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Shit, I Don’t Even Have a ‘Fly Crib’! Or Know What That Means! Argh!

I’ve come to a horrible, depressing realization. I’m not cool enough to listen to the music I like. I can’t tell you how disappointed I am in my unhippitude.

See, I’m a big, dopey-looking goofy guy. I’m married, I’ve got a house, I work an office job… it’s a good life, but it’s by no means a cool life, you know? At the same time, my musical tastes have morphed over the years. I really dig some of the electronica, and techno, and dance stuff that the kids are wiggling to these days.

(At least, I think those are the right terms. Frankly, I’m not cool enough to even be sure. Maybe I like house, too. Dunno. Some of the stuff I listen to is probably drum ‘n’ bass. Couldn’t tell you. For all I know, I’m into something called ‘trip-hop’. I always thought that was just the awkward little move I do when I catch my toe on a crack in the sidewalk. Who knew?)

I blame two events in my musical experience for this unfortunate and embarrassing position. The first occured a few years ago, when I recruited an old high school friend of mine (who’s now hosting this server, by the way; it’s all circles within circles, people) to come work for a startup company I was with at the time. Well, he agreed to join us. But I never knew he was gonna bring techno with him. Why the hell don’t people put these things on their resumes, anyway?

In retrospect, I suppose I should have known. Back in ‘the day’, this guy always had a penchant for the groovetastical grinding crap. I think he owns every Depeche Mode CD ever pressed, for instance. Come to think of it, he’s struggled with this problem just about his entire life. And I say ‘struggle’ because, let’s face it, folks — he’s no cooler than I am, if you can believe that. Seriously. We’re from the same place, had similar childhoods, we both work with computers. We’re not exactly ‘the lyrical Jesse James’ here, if you know what I’m saying.

(Personally, I think I have just the slightest edge on him, coolness-wise, these days. Sure, I blog, and read nerdy books, and do standup comedy. And I’ll admit, those are three very big strikes against me. But did I mention that he’s the sysadmin, essentially, for this machine? And that he lives in Ohio, of all places?

Well, if that doesn’t convince you, how about this — dude’s got kids. I rest my case, baby. Game, set, and match.)

Anyway, I resisted most of his techno budda-boom-budda-boom nonsense. At least, I thought I resisted it. But that shit’s like a virus — just when you think you’ve shaken it off, it comes storming back and drops your ass on the ground like a hockey dad pissed about his kid getting crosschecked into the boards. Prodigy was the first little nasty to worm it’s way in — my buddy listened to a lots of their stuff, but only a couple of songs got to me. ‘Firestarter’. ‘Breathe’. And of course, the winner of the ‘Song I’d Most Like to Sing to a Busful of Nuns’, ‘Smack My Bitch Up’.

(Just imagine — how cool would that be? Standing in the bus aisle, snarling, ‘Smack mah beeeetch up!‘ I’ve gotta believe that the looks on their easily-outraged red little faces would make it all worth it. And I can think of worse ways to go out than the ‘Death By a Thousand Ruler Thwacks’. Not many worse ways, mind you. Drowning in gasoline, maybe. Eaten by Al Roker is up there somewhere. But there are a few, definitely.)

So, that little ‘synthesizer seedling’ got planted in my brain, and settled in for some nice, tasty germination. Nothing much came of it for a while — I still listened mainly to Dave Matthews and U2 and old ’80s bands like the Call and the Alarm and the Replacements, just like a guy like me is supposed to. And that was fine — those bands are somewhere on the proper side of the cool spectrum; they’re just not too cool. I didn’t listen to anything that I couldn’t back up with the rest of my semi-cool life. On the other hand, I wasn’t bopping my pooper to shit like Hootie or Alanis Morrisette, either. Give me some credit, folks.

(And please, forgive me that brief but oh-so-shameful time I spent listening to Creed, all right? Look, I thought they were Nirvana, okay? Nirvana was cool, Pearl Jam was hip for a while, Alice in Chains, Soundgarden… how the hell was I supposed to know ‘which one of these things doesn’t belong’? I told you I wasn’t particularly cool; don’t put so much pressure on me, dammit. Send out a memo or something, for chrissakes.)

Anyway, that brings me to the other ‘whammy’ that turned me down the road I’ve walked down lately. There was this bar, back in Pittsburgh, that we used to end up in quite a bit. Like, every week, and sometimes twice. And why not — it was close enough to stumble home from, had pinball and a pool table, served cool microbrews, and the bartenders knew (unlike just about every other ginslinger I’ve run into) how to make ‘liquid cocaines’. But that’s a story for another time, I’m thinking. Or would be, if I could remember anything that happened on the nights we drank those. Yikes.

The other thing this little bar of ours had was a jukebox. And after we’d been going there for a few months, one song kept getting played and catching my attention, over and over again. Finally, I managed to check the jukebox while the song was still on, and found the name and artist: ‘Bus to Beelzebub’, Soul Coughing. Oh, my. ‘Yellow number five, yellow number five,’ indeed.

