30 DAY SONG CHALLENGE: Day 08 - A song that you know all the words to

Day 08 - A song that you know all the words to


I was using this "Song Challenge" as a way to get over the writer's block I have been suffering from over the last year or so (hence the sparse blog). Since I wish nothing more than to have a soundtrack for my life, these topics typically inspire me pretty easily. I'm always assigning music to stories and vice versa. However, I'm the singer in a band. I literally know all the words to at least a hundred songs...most of which have no other significance than, "that is a song the band plays."


So it took me a while, but I finally remembered a good story to tell about a song I know all the words to. We will venture back across the pond for this one.  


After Vienna (see Day 6) I boarded a train for Budapest.  I had heard that it was a cheap city with some cool shit to check out, and my pocket book was reeling from London, Paris and Interlaken so I figured I'd hole up there for a while, grab a massage or two from their world famous Turkish Baths and recuperate. As with most things in life, going in with low expectations led to a fanfuckingtastic time!


I got ripped off by a cab driver immediately upon arriving in the city, but their currency being such shit, he barely took me for $10!  When I got to my hostel thinking I had gotten the deal of the century on the cab, I found out that $10 got me FOUR nights in a shared room...I was already loving Budapest.  I got settled in and met two of my 4 roommates (Anti, a Swedish DJ  and James, an English Med Student). We decided to go out and grab a couple of beers and wait for the other two roomies (Emily and Audra, two Canadian post-grads).  


We went into the first pub that we saw and to my (very pleasant) surprise, beer was only a quarter!  I bought the first round...look at me Mr. Moneybags!!!  I could feel the travel gods shining down upon me.  This was my just reward for powering through in Vienna.  


It was Anti's 26th birthday (which seemed ancient to me at the time...not so much now) so when the girls arrived, we decided to go for a "nice dinner."  I know you are tired of hearing about how cheap everything was, but no shit, white table cloth, 4 star, gourmet meal...less than $10 per person...with booze too!  I was so full from my bacon wrapped filet with potato pasta and cream sauce that I didn't think I was going to make it out.  Anti would have non of that though.


We left the restaurant (where we left a 100% gratuity...they chased after us thanking us...it was weird) and headed for a University bar around the corner.  Beer was even cheaper there...shots were taken...the night starts to get a little fuzzy.


Anti and I spotted a foozeball table.  We went over and asked the large group of twenty somethings if we could get on line for the next game.  They quickly pegged me for an American and started giving me shit about how there was no way I could beat them in a game, blah, blah, blah...I had dealt with this before...not a big deal.  I simply told them we would see.


And boy did they show me. It turns out they don't have pool tables in most bars like we do over here. They have foozeball. It's their bar sport of choice and damn if they were gonna let a yank come and walk all over them. I played like 10 games in a row, each one getting my ass handed to me by a different Hungarian. But I'm stubborn and I wasn't leaving without at least one win.  Probably an hour passed, maybe more. Anti and James took the girls home, I was all alone in this random bar in Budapest at midnight when it finally happened...I won! 9-7 after a couple of ties. At first I was scared, everyone stopped what they were doing and stared at me, then at the guy I beat.  I wondered if I had thrown down some sort of proverbial gauntlet or something. Then, defeated player, Dimitri, laughed and the rest of the crowd started lambasting him. It was all in good fun.  He said that he must buy me a drink, but none of that pussy American shit...I had to drink Unicum.


Now for those of you who have never been to Hungary, Unicum is like what jager would be like if you pissed in the bottle first, then drank it hot.  It supposedly was used for medicinal purposes back in the day and was said to ward off the common cold.  All I know is that it tasted like shit and hit my cerebral cortex like a ton of bricks.  I was feeling no pain when Dimitri suggested we go on a bar crawl and see the city.  Of course I said yes...what kind of story would this be if I just went home...


Into a cab we went.  All 11 of us. There, I learned two interesting Hungarian facts.  First, Buda and Pest used to be two cities separated by the Danube (they have since merged). I was staying on the Pest side of the river, but apparently the cool shit goes on on the Buda side.  Second, the kids still speak Esparanto which is basically "New Speak" from 1984. They apparently get extra points on their version of the ACT for being multilingual and it only takes like 6 weeks to learn the whole language.  Wikipedia and the Hungarian kids had a little different interpretations...to them it was the official language that the Kremlin used to keep all it's eastern bloc member countries in line. They used it to communicate with the cab drivers who were all from other countries (turns out even shithole countries still put immigrants to work driving cabs). 


