We're an American Band, For What It's Worth (side-A)

I don't mean to boast, but not long ago, I made practical use of a status on Facebook. This is a relative claim, of course; I'm comparing the question I posed to the likes of 1.) “My ex-girlfriend is a vile harlot”* and 2.) “man im so high right now!” Now, I can't prove the status I submitted was more substancial than either of those two offerings, but mine garnered over 50 responses, whereas no one had a word to say to the jaded lover or the non-discrete stoner. The point is not that I am therefore cooler than anyone else, but rather, that my hunch about posting something relevant on FB has been supported by evidence. This essay functions in much the same way. I seek validations for what strikes me as truthful, but I don't offer very many indisputable facts. Considering the following question that I posed...how could I?


“I have a question about music. OBJECTIVELY speaking, it can be stated that either the Beatles or the Rolling Stones are the greatest British rock band. (Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd can't quite match the magnitude of their predecessors.) Which band best qualifies as America's greatest? Not necessarily your favorite, mind you--and please dear God nobody say Fish** (sic).”

My hypotheses are that 1.) the indisputably iconic rock bands from Great Britain are vastly easier to acknowledge than their American counterparts, and 2.) America's most influential and monumental musicians are all solo artists. Less vitally, it's also fairly simple to identify the solo rockers from Great Britain who have left the most culturally significant legacy. The greater question that I want an answer to is this: Why does it seem so laughably dubious to try to name the American rock band that truly resonates the most? I can't even compile a plausible Top-5 that would be remotely satisfying—which is vexing since I'm inclined to do such a categorical thing. How can this be explained?

I received plenty of solid answers and, predictably, very few great answers. Some replied facetiously. (“Cheeseheads with Attitude,” “America, for fuck's sake,” and “If only Nickelback were born in the U.S.A....”) Others provided sincere replies that strike me as ludicrous. (“Rancid—debate over,” “The Strawberry Alarm Clock...no contest,” and “The Grass Roots?”) Not everyone gave an objective rather than subjective response. (You're one of my favorite people, Hootie McBoobs, but that band who rocked us so thoroughly at Summerfest, “the Black Keys”...they're just not a viable answer to the question.) One person answered, “The Beatles, obviously,” and I don't know her well enough to tell if she was serious or kidding. I got a kick out of another comment, “Definitely Grand Funk Railroad, now that I think about it,” because that would be Homer Simpson's answer and Grand Funk were at least effusively proud when they proclaimed themselves an American Band. Aside from Fish (sic), I was relieved nobody mentioned bands I think are both quite shitty and poor answers to the core question. (Sticks,*** REO Speedwagon, and Bon Jovi.) I was rueful when bands that don't appeal to me but nonetheless merit consideration were brought up. (Journey, Aerosmith, and Van Halen.) The most rational and insightful contributor included in his Top-5 Sonic Youth—a discordant indie-band that has mostly disdained mainstream appeal since their emergence in the mid-80s. This baffles me as much as it validates my initial hunch. I couldn't believe Lynyrd Skynyrd, R.E.M., and KISS were nowhere to be found in the debate. These three American rock bands combine for nearly 8-million “likes” on Facebook.**** Astonishingly, Metallica is more popular than all three of those bands COMBINED on the same site—and they were likewise absent. Maybe I need new digital pals to better reflect our culture's classification of a truly great American band. Maybe I should offer superficial friendship to a random weirdo solely because he has a Gene Simmons tattoo on his chest. These are the fake problems I conjure to make life even more troubling.

My premise that Led Zeppelin can't match the magnitude of the Beatles or the Rolling Stones was disputed. This is a minor quibble and a tangential challenge. Regardless of whether you prefer Led Zeppelin to the Beatles and/ or the Stones, don't overlook the fact that the Misty Mountain Hoppers were not a part of the British Invasion—probably the most momentous development in the time-line of rock 'n' roll. I will gladly concede that, in terms of impact, Led Zeppelin vaulted over less iconic British Invaders such as the Who and the Kinks. Led Zeppelin may very well earn the bronze medal in the debate across the Atlantic, and—all things considered—that is an astounding achievement. But no matter how much you adore raunchy but sometimes sentimental hard rock that verges on heavy metal, please, don't shit yourself: Led Zeppelin mean a lot, but the Beatles and the Stones unequivocally mean more. As the time elapsed after the watershed moment of said Invasion, the limitations of cultural impact became more restrictive. (This also helps explain why Black Sabbath, Queen, the Clash, and Cream—while superior in impact to the vast majority of American bands—aren't the most sensible answers, either.) Perhaps I should have restated it all this way: In an encyclopedia that chronicles a slew of rock bands, the Beatles and the Rolling Stones must have the longest, most thorough entries. Which American band warrants the longest, most thorough entry?

And by the way, I do realize that equating sexy things like rock 'n' roll and Robert Plant's acid-washed pants-tent to scholarly things like encyclopedias and footnotes sort of reduces the appeal of what I'm trying to embrace. What can I say? Don't be like me. Shit, I can barely pull it off. It's a daily challenge.

The second problem people had with my premise was far more exasperating. Vance Flerny, among others, completely disagreed with me that Chuck Berry and Elvis Presley qualify as solo artists. After I commented that both are subject to a different (and less ambiguous) debate, he retorted with the following:

“That's weak. They both played with bands. Neither one just hung out by himself and played on-stage. I would hate to be the one to tell the 'band' backing a so-called solo artist that they actually weren't a band at all—that the only person considered to be the artist was the front-man.”

To my chagrin, Richie Chipworth concurred.

“Yeah. Why are solo artists disqualified? It seems like an arbitrary distinction.”

I spewed an exhausted sigh and tried to explain that there is a clear difference between bands and solo artists with backing bands that typically feature a revolving cast of players. Golly, what a fucking lost cause that turned out to be. And so I'll have to elaborate. Being in a band is not the same as having a band. While the former phrasing designates a partnership, the latter implies prestige for one and the subordination of the others. Chuck Berry is the easiest to dismiss because he never had a definitive backing band. He required interchangeable bassists and drummers, but, in essence, the man behind “Johnny B. Goode” played with his own Ding-a-Ling. As for Elvis, Bob Dylan, and Johnny Cash, consider their album covers for tangible proof. NO MENTION of the Jordanaires, the Band, nor the Tennessee Three, respectively, is printed on any of the studio album covers the three collectively released. This info was reflected by Billboard charts that marked record sales and radio play. Credit, acclaim, and fortune came to them in vastly unbalanced proportions compared to what their backing bands received. Hence: the King, the Voice of a Generation, and the Man in Black qualify as solo artists.

