality, no? My experience with strippers and stripping is limited (read: none), but from what TV and Movies tell me, the ladies mostly strip to Southern rock or R.Kelly. Boring! I couldn't help but wonder: If I were a stripper, what would I want to strip to? I decided anything by Prince was automatically excluded from the list because, well, it's Prince; every song is a contender. And so:

• The Cramps--"New Kind of Kick"
• Suede--"She"
• Rush--"Tom Sawyer"
• Heart--"Magic Man"
• LL Cool J--"Going Back to Cali"
• Method Man and Mary J. Blige--"I'll Be There for You/You're All I Need to Get By"
• Notorious B.I.G.--"One More Chance " (Puff Daddy Remix)
• Cam'Ron--"Oh Boy"
• Dandy Warhols--"Boys Better"
• New Order--"Hurt"
• Nine Inch Nails--"Get Down Make Love"
• Eurythmics--"I Need a Man"
• Erykah Badu--"Didn't Cha Know"
• Billy Squire "Everybody Wants You" (Duh.)
• Steve Winwoon--"Higher Love"
• Van Halen--"Panama"
• Jon Spencer Blues Explosion and Killah Priest--"Greyhound Part 2"
• Expose--"Come Go with Me"
• Mary Jane Girls--"In My House" (Duh, part deux.)

Happy Valentine's Day, everyone!

The Racket Friday FAQ: Volume 2

It's Friday, and you know what that means, right? It's time for another installment of the superfabulous Racket Friday FAQ! If you like to drink some soda, let me hear you say "Coca-Cola!" Coca-Cola! Throw your hands in the air! And waive 'em like you just don't care! And if y'all like to party like we like to party, everybody say "Oh yeah!" Oh yeah! Etc., and so on.

Before we get started, I have to give a shout out to the folks at the Village Voice for linking to my humble, little blog this week. The page has since been updated, but I did have my moment in the sun: They put my link right next to "Savage Love"! Hey now.

To the e-mailbag:

Q: It's "Eleanor" Rigby. Not "Elenor."

A: Right. Yes. But not a question.

Q: Okay, here's my big problem with you: In your entry about Bright Eyes, you call out Conor Oberst for having corny-ass lyrics. But then you turn around and write corny-ass stuff, too! Like this, for example:

Lying in the dark with only my insomnia to keep me company, I had to laugh a little at the irony: "Off to Never Never Land…" The next thing I remember hearing was a lawn mower and some birds. It was morning.

Give me a break! That's some terrible writing. Hello, Pot? This is kettle: You're black.

A: Whee! That pot-kettle thing is good times.
So, yeah, that's a semi-legitimate question. I suppose I got a little lazy there. What I should have written was that after that incident, my insomnia was gone. Poof. Just like that. But here's the thing: Unlike Conor, I'm not making you pay to read (hear) my stuff, right? You're getting all this word-y goodness for free.

Q: That whole story about Elton: You seemed really obsessed with how attractive he was. Was he really that good looking? What did he look like?

A: He looked a little like this and a little like this. Only taller and wee bit more greasy.

Q: You say in your profile that you're an editor. So why don't you use some of those skills on your own stuff? You have a tendency to go on and on and on.

A: Damn, bra. That's cold. But you know what they say: Opinions are like assholes…HAW HAW HAW!

Q: Okay, I have a question about music: What's up with Pearl Jam?

A: Finally! Well, what's up with them is that they were an insanely popular band that made a TON of cash in the early to mid-1990s and didn't know how to deal with the resulting popularity, had a lead singer who was arrogant, never managed to make a better album than their first, formed a ton of side projects, released a zillion live albums that are only interesting to hard-core fans, and have faded away. Here's a quote that sums up how supremely ridiculous Eddie Vedder was:

I think I threw a wine bottle at a mirror [in the dressing room at Carnegie Hall] and it exploded. At some point I cut my hand and started writing "I hope I die before I get old" in blood. Which was really good. We got a bill from Carnegie Hall for $25,000. It was maybe two grand, tops—like, a mirror and a paint job and a couple of lightbulbs. We talked them down. They also said they'd never have rock'n'roll bands in [Carnegie Hall] again. Which is only right.

Rawk! Like, here's a bridge, dude. Get over yourself. (Haw!)

