Geek On This

Listen, because this is true: Just about everyone is a geek about something. If you’re not, you probably should be, because it is one hell of a lot of fun to know 2000% more about a subject than rational human beings should know. I’m not advocating that you go get a hobby that devours whole your spare time, social life, and 401K, but I firmly believe that the liberating and wonderfully distracting power of geeking out is key to life happiness.

It is also terribly important that you embrace your geekiness, no matter how ridiculous it is. If you are a deeply-studied authority on all things related to, say, Formula One racing, then get hip-deep in the absurdity of that interest. I’m not suggesting that you lord it over the rest of us like some superior human being, but you had better not apologize for knowing that the BMW team is dropping the unusual nose fins on their chassis due to safety concerns. Be a geek. Love it.

Among other things, I am a music geek, but that geekiness requires some clarification. If you put music geeks on a scale of one to one hundred, I’d come in at a solid seventy, maybe seventy-five. I have a lot of music, and I like a lot of music, but there are some holes in my knowledge (mostly involving “old” bands like The Eagles, CCR, and the like) and some weird appreciations outside of the norm (the Irish band The Pogues).

The point here that I am finally now going to get to is this, oh fellow music geeks:

You know how you spend six hours bitterly arguing about which albums you would take with you to a deserted island if you could only take ten? Or how you might possibly fight to the death in hand-to-hand combat disputing whether Kind of Blue or Blue Train is the best jazz album ever (clearly Kind of Blue, or we’ll have to throw down)? Or how your list of the top three R.E.M. albums might or might not include Up depending on whether or not you were allowed to count albums after their drummer quit the band?

Yes, I think you do know. And so, I have a new subject about which you can now reach shouting levels. This subject is especially relevant in these, the days of the iPod, when the album as an art form is waning from prominence. I was shuffling the 5,000 or so songs on my iPod today, when the shuffler settled upon U2’s “Lemon” from Zooropa. This was a song that I originally listened to unshuffled on CD, so my brain was programmed to be prepared for the next song on the album, “Stay (Faraway, So Close).” This is quite the one-two punch, musically speaking. You go from the electronic, airy, almost driving rhythm of Bono’s falsetto philosophizing (“Man captures color, man likes to stare / He turns his money into light to look for her.”) to the absolutely heartbreaking, stripped-down beauty of “Stay,” (“Dressed up like a car crash, your wheels are turning, but you’re upside down.”) that ends with that perfectly simple cymbal hit. “Lemon” soars and dreams, “Stay” sits you down on the bar stool and pours you a whiskey. The rest of the album is hit-or-miss, but those two songs just punch you right in the gut. It’s this sort of thoughtful placement – not just two great songs, but two great songs that fit perfectly as a pair – that we’re losing more and more as the electronic age of music sweeps the artistic arrangement of albums under the digital rug. I’m not lamenting the change altogether, just making the point that shuffle isn’t always the way to go. So ask yourself this question:

What are some of the best back-to-back song combos on an album? This is one that takes a bit of studying, so I’ll give you time to compile your best five to ten song pairs and submit them in the comments section. I’m looking hard at my especially musically geeky friends to set the bar high here, and I think you know who you are. (Note: Soundtracks and Best Of albums are excluded, and if you disagree or don't understand why, please slap yourself in the face. See? This is the kind of conviction it takes to be a true geek.)

My top ten pairs, in no particular order, are as follows, and definitely reveal at what point in my life I was listening mainly to whole, unshuffled albums:

“Mysterious Ways” and “Tryin’ to Throw Your Arms Around the World” U2, Achtung Baby
“Mysterious Ways” belly-dances in greens and blues, worshiping the woman, while “Tryin’” finds her in a small moment and reassures her. Beautiful.

“Nightswimming” and “Find The River” R.E.M., Automatic for the People
One of the most amazing songs ever written – filled with memory, pure nostalgia – followed by a departure song – a leaving, a thank-you, an expansive looking forward.

“Pictures of You” and “Closedown” The Cure, Disintegration
A shout out to my teen angst days, one of the sadder songs that I’ve ever loved followed by, well, more sadness, but of driving nature.

“Bullet the Blue Sky” and “Running to Stand Still” U2, The Joshua Tree
No explanation needed, I think.

“Rhyme for the Summer Time” and “Cold Beverage” G. Love and Special Sauce, G. Love and Special Sauce
I’ve always thought this might be the ultimate summer album, and these two songs take you from a total chill on the deck to up and movin’ about on the beach, shakin’ it a little in the sun.