Beyond that, it's senseless and grammatically incorrect to say something akin to, “Johnny Cash was such an incredible band.” Or: “The Beach Boys are my favorite musician.” Sweet Jesus, people. If I have to explain to literate adults the difference between singular and plural nouns, I'll be forced to pursue a career as a merchant of suicide machines.

Votes were cast for Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers as well as Bruce Springsteen and the E-Street Band. This is where it gets especially tricky. Explicit signs of prestige and subordination apply to both, but the line-ups of the Heartbreakers and the E-Street Band alike have remained (mostly) intact for over 35 years. Petty and Springsteen may be glory-hogs, but I think that's a major part of their American appeal, and furthermore, both are loyal glory-hogs who prefer not to play with interchangeable musicians. Does either qualify for the debate?

Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers were marketed and therefore qualify as a band because three crucial words, “and the Heartbreakers,” were printed on the record sleeves of You're Gonna Get It!, Damn the Torpedoes, Greatest Hits, etc. Bruce Springsteen, on the other hand, did not acknowledge the E-Street Band on the covers of Born to Run, Born in the U.S.A., Darkness on the Edge of Town, etc. The Boss also played every instrument on 1982's Nebraska, which is widely regarded as his best (and definitely saddest) album. The E-Street Band are very rarely recognized on Springsteen's album covers.

Therefore, the poor neurotic hack trying to clarify this clusterfuck deems that Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers are in fact an American band. Bruce Springsteen is ultimately an American solo act, though. If I was to assert that the distinction lies in the album covers, would anyone believe me? Vance Flerny and people of his ilk would not; I can only hope to sway others.

Maddeningly enough, though, Tom Petty released a few solo albums. In fact, three of his biggest singles, “I Won't Back Down,” “Runnin' Down a Dream,” and (oh, sweet lord, how the gruesome plot thickens) “Free Fallin'” are all included on 1989's Full Moon Fever. By my logic, those hits would have to be stricken from the band's legacy. Infinitely worse, Wildflowers was marketed as a solo album, too. That one featured “You Don't Know How It Feels” and “You Wreck Me.” I type infinitely worse because—get this—ALL THE HEARTBREAKERS, except for the drummer, played on Wildflowers. Petty is damn lucky he didn't cause a rift in the space-time continuum with that move.

 More Stories, and Additional Stories. Who needs two packs of gum when they could purchase this eBook instead? Losers, that's who.

White Knows Candy

Four people sit behind a news desk, half-encircled by a camera crew. Only one of the four is a regular on television. His name is Marshall Storm, an anchorman known for badgering those he interviews with rude and prying questions. To his right, Mookie gestates peevishly. The middle of the panel is occupied by a wide-screen TV that displays a vexed and nonplussed Bill Cosby via satellite. To the right of anchorman Marshall Storm is Skip White, the frazzled and controversial owner of a local candy shop. Beside Mr. White, a fairly attractive but stern woman named Susan Grace glowers at him through wire-rimmed glasses.

Marshall Storm: Welcome to Hard Focus. I'm Marshall Storm. Grant Barker has the night off again; he was, if you recall, fired two months ago. Tonight the Hard Focus is cast on Skip White, owner of White's Candy Shop, a local business that has become the subject of controversy.

Skip White: There's that word again: Controversy. Skip White is now public enemy number one. I don't get it. I've done nothing wrong.

Susan Grace: On the contrary, Mr. White, what you've done is wrong and irresponsible.

Mookie: Yeah! You lied to me, Whitey.

Marshall Storm: Those are the outbursts of Susan Grace, concerned mother and moral crusader, and Mookie, a disgruntled cocaine addict. And joining us via satellite is a more esteemed African-American who serves as proof that Channel 6 in no believes all black people are like Mookie. Warm greetings to wholesome comedian and children's doctor: Bill Cosby. A living legend.

Bill Cosby: What? Doctor? No, that was just a character I played on the TV...say, what does this have to do with me? I heard some talk about a candy shop and drugs. What's all this about?

Marshall Storm: (bursts with laughter) Great stuff as always, Bill—and a fine segue, too. Let's take a look at Mr. White's latest commercial.

Skip White stands preening behind a display case of boxes of chocolate. A large spool of licorice, wound-up like a garden hose, can be seen over his shoulder.

Skip White: Greetings, candy fans! I'm Skip White. You know, people can buy a candy-bar just about anywhere these days, but what really makes my shop stand out is that I'm a certified expert on candy. The teenager in the baggy pants at the Wal-Whatever—has he memorized every single ingredient in Sweet Tarts? What about the heavyset fellow with the tattoos at the gas station—is he gonna explain to you the difference between Starbursts and Mambas? Heck no. You get the picture; I'm like a candy-sage. If you've got a craving for the stuff, you can trust me. Like my slogan says, I promise you: White Knows Candy!

Whoa. I changed the format so much on this story; it's remarkably better to the extent that it'll blow your fucking mind all the way to Heaven, where God will say, "Welcome my son, or daughter," and hand you an eBook copy of More Stories, and Additional Stories all over again.

Nick Again Lists His Favorite Albums

Where introductions are concerned, I am a writer of few words.

...

All right, then.

15.Jimi Hendrix—Are You Experienced? (1967): Judging by the plethora of singles that bolster this album, you'd think it breaks my rule of excluding Greatest Hits collections. Incredibly, though, “Purple Haze,” “Fire,” “The Wind Cries Mary,” “Hey Joe,” “Foxy Lady,” and “Manic Depression” are all included on the Jimi Hendrix Experience's debut. Hendrix was so talented that he could provoke baffled accusations of cheating from rock-and-roll mortals, and more than 40 years later, it's still stunning to consider the abundance of great songs that resulted from his first recording session with the Experience. Hendrix would later release Axis: Bold as Love and Electricladyland before his untimely death in 1970. Not even the Beatles accomplished so much in such a limited window of time. He wasn't cheating, but it sure seemed that way.