I can't front: I rocked the flannel and Doc Martens boots in high school. I bought Pearl Jam records, as well as Nirvana, Screaming Trees, Alice in Chains, and Mother Love Bone. I kvelled when I saw Singles. I still like some of the music of that time. But like every trend, this one was already on the way out by the time it reached my little town. So come early 1994, we poured one out for our Seattle homies and moved on to the Next Big Thing.

Ultimately, it's the Eminem Syndrome, right? Once you start to bank at that level, singing or rapping about injustice, poverty, politics, or how hard it is to be a rich, famous musician doesn't appeal much to your original fan base, does it? You can't be surprised that once you get mega-popular, suddenly your fans are no longer a tight, exclusive group. Now, they're people who shop at Wal-Mart and live in Anytown, USA; who drive minivans; whose song is "Last Kiss," who played "Black" at their wedding. I can totally understand how Pearl Jam freaked out when they became a commodity, given that, by all accounts, they hoped to be canonized alongside Nirvana. Their fans are called "Jammers," for the love of Pete, which makes me want to throw up a little in my mouth because that's even worse than Mariah Carey's Lambs.

Look, the only people who came out of the grunge era relatively unscathed are Dave Grohl and Marc Jacobs. Yes, Marc Jacobs. Who knew that he'd bounce back from that embarrassing (though he considers it his favorite) Perry Ellis "grunge" collection? It was the death rattle of grunge—AND it got him fired. But look at him now: Not only are his two personal collections consistently creative and beautiful (not to mention highly coveted by yours truly), but he also has his über-deal with Louis Vuitton. Marc Jacobs is a roller. Same goes for Dave Grohl: I don't think anyone can say that his relevance as a musician has dwindled over the years. He's a successful rock star with tons of talent, a commercially successful band that isn't corny or formulaic, and huge respect in the music world. If anything, his popularity has only increased since the Nirvana days.

In sum, of the successful musical acts of that time, it's not that Pearl Jam are like Kris Kross, or anything, but I think their ship has definitely sailed. At this point, they might consider taking it all the way to the bank and staying put.

Q: U want 2 make her scream with yr HuGe mity c0ck??

A: Yes. Absolutely.

Mixtape: The Most Melancholy Songs in the World, Like, Ever

Editor's note, 07/23/2007: Hey team -- If you want to read the next installment of this list, click here. Danke!

Y'all. I have a cold and my stomach hurts. And there's some sort of powder-like dust on the ground that I refuse to believe is actually snow. AND I have a magazine going to print today, so I have to be here at the office, waiting, in all my runny-nosed grumpy glory. What better way to pass the time than to make a list of melancholy songs? Let's get this party started:

(These are in no particular order, BTW. Also? I'm not going to bother putting quotation marks around the song titles because that is a pain in the ass. Yes, I know, it's not correct citation. But get off me.)

* Last Goodbye -- Jeff Buckley
* Seasick, Yet Still Docked -- Moz
* Asleep -- The Smiths
* She's Leaving Home -- The Beatles
* Eleanor Rigby -- The Beatles
I think it's the strings part that gets me. If you have a copy of the Anthology 2, you can hear the strings only on track 21. It sounds like a rainy day. In a cemetary. When you're hungover.

* It's Too Late -- Carole King
* Alone Again, Naturally -- Gilbert O'Sullivan
* Everybody Here Wants You -- Jeff Buckley
When I was in Paris, the summer after all this went down, I remember sitting around the hotel, watching MTV Europe, or whatever, and I swear to Baby Jesus that this song had a video. I recall something about TV monitors, an Asian woman, and a cafe? Anyone know?

* Dry the Rain -- The Beta Band
* Hillside -- Arnold
* On and On -- Longpigs
* She Just Wept -- Starsailor
* One -- U2
* Walk to the Water -- U2
Buddha, Kona, Beau, and I went to Cincinnati to see DJ Shadow (Jeru the Damaja opened). We didn't even know that DJ Shadow was who he was because he came on stage immediately after Jeru finished, and he didn't turn off the house lights, so most people were thinking he was just some guy warming up the crowd. It wasn't until he started playing "Midnight in a Perfect World" that we started going, "Hey! Isn't that...?" And by then he was done. Just left the stage without a word. Most people missed him altogether. What a dick. Anyway, since the show was over early, we decided to drive back to Columbus. On the way we stopped at a Waffle House. Now, for you folks out there who don't know from Waffle House, all you need to know is that a house specialty--hash browns--comes in the following ways: smothered, covered, diced, and chunked. Sometimes all at once. ANYWAY, Waffle Houses have jukeboxes. They usually have stuff like Merle Haggard or that little guy, Paul Williams, who used to guest star on The Love Boat, or the Pointer Sisters. But this jukebox must have been maintained by the kids who worked there: It had the Pixies, Violent Femmes, the Cure, and U2. What really blew my mind was that U2's "Walk to the Water" was a selection. I'd never heard that song until Matthew, a huge U2 fan, put it on a mixtape for me a year earlier. I shoveled in my quarters and played it. For whatever reason, at that time, in that place, when it came on I just started bawling. I felt like such an asshole. The guys were like, "WTF, mate?" (Someday I'll tell the Matthew story. Just have to run it by a lawyer first. And that's not to titillate you; it's so's I don't get sued.)