We head to Buda and start hitting up the pubs. Now there were girls in the group. Zophia, a Hungarian English teacher, was captivated by the first real live southern boy she had met. When everyone found out I was from Alabama, I got a lot of "are you related to Forrest Gumps." At some point, someone bought a whole bottle of Unicum and we passed it back and fourth. It was around this time that I crawled on top of a massive wooden bar all "Coyote Ugly" style and led the group (and other unsuspecting patrons) in a rousing rendition of "Sweet Home Alabama." Not only did I know all the words, but they did too! It was amazing.





I woke up the next morning with a raging hangover in Zophia's bed. She was frantically trying to wake me up...apparently she had to be somewhere.  She shoved two train tickets in my hand as she pushed me out the door into the garish light of day. I struggled with my shoes and shirt and had walked at least a block before I was put back together. My watch said 9am. I found a subway and headed back home. Men and women dressed for work gave me the "sunday stare" as I stood there listlessly, reeking of booze and trying not to vomit.  


I finally made it back to the hostel and Anti and I went and got massages at the Turkish Baths...it was just as refreshing as I had hoped.  That night I showed them the glory of Unicum and we had another rager...no more "Sweet Home" though.  

30 DAY SONG CHALLENGE: Day 07 - A song that reminds you of a certain event

Day 07 - A song that reminds you of a certain event


Long one yesterday...this one's short and sweet.





The Fourth of July!


ZOMG! I love the 4th. In my family, it's damn near a more important holiday than Christmas or Thanksgiving.  All our holidays are spent on Gantt Lake, but the 4th is the only one where the water is warm enough to swim and ski and innertube. I have spent every 4th of July at that lake cabin save for 3...once I was in Amsterdam (that was pretty fun actually), once I stayed in Huntsville (worst idea ever), and once I was at the Boy Scout National Jamboree.


And at that jamboree, you'll never guess who played a song right before the fireworks...wait, you did guess it?
Yes, it was Lee Greenwood and It. Was. Awesome.


The last 3 years I have purchased an ever increasing amount of fireworks and put on my own explosive extravaganza. Each show starts with the singing of the national anthem and then we play God Bless the U.S.A. I will continue to do this to the absolute end of my means...so all you Andalusians, just root for me getting more raises and the show will get better and better each year!  

America! Fuck Yeah!

I was gonna stop there, but then again, brevity has never been my thing.

On July 4th, in the year of our Lord 1999, the 223rd year of the independence of our Republic, when gas was still a dollar and the internet still consisted of AOL "chatrooms" and AskJeeves, there was a boy.  That boy was me.  I was 16.  

My parents threw a party to celebrate our forefathers' refusal to pay taxes.  The teenagers threw a separate party on the fringes of their party, nicking beers here and there as we could, grabbing a bottle of harder spirits if the situation presented itself. Grills blazed and music blared all day and into the night.  One stolen beer turned to fifty and our little party started to veer wildly out of control. 

There were five of us hiding out behind the house, smoking cigarettes on the sly, when one girl started giggling uncontrollably and pointing to a large dirt pile that had been dredged from the lake the winter before.  Behind it, but in plain view to us, was a bare ass a thrustin'...givin' it hell piston style...shining like a full moon (pun intended) under an orange street lamp.  Things went downhill from there.  

Eventually the party petered out (damn I'm punny) and it came time to get the dirt pile doinker back to his house.  It was laaaate.  like 3a.m. which by high school standards is clearly an "all nighter."  I deposited him at his house and on the way home I had to go under a bridge.  The law clearly says "idle speed only." However, at the time my boat was being a little uppity and didn't like to idle so I went slow, but not slow enough it would turn out.  

My heart fell into the lake as I saw the terrifying blue lights behind me.  Two minutes later I was giving Ranger Rick the Marine Police Officer permission to board my vessel.  My parents are sticklers about littering and as such there was a plethora of empty alcoholic containers strewn on the deck of the pontoon.  Ranger Rick had to literally kick cans out of the way as we went through all the safety features of the boat and did the whole "cop dance."