Hendrix announces his presence at the party during rock's golden age with the psychedelic strut of “Purple Haze.” He wonders if he is “happy or in misery,” considers it a moot point either way, and translates to his listeners the spell his muse puts on him. Within the span of the incantation, images are conjured: tire tracks smeared across the backs of loose groupies who play hard-to-get, jealous lovers with blood on their hands fleeing for the border with embattled resolve, traffic lights about to turn the color of loneliness—all told by a weird gypsy who straddles an ignited Stratocaster as he charms and beckons the flames. Hendrix captivated with searing riffs without resorting to as much macho fluff as Jimmy Page. At times, he was as poetically engaging as Dylan or Lennon, and his feats of virtuosity on the guitar were of course unrivaled by either one.

He was such an extraordinary talent that it seemed like he was cheating, but in reality, that was never the case. Jimi Hendrix just set his own rules to play by.

14. The White Stripes—Elephant (2003): Judging by the album cover, which portrays two strikingly pale indie-rockers sitting on an amplifier, both stricken with despair, the White Stripes did not seem especially plussed by the widespread buzz wrought by 2001's White Blood Cells. Such trepidation may have been valid on some level, but Elephant, the duo's follow-up to the hype they generated for the garage-rock revival scene, marks a bold claim of their presence as an upper-echelon band in popular music. Elephant is less a salute to well-crafted trashiness, more indicative of the group's fondness for Led Zeppelin as opposed to Iggy and the Stooges, a stunning achievement of mainstream acclaim that never compromises Jack and Meg's core goal of maximizing the potential of minimalism.

The first track, “Seven Nation Army,” is the most duly overplayed single since “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” The 14th and final track is a cloying debacle. Aside from those extremes, Elephant leaves nothing to complain about. Among others, “Black Math,” “Girl, You Have No Faith in Medicine,” and “Hypnotize” scintillate with the Stripes' straightforward and biting approach. “I Want to be the Boy to Warm Your Mother's Heart” and “You've Got Her in Your Pocket” showcase Jack's nearly outdated pangs of sincerity. “Ball and Biscuit” is a bluesy odyssey of snide self-empowerment that finds a great guitarist who tends to favor simpler chords in the mood to puff out his chest and rip a few mesmerizing solos. In “The Hardest Button to Button,” Jack tartly makes amends with childhood squalor, as though he'd like to flaunt his middle finger to the whole world with the flippancy of fellow Detroit native Eminem...if only he wasn't such a gentleman.

Jack admits that he doesn't consider himself a genius in “The Air Near My Fingers.” Fair enough, but he sure is brilliant, and he chose a worthy sidekick (plus I'm a fan of her hooters). Brilliant minds still get bored sometimes—as he indicates earlier on the same track—but the notion that said boredom has to translate to the audience is as misleading as, say, an album cover that portrays two seemingly distraught indie-rockers who really didn't mind the spotlight all that much. The White Stripes told an occasional fib.

13. Weezer (the blue album) (1994): “What's with these homeys dissing my girl/ Why do they gotta front?” Front-man Rivers Cuomo begs this question at the start of his band's splendid breakthrough single. Similarly, there is no cause for derision of Weezer's debut because of the letdowns Cuomo and Co. have released for much of the past decade-plus. Chuck Klosterman, a more accredited writer on rock music, contends that Cuomo's songwriting skills have not diminished; rather, his persistent earnestness has become incompatible with the counterculture's increased longings for irony. I disagree. I never want anything to do with Dungeons & Dragaons, but when Rivers Cuomo began to favor his KISS poster “In the Garage” to his 12-sided die, Weezer's sound suffered. It's okay to blend KISS-like, pop-metal hooks with gnashing, Pixies and Nirvana-inspired angst; that is, in fact, what made Weezer such an appealing band in the mid-90s. The backlash against Weezer started when Cuomo—the Harvard graduate with horn-rimmed specs, an accidental founder of the Emo scene—adopted the overly simplified lyrical approach of KISS. The horribly embellished “Weezer Problem” has little to do with irony and much to do with wasted intellect.

That stated, the blue album stands as the first album I bought—on cassette, which would have presented the tedious issue of having to fast-forward (rather than skip) a track not worth the listen. Thankfully, the blue album is without a second of filler material; from the power-pop wallop of “My Name Is Jonas” to the extended, brooding trance of “Only in Dreams,” the geek-rockers find an exquisite balance of alternative sounds light on self-loathing and radio-friendly sing-alongs that are actually thoughtful. Cuomo somehow charms as a jealous and controlling boyfriend in “No One Else.” He convinces his listeners of the plausible nature of riding a surfboard to work. More candidly, he offers a quiet/ loud indictment of drunken stepfathers that serves as a generation's go-to anthem for the children of divorced parents; “Say It Ain't So” probably surpasses even Nirvana's “Serve the Servants” in that regard.

Which is saying something, when you consider that Cobain is remembered by many as the premier songwriter to emerge in the '90s. And who cares about all those post-Pinkerton letdowns?* Make Believe they were only nightmares, for “Only in dreams, we see what it means.”


12.The Strokes—Is This It (2001): An electric guitar mimics the sound of short-circuitry, drums thump a lax tempo, and then—with the conviction of a weary malcontent—Julian Casablancas pleads, “Can't you see I'm trying?/ I don't even like it.” Fittingly, the Strokes' rise to fame seemed nonchalant, as though they were resigned to ambition, already burned-out by partying and groupies in their early-20s yet doggedly set on going through the motions of stardom. Their debut LP garnered glowing reviews, inspired rock critics to employ the metaphor about “lightning caught in a bottle” ad nauseam, spelled the demise of goatee metal-rap, and redefined something obscurely known as the “cultural zeitgeist.” The Manhattan quintet foretold their response to such hype in their debut's opening/ title track: “Is this it?”

This album yielded three terrific singles. As is the case in “Last Nite,” the raucously tuneful strums of dual guitarists Albert Hammond Jr. and Nick Valensi interlace and build dynamics until the former exclaims with a solo perhaps too trashy for arena-rock but at least befitting of a much larger garage. “Someday” finds Casablancas longing for freedom via childhood nostalgia and subverting the Pink Floyd principle: “Together we stand/ Divided we fall.” (“Alone we stand/ Together we fall apart.”) “Hard to Explain” envisions space-rock without the hippies and relays a conversation between an adoring boyfriend and a skeptical father.

“The Modern Age” is a flourishing jaunt for slackers that verges on questioning if all relationships are doomed. “Barely Legal” comes across as a sloppy nod to surf-rock re-envisioned with NYC grit. And with lyrics such as, “I should have worked much harder/ I should have just not bothered,” it's easy to see that the Strokes are not easily appeased. Which hardly matters; their appeal lies in upbeat and unkempt musings on eternal dissatisfaction. The human condition has rarely sounded so infectious.