“Belong” and “Half a World Away” R.E.M., Out of Time
The perfect balance of soft beauty, loss, and comfort. “The storm it came up strong, shook the trees, and blew away our fears.”

“Kerosene Hat” and “Take Me Down to the Infirmary” Cracker, Kerosene Hat
Another perfect one-two of sadness and comfort.

“So What” and “Freddy Freeloader” Miles Davis, Kind of Blue
I told you it was the best jazz album ever. This is not a new idea.

“The World At Large” and “Float On” Modest Mouse, Good News for People Who Love Bad News
The first song starts the album perfectly: gradual, building momentum, adding in one part at a time, but never quite getting a full head of steam before rolling right into the driving energy and optimism of “Float On.”

“Lemon” and “Stay (Faraway, So Close)” U2, Zooropa.
“Just the bang and the clatter, as an angel hits the ground.”

There and Back Again

As most of you know by now, I did not doze off and drive into a Kansas storm drain or fall off a fourteen thousand foot mountain or drink myself into a coma on free wedding booze. We are back from another ridiculously fantastic adventure, and there are stories to be told. They are currently being dug up and polished for your reading pleasure. In the meantime, this picture pretty well sums up the trip:

Wee. Hah. Details to follow.

Westward We Go

Tomorrow at midnight, Lou and I point his car west and lurch off into the night towards a good old-fashioned road trip/adventure/mountain climb/wedding in Breckenridge, and I'm looking so forward to it that I think my head might explode. If this adventure turns out to be anything close to last year's Walk in the Woods, we will return home as immensely satisfied as we could possibly hope for. We should earn merit badges for this insanity.

I do not, unlike some shockingly cynical and pessimistic persons, believe that the excitement before the trip is more rewarding than the trip itself, but I do enjoy the hell out of myself with the planning and anticipation. Yes, I am the sort of geek who prints out maps and directions and tries to plan for various obstacles and disasters, but I can also happily throw said plans out the window at a moment's notice if need be. It is very useful to be bipolarly (sure, that's a word) a control freak and completely easy going. A little confusing sometimes, but generally useful.

The agenda looks roughly like this:

Saturday, midnightish: Depart Indianapolis via car stocked with Mt. Dew, books on iPod, materials for the construction of turkey sandwiches, and whatever else we decide to throw in at the last minute.

Sunday, 2 p.m.ish: Arrive Denver area, check into whatever motel is cheapest (see, I didn't plan that!) and watch the championship game of the World Cup (Go France, beat those greasy diving Italians).

Monday, a.m.: Leave Denver, drive to Rocky Mountain National Park, check into campsite, set up tent, get in touch with mountain man self.

Monday day: Hike all over RMNP, look at cool lakes, commune with nature, avoid being eaten by wildlife.

Tuesday day: More of same.

Tuesday evening: Meet up with Nate and brother, eat five thousand pounds of pasta, go to sleep by about 9 p.m.

Wednesday, 2 a.m.: Wake up, check packs six times for all manner of survival gear, drive to trail head, climb up 14,225 foot Long's Peak until we a) reach the summit, b) get eaten by cougars, c) get exhausted or physically ill due to altitude, or d) get rained on a lot.

Wednesday, 4 p.m.: Return to camp site, pack up, drive to Breckenridge, Colorado.

Thursday: Breckenridge activities (mountain biking, alpine slides, possibly alcohol)

Friday: See Thursday

Saturday: Attend Nate's mountainside wedding. Congratulations, good sir. Strong work. Nicely done.

Sunday: Get up, drive home.

If this were a "how much life can you pack into nine days" contest, we would win.

Yay for us.

A Little Light Theatre

paSSw0rD: A Three Minute Non-Fiction Play in the style of Absurdist Samuel Beckett

Setting: The Void. A desk, keyboard, and office chair. A tree.

A (at keyboard, typing, eyes closed): It will not accept my password.

B: Are you sure you're typing the right password?

A: Yes. The computer is wrong. (opens eyes, types on keyboard using nose)

B: Are you sure you're typing the right password?

A: I am filled with hatred and incompetence.

B: You don't know the half of it. Let's reset your password.

A: Password password password pass.

B: Re.

A: Word.

B: Set.

A: Where shall I go? What shall I do?

B: Go here (touches keyboard quickly) and create a new password.

A (types with elbows): It is done. I have done. Done is done.

B: Good.

A: But...

B: But.

A: But it says my new password must not have consecutive numbers in it. It does not. The computer is wrong.

B: Are there no consecutive sequences of numbers?

A: The computer is wrong.

B: Are there -

A: The computer is wrong

B: Are there -

A: There are none.