The rest is more or less history. I went out and bought that Soul Coughing CD. Then the one that came before it, and then the one that came after it. Eventually, I heard ‘Super Bon Bon’, remixed impressively by the Propellerheads. And that was it — by then, I was in ass-deep and sinking. Now, just a few short years later, half or more of what I listen to is electro-techno-breaky-funky somehow. Chemical Brothers, Crystal Method, old New Order, even a bit of the Depeche Mode my friend was always so fond of. I’ve still got a Refreshments CD in the car, and an Alarm compilation, and the Smashing Pumpkins‘ greatest hits, but just about everything else has funk to kick your ass and beats to rock your block. I’m hooked.

Which would be fine, I suppose, but I just don’t feel like I’m living the right life to listen to that much techno. To really do it right, I’d have to lose twenty pounds, wear a helluva lot more black, and find myself some way cooler sunglasses. I don’t have the look, the lenses, or the lifestyle for this, and it worries me. See, I’ve got just about enough ‘street cred’ to pull off Foo Fighters, or maybe some old school cult-status stuff like Camper van Beethoven or They Might Be Giants. Cake is a stretch for me. I feel guilty listening to Red Hot Chili Peppers, for chrissakes, like I’m denying someone cooler and more deserving from hearing their tunes. So clearly, I’ve got no business listening to shit like Paul Oakenfold.

(Which is even more obvious when I admit that I can never remember the guy’s fricking name — I’m always thinking it’s ‘Oakenfield’ or ‘Oakenfeld’ or ‘Okily-dokily’ or some shit like that. Soon enough, I’ll be pulling dark socks all the way up to my Bermuda shorts and mis-singing lyrics in the line at the grocery store. It’s just a matter of time, folks.)

All right. I think you get the point by now, and I’ve beaten this topic just about as far into the ground as I can. Now you know far more about my mismatched musical tastes than you ever wanted, or cared, to find out. And I’ve got Fatboy Slim running through my head. It seems we all have our crosses to bear here tonight. Eh, whatever. Anybody got some cool shades I can borrow for when I’m listening to my tunes? I could at least try to look the part, right?

You Know the ‘Good Kind of Hurt’? Well, This Ain’t It, Dammit

Christ, I’m falling apart.

Somehow today, without knowing quite when or how, I pulled a muscle in my back, right below my left shoulder blade. It hurts when I do various things — like shrug, for instance, or blink, or think about ponies. But it seems to be most painful when I sigh heavily. And since it happened at work, I did a lot of heavy sighing. A lot of heavy, painful, pitiful sighing. Ouchies.

Then, just a few minutes ago, sitting in the floor in my living room, I did… well, something. To my groinal region. I’m not sure what, exactly, I did, or how it happened — all I know is that lifting my left leg is not a good idea right now. It feels like my hip is wiggly down there somehow, like I shimmied when I should have shook. Or twisted when I meant to twirl. Or wiggled my watusi in not quite the right way.

(Of course, some would tell you that there’s no good way in which to ‘wiggle your watusi’. I don’t buy into that personally, but I do believe that if you wiggle it more than twice, you’re just playing with it. And you’ll probably need a towel. Ick.)

Anyway, like I said, I’m falling apart. For any of you still younger than my thirty-four years of age, I really can’t recommend it. You should probably find some way of avoiding this age, if you ask me. Maybe sleep from thirty-two or so right up into your forties, when people apparently start telling you that you look ‘distinguished’.

(Now, on the other hand, people just say things like, ‘What the hell happened to you?‘ and ‘Hey, didn’t you used to be Charlie?‘ Oh, and, ‘What is that, hair coming out of there? For Chrissakes, shave that thing!‘ Yeah, that’s gotta be my favorite.

People. I never did like people, anyway. Bunch of bitches.)

But I think I’m gonna take it easy tonight. No running up and down the stairs, or stripping naked and doing the hokey-pokey on the porch for the neighbors. And there’ll be no shaking it like a Polaroid picture tonight, either.

(Not that there ever is, really. I don’t have the rhythm needed to ‘shake it like a Polaroid picture’, I’m afraid. I’m lucky if I can jiggle it like an Etch-a-Sketch. Yeah, they don’t let me on the dance floor any more. Too much collateral damage.)

In any case, the point is that I’m gonna try to rest up tonight, and hopefully come back as good as new tomorrow. Or at least as good as my tired wrinkly old thirtysomething self gets, which is far from ‘as new’, dammit. I lost that ‘new car smell’ quite a while back. And you really don’t want to know what odor replaced it. Trust me.

Anyway, there’s no guarantee that a night of rest and sleep will do anything for me at this point. At my age, I’m just as likely to wake up with a sprained wrist, or stiff neck, or missing a leg. Honestly, it’s a new ailment every day, it seems. Only today, it was two. The old skinbag I live in must be doubling up for Mondays now. Oh, frigging joy. Maybe I’ll get to look forward to this every week. Meh.