11.Led Zeppelin—Houses of the Holy (1973): Disregard the album cover. Dwelling on it inspires reactions such as, “Artistic, I guess...but mostly REALLY creepy” and “That avant-garde pederast really had a VISION.” If the whim strikes you, feel free to skip past “No Quarter,” a compelling but mismatched dirge that has Led to countless acid-induced horror shows. It is then feasible to regard Houses of the Holy as Zeppelin's finest, and less equivocally, their most vibrant. Houses then qualifies as my most-treasured album when I'm in the mood to appreciate life. Zeppelin's fifth offering finds the hobbits returning home safely from the darkest depths of Mordor. With the glowing support of their families and community, the group rejoices and gets down to mending the levee that broke at the conclusion of IV, rebuilding it with wizened minds and abler hands.

The musical chops of Page, Bonham, and Jones are unmatched by pretty much any other band you can think of. Robert Plant is not one of my favorite singer-songwriters, but the man undoubtedly 1.) has awesome pipes,** 2.) OWNED his role in the spotlight of the biggest band of the 1970s, and 3.) should in no way be denounced as a liability. Bonus: He sounds decidedly less sleazy, not as easily parodied on Houses.

“D'yer Mak'er” is the Zeppelin tune I catch the most guff for loving. In the ensuing sentences I will be defending my opinion in transposed pro/ con fashion. Con: The words “mad,” “bad,” and “sad” are perhaps rhymed gratuitously. Pro: “D'yer Mak'er” delivers an eargasm. Con: It's an eargasm induced by a blatantly simple groove that serves as Zeppelin's answer to the missionary position. Pro: Missionary can still deliver an eargasm, so shut your ugly face, naysayer. Get yourself a blog so you can tell me how much "D'yer Mak'er" sucks. I dare you!

ELSEWHERE, the rickety structure of “The Crunge” hints that the same blokes responsible for “Stairway to Heaven” have a penchant for farce and levity, too. “Over the Hills and Far Away” and “The Ocean” are jubilant blasts of arena-rock that even fussy cynics can embrace. If you take into account the “No Quarter” exception I mentioned before, the most somber sentiment on this glorious LP can be heard in “The Rain Song.” “Upon us all, a little rain must fall.” Just a little rain? I can live with that. 

*I will allow that 2002's Maladroit is a fine album.
** It's a good thing I pluralized "pipe." I was one Freudian misspelling away from raving about Robert Plant's "awesome pipe."

The Soil Satan Goes out of Business

“Going out of business” commercials are made especially sad by the fact that the disenfranchised owner has to muster a smile for the camera during what must be an arduous time. These ads are akin to capitalistic concession speeches for defeated entrepreneurs, and while politicians who find themselves in a similar situation tend to land on their feet, I usually get a premonition that someone like the protagonist in this story may find himself stealing pills from a pharmacy and peddling them to teenagers in order to survive.

I've always wanted to see a brutally honest “going out of business” commercial. Hopefully I'm not the only one.

###

A middle-aged bald man wobbles in front of a cameraman, a director, and crew. The onlookers remain hushed and awestruck by the spectacle. The man is shabbily dressed in a sleeveless t-shirt with fringed edges and suspenders that pinch his flabby chest and gut. Atop his head is a crudely assembled dunce-cap with the word “Bangkrupt” (sic) printed on it in black marker. A display of red and black vacuum cleaners are racked behind him. He blows into a noisemaker, inducing a flair of short, colorful tassels and a high-pitched, outrageous toot.

Howdy-do, cruel world. I'm Vince Wally Vincent, the Vacuum Guy, owner of the Soil Satan Outlet—which is bad news for me, 'cause the place is going out of business! My soon-to-be ex-wife had her doubts when I spent most of my rich uncle's inheritance on funding the Soil Satan Outlet. Well, honey, I sure hope you can pry your head out of your new fling's lap long enough to glare at the TV screen and say, “I told you so.” How the hell is Chad, anyway? Still the day manager at the Blockbuster across the street with a penis reportedly wider than mine? What a catch. The son-of-a-bitch is practically the reincarnation of James freaking Dean.

Any-hoo, by now, you have all read enough newspapers and Internets to know the story of the Soil Satan Outlet. In 2007, yours truly, Vincent Wally Vincent, a lowly worker of the Dirt Devil corporation, worked up the balls to start his own line of vacuum cleaners. I designed and crafted a mechanism to enhance the suction power of the standard Dirt Devil. Having one-upped my ungrateful employers, I decided on a name that admittedly sounded similar but was more emphatic. I mean—if you really want to erase every trace of that dog-barf stain before the company arrives, which seems like a stronger option: The Dirt Devil or the Soil Satan?

I had faith that American consumers would salute my clever touch of wordplay, that the gag would be understood and nobody was going to protest my very existence with charges that I'm an “Occult Monster” or a “Doomed Heathen.”

Yikes! Having faith really backfired on me that time.

Vince exerts a concerted gust of air into the noisemaker.

In the early days, my business attracted a great number of Satanists. The Godless hooligans clamored in vain for black cloaks, jugs of goat's blood, and Slayer albums. Few showed any interest in buying a vacuum cleaner. Some purchased key chains and spare parts on occasion—and I shudder to think of the horrible things those degenerates did with all those extension tubes.

More Stories, and Additional Stories is my eBook, and I honestly don't know what more you could possibly want from me. More Stories, and Additional Stories... Plus Stories? To hell with that last part. It's gratuitous, ya know? 

Nick Lists His Favorite Albums

Blog-posts by nature don't command high expectations. That is a source of dubious and ignoble appeal to my slacker tendencies as well as an affront to my skills and ambitions as a writer. I try to tend to this gap in values by writing especially crafted and developed essays for my blog at my own leisurely pace.

Failures are much easier to cope with when I think of myself as a blogger rather than a writer; they can even provide a refreshing holiday. When I finished my last essay, without knowing what to write next, I tepidly began a piece titled “Good Names, Bad Names.”

Thunderballz is a good name for an AC/DC cover band, I wrote. Gaylord is a bad name to give a homophobic baby.

And that's as far as I got.

