Pop Culture Blows

He said it best. Standing next to me in the crowd, long red hair and matching beard flowing, joint held nonchalantly in his right hand as an aid to his gesticulations, and he says to me, 'all these songs are about getting kicked in the face by love. You and me, we know about that, but none of these fuckers do,' and he gazed around the crowd at the sea of teeny boppers, faces upturned, seeking out the MTV cameras and their chance at fame. And therein was the inherent flaw with the Campus Invasion tour. It was a rock show put on for the sake of the cameras; not for the sake of those of us there for the music. An MC attempting to entertain the crowd between sets and asking for them to pretend to crowd surf so he could 'pad' some camera shots? Welcome to the contrivances of reality. Our world is staged and the best moments, the real ones, go unnoticed.

But despite that, despite the inherent lameness of the whole affair, The Shins still impress. And I say that having been given the distinct impression that they were less than into the show and were thankful that their touring schedule finished that night. Maybe the music's just so good they don't have to be seen to be enjoyed. Or maybe it was because this time I managed to reach the front of the crowd, having watched the last show from the rear. Whatever the reason, I'll jump along happily to 'Know Your Onion' for as long as they choose to play it. But after that, after that is where it all went sour. An ovation like only Austin can give, with sustained chanting for an encore, and instead we get a return of the MC, who tells us, 'the Shins won't be coming back on. I'm going to give you some free CD's, and then you're all going to leave quietly.' Condescending little prick. And I felt an overwhelming sense of shame as my fellows in the crowd who, a moment before had been chanting along with me for the return of The Shins, gave in to the allure of free CD’s and began jumping up and down screaming with joy at the possibility of catching one. And all thought of disappointment at the lack of an encore disappeared. They had been bought, and it sickened me. I will admit that I did leap once in an attempt to catch one. Luckily though it was out of reach. I say luckily because my intention had been to throw it right back at the MC, and he might not have approved of that.

There’s a bitter taste in my mouth that has nothing to do with The Shins. Ah well. There are more important things to think of. Like which brand of coffee to make. And what’s this morning’s paper got to say?

Fuck MTV.

My Favorite Answer

Those bastards. Those selfish, reprehensible bastards. Five years I’d awaited an opportunity to catch an Okkervil River show, and then a further three months have passed since that concert was originally scheduled, and then, after all that postponement and agonizing over what to wear to the show, when I finally saw them they neglected to play ‘Red.’ That’s right. The song responsible for my favorite color, season, and answer, as well as an irrefutable source of inspiration in my life, still remains just outside my reach to see played live. Oh those heartless bastards. And, to make it all worse, they just had to dazzle with one of the best shows I’ve ever seen. Standing on their own, Okkervil River produced a quite captivating spectacle. Standing in front of a ten piece orchestra and a complementing horn section and our collective breath vanished, just like that, stolen away. Folk rocked the casbah, would be the clichéd way to phrase it, instead I’ll just say they brought the house down. Standing ovation from a near capacity theatre crowd, and in response they gave us a worthy encore. Except of course for the tragic omission of ‘Red.’ And no, I’m not one of those hideously faux fans who attend concerts knowing only one song and scream out for the band to play it the entire evening. It’s just this one song has such a hold on me. I mean, this is Top 5 all time favorites kinda love. Right up there with ‘Hey Jude.’ It’s that level of greatness. Trust me.

And now my familiar digression into tangents has occurred. The point of this was to praise the wholesome goodness of Okkervil River. So consider it praised. I heard that some guy drove 19 hours from California to catch the show. Fanatical, perhaps, but wait a minute. Come with me here, for I love this part. I’m going to ask myself a question, and, this time, this time, I know exactly what my response is gonna be. Ready? Now... would it have been worth it?

Yes.

