I read something the other day that made a lot of sense to me. I wish I could remember what it said.
I’m so sick of television, music, movies, and books that I actively go out of my way to watch even more TV and listen to more music. I’m a media masochist. I’m not completely sure why I enjoy torturing myself. Like at this very moment No No No is playing through my stereo by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. My heart sinks in such a beautifully content way.
I suppose I could relate it to all the women I’ve agonized over but that doesn’t make much sense. What do the Yeah Yeah Yeahs have to do with my first girlfriend? How could Karen O be crushing me just like Carrie H did? She can’t. And why would Karen O want to crush me? She wouldn’t. Unless all girls want to crush me…
I’m beginning to understand that women crushing guys is a common theme. I mean, other than Karen O, I haven’t been crushed in a long time but that’s only because I haven’t allowed myself. The fools in the television, music, movies and books I’ve been absorbing aren’t so lucky. They keep going back for more and lose a piece of themselves each time. It’s a train wreck taking place on the most gorgeous spring day of the year and that’s why I can’t stop watching.
Perhaps the distance I’ve created between myself and vaginas has everything to do with Reality Bites and nothing to do with Carrie H. It’s completely possible because no matter how many leather jackets I own I will forever be Michael Grates. Women know this. At least those who know me do. What’s wrong with that though? I rooted for Michael through the entire movie. I actually took his side and was outspokenly upset when she chose The Douche. It wasn’t because my life roll was similar to Stiller’s character but because he was a nice guy. A good guy. His heart was always in the right place while The Douche had a bad haircut and took up couch space. It broke my heart, and that’s what made it such a good movie.
Possibly my heartache has nothing to do with all Lelaina Pierce’s of the world but the Chloe’s from Sol Goode. In fact, I’m certain of it. Chloe is the girl that’s always been there for you. She’ll always be there for you. You drink beers together, sing along to Jimi Hendrix, make fun of mutual friends and feel utterly empty when she’s not around- never realizing why. You’re blinded by her beauty, to point of not accepting it. Chloe is the reason why you never have any successful relationships. Every girl you meet is compared to her, knowingly or not.
Chloe terrifies me and that’s why when Karen O explains “and cool kids, they belong together” I’m crushed. Crushing so hard over my Chloe…
Being the 20 something single that I am, dating is not only on my mind but also the people I surround myself with. Not necessarily even those who are single, in most cases it’s friends in relationships who try to live vicariously through my encounters. Most of our conversations are concluded by them accusing me of being a moron, I guess having the reassurance of someone at home gives them the confidence to make such statements. However, I can’t argue with them. I am a moron, or as I like to put it “relationship challenged”. I’ve been told that I need to be a little more PC so here’s my effort to make my disability sound as warmfuzzy as it could be.
“You haven’t called her back? Jesus, it’s been two days!” One of my ball n’ chain cohorts snapped.
“Two days…” I think out loud, “I haven’t even called my Mom in two days.” I say defensively as I glare back.
“You’re an asshole.” That seals the conversation. There’s nothing I can say that will change her mind, I might as well run with it.
“No, I’m a romantic. There’s nothing more alluring then stripping a girl of her self confidence and letting her neurosis run wild while waiting for the phone to ring,” I say as condescending as possible. “Plus, what makes you think she even deserves a call back?”
That pretty much sends my friend over the hill at which point she mutters “moron”. The conversation changes gears but I can’t help but think about this quandary later.
To me, two days is nothing. Two weeks is nothing. Call me chauvinistic but I often miss the days when corresponding with woman took place by horse and buggy. After the Pony Express, dating became so much harder.
See, we live in a society of instant gratification. Are you hungry? Pop something in the microwave. Missed the weather report? Hop online. Lost? Hit up your GPS. Can’t wait to see the highlights on ESPN tonight? Bust out your cell phone. Can’t sit through a goddamn movie without gossiping with your girlfriend? Send a text message! Relationships have fallen somewhere between Paris’s last “newsworthy” exploit and Howie Mandel’s nightly Indian casino guessing game. My inability to conform, according to my relationship experts, has made me an asshole.
I’m okay with that. I’m still young enough not to feel desperate and fortunate enough not to have felt like I’ve lost the girl of my dreams due to my phobia of the phone. But what will happen when that day comes? Either day, desperate or twitterpated. Am I just too old fashion to be in a relationship? Is there no room for taking time to reflect upon someone or having a sense of absence to make the heart grow fonder? Possibly.
If women of today have taught me anything, it’s that waiting is inconceivable. It’s something that you do at Planned Parenthood or the DMV and is looked upon as the same such chore. There’s no Christmas morning with these chicks, no tropical vacation you’ve saved up for. According to them, for all intensive purposes, that is what a credit card is for. I don’t believe it’s solely their fault however, they’re a product of their environment. Nothing in their lifetime has ever told them to slow down.