I decided to compose a list of my 20 favorite albums, similar to the countdown I put together for video games that I enjoy and for the same reason: I needed to grant some time for more legit ideas to percolate while keeping my mind active with a creative diversion. As a blogger rather than an author, I consider myself immune to crimes of obsessive self-indulgence.

Here are the rules: I won't include live albums, regardless of how great I think they are, because they so often encompass eras or entire career-spans of musicians. The merits of a single recording session shouldn't be compared alongside of a live performance with multiple sessions to pick and choose from for optimum material. For that reason, I will only type that I'd love to gush about Nirvana's Unplugged in New York, Talking Heads' Stop Making Sense, and Johnny Cash's concert at Folsom Prison, but stubborn logic prevents me from doing so in this forum.

In the interest of providing a more diverse list, I will refrain from including more than one album by a band or musician. That is why I won't elaborate on my fondness for Radiohead's Kid A, Beck's Midnite Vultures, or a handful of worthy candidates recorded by the Beatles and Led Zeppelin.

Greatest hits albums? Get the fuck out of here. The audacity!

Apologies, ladies, for devising such a sausage-fest in my highly subjective celebration of terrific music. Can I be forgiven if I insist that, “There is something wrong with me, not you”? I doubt it. That line didn't go over well in bed, either. Also, I will, perhaps, give disproportionate credit to the songwriters involved and therefore diminish the contributions of the other musicians in a band. Such biases may offend bassists and drummers but seem like a natural conceit to storytellers who sing in voices people love to hear.

20.Jets to Brazil—Orange Rhyming Dictionary (1998): The countdown commences with its least acclaimed entry. Wikipedia, a different reference guide not printed on the front of this LP, lends little more than insight into the gag behind the album's title. Get it?!

In 1995, a multitude of haughty punks betrayed and disparaged Jawbreaker—JTB frontman Blake Schwarzenbach's former band. The backlash from purists arose when Jawbreaker capitalized on their fringe-success by signing with a major label. In light of the mainstreaming of punk that was led by bands like Green Day and Blink-182, genre-elitists reckoned it unforgivable for a group to accept a pay raise for making great music. Disenchanted fans literally turned their backs on the band throughout Jawbreaker's final concerts. It was a misguided condemnation of the trio who had delivered the masterful 24-Hour Revenge Therapy, a denouncement of grown men who still loved punk-rock but had become tired of sleeping on couches and riding vast distances from gig-to-gig in a ramshackle van. Come on. There is a difference between ideals and delusions, punk-kids.

Orange Rhyming Dictionary marked Blake's transition into indie-rock/ emo, and he reveled in the leeway allowed for an expansion of sounds and sentiments that other scenes had to offer. Blake was free to dwell in the somber and contemplative riff of “Chinatown.” He was in no hurry, felt no need for thrashing abrasions when he relayed the story of lying depressively on the floor and observing that his curtains resembled a “Sea Anemone.” He was still a romantic who wanted to proclaim his love for a woman, as he did in Jawbreaker's “Jinx Removing,” but his delivery in “Sweet Avenue” was less feverish, more thoroughly developed and refined.

Aside from its notable ballads, Dictionary excels with an enticing blend of distortion and purity, propelled by both disenchantment and resolve. The album opens with “Crown of the Valley,” a tale of spoiled nostalgia that rollicks with a near-perfect alt-rock groove highlighted by Blake's pleading, “Oh God, stop tearing off the roof of my experimental bathroom/ It's the only thing that's halfway mine, and not for your prying or lying eyes.” On the 10th track, he builds upon suspenseful dread, types for miles and creates worried piles of paper before conclusively indicting his muse, who keeps fucking up his life. Blake endured the communal backlash that spelled the demise of his first band, acknowledged his cynicism of punk-cynics and radio-friendly profiteers alike, and retained his integrity. As was the case in the escape-anthem “Morning New Disease,” he was still dreaming of a life that wasn't his, but at least he kept dreaming, and for that, I am thankful.

19. Nirvana-Nevermind (1991): For Kurt Cobain, the album that defined the Seattle grunge-explosion and spelled the demise of hair metal proved those dark adages about being careful for what one wishes for and catching hell due to answered prayers. It was the same desire to connect with listeners on an emotional level that would later daunt and terrify him when he was deemed the spokesman for his generation. Like Dylan before him, he resented the lofty distinction. Both men felt troubled and wearied by such expectations and hated to be perceived as Messianic figures. Cobain lacked the will-power of a survivor, however, which was unlike Dylan. Heartbroken and enfeebled by addiction, the disillusioned voice of the early-90s ultimately decided life wasn't worth the trouble.

To express the impact generated by the first track and lead single, “Smells Like Teen Spirit,” is redundant by now. It stands as an exceedingly rare hit that alters the landscape of popular music, for good or ill—depending on whose side you were on in the Axl/ Cobain rivalry that was ignited by their bad-ass vs. smart-ass confrontation before the 1992 MTV Video Music Awards. “Teen Spirit” is as overplayed as “Whole Lotta Love” and maybe even “Welcome to the Jungle”--songs packed with such timely impact that they hardly require further listening at this point.

That should not count as a demerit against Nevermind, however; despite allowing for more studio-polished production touches from Butch Vig, Cobain did not scale back on his sometimes enlightened, sometimes adolescent vitriol for the sake of a #1 single. “In Bloom” and “Come as You Are,” likewise, garnered airtime on MTV and rock radio without yielding much compromise of artistic intent. The former was a landmark of slacker irony for its skewering of those who like all the pretty songs, even when they know not what the message is. The latter was a riff-hypnotic, desperate plea for true friendship from a man who was lying when he swore that he didn't have a gun.

It is the tracks that received little-to-no exposure on MTV or rock radio that solidify Nevermind as a personal favorite, though. Amidst the mid-tempo laceration of “Lounge Act,” Cobain lets us know that even alt-rock saviors struggle with unrequited crushes as he confides, “I've got this friend, you see, who makes me feel/ And I wanted more than I could steel.” Drummer Dave Grohl commands blistering beats of punk-fueled aggression on tracks like “Territorial Pissings” and “Stay Away.” Bassist Krist Novoselic lends a sinister buoyancy to tracks such as the quiet-to-loud, bipolar anthem “Lithium.”