* Letters to Elise – The Cure
* Little Digger – Liz Phair
* Nothing Compares 2 U – Sinead O'Connor's version
* Success Has Made a Failure of our Home – Sinead O'Connor
* Sometimes It Snows in April -- Prince
* Would? – Alice in Chains
* Your Ghost – Kristin Hersh
* The Needle and the Damage Done – Neil Young
* Blue and Wonder – Richard Buckner
See if you can find a live version of this. I don't know where I got it or where it was recorded, but it's pretty amazing.

* You've Lost That Lovin' Feelin' – The Righteous Brothers
* Waltz #2 (XO) – Elliott Smith

Whew, doggie! That's enough for today. I just got my proofs back, so I have to get cracking. Feel free to add to the list…

Singles Going Steady: Metallica's "Enter Sandman"

The day the music died, for me, anyway, wasn't when Madonna released her craptacular cover of Don McLean's classic, "American Pie." It was about a year earlier in my dingy, too-big-for-one-person apartment on Oakland Avenue in Columbus. The Oakland apartment was my first foray into living alone, having broken the lease at my previous apartment because of my then-roommate Crasian's raging alcoholism, lying, threatening suicide, and inability to pay the rent, among other things. Crasian was like a sickness, the kind that gets you lots of presents and time away from work and sympathy. But it's still a sickness and not something that you should be nurturing.

Crasian was having a hard time with life in general, but the big problem had to do with her woefully misguided crush on her boss, Flash. Flash was this ridiculously cute, tiny blonde with twinkly blue eyes and amazing style and a long list of boys wanting to take her out. Crasian, on the other hand, was puffy, with dull, mousy brown hair; pale, vein-y skin; and a sense of style that can only be called Lumberjack Librarian. Crasian wasn't gay, exactly. I think she thought she might be, but in retrospect, I suspect that she was just lonely and Flash's affectionate behavior filled up that hole in Crasian's life and she clamped on to it with bulldog jaws. We all told Crasian that it wouldn't end well. Even after Flash and Crasian slept together, it was clear that Crasian was nothing more to Flash than an experiment, a story that she could bust out among friends to prove how wild she had been in college.

But this affair was consuming Crasian's life. She didn't talk about anything else. Crasian would say things like, "Doesn't Flash see how great we could be together? I know she feels it too—I mean, why else would she be making out with me in the stockroom if she didn't feel it, you know?" Then she'd drink a fifth of Jim Beam or whatever else was handy until she passed out, coming to only if the phone rang to whimper, "Is it Flash?" If Flash snubbed her at work, she'd totally fall apart. When she was home, she was drinking, sobbing, usually both. She dropped out of school and quit her job. Then she started ignoring her bills, and when the collectors started calling, she ignored them, too.

Needless to say, as her roommate, this situation was getting old at warp speed. There was no reasoning with her, yet she was incredibly needy. I was totally drained from talking about it with her, so I avoided her as much as I could. The payback was a bitch; she'd bang on my door in the middle of the night, drunk, yelling at me that I was a terrible, selfish person. So I started giving the creditors her mother's phone number, memorized Crasian's social security number and changed over all the utilities in her name, and told our landlord that I wanted out. The piece de resistance was when I came home one night after work and Crasian was sitting on our stairs in her pajamas, empty bottle of whiskey in her paw, and maniacal smile on her face. "What's up?" I said, though I didn't really care. "I'm trying to figure out where to kill myself so you can find me when you come home," she said. Ding Ding Ding! The Crazy Alarm sounded loud and clear. Crasian ended up moving home shortly after that.