B: Try again.

A: I am filled with hatred and incompetence.

B: Try again.

A Hatred and incompetence. (Types with chin, reads password aloud while typing): g-capital O-capital O-one-two-three-four-b-a-b-y

B: I must go. (He does not move)

A: one, two, three, four, one, two, three, four

B: Consecutive is the sound of despair and emptiness in my soul. Counting up from one.

A: one, two, three, four, one, two - oh!

B (to audience): And now:

A (sliding wildly about stage on the wheeled office chair): The numbers one through four are in some instances no all instance numbers and numbers which follow before and after numbers which are the same in so many words to be said consecutive that is rowing in a number of right rows moving one before the other in consecutive consecutivity but all for naught as the unconsecutive brain meat bowl which sits upon my neck must consume and digest and shit out and forget any words of passing or ass words or words of ass or secret code key lock enter to keep safe makers and forget and amnesia them to the empty waste of my empty waste of my empty waste of a so-called mind... (rolls to a stop in front of the keyboard, collapses face down on the keyboard, fingers making slight twitching movements. B goes offstage, returns with a noose fashioned from computer power cords, slings noose over stage right branch of tree, climbs tree, squats on stage left branch, stares in fascination at A)

B: I must go. (He does not move)

Lights fade slowly.

End.

Chomp

An unrequested look behind the curtain:

I sit here at my computer, doing this and that, and realize that I have not yet put in my ten minutes. I also realize that it is late in the evening. This second realization is quickly followed by several of its good friends, who remind me that I am pretty exhausted because I didn't get enough sleep last night. The band in my head, determined to fulfill its job as super-double-random soundtrack creator for my life, strikes up the following familiar tune:

"Show me the way to go home,
I'm tired and I want to go to bed,
I had a little drink about an hour ago,
And it went right to my head."

This song was notably sung in the movie Jaws. This makes me remember that I saw Jaws earlier this summer, and makes me decide that I will spend the next ten minutes writing about the experience.

First, the venue:

The Indianapolis Museum of Art has a very lovely back terrace on which it hosts Friday evening movies throughout the summer. You bring a picnic dinner, relax on one of the 5-foot tall grass covered steps of the terrace with your blanket, wine and cheese, and take in a movie on the big screen. It is a pretty perfect way to spend a summer evening, summer evenings being pretty perfect to begin with.

The first movie that I saw on the terrace this summer was Jaws. Strangely, I had never seen Jaws. Well, actually, I've probably seen Jaws if you piece together the one thousand times I've watched five minutes of the movie while flipping channels, but I've never sat down and watched the thing from beginning to end. I was expecting the sort of overdramatic, poorly done crapfest that we've come to count on from any remotely scary movie these days (coughcoughsnakesonaplanecough), but I had forgotten that it was directed by Steven Spielberg. Don't worry, I'm not going to get all lovey-dovey with Steven right here in front of you, but say what you like, the guy does a good job, and Jaws is no exception. Add to Stevie's vision the not small talents of Roy Scheider, Richard Dreyfuss, and the unbelievably old-salty Robert Shaw, and you've got much more than a mediocre "animal eats people" flick. Seriously. Compelling dialogue, good stories, high stakes (a little kid gets eaten, for crying out loud!), some great cinematography, and a shark that looks remarkably realistic for 1975.

I'm not going so far as "Go out right now and rent Jaws," but next time it's on, give it more than the cursory five minutes.

Oh, and if you have any opportunity to watch a movie in any sort of terraced-type grassy outdoor environment this summer, I highly recommend it.

Show me the way to go home....

A Humble Request

Dear American Males Over Seventy,

I believe that life is, among other things, one long process of becoming comfortable in your own skin. Different people progress towards varying levels of self-assurance along vastly divergent timelines. In seventh grade, most of us would rather be immolated than say three words in front of a crowded room of strangers, while others of us are inspiring massive fits of parental weeping via our portrayal of Emily in Our Town. Nonetheless, everyone deals with some sort of crushing personal dissatisfaction at various points in their lives. This is part of being human. The process of life, therefore, is one of A) eliminating the dissatisfying bits or B) learning to live with them. Yes, there is also C) Neither of the above, resulting in the need for group therapy or heavy medication, but that's a story for another letter, one not addressed to you, seventy-year old American men.

What I'm getting at here is the B) much more than the A). As people get older, they successfully (and often rightly) decide that they no longer give a crap about how they are perceived by others. This is a pretty fantastic process to go through in a lot of ways, as it results in freedom from the irrational and crushing opinions of a lot of utter morons, including both complete strangers and your family. People cut through a great deal of passive-aggressive nonsense, take increasing control over their lives, and stop caring whether or not they are embarrassing their fifteen-year-old children when they pick them up from lacrosse practice wearing sandals and dress socks.

