School of Rock

{and Pop}

I have several different music-related topics that have been rattling around in my mind for the past few months. I don't know where to start, so I'll just do a sort of Joycean stream-of-consciousness dictation here. (My apologies to the late James Joyce for having the gall to suggest that I could ever emulate his abstruse style.)

I love that movie, School of Rock. I think I love every Jack Black movie. The first time I truly appreciated him was when I bonded with his character (music-tastewise) in High Fidelity. I think Saving Silverman came out not long after that, which, by the way, included a cameo appearance by none other than Neil Diamond—who was the guest mentor on American Idol tonight. My opinion on that deserves an entirely separate post. (Or not.) Suffice it to say, my boy Jason will soon be on his way back to Texas. Bless his precious little dreadlocked heart.

Now, let me get this part out of the way. My philosophy-professor little brother has recently been dealing with some serious stress. He told me he responded to it by cranking up some Pantera to help him scream out some of the rage. He said he was reminded of me because I knew the band at its inception, when they played in a garage and progressed to gigs at keg parties in high school. I never followed them much over the years (and honestly, had I not known them then, I probably would never have known that they existed at all). Apparently, in the world of heavy metal, they were kind of a big deal. The lead guitarist, Darrell Abbott, became a famous guitar wizard/genius. He was originally known as "Diamond" Darrell, but later became "Dimebag," and then simply "Dime" to his friends and fans. (Whatever.) I just remember him as a scrawny, laid-back, nice boy (for a budding headbanger). He met a tragic and untimely death three or four years ago. If you can't die of a drug overdose or in an aircraft crash, then I guess getting shot to smithereens on stage is quite a rockstar way to go.

Anyway...if you haven't noticed, I've added some more of my favorite songs, just in case you want to enjoy some background music while you read my drivel. Brian Wilson is one of my favorite Barenaked Ladies songs. And don't get the wrong idea. I am not, nor have I ever been, a Beach Boys fan. I just love the song's message. Maybe I identify with the whole depressed-tortured-artist thing too much. The kids prefer BNL's If I Had a Million Dollars because Luke loves the part that says, "But not a real green dress, that's cruel," and Katy loves the part that says, "Haven't you always wanted a monKEY?" Fun song. (Not the kind I normally gravitate to.) Round Here is probably my favorite song. It's at least in my top five. I also wanted to add the Counting Crows version of Joni Mitchell's Big Yellow Taxi, but it's a WMA file that I can't convert to an MP3. (Don't get me started on how jacked-up all my music files are.) I think Big Yellow Taxi is a classic that everyone should know. And I had to add my favorite Tori Amos song. The CD that song comes from is called Little Earthquakes, but Mike calls it Little Earaches. I included American Girl because it's probably my favorite Tom Petty song and also because I think it's an anthem. I think Don Henley's Boys of Summer and Bryan Adams' Summer of '69 should also be deemed anthems, but I'm no expert. These are just the lame opinions of someone who fancies herself an outdated pop music critic. Of course the real anthems are Free Bird and American Pie (The Day the Music Died). Stairway, of course, is in an anthem class by itself. I'm sure I'm missing several good ones, so please add any suggestions for me to either accept or deride. Good Riddance is here because I think it's pure pop poetry. I like poems that rhyme. (Especially limericks.) The song also reminds me of the Seinfeld finale. They played it at the end of that last, stupid, forgettable episode. I added a Shawn Colvin song because I think she is brilliant. I may have made a mistake in song choice, though. She's a songwriter. But instead of posting one of the many incredible songs she has written, I chose to post her cover of a heartbreaking Bob Dylan song. This way I can include a nod to Bob Dylan without actually having to subject anyone to his voice. Trust me, her version is way better. The other new one is Limp Bizkit's version of The Who's Behind Blue Eyes. I like it, but the more I think about it, the more I think there are better songs to replace it with. My playlist won't be complete until I add Sarah McLachlan, R.E.M., and Nanci Griffith. There are at least a hundred more songs and/or artists I want to mention, so I'll try to toss in a reference here and there as I continue to gunk up cyberspace with my occasional (or all-too-frequent) unsolicited anecdotes and ill-informed opinions.

Well, I gave myself a little less than an hour to get this stuff down, so I never even got to the part about my own personal version of School of Rock. Basically, I play "Name That Band" in the car with the kids. I'll have to tell you more about it in the next installment. Some moms home-school their children. The only home-schooling my kids get involves my stern guidance with how to identify and sing the words of Led Zeppelin, Elvis, AC/DC, Bruce Springsteen, Johnny Cash, The Cure (yes, The Cure) or any other artist or band I deem worthy. Some may see this as a frivolous endeavor. I consider it a Creator-endowed duty to instill in my children the utmost level of mid- to late-20th century popular music literacy. Let's just see what they'll use more in the real world. Trigonometry or tunes? My money's on the music.