The whole experience rattled me. See, Crasian was a very good liar and an extremely affable person. That combination served her well; people trusted her, believed her, liked her. Hell, so did I. I believed that before all this happened, before we moved in together, we were genuinely friends. It wasn't until months later that I started to realize the extent of the damage Crasian had caused. While I was keeping my distance from her, she was telling our mutual friends that I said awful, hurtful things about them, that I was a bad friend—while at the same time telling me that they'd said hurtful things about me. She told Ross I was cheating on him, and told me she thought I should leave him. For whatever reason, she was determined to make my life as miserable as possible. And it worked: Ross and I broke up, those friends stopped talking to me. It took a tremendous amount of work and tears to put everything back together again—and things still weren't quite the same.

My mom came to visit and help me get things set up in my new apartment, cooked for me, babied me. Friends came by to drink and smoke on my front porch. The first month in my place I had company almost every night. I was surrounded by people who loved me and cared about me and yet I had never felt more alone in my entire life—not just lonely, but alone. And I was the most tired I'd ever felt. I didn't want to do anything but sleep and watch TV. I wasn't interested in food. I constantly felt on the brink of tears. There was a tight feeling in my throat at all times. Something was definitely wrong. It manifested itself in many ways but one was especially strange: Suddenly, everything was quiet. One morning I woke up and the entire apartment was silent. You know how when there's some white noise coming from somewhere and it stops and you can't right away figure out what's different? That's what this was. Like something had clicked off inside me. I always had a song of some kind in my head, was always humming or singing something, but it was gone. And I didn't have any interest in listening to music. At all. I'd stare at my shelves of CDs and didn't want to hear any of them. That's when I knew I was in trouble.

It never occurred to me that this was depression rearing its selfish, ugly head. I'd always been on the melancholy side of things and no one would describe me as a particularly ebullient person, but this was something else completely. My brain went a little haywire. I was suddenly afraid to be in my apartment, especially at night. I'd convinced myself that I was going to get robbed or attacked. I stayed out on my porch until it got too cold or too mosquito-ed, then reluctantly went inside. I moved my bed out to the living room and slept there, with the TV on and the phone in my hand. I was afraid to be alone. I started spending an inordinate amount of time with D-Money, doing things that I didn't particularly like to do—biking, hiking, golfing—just so I could be with her. I became fearful of knives—especially when I was using one around someone. I was certain "something" was going to happen to cause me to stumble or slip and drive the knife into the person's chest. Every headache was a tumor; every muscle spasm was a stroke. I looked in the mirror and felt like I was staring at a stranger—my own voice sounded unfamiliar. I felt like I was carrying a yoke with buckets on each side filled with concrete and dipped in lead.

One afternoon I was pacing and smoking out on my porch when my landlord, Boris, came by. Boris lived across the street and was a confirmed bachelor, in his late 60s, with thick glasses, and bushy white hair. He often smelled of alcohol and spent most of his days chatting online with Russian mail-order brides. He'd told me that he'd been a translator in World War II and often started conversations with me in Italian, or Russian, or Polish, or French. I liked Boris, felt a little sorry for him, so I didn't mind when he visited. We'd have a drink and he'd tell me about the women he was wooing. This time, however, I'd called him: In the side yard, a large raccoon had fallen off the roof and was wheezing loudly, half-dead, baking in the afternoon sun. It was foaming at the mouth and I was certain that it had rabies. I was also certain that it was going to somehow get up and bite me, so I was freaking out. I'd called animal control, but they said that unless the raccoon was mobile, there was nothing they could do. Boris took a look and said, "Well, he's almost gone. Can't be too much longer now. We should leave him there."
"Boris," I lit yet another cigarette. "You can't be serious! He's dangerous! He could attack me—someone! You have to do something!" I had started to yell a little bit.
Boris, rightly so, looked at me like I was nuts, "My dear, he's barely breathing. I don't think he's going to be attacking anyone in this lifetime." He walked back over to look. The wheezing was getting louder. "Why don't we have a drink and think about what to do, hmm?"