There is, however, one massive problem with this increasing apathy towards public opinion, aside from the skyrocketing rate of suicide among teenage lacross players. This problem occurs when you, American septuagenarians, decide to increase your life expectancy via physical fitness. While I am not against this choice per se, it is a choice that frequently leads you to occupy gym locker rooms, and some of these locker rooms are also occupied by me. Again, no objections just yet. However, because you have got seven-plus decades of well-tuned apathy for the opinions of others under your belts, you have become completely impervious to the aesthetic nightmare that is your extended public nudity.

I don't want you to think, dearly respected elders, that I am singling you out simply because of your aged physical state. As a personal policy, I am against any extended public male nudity regardless of the perpetrator. I focus my concern in your general direction, however, because personal experience dictates that you care less than the other age demographics about the frequency and duration of said nudity.

And so there you sit, completely naked, on the locker room bench after an invigorating shower, contemplating which sock to put on first. Or perhaps you are standing, resplendent in your pale, droopy, hairyness, stretching a tight hamstring, counting your armpit hairs, or staring blankly at the wall. Frequently you are even making the long walk from the showers to your locker, holding a towel IN YOUR HAND while the wobbling, the jiggling, and especially the dangling burns out the retinas of those of us who still believe in shame.

Again, I offer you my most sincere congratulations and respect for the level of self-assurance that your aged wisdom has brought to you. If, however, you don't start covering the hell up, no amount of respect will save you from the vengeful, blind (possibly literally, depending on the number of exposures to your wangly-danglies) wrath of the more youthful, decent denizens of the locker room.

Sincerely,
Tyler

Philosophizing

I've been kicking this idea around in my head for a while now. For some reason, humanity has a need to classify, organize, label, and qualify just about everything we can get our brains around. Like most humans, I am plagued/blessed with this addiction/desire. Also like most humans, I have been known to apply this to subjects that are probably far too broad or vague to be effectively broken down. My latest attempt at this involves the broadest and vaguest of philosophical subjects: Life.

I'm proposing that everything in a person's life - every event, emotion, job, responsibility, thought, action, and so on - can be placed on a sliding scale that is defined by three simple but overlapping areas. At one end of the spectrum is the most unfortunate but ultimately undeniable aspect of life: Pain. To quote the Dread Pirate Roberts, "Life is pain, highness. Anyone who says differently is selling something." Pain, of course, has its own mini-spectrum, from the unspeakable and soul-crushing tragedies of life on one end to the discovery that your VCR failed to tape the series finale of "The West Wing" on the other end. Massive or tiny, you can't get away from it. This life is going to hurt.

At the opposite end of the spectrum is the category that, without Pain drawing it into sharp relief, would probably be a whole lot less spectacular. That would, of course, be joy. And there is one hell of a lot of joy to be had in this life, and there is a similarly sliding scale within the category, from the small joy of finding out that someone you know has the series finale of "The West Wing" on their TIVO to any of the countless joys that mark the best days of our lives. For the purposes of semantics, I'm going to go ahead and concede that "joy" and "beauty" are equally deserving names for this category, so let's not split hairs about it.

This less-than-groudbreaking opening brings me to the middle of the spectrum, the often-overlooked category that, the more I think about it, probably accounts for as much of life as joy and pain combined. Between the poles of the high and low points of life you'll find one thing: maintenance. I know, it's not flashy, and it doesn't have a lot of teeth, but that's almost the point. I feel pretty safe saying that about half of our lives consist of maintenance. Life has a lot of stuff in it, and that stuff - mental health, physical fitness, house, family, friends, car, finances, lawnmower, bathroom sink, e-mail account, table lamp, ice cube tray - must be taken care of constantly. The highs and lows of pain and joy may come and go (hopefully the joy sticks around for a while, or makes repeat visits), but there is always maintenance to be done.

Being in the middle, maintenance has its own spectrum merging with pain at one end and joy at the other. Some maintenance is downright painful. For instance, I find it relatively painful to dust. I don't know why, because it's not actually that hard, but I just don't like dusting. Family maintenance, as everyone with a family knows, can be pretty painful as well. On the other end - and I think this is key - are the acts of maintenance that also happen to bring us joy. Reading, which sharpens your intellect and probably improves your mental health, can be pretty joyful. Same with physical exercise, although some of you might gain more joy out of dusting than jogging. I can respect that.

