No one should die before they're 30

I don't know what to do with this essay. So I'm putting it here. It's a bummer.

When Robby called me today to tell me that Matt Chance was killed in a skiing accident over the weekend, I had nothing intelligent to say. I’m pretty sure I said “that’s terrible” at least a half a dozen times, “wow,” half as many again, and one “Jesus Christ.” Beyond the shock of finding out one of my best friends from elementary school had died, and in his twenties, there was the simple fact that I hadn’t talked to Matt in ages, and so there was no trite rejoinder to anything Robby said such as, “But I just talked to him last week,” or “We had plans to out drinking on Friday.” Matt moved to Switzerland a couple years back, but, really, the fact that we went to different middle schools and high schools because his family moved a town over meant we weren’t seeing much of each other past the age of 15 or so.

During the third and fourth grade, Matt, Robby, and I considered ourselves “the three amigos,” mostly because we were nine and couldn’t think of anything smarter. I doubt, too, that that name was in any great prevalence beyond our trio, but we took quite a bit of pride in being three best friends. And when fifth grade was coming up, and it was announced that they would be splitting our class into two, we were well aware that they would split up the three amigos. And even though Robby may have landed himself in the room with the “cooler” teacher, Matt and I were paired together, and considered ourselves in charge of that class. We sat in the back, feet on our desks, spitting sunflower seeds into a trash can. Coolest fucking ten-year olds ever.

But then, after the fifth grade, Matt’s family moved to Danville, about ten miles and an eternity away when you’re in middle school. Hanging out became a bit less frequent, but we tried to make it count all the more, and we’d switch off houses for sleepovers for maximum time per visit. When we were at my house, that usually meant, in the late evenings, trying to watch scrambled softcore movies to see if we could catch a glimpse of a nipple, with one eye on the kitchen where my dad was doing dishes, to see if we were about to get caught. I’m still not sure, to this day, if we actually ever saw a nipple, but we definitely convinced ourselves we did, and we definitely convinced ourselves it was awesome.

That’s also when Matt got a Sega Genesis, which I wasn’t allowed to have, and he knew the Sonic start code, and, more importantly, the Mortal Kombat blood code. With his little brother Greg squealing “I wanna play!” behind us, Matt and I weren’t particularly good at many of these games, but we knew the codes. That made us the best at these games.

Because playing Sega and horse in the driveway only lasted for so long, the big adventure during our hanging out was the trip to the 7-11 and baseball card shop if we were at my house, and the grocery store and the other baseball card shop if we were at Matt’s. The destination of these trips was mostly arbitrary: we only knew a limited number of places existed at that age, and most of them centered around baseball cards and candy. The real joy of these excursions was the walk to and from: it was the time Matt and I were away from the prying ears of parents or siblings, and could say whatever we wanted. The topics of conversation were quite varied on the walk to—we would talk about girls, mostly in the abstract, as we were too young to actually talk to them, we would talk about what we were going to do and be in the future, we would talk about, sometimes, death and what happened after. It also was our chance to try out any new swear words or dirty phrases we had picked up, never actually really knowing what they meant, but knowing that we weren’t supposed to use them. The walk from was usually far more mundane—I would wonder how one single Nerd from the left side of the box got intermingled with the other flavor on the other side of the box, Matt might see how fast he could eat his fun dip, and we’d go over who got what baseball cards, and if we got any inserts or cool players. The day one of us landed an Ozzie Canseco was epic.

The walk was easily the best part of any sleepover trip, and they were always better at Matt’s house. The walk was a little longer, and was primarily through residential areas, unlike at my house, where we’d cut behind a hospital to get to downtown quicker. We felt like real adults that could take care of ourselves, merely because we were holding a conversation and had a place to go. We had the option of walking as quickly or as slowly as we wanted (we always chose slowly; why rush good conversation?), and got to choose our own route to and from the store. The world is a wonderful place when you’re 11, and your best friend and you are Getting Things Done.

Over time, Matt and I saw each other less and less—I got most of my updates through Robby, who played on a baseball team with him and then went to college with him, as well. But fairly regularly, even weekly, I think about when we would have sleepovers, and the walks that we took. Those conversations, if you can even call them that, were sometimes meaningful, oftentimes ridiculous, most times sophomoric, and always the best part of my day.