We stood in the side yard drinking Johnnie Walker black label and stared at the raccoon. The hippie guy from down the street stopped over to see what we were looking at. "Oh man," he fussed with his hemp necklace then shoved his hands in his pockets. "I guess it's too late to call the shelter. What a drag." Boris rolled his eyes. Hippie Guy hand-rolled and lit a cigarette and stood there with us. A few minutes later, the two meatheads next door came over. "What's going on?" The larger meathead shoved himself in between Boris and me. "Dude!" Larger Meathead motioned to Smaller Meathead, "Check this shit out. It's fucking foul, dude."
Smaller Meathead stepped on my foot trying to get a better look. "Fucking nasty!" he laughed. "What are you going to do with it?" he asked me.
"Um, nothing," I lit a cigarette. "Nothing."
"You just gonna let it rot there?"
"Yeah, pretty much," I said. "Got a better idea?"
The two meatheads looked at each other. "Shovel?" said Smaller Meathead.
"Yeah," said Larger Meathead. "Be back in a few." The Meatheads walked home.
I was surprised at their compassion. "Wow," I said. "They're going to bury it. I guess I had the wrong idea about those guys."
Boris looked skeptical, but Hippie Guy nodded. "That's cool," he said. "That's good Karma in action, man."

While we were waiting for the Meatheads, I got Boris and me another drink, got one for Hippie Guy, too. We didn't talk, just continued to watch this poor, broken animal huff and sputter and jerk, then let out a slow, labored wheeze. I thought I should cry, but nothing was happening. I didn't feel anything, except a little drunk. The Meatheads came back with a large shovel and a baseball bat. "What's the bat for?"
Larger Meathead stared fixedly at the raccoon, "We're gonna play ball, dude." He and Smaller Meathead looked at me and laughed.
Boris's eyebrows shot up and he stepped in front of me. "Wait, Iseult, I think you better go inside."
Hippie Guy looked kind of pale, "Yeah, you should wait there."
I shrugged my shoulders; I didn't know what the big deal was. I'd seen animals get buried before. I thought it was kind of corny and sexist, but also sort of nice that they wanted to shield me from the unpleasantness of the burial. "I'll see you later," I said to Boris. I barely cleared the first step when I heard a sound that I'd never heard before, or since: It was like the crunching of a bag of chips, followed by a whistle, followed by a squirting noise, then a thud.

I finally understood what the bat was for.

Later, I sat out on my porch steps, afraid to look in the side yard. D-Money came over and I told her about the raccoon and the Meathead Twins. She immediately went to look. "Don't worry. There's nothing there but a mound of dirt."

In bed that night, I stared at the ceiling unable to turn off my brain. I wasn't sleeping well in those days anyway, but with the windows open, I could hear that the Meatheads were having a party and it was extremely loud. In between sounds of cans opening and girls giggling, I could hear a little bit of music. Usually the Meatheads played rap, but that night it was rock. Hard, brittle, metal. "Dude! Turn it the fuck up!" I heard someone yell. I braced myself for the blast. It was Metallica's "Enter Sandman." Lying in the dark with only my insomnia to keep me company, I had to laugh a little at the irony: "Off to Never Never Land…" The next thing I remember hearing was a lawn mower and some birds. It was morning.

Metallica, "Enter Sandman," from the album Metallica (AKA "The Black Album")
Released August 1991

Undecided: Bright Eyes, I'm Wide Awake, It's Morning

Dear Conor,

See, I'd been steering clear of your albums because I wasn't sure I'd be into them. Like, I'm always reading about how you started a band at age eight or something, how you're described as "a young Bob Dylan," and that you have a way with the ladies. I also read that you're a vegan. Based on those factoids, you can understand, I'm sure, why I might not be so keen to throw down my money on your work. From your photos, I can surmise that you don't wash much. Your hair is long, but not too long so that you can still see the effusiveness of the fans in your audience. You wear an awful lot of ironic t-shirts—you know, ones that say things like "Bizzy Builder's Softball League," or "Wichita High School Seniors 1988" and can be bought at Urban Outfitters for around $25.00 You definitely have a Look. I wonder if it is in fact a Look or is simply how you look.

Your music is difficult for me, too. I can't tell if you're sincere or if you just want to sleep with me. I don't know how you can sing things like:

And I know you have a heavy heart/
I can feel it when we kiss/
So many men stronger than me have thrown their backs out trying to lift it…

And be totally straight-faced! I mean, maybe you can, but maybe it's all a lie. I'm not sure. I know that I am an earnest person, a person who believes in the good of people, a person who wants to push the bullshit to the side of the road and make way for hopefulness, for happiness. And I'd like to think you feel the same way—your lyrics seem to indicate that you do—but I fear that your persona is flat and produced, you know? That you want us to think you really understand love and heartbreak and isolation, but the truth of it is that you simply know what sells and you're a damn good salesman. I fear that living in the world has made me cynical enough that I can no longer tell when someone is being genuinely real. That's sad, don't you think?