First Yardwork De-Brief & More Word Nerd

First, I'm posting this to call attention away from the prior one so as to temper any dreary effect you might be left with had that been your only offering for the day.

I mowed the lawn all on my own for the first time yesterday. That Craftsman riding mower has an amazing turning radius. And the horsepower is impressive as well. (By the way, what's horsepower?) I think I scalped the yard. Here's a tip. You can cut the grass better if you engage and lower the blades. I covered half of our small front yard before I realized I wasn't cutting anything. Also, fill up the tank while the mower is still near the gas, so you don't have to lug the gas can across an acre and slosh it all over yourself on the way. I was fortunate to have had my dear friend Ginger in town and at the ready with a camera to provide proof of my newfound talent. Here's the casualty list: one sprinkler head (that I'm aware of), one rock that I turned into gravel, a garden hose (just kidding, Mike), an Otter Pop wrapper, a small frog, my right thumbnail, and my left cornea. Stay tuned for a soul-stirring weed-eating report.

I'm sorry, but this whole words-I-like or words-I-dislike thing has taken on a life of its own. I have kept it in my head for so long, and now it's out on display for public consumption as if anyone cares. But apparently, many of you do care because you have offered up some of your own favorites. So again, please indulge me and, as always, feel welcome to offer any of your own, albeit probably inferior, suggestions.

More words I like: shenanigans (which really belongs with my earliest list from March), amalgam, conglomeration, antithesis, mercurial, ethereal, karma, dharma, stigma, stigmata, quagmire, pallid, buoyant. More from Kundera: hobo (which I should really attribute to John Hodgman because of his absurd and hilarious hobo obsession in his book Areas of My Expertise), didactic, milieu, Kafka, Balzac, Flaubert, Rabelais, Bovary, Bovaristic, apparatus, Quixotic, Sancho, clairvoyant, burlesque.

Words I prefer not to hear or ponder: slut, menstruate, flaccid, nausea, yearn, spurn.

Again, procrastination break over. Back to work before I get slammed with more of the deadlines breathing down my neck. Not to mention the drippy faucet and weed-eating worries eating at my gut.

Feel Free to Skip This One. Nothing Fun Here.

To die is always a person's last verb. Death their last noun. Yesterday marked 2 years since my dad died. The first year is a blur. The second year brings it into focus. It's odd how the more time passes, the more permanent it seems to become. And just when you think you've accepted the absence, you run across some stupid country song on the radio that makes you cry and you can't bring yourself to change the station. You are driving with sensitive kids in the back seat. They ask what's wrong, and you lie. You blink and brace and breathe. No time, no freedom, no place to cry. You swallow it, suck it up, smile and sigh. Someone who doesn't know calls and asks, "How are you?" "Good. What's up?" you say.

As much as I hate to remember and wish I could forget bad anniversaries, I will always dread every April 27. And every time I chance upon a song that touches my ache, I'll always sob, at least on the inside. I made it through yesterday just fine because I was never alone. Today I am. Hence this delayed reaction and downer post. As I type, Van Morrison's Into the Mystic just started playing on the radio. Great. What timing. Thanks a lot, Daddy.

Don't y'all feel sorry for me? If only doubling-up on my antidepressant would help. A good cry is healthy especially when it's overdue. I promise to be back to "myself" next time. For now, back to work.

Idol Worship

I confess. I have Idol fever. Unlike other competition shows, this one serves a purpose. Dancing with the Stars, on the other hand, is absolutely pointless. American Idol also gives me something to talk to my babysitter about. Otherwise, my conversations with her amount to, "How's school?" and, "I put the number for 9-1-1 by the phone."

I was going to keep my obsession a secret, but I decided I better go ahead and put it out there now because my favorite contestant, Jason Castro, will probably get booted off next week. And when he does, I don't want anyone to wonder why I suddenly become even more sullen and withdrawn. This also gives me an opportunity to announce that I no longer struggle with any inappropriate feelings about the Jonas Brothers. They are so yesterday. I have moved on. It's all about Jason now. Never did I think I would want to run my fingers through (or get them stuck in) a 20-year-old boy's dreadlocks. He dodged a bullet this week, and he better step it up next week or he's out. Which would be fine with me, because then he'll eventually end up back in Texas doing gigs at dive bars, shopping malls, and county fairs. It'll be easier for me to stalk him that way.

I've been impressed with the talent level this season. The contestants keep me watching even though Idol's producers have come up with the most lame themes and oddest celebrity guests ever. First, I think they really overdid it on the Beatles songs. Once they got their hands on that Lennon/McCartney songbook, the vulgar display of medleys and the seemingly endless parade of one overrated Beatles song after another was almost enough to make me change the channel. The Beatles bonanza was soon followed by Dolly Parton night. What?? Sure, she's an icon, and I think everyone likes her as a person, but come on. Then they give Mariah Carey a platform to plug her new album while forcing these poor kids to sing her songs. Season after season, the judges have advised contestants against attempting songs by certain artists such as Whitney Houston, Celine Dion, and, oh yeah, Mariah Carey. I personally don't care for the warblings of these pop divas; so of course, an American Idol version would necessarily come off as forgettable or "karaoke" at best.