Somewhere between the first Iraq war and Al Gore discovering global warming, our government decided to raise the speed limits across most of the country. As these girls were entering college, a dial up internet connection seemed obsolete at which point Americans decided it would be faster to walk to the Starbucks on the corner rather than boiling water. Yet it amazes to see Carrie Bradshaw bitch about a guy who gets off in under ten minutes. You wanted everything in a New York minute baby, you got it.
Which leaves me on Island Time. I’m no Axl Rose sweetheart, but maybe all we need is a little patience? Let the butterflies turn and the anticipation eat you alive. Maybe I need to wait until my next paycheck before I can afford to take your ass out again. Or maybe you’ll be one of the lucky ones and I’ll never call. After all, I am an asshole…
The mixed tape; the most powerful device of the squared glasses hipster. His version of the Sistine Chapel or that crazy sex wall in the Middle East. His contribution to the uneducated music masses and his chance to tell the greatest untold story of them all- his own. Within an hour and twenty minutes, this inept jerk can create the greatest love story of all time, free Tibet, mock emo, or simply turn a friend on to new music. The tape’s power is limitless and timeless. If played by someone truly willing to listen, it could change their life. I’ve seen it happen with my own eyes…
When I started writing the “mixed tape” series I had this grand idea of what I wanted it to be. There were going to be several installments and I was really going to dive in to the theology of making a tape. Explore the psychology and every implication from the marker used to scribble the title to the meaning of the songs and why they appeared in their certain spot on the tape. I’ve discovered that no one cares about these things except me. If you do care about them, you already know what I’m going to say. If you don’t care, you could care even less about reading my thoughts on it. I’m not educating anyone or spewing revelations. Eddie from Empire Records did that, so did Rob Gordon from High Fidelity. The last thing I want to do is be lumped into the same category as them…
So, why do it? Why continue with all the mixed tape talk? Well, it’s all Chuck Klosterman’s fault. Those of you who have read his Sex, Drugs, and Coco Puffs will know exactly what I’m talking about. Those of you who haven’t, I’m glad you don’t. I’m guilty of committing the same “mixed tape crime” though I’m a less offender. My tapes weren’t identical, but the meanings were. Some of the- most of the songs were the same. Why? Is it that I’m so uncreative and musically shallow that I can’t find different ways of expressing myself? Or is it because those particular songs truly mean something to me? The melody and lyrics hit home so hard that I couldn’t have written them better myself, assuming I could write music. I’d like to think that I’m none of the first things and everything of the second, but Chuck made me reevaluate myself. Good for him, he engaged the reader.
The truth of the mixed tape is undoubtedly going to get me in trouble. At least talking about the ones that meant something to me are. As with Chuck, I can relate about sixty percent of all the sex I’ve had to mixed tapes. Also, just about every female I ever really wanted to have sex with has gotten one from me at some point. If you look at it the other way, I think there might only be one person in my life that I’ve slept with that I didn’t give a mixed tape to (a ONS). I pat myself on the back for this, read on:
It’s not that mixed tapes somehow equal sex or there’s some perverse motivation behind them. Generally the two are completely removed from one another. When I’m thinking about making a mixed tape, I’m either really focused on what I think the listener will like or I’m trying to fit all the things that explain who I am into 120 minutes. It’s the ultimate tangible object into someone’s soul and thought process. It’s not a mystery that if I allow someone to explore me that deeply, to see that side of me, they’re someone I have a true connection with. Not just a sexual connection, but I genuinely adore their existence.
Does this make me a bad guy? The reason I ask is because I feel guilty. I mean, I shouldn’t feel guilty about only having sex with people I truly care about, but I’ve given these tapes to people I probably shouldn’t have- even though I meant every bit of it. Is it my loophole? Should I ever be questioned about my motivations I can pass it off as nothing more then good music. Maybe I’m a coward? I can’t find the balls to say what I have to say to her face, so I create this subliminal mind fuck to resonate in her brain. Maybe this is my way of opening up to her, to see if she understands who I am and how I feel? Maybe this is my test to her, to see if she understands the complexity and beauty of “my” music and to see how she reacts when the disk stops spinning and she’s left to deal with nothing but silence? I mean, let’s face it- no one really uses tapes anymore.
So which one are you? Are you a true friend or are you truly desired? Does it honestly matter? You can’t live your life by lyrics, lyrics are created out of life. So keep living and see where life takes you. Create your own soundtrack and share it with someone who deserves to hear it. I felt you deserved to hear it….
Thinking back, as I often do, I was trying to pin point the moment where music infiltrated my life. The single greatest musical occurrence which paved the way for my lifelong obsession. There isn’t one. It wasn’t like I heard The Beatles and said, “oh my, I will be apart of this.” While moments like that have happened, they were more turning points in the already predestined rock screenplay that is my life. I say screenplay because I feel the only place fitting for my tales is in the movies. I don’t know if it’s because my warped memory has an internal 5.1 surround sound soundtrack or if it’s because I’m convinced my ending will rival that of the number grossing film of all time. Let’s hope it doesn’t involve Leonardo or some selfish broad leaving me to drown in icy waters.