One night when we were about 12, as I was lying on Matt’s bedroom floor in my sleeping bag, he and I had a talk about whether or not God exists. He was raised Catholic, I wasn’t raised in any religion, and neither of us were sure one way or another if there was a God. So he and I gave God a chance: we said that He had something like a minute to give us a sign that He existed. The minute came and went without the earth moving or a voice commanding, but, unfortunately, that didn’t help us figure anything out. We concluded, that night at least, that maybe there was a God, and He didn’t want to give us a sign, because that would be cheating, or he did give us a sign and we didn’t catch it. The matter was left unresolved.

I still don’t know if there’s a God or not, but at times like this, I hope as hard as I can that God does exist, and that Matt’s life is continuing. And I hope as hard as I can that someday down the line, I can meet up with him again and we can take another walk. Or play horse. Or Sonic. I don’t care what we do, really. I just want to see my friend again.

Why it's better not to dream (literally)

I do not often dream (or at least I don't notice somehow), which I generally find to be a good thing. When I dream, I find that I wake up more often in the middle of the night, I find the sleep itself to be more restless, and generally, I'll only finally groggily get out of bed while still not rested after one dream is particularly disturbing and makes me not want to go back to bed. So, yeah, that's fun.

Perhaps more importantly, for our present purposes, it should be known I very rarely dream of anything, you know, sexual. I'm not entirely sure why that's the case, but my subconscious just doesn't seem to go that route with dreams. Sure, when I was a kid, I could have the same dream twice where I had to chase the Red Baron through labyrinthine trials and mind games, but does my dream self ever get freak nasty with some hot ladyfolk? Never. Also, "freak nasty with some hot ladyfolk" may or may not be the correct contemporary nomenclature. I didn't go to the Urban Dictionary for this one. Anyhow, usually, I don't feel like I'm missing out on anything, and it's been pretty sweet to never have to deal with the dreaded "nocturnal emission," but sometimes, you know, having a dream like that might be cool?

But, BUT, I dreamed last night, and the set-up for my dream is one that is entirely sexy. In this dream, this super-attractive girl and I were friends...with benefits! Come on, guys, you know this to be objectively sexy. I mean, this dream is literally, "Meet up with a hot girl for touching." So this girl and I are going to meet up, and my dream is basically taking the next left turn possible into Sexytown. So, as you can tell, the dream is going well. But just as I put on the blinker to make that left turn...

Dream sexy friend wants to talk about emotions and feelings. She would like to discuss how it's obvious she wants something more than just "friends with benefits," and how I've been messing with her head for a long time now, because why don't I just get it? And the worst part is, as she was saying this, I saw her point. I thought to myself, "Oh, man, the signs have been obvious. I am a dick, even if unintentionally!" I felt pretty bad about my dream self. In my dream, I actually felt remorse, and that pang you get in your stomach when you realize you've done something pretty terribly that's not exactly fixable. You know that feeling? You know that feeling you get at work, when you realize that you've been doing something terribly wrong the whole day, and then you think about whether you can fix it or not, and then realize you can't, and have that thirty seconds of sitting there staring ahead before you tell your boss, and it feels awful? I physically felt that, times ten, while sleeping, and even once I woke up, while being berated by a friend that doesn't even exist.

So, obviously, there was not antiquing in Sexytown in this dream.

My subconscious, basically, set up the ideal sexy dream scenario, only to then pull the rug out from under me and make me feel guilty about a friend that I literally made up. Nice work, brain. Thanks. Just, whose side are you on, anyway? Oh, and then my next dream was one in which I met up with an (actual) ex-girlfriend. And then I helped bring groceries in from her car to her house. No joke. That was the very next dream. The one after that was the disturbing one that made me get up. We don't have to discuss it.

This is why I'd rather just not dream.

I discover Rihanna's "Umbrella," only slightly late

If you've read any posts on this blog about music, you've probably figured out I am not a pop music connoisseur. I have nothing against the genre or anything, it's just much of what I've heard in the past hasn't really fallen on appreciative ears. But, I'm always willing to give it a shot. For example, it took literally years, but about a month ago, it finally clicked why Kylie Minogue's song "Can't Get You Out of My Head" is brilliant.

But that's not what we're here to talk about. Yesterday, which, for those of you keeping count at home, was August 21, 2009, I was browsing the increasingly-ungood Pitchfork, and came across the top 500 tracks of this decade, and specifically, the 50-21 list, page 3. Which is where, at number 25, is Rihanna's "Umbrella." I liked her track "Please Don't Stop the Music," so I decided to give "Umbrella" a listen.