Cobain, was, of course, the star of the show, in ways both fitting and tragic--and that is perhaps best evidenced by the doom-struck empathy he evokes for a victim of atrocities named “Polly.” In response his acknowledgment of the ballad, Bob Dylan remarked, “The kid has heart.” My favorite track is “Drain You,” a gripping horror show of human selfishness and insincerity. “One baby to another says, 'I'm lucky I met you'/ I don't care what you think unless it is about me/ It is now my duty to completely drain you.” He goes on to evoke the story of Original Sin, charging, “You taught me everything without a poison apple.” It is a grave misfortune that Cobain believed he had learned all that he needed to know when he died by his own hand at the age of 27.

18.Elliott Smith—From a Basement on the Hill (2004): Despite the appearances of this and the previous entry, not all of the ensuing albums were primarily written by suicidal heroin addicts. It's just a happy coincidence how it turned out this way!

On one level, it seems like a morbid bias is at work in adoration of the songs that essentially served as one man's self-inflicted goodbye to the cruel world. On another, and perhaps more humane level, most of the tracks are just so damn plaintively beautiful and alive with melancholic melody that such a bias is owed to From a Basement on the Hill.

“Coast to Coast” begins the posthumous release with an orchestral overture suitable for a horror movie. The macabre tunings are followed by percussive kicks and cracks and an ominous guitar riff that sounds like a buzz-saw spinning with sinister patience. Smith pleads for amnesia to forget about his emotional ties to friends and loved ones after his mind has been made up on the matter of life and death. Smith admits that he doesn't consider himself the sort of person who makes other happy and gives up on constructing that facade. “Let's Get Lost” finds the pained singer/ songwriter longing for the comforts that introverts get from solitude. In “Shooting Star,” Smith wails a riff of haunting, bad-trip acid-rock and likens the appeal of an unreliable love interest to the fleeting faith experienced by those who wish upon meteorites that pass across the galaxy, far away from us. “King's Crossing” marks a macabre journey into the psyche of an abject drug addict—redeemed by Smith's gripping honesty and gift for melody. Without pretension, in hindsight, he defies his audience to, “Give (him) one reason not to do it.” A female voice recorded the response, “Because we love you,” after the fact, when Smith's swan songs were being mixed and polished in the studio.

“A Fond Farewell” stands as Smith's equivalent to Cobain's “All Apologies.” With detached resignation, Smith compares his internal crisis to bidding “Farewell” to a friend “who couldn't get things right.” To him, his life and demise added up to “A little less than a happy high/ A little less than a suicide/ The only things that you really tried.” Elliott Smith sold himself short.

17. Cake—Comfort Eagle (2001): As outrageous as this seems, more so than Bob Dylan or Johnny Cash, Cake singer John McCrea impresses me most with his less-than-spectacular, limited-range vocals. McCrea, much like the legends I have perhaps dubiously compared him too, excels in his knack for accommodating insightful and cynical narrations to a voice that—if not exceptional—never wavers far from truth and wit.

McCrea enthralls with vivid character sketches of a global variety, from Austrian noblemen and opera singers who perform in foreign lands to the aspiring writers and offbeat radio deejays of America. “Meanwhile, Rick James” offers a twinkling rockabye of keyboard notes to soothe a man helpless in his efforts to protect his girlfriend from the allures of big city seediness. Multi-instrumentalist Vincent DiFiore juggles keyboard and trumpet duties with the greatest of ease. He lends spooky tones to the title track, an ironic denouncement of the greed and hubris symptomatic of expanding empires, as well as sharp flourishes of brass to “Short Skirt/ Long Jacket,” McCrea's dynamic plea for an ideal lover.

Comfort Eagle is a fine rock album with astute pop-sensibilities. McCrea is a wily cynic who can still deliver earnest affection (in “Love You Madly,” for instance), as well as unaffected heartache in the closer, “World of Two.” His workmanlike baritone in no way diminishes his songs because they are so thoroughly crafted and labored over with focus and care.

16. David Bowie—The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars (1972): There is a chance that Ziggy Stardust may not truly qualify for the concept album hall-of-fame (alongside of Sgt. Pepper and Tommy) because it's possible that Bowie was too spaced-out and loony to discern the act from the real thing. Ringo Starr, for instance, could no doubt tell the difference between himself and Billy Shears, but in the early '70s, Bowie's distinction between identity and character seemed, at the very least, hazier. Ultimately, I think Ziggy Stardust was a splendid compromise of schizophrenic ticks and art-rock grandeur that put Bowie in the role of his supernatural yet doomed alter-ego.

It's telling that on the opening track, “Five Years,” Bowie readily admits that he feels like an actor. The conceptual premise of Ziggy is (loosely) established here: with our doomsday lurking in a half-decade, a visitor from another planet with musical chops and a garish taste in wardrobe is left with only so much time to enlighten us with his lewd and ethereal brand of rock music. In the process, however, Ziggy's focus wavers; his excesses are most clearly exposed in the pseudo-title track, when it is revealed he “took it all too far,” ravished his own ego, and collapsed under the gravity of his messiah-complex. Ziggy's story-arc concludes, predictably but no less powerfully, as a “Rock and Roll Suicide.” In resuming the fixation for cosmic mysteries that he founded with “Space Oddity,” Bowie played the role of an ill-fated alien rather than a man, loaded the songs with kitsch, but somehow never forfeited his project to the forces of farce. There are psychedelic preachings, to be sure, romping yet somewhat obtuse hippie-commands to “Freak out in a 'Moonage Daydream,'” but Bowie seemed a worthy prophet nonetheless. The first words of “Rock and Roll Suicide” stand as testament to that...

“Time takes a cigarette and puts it in your mouth.” And later, he wails the only condolence for such a grim truth: “You're not alone.”

(Wham, Bam, thank you, ma' am. 2,500 words is enough for now. I am—after all—a blogger, not an author. More to come.)

Blow Sucks

It has come to my attention that a lot of Googlers happen upon this essay in search of references to cocaine and Tony Montana from Scarface. That's fine, but it should be stated upfront that this essay takes a firm stance against the snorting of powder that gets people high. Cocaine is disgusting and its illegalization is justified. Furthermore, Scarface told a cautionary tale, and if you think that that film was done in the name of glorifying white nose candy, you're mistaken. Further, furthermore, Scarface is nowhere near as great as The Godfather or Goodfellas, so I'd advise you to curb your enthusiasm in regard to the story of the rise and fall of Tony Montana. Now, if I haven't warded you off, thanks for reading "Cocaine Blows."