A Boy with a Golden Touch

So apparently today, according to a source that has been certified as unquestionably accurate, today I have a healing touch. Yes. That's right. My horoscope on this fine day proves me capable of finding water in the desert and almost turning lead into gold. And that's only the beginning, for I'm apparently coursing with so much life energy and regenerative power I could prob'ly bring back Napoleon, should I be so inclined to try. Can you see me now? Look towards Austin, and that glow in the sky... that's me. Radiating with goodness. I should have more days like this. It's very restorative to know that within your fingertips is the power to create worlds and life. It's a shame I didn't realize this until 7:30 in the evening. I've more than likely missed out on a few chances to do righteously cool and froody things throughout the day. But no matter. I'll go ahead now and start accepting applications for healing. You just let me know. One touch, that's all it'll take.

Or so they tell me.

Like An Elephant

So I just read, in a book, that memory loss is an absolutely crucial part of our brain’s activities. Pause for a huge sigh of relief. The point was made, and bizarrely, it parallels a conversation I had last week that I won’t bother to elaborate on, that at any one given moment our senses are privy to an absolute barrage of information: a constant flickering of images granted us through sight, coupled with the sounds of the world around, maybe The Shins new album playing in the background, the perceptions of taste, touch, and smell we so desire, and even, beyond all that, the constant workings of our sub-conscious, exerting its own pull on our attention. And so, the author argues, the brain has developed a complex system to allow for the filtering and eradicating of the majority of this information. Good eh? And no, it’s not of any importance that the author was writing about the effects of marijuana. In fact, I don’t even know why I bring that up. The point is that the memory loss I so particularly worry about, the everyday memory loss that we all experience to some degree or another, is a natural function, and more than that, a necessary function. So what if I do have a frighteningly awful memory and don't recall what we talked about yesterday? It's not a sign of my decreasing mental capacity. No. Far from it. I like to think of it more as a symbol of my own outstanding intellect. Bet you wish you could say the same...

I’m probably smarter than you.

When It Struck Me

So I’ll begin by setting the scene. Picture me desperately tired and sweaty, having just finished playing roller hockey for two hours. But I am also at this time blessed by the curative powers of a Route 44 Ocean Water, a drink commonly known in Ancient Greece as ‘ambrosia.’ So there I was, in the parking lot of a gas station, having stopped in to fill up on petrol. And as I swipe my card and undo the gas cap, a fellow walks up with a red petrol container and asks if I can give him just a bit of gas. Please stop and take a moment here to note the clever alternating of the terms ‘petrol’ and ‘gas,’ done so as to avoid redundancy. Or a couple of bucks for it he says, seein’ as his truck just ran out. So me, being a veritable saint, comply. I figure a gallon of petrol is fine. It’s not like giving a homeless person money and watching them turn around and buy a crack rock with it. And, actions justified, our friend actually takes the newly acquired gas and pours it into his truck, parked just around the corner. All’s well with the world.

Fast forward to the end of the scene. Having finished filling up, I run inside the store to collect my receipt. And who should hold the door for me as I enter? None other than our friend of red petrol container fame, a coffee held in each hand. So naturally, feeling hoodwinked, I ask him if I can borrow a couple bucks to buy a cup of coffee, and then I roundhouse kick him in the face. It’s a shame the candy aisle got destroyed by my nunchuks, as I really could have used some Sour Punch Straws. But I did at least claim one of the abandoned coffees of my friend before I left the scene. And as I drove away, it was all worth it.

Coffee never tasted so sweet.

I Love the Java

Core temperature restored. An hour out of the water and my shivers have finally subsided. Only to be happily replaced by caffeine induced jitters. Have I ever mentioned I love coffee houses? And I'm pretty sure they love me too. There's definitely some chemistry there. And as if to emphasize the point, my favourite, yes, favourite with a 'u', Flaming Lips song is playing in the background. 'I don't know where the sunbeams end and the starlight begins. It's all a mystery...' My favorite Flaming Lips song without the 'u' is about a girl named Yoshimi. Battling Pink Robots. And yes, there'll be a quiz later. Apologies. My mind's running laps around the block. Blame it on the bottomless coffee I ordered, which I will say is an evil, evil thing, but oh how I adore it. Morning blog posts should be outlawed on account of being senseless drivel. But until that day comes, the world is my oyster and I'm desperate for a fourth cup of coffee.

Now I'm, now I'm sh-sh-shakin'...