And just when I thought it couldn't get any worse, along comes Andrew Lloyd Webber. The fact that he has been knighted and is a "Sir" carries no weight for me whatsoever. Have I mentioned how much I hate musicals? So far, the only tolerable exceptions for me are Grease and Spamalot. I had to sit through Phantom several years ago. I woke up at the part where I guess a chandelier crashes, or something like that. Pure torture. I would rather spend an eternity eating shards of broken glass than watch another musical. Even Les Miserables would make me want to poke my eyes out. Talk about "Mees-ay-rah-bluh." I love the book, but when people start singing the words all dirgelike and non-rhyming to swelling, melodramatic orchestra music, I want to run screaming to the nearest Adam Sandler film festival. At least he chooses good music. And don't get me started on movies of musicals. At least a live one on a stage provides some chance that someone will slip and fall or forget their lines. I remember when that movie Chicago came out. All my friends were just gushing over it. You may think I have a personality defect. I call this distaste an asset and wear it proudly.

Then we find out Wednesday night, that next week we will be subjected to Neil Diamond, of all people. What??? I'm sorry mom; I know you have always adored him. And I don't have any strong feelings against him but, please, is this the best they can do? The opening medley is sure to be a disastrous train wreck. So why do I keep watching? Because I think these kids are talented and I love their wide-eyed, fresh-faced, living-the-dream energy. And because of Jason.

The only thing I hate as much as musicals is ballroom dancing. Except maybe the really hot sambas or tangos. I'm reluctant to give Dancing with the Stars any valuable space here, but I must get something off my chest. The few times over the years that I've tried to watch it and understand the attraction, I find myself trying to figure out which one is the dancer and which one is the B-, C-, or D-list so-called "star." And now the ironic thing is, the professional dancers are bigger stars than the ones they have to stumble around on the dance floor with. And I have to mention poor Priscilla Presley. She would have aged beautifully had she not interfered. She makes Joan Rivers look good. Bless her heart.

I must get back to work now, or at least go take a shower.

I May Need an Intervention

But not yet. I have so much to share.

I think this dictation software is making my blogging compulsion a little too easy. I don't want to fall victim to this little habit and become a pale, night owl homebody like some overweight, unemployed, grown man who lives in his parents' basement and eats Cheetos while playing Dungeons & Dragons on the Internet all day and trolls for underage virtual 'tang all night. I must say I do enjoy the solitude and the almost unfettered release of worthless thoughts and useless ideas that would otherwise evaporate and never be savored by my legions of clamoring voyeurs. Writing is where my heart is. This is my therapy. Not that I need any, mind you.

I started working last night on a post about music, but I have so much ground to cover in that area, I may have to issue it in installments. Look for the first one soon.

I got about 30 minutes of sleep last night. Too bad they weren't consecutive. By the time I realized I was not going to get a good night's sleep, it was too late to take an Ambien. I did doze off long enough to have a dream (actually a nightmare) that Matt Lauer met an untimely demise. I only mention this here in case something does happen to him. This way I'll have proof of my budding psychic abilities. I just had one of those restless nights with nothing specific but everything in general on my mind. It may also have had something to do with the fact that I have been trying to sleep in the middle of the bed. You know, that sort of hump where it still feels like a new mattress? Because not enough time is spent there? Sure, it's nice to have the whole bed to myself where I can spread out, but I can't reach my lamp at night, and worse yet, I can't reach the snooze button in the mornings.

Luke pulled another little molar last night, and this time he had the courtesy to remind me to remind the tooth fairy to make a visit. A few weeks ago, she forgot and I had to sneak some cash under the head of his bed when he woke up upset that she had forgotten him. I caught him a few days later looking under the bed for more money. I need to sit him down and explain that he is too old for this tooth fairy stuff. He has already had braces, now wears retainers at night, and will be (God willing) in sixth grade next year. Enough with the fairy visits. Maybe he'll just let me cut out the middleman.

I came home to a clean house yesterday. I try to save up my errands for the times that the cleaning people are here so I can be gone and not feel indulgent or guilty or elitist. That word elitist troubles me. I was going to say that it has been bandied about a lot lately, but the phrase bandied about troubles me as well. Contrary to the soft-core imagery Chris expressed in one of his recent comments, my Latina cleaning lady (while I do love her) is neither young nor hot. But I'll keep you posted on the youth and hotness level of the many potential landscape maintenance boys who tell me they fit the stringent criteria in my Craigslist ad. As I'm sure you'll understand, I'll be quite busy with interviews this weekend, so just leave me a voicemail and I'll get back to you later.

Now I need to get back to the drudgery of writing a brief for the only client that I have absolutely no sympathy for. Right after I take the dog to the groomer and maybe go get a pedicure.