The main point is that while the activites on the spectrum are relatively variable, the spectrum itself is not. Your life will be filled with a combination of joy, pain, and maintenance. I have yet to come up with anything that doesn't fit into one or more of these three categories.

What does this all add up to? I'm not sure at this point. Remember, philosophers offer no guarantees on any of their pronouncements, so if you find this formulation incorrect or unnecessary, please feel free to hack Blogger's servers and replace my above ramblings with your own. I think such an activity would, for you, qualify as joy with a small hint of maintenance.

Ruts

So.

You may have noticed that things have been a little, uh, slow here in Yellow Shirtdom. Un-verbose. Shoddy. Downright neglected. This is not good. Quite not good. Thus:

(Sha-da da da duh duhhh, sha duh-da duh da daaaaa!!!!)

Coming to you starting right the hell now, from this very digital space on which your eyes are currently locked...

(Bum dah dah bum da! Bum dah dah bum da!)

It's a small and simple thing that we (I) here at the Yellow Shirt like to do to kick ourselves (myself) right in our (my) collective (singular) ass and get out of this summer rut of worthlessness in which we (I) are (am) currently languishing...

(Kettle drums....)

Ten Minute Writings!

(Da daaaaaaaaaaaaaah!)

That's right, it's a whole week's worth of me sitting daily at the keyboard and grinding out at least ten minutes of whatever on earth falls out of my listless, summer-addled brain. With any luck, by Saturday things in the noggin will have become downright listful, and something worth your consideration will have leaked onto this space.

What to expect? I have no idea! Definitely most of the following: inanity (not to be confused with insanity), rambling diatribes, rants, musings on absurdly broad subjects, observations on ridiculous details, and probably fewer than seventy-three typos and grammatical errors! But no matter what, it will be something, which had better be better than nothing, or we've all got some serious reconsidering to do with regards to how we spend our time (me: writing, you: reading it).

So let's put a bullet behind the ear of this characteristically overwraught intro and move on to today's ten minutes:

As I jogged along the wooded road in a nearby park at nine o'clock tonight, I considered for the one millionth time in the past two months just how much I love summer. The perfect warm night breezes, the earthy greenness of everything, the absurdly late sunsets, swimming pools, and on and on and on. The glory of summer is probably one of the most over-discussed subjects imaginable, but talking about something too much does not make it untrue.

Personally, the double-edged sword of this season is its ultra-casual, meandering nature. It is wonderful to find yourself doing A on a summer evening, (where A = building a deck on your brother's house) and then find that A has blended into B (where B = kicking a ball around at the nearby soccer fields) which wanders into C, D, and E (possible values for these would be grilling out on a half-completed deck, going for ice cream, enjoying old episodes of The Wire on DVD, watching TIVOed World Cup games, or playing Mario Cart for the Gamecube) and before you know it it's 11:30 and none of the twenty-six things (values Ax-Zx) that you were going to accomplish that day or evening have been even remotely glanced at, let alone checked off anything resembling a list, not that you have a list, because it's summer, and 10:15 sunsets are not particularly inspirational with regards to the creation and maintenance of lists. Don't get me wrong, this is an extremely relaxing way to spend an evening, but it will also tend to put other parts of your life in one hell of a rut.

Yes, that's right, I'm blaming the tilt of the earth's axis relative to the sun for the fact that I've been neglecting about 40% of my so-called "Actual Life Responsibilities." Well, not blame, exactly, but maybe partial responsibility. If this rut were a paper submitted to a scientific joural, I would be the primary author, but Summer would definitely be a second-tier contributing research assistant.

Today, I managed to discover some small degree of motivation (it was in the silverware drawer, at the back, underneath the serving spoons - should have looked there back in mid-May) and the result in just ninety short minutes was a remarkably clean and organized living area. In a brief spasm of effort I turned several cluttered workspaces into clean, happy, surfaces of potential future accomplishment and reduced multiple towering piles of "HEY TAKE CARE OF THIS" to one small heap of lower-case sanity. I am going to attribute this brief success to the fact that my air-conditioning was cranked way down and my blinds were closed, thus neutralizing the summerocity lurking just outside.

Is there a way for summer and productivity to coexist? Can these two fundamentally opposed beasties be balanced in some reasonable system of mutual respect, or will I have to run madly from one extreme to the other until the leaves change? Given my personal history, I expect a lot of insane dashing in the near future. Who needs calming, rational balance and disciplined even-handedness when you can pinball wildly between each end of the spectrum? Not me, apparently.

Tomorrow: Baldfaced, grandiose and possibly pretentious philosophy!