Listen, Conor, I'm not trying to insult you or anything. I guess I'm just trying to tell you that I don't know what to make of you yet. I bought your latest album and some of it knocks my socks off, but some of it makes me cringe. When you sing:

Yours is the first face that I saw/
I think I was blind before I met you /
Now I don't know where I am /
I don't know where I’ve been/
But I know where I want to go…

I feel kind of embarrassed for you. "'I was blind before I met you'??? What is that?!," I think. But then I have to check myself and say, "Iseult, don't be so hard-hearted. He could mean it. He could." Do you? Sasha Frere-Jones, in his profile of you in the most recent New Yorker, says that you know what you're singing is way softhearted, but because you know that, your charm factor is increased exponentially. Look what you did there! I can see why indie-rock girls with their ironic t-shirts, and glasses, and All-Stars would wet their pants at lyrics like those. They look up at you on stage and think things like, "If only you got to know me you'd see that we have a connection" or "I wish my boyfriend were as sensitive as you are," and "I can imagine us spending a lazy Sunday morning together with the Times crossword puzzle. We'd have some bread from City Bakery and lounge around in bed. And he'd sing that song he'd written about me. Then we'd make love. And he'd come and I wouldn't, but that's okay because I'd know how stressed he was from performing, that he'd given his fans everything he had the night before. I'd tell him I totally understand and he'd tell me how I'm so beautiful I make him want to cry. And he'd even cry just a little bit. We'd hold each other and tell each other that as long as we're together, we can face the morning sun. And we'd cry together. And then he'd wipe away my tears and kiss me so hard and take my breath away…"

Hey! I just wrote your next single!

Anyway, good luck with your tour and everything. From what I've read, this album is going to make you a big star. I'll give it another listen when I'm not feeling so suspicious.

Best,
Iseult

Bright Eyes, I'm Wide Awake, It's Morning
Purchased at Virgin Megastore, Michigan Avenue, Chicago
February 2005

Singles Going Steady: Tom Waits's "Tom Traubert's Blues"

Welcome to the world, baby girl, indeed!

I don't have much in the way of wisdom or advice to give you—I mean, the basics are: The world is a hard place and you will have your ups and downs, good days and bad, happy times and sad. That's just how it goes. Your heart will get broken a few times, hopefully a very few, but you'll recover. You'll fall in love with stupid, unworthy guys (or girls), but you'll eventually find someone worthy. You'll meet people who'll blow your mind or blow you off. You will be disappointed sometimes, heartened sometimes. You'll get banged up a little, but you'll dust yourself off and keep going. You'll disagree with your parents, but they'll always love you back, no matter how mean you are to them. You'll get mad at the world, but want to see as much of it as possible. You'll learn that what people think of you doesn't matter, but will sometimes care just a little bit. You'll rebel, you'll fight, you'll cry, you'll laugh, you'll sing, you'll scream, you'll live.

Most important is that you'll find something you love and you'll do it, do it, do it. Do the hell out of it.

That's pretty much all there is to this life thing, I think.

The only other science I can drop on you is to steer clear of bad music. Life's too short to waste your time on shitty, meaningless music. Don't get me wrong: There are times when you're going to want to listen to some "Spice Up Your Life"--especially since your mom has all those dolls waiting for you. But try to listen to things that move you, that matter, that make you feel something. And it's perfectly acceptable to judge someone based on what's in her or his CD collection. For example, people who like Ashlee Simpson are to be avoided at all costs. People who like the Pixies? Should be invited to all your parties. People who dig the Dave Matthews Band might get you stoned, but it will probably be skunky weed. People who dig Steely Dan, however, will have better drugs. People who rock out to Hoobastank secretly also love Ashlee Simpson. But people who rock out to Tom Waits will listen to your problems at three in the morning and be your friend for life.

And speaking of Tom Waits, it seems only fitting that I sign off with a little something from his song, "Tom Traubert's Blues." He mentions you in the song, don't you know?

… And it's a battered old suitcase to a hotel someplace/
And a wound that will never heal/
No prima donna, the perfume is on/
An old shirt that is stained with blood and whiskey/
And goodnight to the street sweepers, the night watchmen, flame keepers/
And goodnight, Matilda, too …

With love,
Iseult

Tom Waits, "Tom Traubert's Blues (Four sheets to the wind in Copenhagen)"
From the album Small Change, October 1976