Keep in mind that I had been drinking...not only had I been drinking, I had been drinking ALL DAY, in the sun, and I WAS SIXTEEN!  I was drunk...probably visibly.  He finally addressed the pink elephant on the boat and I explained my parentals' policy on throwing cans.  To which he responded, "how civic minded of them."  Points RR for snarkiness!

He gets the coveted "coolest cop award" for letting me off. I should have been put under the jail, but in what we will call a Chrismakah miracle, I went on my way.  I'm very careful about the Marine Police to this day...you only get one "get out of BUI" card in a lifetime.

Seriously, how embarrassing would it be to go to jail for a BUI? 

THE 30-DAY SONG CHALLENGE Day 06 - A song that reminds of you of somewhere

Day 06 - A song that reminds of you of somewhere

Day 26 - Vienna: mood...catatonic. 

Every journal entry from Europe started the same way:

Day __ - city: mood...    _  

Sometimes I would add what songs I was listening to that day as well, but not this time.  I had been "on continent" by myself for a little over three weeks.  I had another five and a half to go and I hit my first wall.  Three and a half weeks of walking, going to museums and castles, drinking, eating, and merrymaking had taken it's toll.  The night before I had nearly had to sleep on the streets...

Ok, wait, let me back up.  I guess I need to start at the beginning...

__________________________________________________

Day 25 - Vienna: mood...relieved (and a little freaked out)

I rolled into the Austrian capital around 11p.m. after a nice little weekend get away with three girls from Minnesota in Salzburg.  They were a refreshingly wholesome lot, considering the vagabonds I had been hanging with to the point, and our little Sound of Music tour had been quaint if nothing else.  On the train I saw a ridiculously cool double rainbow (swear to god...not just referencing this).  I took it as a sign for good things ahead.  There had been an issue at the internet cafe earlier that morning about reserving a bed in the hostel I wanted in Vienna, but I felt sure I would be able to secure lodging...I was 10 feet tall and bullet proof.  I was a citizen of the world.

So as I said, I got in at 11p.m.  The train station was overrun with bums and gutter punks.  Honestly, it was the seediest scene I had walked through yet.  I made a beeline for the recommended hostel, careful not to make eye contact or invite any kind of confrontation whatsoever. 

The hostel was about a 2 mile hike from the train station...something that by this time, I was fully capable of doing in about 25 minutes without breaking a sweat. It was a nice, cool early summer night and I was truckin' it.  The neighborhood was deteriorating quickly and I was (for the first time) beginning to question my guidebook. I kept going though and soon enough, I found the hostel. Exhausted from a long day of travelling and the brisk hike through RapyMcMurderville, I collapsed into a sofa as I waited for the night time attendant to come down and give me a room key.  Eventually, a bleary eyed blonde hippie chick made her way to the counter and I went up and started the ritual of broken German phrases until she finally said, "enough, I get it. Sorry, but we're full."  

Well shit.  I hadn't been in this situation before...She said they had a big group moving out the next day and that I'd be able to get a room at noon.  The only other "reputable" hostel was 5 miles away through a straight up ghetto, and it being so late, cabs wouldn't even come through there.  What was I to do?  

No worries she said!  Just go to the bar across the street tell the bartender you need a place to sleep for the night.  "The regulars typically take our overflow," she said.  At this point, a couch at a random Austrian stranger's house sounded way more appealing than the alternatives so go across the street to the bar I did.

It was one of those dank holes-in-the-wall that years of cigarette smoke and spilled beer had formed a protective sheen over.  The neon bar lights flickered, keeping time to the droning din of working class melancholy.  As I walked in, backpack and all, the needle skipped off the record and all eyes were on me.  Without glancing around, but feeling the burning stares of the sad sacks that populated "Bar Nowhere," I walked straight up to the bartender and said one word with a hopefully non-threatening shrug..."accommodation?"

He repeated my word...mocking my confused and kinda scared body language.  Somewhere from the bowels of the place I heard a gruff, "Da."  The metaphorical record started spinning again and emboldened by the quick response to my need, I shimmied back to the very last table in the darkest part of the bar, where my savior awaited.

She seemed old...60's by the look of her, which in hard labor years put her around 35.  She weighed at least 350lbs and had a giant mole on the right side of her chin that had started sprouting it's own head of little blonde hairs. She took one look at me, looked back at her half full pint of lager, downed the beer, stood up and walked out with just the slightest acknowledgement that I should follow her. I still felt the laser beam stares as the door shut behind me, but the cool night air immediately washed away the feeling of despair that had permeated that place.  