Listening to the song, I know I had heard maybe a line of the chorus at one point, but I had never heard the song, ever. For those of you doing the math at home, the song was released March 29, 2007. That's you know, two and a half years ago. And, according to Wikipedia,

The song has also achieved commercial success by topping charts in the United States, Sweden, Australia, Switzerland, Canada, Germany, France, the Republic of Ireland and the United Kingdom, as well as reaching the top ten in many other countries. Following a successful chart performance worldwide and a positive reception from critics, the song is listed number three on the 100 Best Songs of 2007 published by Rolling Stone magazine.

In 2008, "Umbrella" earned Rihanna and Jay-Z a Grammy Award for Best Rap/Sung Collaboration in addition to receiving nominations for Record of the Year and Song of the Year. It managed to stay at number one in the United Kingdom for 10 weeks, the longest time spent by a female and in the 21st century, on this chart.

And I had completely and totally missed its existence. The video on YouTube has scores of millions of views. I don't understand how even someone that isn't really paying attention to pop music could miss this song. And, holy hell, is it awesome. Just so, so awesome. In case you need proof:

If that video no longer works, I bet you can figure out how to go to YouTube and search "Umbrella." Anyhow, that's one of the more catchy choruses that has ever existed. I want that song to be the soundtrack to my life.

I'm unsure how I managed to completely miss this song. I feel like somewhere, at some point between late March of 2007 and yesterday, I probably should have heard that song. The people I've told that I just found this song have unequivocally responded with, "Really? How did you not hear that? It was huge." I'm such a failure.

There's no real point to this post other than these 1) "Umbrella" is awesome. 2) I wasted two full years of my life not hearing it. 3) Never, ever write off an entire genre of music. Except for country. Country blows.

Recapping the Summer: Kentucky Derby

As mentioned quite recently, I had quite the summer of stuff and things and other stuff, and I thought it might be fun to share some of the highlights. First up, the Kentucky Derby!

Getting to Churchill Downs in Louisville, Kentucky from Chicago, if not flying, necessitates driving through the entirety of Indiana. From the Northwest corner, which includes scenic Gary, to the Southeast corner, which includes nothing, the three members of our car experienced all that Indiana has to offer. And, all three of us came to the same conclusion. Namely, that Indiana is awful. Indiana may be the worst state in the union, and that's including bullshit states like Delaware and North Dakota. Indiana is a desolate wasteland of crushed hopes and dreams, and sadness wafts off the roadways like heat in the August desert. The roadways, it should be mentioned, more often than not get siphoned into one lane in each direction, even on major freeways around Indianapolis. Ostensibly, this is for construction occurring. That we never did see occur.

All these opinions of Indiana had solidified in our brains before we ate at the Taco Bell in Lebanon, or went to the Walmart in the middle of Bumfuck, some hour or two south of Indianapolis. Now, this may seem like hyperbole, but I might rather spend the rest of my life in the actual Lebanon than the one we stopped in for lunch. Bet you don't think about how white trash Indiana can be. But oh, man, can it be. I think that's enough description for that one. But the Walmart. My lord. The Walmart.

Before this trip, I had actually never stepped foot inside a Walmart. I'm sure part of that is the remnants of the "Walmart is evil" stuff that has been pounded into every liberal's head, but now, I have an entirely new reason not to go back to one. The stifling sadness. And not even from the customers, though once you're that far South in Indiana there is something you're going to get a special breed of Walmart customers. No, it's from the people that work at a Walmart in nowhere, Indiana. The checkout girl, pregnant and still a teenager, was staring off into space the whole time I was there, helping no one, and I just got the feeling her single thought was something like, "There had to have been a way to escape this." The older employees seemed more resigned to their fate of living and working at the Walmart in Southern Indiana, but you could tell they weren't particularly happy with it, or perhaps even with the life decisions that had brought them to this juncture.

On the other hand, I bought a really awesome Cookie Monster hat for half what they're charging online.

But finally - FINALLY - we leave Indiana, and get to Kentucky. KenTUCKY!!! We'll skip the uneventful Friday night in the motel, and go straight to Saturday, the big day of the Derby. I had packed my finest white linen pants, pink linen shirt, and horse racing hat, ready for the awesomeness. And then the forecast was rain. Soooo, I realized I wasn't going to be comfortable in my special Churchill Downs gear, put on my jeans and track jacket, and piled in the cab from the motel with my friends. I had also brought a change of clothes in my backpack, in case the rain did get particularly intense, and I needed dry stuff.