While there wasn’t a single standout musical moment, there certainly was a significant person. Growing up my family structure changed quite a bit, we didn’t become a true nuclear family until I was about 16. No matter where I lived in the country, at least one of my extended family lived with us (or we lived with them), namely my Uncle Donnie. Whether it be a massive old farm house in Maine filled with grandparents and cousins, a tiny apartment in Southern California, or your typical neighborhood cul-de-sac home in Utah, he was there.
Donnie was the youngest of my Father’s brothers who was no more then 18 years old when I was born. He traveled the country with my Dad doing construction and is apart of every early childhood memory I have. Once I became old enough to eat solid foods and use the bathroom on my own, we’d hang out. Because of him still being more of a kid rather than an adult, he had no problem watching Saturday morning cartoons with me or spending the day at the pool. He was young and hip, always coming home late from concerts or seeing the latest movie. He made friends anywhere he went and just being in his presence I was continually exposed to the greatest rock music ever made- though I could have cared less. I was just happy to be hanging out with my Cool Uncle.
I’ll never forget the day when Donnie taught me how to use his stereo. We were living in the big Maine farmhouse and he had one of the bedrooms upstairs. Just being allowed in his room, which was off limits to all the other cousins running around, was an honor. While Donnie was really easy going and laid back, you never went into his room or messed with his stuff. I was given a backstage pass. He had a massive water bed topped with an amazing flannel comforter, lamps with beaded shades, an American flag which covered an entire wall, a mirror with pictures of his friends plastered all over it, and on the back of his door was a Heineken poster of a topless woman- the first pair of jugs I can remember fanaticizing about. It was such a foreign escape, never had I been in a place so mysterious or intriguing. The room even smelled different then the rest of the house.
Donnie’s Kenwood rack system was taller then I was. It was equipped with a massive receiver, a 31 band personally configured equalizer, tuner, turntable, dual recording cassette decks, and a CD player. It was a thing of beauty even by today’s standards. You have to remember that this was 1989. Compact discs weren’t even mainstream yet, although he already had several hundred lining the bookshelf. He showed me how to use the four buttons which allowed me to play CD’s; system power, eject, play and stop. He threatened my life if I didn’t push stop before powering down the system, I didn’t understand why but I agreed. Similar threats followed as he told me what he’d do if he were to catch me touching any of the other knobs or buttons that didn’t involve the four he covered. Again, I agreed but I remember it being torture to lie in his bed and look at the EQ and not being able to slide things around. I just wanted to see what it would do… I held my end of the bargain though. My time messing with knobs and buttons would come later in life.
Donnie also had strict rules about what could be played on his stereo. He convinced me that if a rap CD should ever somehow make its way into the changer, it would cause an entire system meltdown.
“Rap CD’s are made differently, this is a rock only stereo. If you want to play rap, go out in the yard and plug a couple of speakers into your ears. If you hold the CD up to the sun just right and spin it fast enough on your finger, you might get it to work.”
I laughed and said “yeah right!” but secretly wondered if it was true.
With that, hours upon hours were spent listening to music. I’d hang out in his room after school listening to The Beach Boys, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Guns n’ Roses, and Van Halen. Donnie would periodically leave CD’s out that I should listen to but those were my favorites. A long time has passed since the Heineken girl rocked my world but the music has stuck with me. I was first in line to buy Stadium Arcadium, I keep setting my watch back for Chinese Democracy, and I was honestly shocked and upset when Van Halen cancelled their reunion tour with David Lee Roth a week after announcing it. I should have known better but that little 7 year old boy inside of me couldn’t help but be let down.
It’s funny though, isn’t it? The things that were so important to you in the past have the same life span as an 80’s rock god? Guns n’ Roses represents all the friends you’ve lost touch with. You always say you’re going to call them and hang out but you don’t. Just as Axl has told us for the last 13 years that Chinese Democracy will be in stores next month. You don’t create any new memories with GNR, just relive old ones.
In my case Van Halen would represent Donnie. When the band was together with Roth there was nothing that could top them. They had music, image, attitude and a live performance that was second to none. They couldn’t keep it under control though; alcohol, money, and power ripped them apart and they fought over the most petty situations. Finally it blew up and became the end of an era. Sure, you randomly bump into Roth at a bar and reminisce about the good ol’ days. You might even suggest a reunion tour. It doesn’t happen though, it never will.
I guess that’s why I identify the most with the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Not only were they there for me when I discovered music but they’re here for me now. No one thinks of them as this drug induced, funky rap rock band from 1983 anymore. They are highly renowned Grammy Award winning pop culture icons of 2007. They’ve come a long way and so have I. Our music has matured and throughout the years I’ve grown as a person just as they’ve grown as a band. We’ve seen ups and downs, and have experienced loss. We’ve worked out most of our issues and are excited for the possibilities of tomorrow. The Chili Peppers won’t be around forever but so far they’re the only ones who have been around since the beginning. There’s something to be learned from that.