We walked 200 feet to another door that led to an elevator that went to the fifth floor that housed her apartment.  The halls were barely wide enough for her massive hips to swing without bumping into the sides.  The lighting was so low, that I could just barely make out her shadow as she lumbered own in front of me.  We came to a door at the end of the hallway and she turned and said her first words to me..."ten euro."  I produced the note and she opened the door.  She motioned to her left to a bathroom and then to the right where there was a couch and a blanket.  I thanked her and quickly collapsed again into a sofa.  Within seconds I was out.  The burlap bag that passed for a blanket tucked snuggly under my chin.  It was 2a.m.

I awoke the next morning staring at the freakishly hairy back of a 250lb man... gorilla would actually be a better description.  CNN international was blaring on the tv and he was sitting in a folding chair right in front of the couch. I tried to stay still, but he noticed me shifting and saw that I was awake. he just turned to me and stared...I was clearly in his seat.  He said something in German that I took to mean, "get the fuck out of my house you little American weasel."  He might have said, "good morning young man, can I offer you some coffee or breakfast?"  but you know, German is a harsh language...all consonants.  I always think I'm being cursed out.  I scrambled for my shoes and pack and peaced out of there with a quickness.  I found a cafe and spent the rest of my time till noon drinking coffee and reading one of the international papers.  

I got to the hostel, I got a bed, finally did my first load of laundry, and booked hostels in every city I would be in for the next month!  There would be no more random barfly sleeping for me!!!!

That night I went to bed early for the first time on my trip. I just couldn't bring myself to go down for drinks with my fellow travellers...couldn't muster the energy it takes to be charming enough to make friends on the spot...again.  

__________________________________________________   

So on to the original post...

Day 26 - Vienna: Mood...catatonic.

The previous night's adventures had taken a toll on me.  I got crazy homesick.  I couldn't stomach the idea of one more day of sight seeing or one more night in a shitty hostel bar, running game on some Australian chick.  The futility of it all was the only thing I could focus on.  

It was well past noon when one of the other guys sharing the room came back in.  He saw me laying on my back staring forlornly at the wire mesh of the bunk above me.  He started to turn and leave, but something made him come back.  He pulled up a chair and sat down next to me.  

"Are you alright?" he asked...genuinely concerned.

"Sure man, I've just had a rough couple of hours and I'm a little beat...nothing to be concerned about."

"How long have you been here?"

I told him I had been there for a day and a half, but he was inquiring how long I had been travelling.  I looked in my journal and responded, "26 days."

He looked at me and put his hand on my shoulder and said, "Get up. Get moving. Don't quit."  

I looked him right in the eye and told him in no uncertain terms to fuck off. 

But he didn't give up so easily.  He told me that he too had been struck by a mid trip crisis, an existential hiccup, "the wayfarin' blues" if you will. He told me that it happened to damn near everyone that was on the road for a significant amount of time.  He repeated himself, "Get up. Get moving. Don't quit."  

Finally, I did just that.  I got up, got dressed and headed out the door.  I bought him lunch and we toured some Roman ruins.  I put on a happy face for this guy who wanted so much for me to beat the blues, but inside I was miserable...woohoo, another set of ruins...woohoo, more marble statues on the street...woohoo, the Hapsburg's main castle...woo. fuckin'. hoo. 

I somehow made it through most of the day without pitching a bitch and there was just one final destination on St. Getthefuckup's to-do list that day.  It was Schloss Schoenbrunn, a magnificent summer palace on the edge of town. 

As soon as I stepped off the bus and walked into the courtyard I could feel the history of the place all around me. I got vestigial whiffs of horses as I imagined it filled with carriages and the nobility they conveyed.  I could hear baroque quartets in the distance and felt the joy of leaving the bustle of the city for this grandiose mansion.  I wandered away from my new companion, lost for the first time that day in the majesty of old Europe.  I was still feeling a little down, but at least I was interested.  

I bypassed the interior of the house and began walking through the gardens to the rear of the castle.  I put in my ear buds and hit shuffle on the iPod.  I walked through a hedge maze and watched the children dart this way and that as their parents looked on from an observation platform.  I strolled alongside more Roman ruins from an equally grand palace from antiquity.  I stopped and smelled the fucking roses.  