I support the legalization of marijuana. My reasoning is that its use--when compared to alcohol, its legal, mind-and-mood-altering counterpart—can be linked to drastically fewer crimes of violence, domestic abuse, sexual assault, and impaired driving. Smoking marijuana is not an unassailable choice, of course; abusing weed can lead to woes of lethargy and prolonged stupors. Lack of motivation and dumbness, though, are defects in character that are not at all comparable to the human horrors of a man raping a woman, a father pummeling a son, or an entire family getting killed in a car wreck caused by a lowlife with visions of multiple and distorted roads.

Lousy drunks.

Alcohol has proven to be the catalyst for far more evil deeds than marijuana. Whereas alcohol can be purchased without incident in plain sight of a police officer waiting in line at a gas station, possession of marijuana is a common catalyst for fines and imprisonment.

Rampant abuse of alcohol and marijuana, resp., so often marks the difference between Hell and jail.

Additionally, it's a blunder of justice to make criminals out of those who wish no harm on anyone and simply seek a means for calm euphoria and inspiration that is provided by nature.

I typed the gist of these beliefs on pot in response to a friend's Facebook post on the prospect of the drug's legalization. This is a friend of a rare and, more importantly, respectable breed who claims to have never once partook in Reefer Madness. His argument is rooted not in a personal fondness for the drug in question but rather in more vital issues such as the infringement on civil liberties and the high expense to taxpayers caused by its criminalization.

It was a rational discussion between two old friends in different time-zones. It was also inherently made open to others for debate, and we can so seldom count on rationale from OTHERS on the Internet. What follows is a reply from a third party to my comment on pot's relative harmlessness.

“On the day you witness someone die of a drug overdose come back and tell me how you feel!”

Awwwww... Now, doesn't that ignorant dipshit just seem so adorable? Someone needs to pinch his ruddy cheeks and ruffle his mop of hair for making a comment like that. Adults who still cling to the silly myth of marijuana overdose are too cute to take seriously. They are like little scamps at the family Christmas get-together who insist they have outgrown the company at the kiddie table. So precious! At first I wanted to tell him he was mistaken, and that the Tooth Fairy wasn't real, either, but I didn't have the heart to make a total stranger weep in a disillusioned fit. I could only snicker and marvel at the moral comfort some lies impose on feeble minds.

This selection is featured in More Stories, and Additional Stories. 

My Best Dreams

Point: “Dreams are the touchstones of our characters.”--Henry David Thoreau

In the grips of a fever dream years ago, I was having a mundane conversation with a friend when a stranger burst into the room to ask us a pressing question.

“Does anyone have a thumb or a rectangle?” he said.

That's when I woke up, sweaty and vexed. It seemed my mind was vomiting nonsense, and a short while later, as I knelt over the toilet, my digestive track followed suit, by way of my gagging mouth.

So many dreams account for little more than neurotic gibberish. When we dream, anarchic madness tends to hinder any semblance of reason. In my estimation, that sort of lawlessness of the thought process entertains more often than it enlightens. What's more troublesome, some dreams are mere bothers, surreal annoyances that serve as the mind's answer to getting stopped at a lengthy red light late at night when it feels like you must be the only one behind the wheel of a car in the entire county.

Dreams are not always without merit, though. In fact, I would go so far as to write that a cosmic disservice is incurred when we ignore the significance of the best of the bunch. With retrospective grandeur, I must confess that I owe the idea for “The Dark Knight and Brett Favre” to a dream. In a haze of awakening from that otherworldly mush, it struck me that one of the lines from the latest Batman flick could be applied to the career arc of the Old Gunslinger.

And I went from there, just as I'm about to go from here. These are my best dreams.

I. For reasons I can't recall, I got into a scuffle with the Undertaker.

The menacing pro-wrestler who tells his opponents they will “rest in peace” before he (pretends to) drive their skulls into the mat? Yes. The very same.

Rather than inside the squared-circle, the nasty dispute between the Undertaker and me took place in a disused warehouse. He lunged at me with those balled-up purple gloves flailing viciously. And since the Undertaker has never been known to inject performance-enhancing drugs, we have to assume Natural rather than 'Roid Rage was the catalyst of his attack.

Luckily, I was armed with a shot-gun. The Undertaker gave me no choice. I didn't want to get Tombstone Pile-driven—not even in a dream. I blew his head off. It combusted not with shards of grotesque brain and skull fragments, but in a burst of confetti.

It quickly dawned on me that if anyone found out about the murder, I'd be kicked out of college. The bleak prospect of imprisonment never came to me, for some reason; it was only the dread of being expelled (for the homicide of the Undertaker) that struck me with worry.

I realized I was going to have to change my residence and rushed home to the apartment I shared with my roommate Pat (my actual roommate in college, years ago). Confused and offended, he wanted to know why I was so suddenly intent on moving out. I dodged the question and continued to hastily gather my belongings. Instead of practical things like clothing and toiletries, I focused on rifling a vast mound of Lego's into an opened suitcase.

“Why do I own so many damn Lego's?” I wondered resentfully.

Rarely does a dream adhere to guidelines of dramatic form. Our subconscious scribe is not likely to present a cohesive narrative in three acts. Convention is not merely circumvented or even bucked; it is massacred—as though an eccentric hack who writes and directs community theater debacles has wrenched the script away from a more reliable source. Dreams tend to devolve into experimental theater in which the experiment goes awry and something abruptly vanishes into nothing worthwhile.

Accordingly, my hurried packing of Lego's is where the story of my killing of the Undertaker and the cover-up that ensued concludes.


II. It was a picturesque summer day and I was lounging on the beach when I spotted three gorgeous women in bikinis. The women were half-encircled by a film crew intent on capturing every frame of the enchanting lust they exuded. It soon occurred to me that I was viewing the production of a porno flick of the all hole, no pole variety. I realized I was dreaming and could not recall delivering a pizza to any of the actresses and was therefore content to sit this one out and watch from the fringe. It seemed my subconscious was treating me to a trial run of late-night Cinemax.

From a stagehand I was told that in the upcoming scene the brunette was to have a frightful brush with a killer whale about 50 feet from the shore. The killer whale was to be added with CGI technology in post-production. Her girlfriends, a redhead and a blond with lithe and buxom figures to match the brunette, were to watch the encounter from the shore, dumbstruck by nervous concern. Thankfully, the CGI killer whale would swim away, having caused fear but no harm, and the brunette would wade in, rattled but without wounds.