The entrance to the infield at Churchill Downs on Derby Day is a clusterfuck of people, many already drunk, bottlenecking through the gates. There are no tickets - it's forty bucks for admission, and they never stop letting people in. After getting in, they have Military Police checking bags for any booze, and, well, really, that's about it. You can bring in coolers, you can bring in bags, women can bring in huge purses, you can bring in rolling suitcases.

You can't bring in backpacks.

The MP checking everyone's stuff looks at my backpack and says, "You can't bring that in here." I look ahead at people already admitted, and see, for example, a woman with a bag bigger than my backpack slung over her shoulder, and ask, "Um, why not?" MP says, "I have no idea. Maybe someone last year tried to strangle someone with a backpack. But you can't bring it in." I ask what I can do with it, he says take it back to the car or throw it away. Seeing as I don't have a car, I have to opt for the latter. Of course, the only things in my backpack were other bags, but those were fine to bring in. Naturally. Makes perfect sense.

But, we get in, and we've brought chairs, so we set up as close to the track as we can, and go get our mint juleps and place our bets. Derby day, by the by, is about 13 races in total, with the Derby itself being something like 11th. We've arrived after four races, so I bet ten bucks a race on races five through eleven. My friends do the same, though bet in substantially higher dollar amounts. And then, we sit back, drink a ton of beer, and wait for the races.

Now, here's the thing. There are a lot of people in the infield during this day. And, there are police on risers between you and the track. And the horses run by really, really fast. All this is to say, you can't really actually see any of the races. You get maybe a blur of the horses as they go by, and then you check the screen to see if you've won or lost. So, really, there's not much to do but sit and drink. And then some people might decide to run across the tops of the porta-potties, but they're mainly idiots.

So basically, being in the infield at the Kentucky Derby is the exact same thing as if someone had said, "Hey, I have an idea? Why don't we all pay forty bucks to sit in a field for eight hours and get plastered? Oh, and as you leave, be sure to throw about two hundred bucks on the ground for all the beer you drank and all the bets you lost. Oh, because you will be betting on a sporting event you can't witness." And, yes, in our entire group of seven people, not a single person won a single bet.

And then, the Sunday after it's all done, we had to drive back through Indiana. And guess which state doesn't sell alcohol on Sundays? Mutherfucker.

It's been a hazy summer

Hooooly fuck I haven't written in something like five months. Oops. In my defense, it's been a long summer - Kentucky Derby, Indy 500, New York for a week, Boston (twice), California for two and half weeks, Maine, Las Vegas, and probably another place or two I'm forgetting. Not that I'm complaining, mind you; it's a pretty douchey first-world gripe to say, "oh, man, traveling all over the country while I'm on break from grad school is so rough, you know?" That being said, traveling all over the country while I'm on break from grad school is so rough, you know?

What's not exhausting is getting on a plane almost weekly and going somewhere. It's that when I get where I'm going, I'm either going for a) some sort of big event like a wedding or sporting event or what-have-you, or b) seeing people I haven't seen for a while for a very short period of time. That means that either a) the event is alcohol-centric, or b) my friends see me for only two days, and really want to make it count. Which, of course, means going out drinking and carousing. This has led my body to, basically, hate me. I'd be surprised if my liver didn't sneak out in the middle of the night back in July sometime, leaving a note that says, simply, "You're on your own, asshole." And I couldn't really blame it.

All this leads me to actually be excited for school to start up again. One of the other reasons I haven't written anything for so many months is that, when I do have free time, it's usually spent staring off into the middle distance while I play last night's Conan on Hulu. Unless I'm busy, I'm not doing shit. That is to say, when I have a lot to do, I find I get a lot more of the ancillary stuff done. My get-up-and-go gets up and goes when I lack a structure. In fact, aside from a two-week class in June, I'm not entirely sure I've used by brain since the end of April. Here's where you put your own joke in about me not using my brain since much longer than that. Har har.

So in just about a week, school starts again. Counter-intuitively, this means that I'll also be blogging more, reading books more, playing more music, and generally being better at life. Until then, though, you're still more likely to find me at the bottom of a bottle of whiskey than making progress on David Copperfield. Fucker's 900 pages, did you know that? Christ.