While I was engrossed in my music and the scenery, the sky went from soft blue to ominous black.  I kept getting further and further away from shelter...paying no attention to the gathering storm.  By the time the first grape sized raindrop struck my shoulder, I was several hundred yards away from the mezzanine.  

I took cover under a grove of Renaissance era chestnut trees that lined the gravel avenues of the gardens.  There was a concrete bench there and I sat down as the bottom fell out of the sky.  First, tremendous gusts of wind whipped down the paths creating dust devils that chased fleeing tourists into the palace for cover.  Everyone was running this way or that, frantic, trying to avoid the oncoming rains.  Before long, the storm came in ernest.  The cold rain dropped the temperature around me dramatically, but no water came through the ancient, leafy boughs above.  Just then, as I watched the carnage unfold around me with detatched amusement, I noticed The Drive-By Truckers were playing a song in my head...

The sultry drawl of Mike Cooley's voice on top of the ringing acoustic guitars served to "enhance" the mood of the day. (See Day 4) The wail of the slide guitar wept of lives lived and lost. I was almost all the way through the song before I even began listening to the words...I barely caught the last line of the last chorus, "Now she's found herself and I've lost mine/and I'm just another guy who can't give her anything." I immediately hit repeat and listened closer this time. "Dreams are given to us when we're young enough to dream 'em, 'fore they can do us any harm/They don't start to hurt until we try to hold on to 'em, after seein' what they really are." The song, the day, the rain, the blues...it all just fit so perfectly together that it seemed almost by Providence. After the rains abated, I gathered my things and headed back into town.  I found my counselor and we went out on the town.  Yet another night of drunken debauchery ensued and by the next morning, I was over the hump and ready to rush out and take on the world for one more round. 

I can't help but think of Vienna when I hear that song.  Not only Vienna in general, but specifically that concrete bench under that chestnut tree in that garden of that palace in that rain storm.  It's a tactile memory!  I hope I never forget it.  It's funny that a band that embodies the state of Alabama in a way that few others would ever hope to achieve also holds, for me, a promise of a larger world beyond it's borders. And Therein lies the beauty of a well written song.  

"And 'Lord knows I can't change' sounds better in the song than it does with hell to pay."

THE 30-DAY SONG CHALLENGE Day 05 - A song that reminds you of someone

Day 05 - A song that reminds you of someone


Every song reminds me of someone...well, maybe not every song, but on my epic playlist of favoritest songs, every one has someone or sometimes multiple someones attached to it.  So for this post, I'll just pick the one with a favorite story.


Back to high school everyone! And AWAY WE GO!





It was June of 1998.  I was 15 years old, heading into my sophomore year.  I was careening down the interstate, headed north in a baby blue 1991 Ford Explorer with four of the cutest girls in the rising senior class.  We were going to Birmingham to the Oak Mountain Amphitheatre to see Third Eye Blind with Our Lady Peace and Eve 6.  I had just recently pulled the slickest move of my young life: convincing one of said ladies that she should throw social norms to the wind and date a guy two years younger.  This shit was unheard of at Andy High!  I think I used this song to help convince her...YEAYA...the 90's kicked ass!


We had the radio full blast and were jamming out for the two and a half hours it took to get from Andytown to Pelham.  The girls were all excited for 3EB.  Semi Charmed Life was just starting to make it's move from cult classic to full on 90's phenomenon.  I however, being cool and all, was in it for Our Lady Peace.  Their song 4am was a favorite of mine (it was actually a heavy contender for yesterday's category).  Eve 6 was an unknown at the time, but since we were going to see them too, I picked up their cd on the way out of town so we would know more than just the one song that was on the radio.  


We popped in the cd around Wetumpka, AL.  First to the single, Inside Out, then we just let it play.  By the time we got to Open Road Song (the 5th track...jesus, how do I remember this shit), we were hooked!  For the next 30 minutes, the song was on repeat as loud as it would go. The peddle was to the metal and that explorer engine screamed, ripping a hole into the lazy Alabama summer afternoon.


As we turned off the interstate, we turned down the volume and started concentrating on making it to the venue.  Soon however, we noticed smoke coming through the AC ducts. We stopped at a red light and all of a sudden the engine was billowing white plumes of smoke.  Everyone was freaking out.  We turned off the car in the middle of a giant intersection, got out, and pushed the car to the nearest gas station...probably 100 yards away.  Being the only "man" on the trip, I was tasked to figure out what was wrong with the car.  Problem was, I barely knew how to drive at that point let alone figure out what the hell was on fire.