The brunette's anxiety was to be subdued by her friends through seduction. Yes, there was going to be chicks making out with each other, some serious tongues-to-hooters action, and maybe even mutual going down while the blond did her best to keep busy.

I was cool with that. Six boobs and three vaginas and butts? Beautiful faces, trim physiques? Thumbs up to this dream, I thought. I plopped down on the sand and sat Indian-style with a clear view of the women. The brunette was all-done panicking about a make-believe killer whale. She swam toward everyone.

Then the director yelled: “Cut!”

They took a break in filming just before the lesbian three-way scene. I watched on, mouth agape, as the redhead sat down on a lawn chair and sipped from a bottled water. The blond's cell phone was brought to her so that she could send a text message as a middle-aged, scruffy man held up an umbrella to shade her from the Sun. My treasured brunette wasn't doing anything especially sexy, either. She covered herself from shoulders to shins with a tightly drawn towel as she gazed down disinterestedly.

The director had picked a lousy time to announce a break on set. I had to laugh. Tickled by the joke that had unfolded and free of inhibitions, I approached the brunette. She had the appeal of a sexy wet taco wrapped in a shell of cotton.

I struck up a brief conversation of simple verbal volleys exchanged with casual interest and coy smiles that culminated, rather quickly, in me asking if she wanted to make out.

She giggled and peered upward in the way women do when they mean to say they like you but you simply must work on your timing. She conceded that she could remember my phone number if I told it to her.

Because it had clicked that I was asleep, I didn't see much use in getting the digits of a porn star I met in a dream. It seemed futile, like committing to memory the password to a Nintendo I hadn't played in years and was not inclined to ever play again. I came up with a fib.

“Sure. My number is 6-1-2 etc.”

With that I walked away and sat back down on the sand. I figured maybe I could wait it out until filming resumed, but I had a weird hunch I was bound bound to transport to somewhere else soon—whether it be consciousness or a different dream. A rueful grin spread across my face as I glanced adoringly at that brunette and, in Quantum Leap fashion, consumed by zapping-electric shocks, suddenly inhabited a fresh and random environment that was not at all as sexy as on the beach with three frisky vixens. I think it took place inside a dimly lit piano bar, where Urkel was trying to convince me we were both born in Fond du Lac. I called bullshit on Urkel's claim and longed for my previous dream between outbursts of his nasal yammering.

III. Although imagery provides the basis for most dreams, once in a while a weird succession of thoughts steals the show during my REM sleep. It's as if sunlight is pouring in through the windows of a classroom to diffuse the stills displayed by an old projector and the ramble of my own voice comes to the forefront.

I saw a faint image of my brother Dave and recalled with a tinge of resignation that the two of us share little in common. On a given night, while he handcuffs and wrangles abusive husbands and degenerate drunks into the back of a cop car, I'm immersed in yet another daydream holiday, ducking responsibilities in a basement or a friend's house. We are bereft of similarities—whether physical, temperamental, or political, but he was on my mind because he had just visited along with his wife and infant son. When in each other's company, Dave and I constantly banter quotes from The Simpsons as a sort of fluent second language to counteract the distance between us. One of our beloved exchanges is excerpted from an episode in which Homer happens upon a mound of spilled sugar on the highway and shovels the load into the trunk of his car with dreams of selling the “Texas Tea Sweetener” to make a cushy living. In his obsessive devotion to this goofy scheme, he neglects his job at the nuclear power plant. Marge confronts him while he's playing hookie from work in the backyard.

Nick, mimicking Marge: “Homer, the plant called again today and said if you don't show up tomorrow, don't bother coming in on Monday.”

Dave, mimicking Homer: “Woo-hoo! Four-day weekend!”

Nick and Dave laugh--giddy, revived, and indifferent to the groans and rolling eyes of other people in the living room who don't care much for The Simpsons and have been subjected to this same routine so many times before.

In my dream, the indistinct still-frame of a zombie flickered on the projector screen and I was reminded of a chat Dave and I had the day before. The ghostly picture of the zombie soon disappeared and I was left with the memory of Dave telling me that he too is a fan of the AMC series The Walking Dead.

Although I have no inclination to memorize lines of dialog from The Walking Dead, I was satisfied to find another way to bond with my older brother. In the unlikely event of a zombie uprising, he will be better prepared and enlightened on the ways of survival, he will be a capable protector of his wife and son. He owns a handgun and has access to a police station rife with shotguns, ammo, riot shields, and—if real life is anything like Resident Evil 2—cans of first-aid spray that cure zombie bites. I made a mental note to remember to call and meet up with Dave moments after my first encounter with a Walker.

Dave would be a worthy ally in the unlikely event of a zombie uprising.

I spotted an image of the Ghostbusters logo, the spirit encircled with a bold diagonal line slashed across it, and then the idea took off and I was left to frolic in offbeat thought.

If zombies did exist, there is no guarantee their presence would lead to Armageddon, as is the case in The Walking Dead. Nor is it a certainty that mankind would in no time snuff out the rise of the zombies, as is the case in Shaun of the Dead. There is a solid chance neither of these extreme cases are likely, that the reality would be somewhere in the middle, and the real upshot is that zombies would be like public nuisances, supernatural pests, that a crew of wisecracking cut-ups will have to be called in to exterminate, as is the case in Ghostbusters.

I'd love to be a wise-cracking zombie exterminator. Dave could be my sidekick. No. Scratch that. I'd be Dave's sidekick, as a respectful nod to his seniority and experience. Instead of proton-packs, we'd be armed with a shit-load of guns. Instead of sliding traps, we'd have body-bags. Instead of the Ectomobile, we'd drive in the ZomBMW to the entrance of an infested hotel or library. We'd have to recruit a Dan Akroyd lookalike and a black guy to round out the quartet. (I am now accepting applications.)

For our logo, we'd replace the spirit with a zombie and slash through it with a diagonal line drawn in northwest to southeast fashion rather than northeast to southwest to avoid a lawsuit. We'd get rich, save lives, become heroes, and annihilate the brains of the nefarious undead.

The name of our crew would be Zombiebeheaders.

When I woke up, I rolled out of bed and grabbed a pencil and notebook. It's my belief that it is a cosmic disservice to let dreams go to waste.*

Counter-point: “Dreams are what we wake up from.”--Raymond Carver, from the short story “The Bridle”


*Especially the ones about zombies.