I fail Talking Heads

I was taking the train to Trader Joe's the other day (what do you expect from a white middle class guy (also, apparently, for those of you that live outside Chicago: people here do not call the train here the El...it goes underground, you know)), and put on some music for the ride. I chose Talking Heads' Speaking in Tongues, because it is just an amazing record. I mean, so many good songs. It starts with "Burning Down the House," and doesn't go downhill from there. That's a good album.

Anyhow, I put on the album in my headphones, and start listening. I arrive at my stop with the album mostly over, and that's okay. But as I get off the train, walk up the multiple flights of stairs, through the turnstiles, into the open air, and start walking...I realize, all of a sudden, the album's over.

That the album ended is fine. These things happen. That I was met with silence in my ears is fine. These things happen. But that "This Must Be the Place (Naive Melody)" came and went with only a single mental notice is not fine. This should not happen. "Naive Melody" is a beautiful song - in fact, it's more than that. I wouldn't call it an anthem or anything, but it's "Naive Melody," for Christ's sake. It's a song that makes you take notice, makes you think to yourself, "This is what a perfect song should be." And, last week, I became inured to it. It didn't even register to me. And I hadn't even listened to the record for months.

A few years back, I decided I needed to give The Beatles a rest. Not because I listen to them all the time - I think they're absolutely brilliant, but I never was a Beatles defender, so to speak - but because we hear them so much, we tend to forget how innovative and wonderful their music is. So I intentionally stopped listening to The Beatles. For about a year. And then dusted off my copies of Revolver, Sgt. Pepper, and Rubber Soul, my three favorite albums of theirs. And, goddamn, were they more amazing than ever. Anyone younger than about 55, myself absolutely included, can't really understand the impact The Beatles had when they made music. And the way they literally transformed music, and held the hands (no pun intended or wanted) of listeners as they went from catchy songs about innocent love to extremely well orchestrated songs and studio manipulation to get a feeling across, as opposed to just releasing a song, made music what it is today.

Talking Heads did that in the 1980s, the same way Radiohead did that towards the end of the 1990s, and continue to do so today. And though I certainly wasn't around when Talking Heads released Speaking in Tongues, I've always listened intently, knowing I was listening to something special. It's an album you can listen to alone with the lights out and your eyes closed, and be completely satisfied. And "Naive Melody" is the perfect capstone to that record. And, last week, it went past my ears - with headphones on, no less - with only a single passing thought, which was "I should turn this song up," which I did. But I didn't listen to it. And that troubles me. I want Talking Heads to always stir emotions in me, and I don't want to put them on the shelf for a year to make that happen again.

As soon as the album ended, and silence came over me, I literally was saddened that I had failed in appreciating the beauty of "Naive Melody." I don't know when or how to listen to it again.

If you thought you didn't care about Jimmy Fallon, just wait for this post on the Oakland A's

Sometime around 2am tonight (tomorrow morning?), I'll get myself to the airport and be whisked, ever so gently, to Phoenix, Arizona, home of your Oakland Athletics spring training facility. This is the second year in a row I'll be going to the A's spring training, but there's something very different about this year.

I've heard of many of the players.

Nomar Garciaparra. Orlando Cabrera. Jason Giambi. Matt Holliday (who still hasn't touched the plate against the Padres from the playoff game in 2007, but that boat has sailed). To be honest, I am incredibly confused. We're signing actual players? Usually, Billy Beane does the exact opposite of this and, halfway through the year, right before the trade deadline, trades off everyone good for half a year of a veteran. But, this year, we're overloading on tenuous offense early in the season. If Eric Chavez stays healthy, it's almost like a real lineup.

Usually, the mantra for the A's in the beginning of the season is, "If people can stay healthy, we have a shot at winning." But it seems like this year, the mantra is, "If enough people can stay healthy, we have a shot at winning." And I like that a lot better.

But I'm still confused. I don't get you Billy Beane...I don't get you at all. Just get us into the playoffs.

All that being said, Bobby Crosby was the starting shortstop for the A's until about two days ago, when Oakland signed both Orlando Cabrera and Nomar Garciaparra. A former Rookie of the Year, Crosby's got to be pretty unhappy he quickly he went from starter to third string. He's made it clear that he'd rather play everyday somewhere else, but man. What a slap in the face. Maybe if he played more than 50 games a year it wouldn't be such an issue.

So, to sum up: what the fuck is going on in the Oakland front offices? Only time will tell, but I'm a lot more excited about spring training than I was when I booked the tickets in December. We're in it to win it this year. Or, at least contend. Let's start small.