I went inside the gas station and approached a guy wearing a blue mechanics shirt with cut off sleeves.  He was crack skinny and concealing a ratty mullet under a dirty trucker hat.  A pretty significant portion of his clothes were covered in layers upon layers of oil stains so I figured he would probably at least be able to narrow down the problem for us.  


I almost immediately regretted coming up to him.  After I finished explaining the situation, he took one look at me (flippantly) and then ogled the four girls (hungrily) and said, "Yep, I can lookat'er ferya."


He sauntered out of the cool gas station over to the car and popped the hood.  Smoke and steam escaped in a blistering burst but he seemed nonplussed by the heat.  He pulled out a (mostly) red, grease soaked rag and wiped the sweat from his brow, then bent over the engine and stared for a solid 5 minutes. He didn't move.  He didn't blink  He didn't say a word.


We all exchanged furtive glances at one another as we braced ourselves for the worst until suddenly he looked up and addressed me.  "Welllp, whatchoo got hur is a busted belt...it's burnt up."  


Now I pride myself in speaking about 16 different dialects in redneck, but this one was thick.  "Excuse me?" I replied.


"Burnt up." He said, looking at me as if I were the one from another planet.


"Oh...kay..." I said.  Slowly...evenly. "Can we fix it?"


"Naw, shop's closed fertha evenin'...butch'll be fine, juss use the backup."


The five of us in unison... "wha?"


"The backup...all them ol' ferds havem...call it tha 'fer sixty'"


again in unison... "what?"


"Tha 'fer sixty'." He's grinning now...all 17 of his teeth (each in it's own level of decay) shining down on us baby yuppies. "Lissen, ya'll juss rawl all fer a them ol' winders daan an run 'bout sixty daan tha highwee."  He was slapping his knee as his joke finally sunk in on all of us...the encounter ended with him explaining we had "burnt up" a belt that ran the AC unit and that as long as we kept the AC off, the car was fully functional.  


We went on and had a great time at the show.  Afterwards, we employed that 4/60 backup AC all the way to Tuscaloosa where we spent the night with one of the girl's sisters...


But that's a whole 'nother story.  


I'll never forget that helpful old redneck.  His laid back demeanour, ridiculous accent and filthy ensemble revealed, to me, a calculated creepiness.  I've wondered sometimes if that was a freak occurrence or if he hung out there daily, waiting for distressed travellers to assist.  I've made up so many stories in my head about that guy's day to day existence! Sometimes he's an angel, sometimes he's an axe murderer.  Whatever the real case may be, that day he was a savior...and every time I hear Open Road Song and think of "putting the pedal to the floor," I always pause and think of the consequences...I never want my AC to be "burnt up!" ever again...he may not be there next time.  :)

THE 30-DAY SONG CHALLENGE Day 04 - A song that makes you sad

Day 04 - A song that makes you sad

This one is involved...bear with me.

I LOVE sad songs. I love the way a sad song can take a moody moment to the next level. I love the way a sad song can push me over the edge emotionally. With that being said, there aren't many sad songs that actually MAKE me sad.

Conor Oberst, a master of morose music, says at the end of his song Poison Oak, "...the sound of loneliness makes me happier." Often, that is the way I use sad songs in my life as well...like lancing a wound. Rather than let a depressing moment linger just under the surface for a long period of time, I just go ahead and pop an unrequited love song on the iPod and wrap myself in the delightful depression being espoused through the speakers. Then, when it's done, I move on to the next thing. One of the saddest love songs I've ever heard, Ryan Adams' Come Pick Me Up, while depressing at first, speaks to me now as an affirmation of the value of "the game of love" even if you're losing.

Every time I've had more poor little girlie heart broken, I've latched onto some sad song. Even now, when I hear Foolish Games by Jewel, I'm transported back to the eighth grade, pining over my first real girlfriend. Obviously, while I can still empathise with that kid and his anguish over rejection, it does seem kind of silly. Can you imagine me trying to conjure up tears over a girl I had been on 4 dates with and maybe passed some notes back and forth between classes? I listen to Jewel's soulful wailing and I can't help but smile a little over the drah-mah of it. In fact, if I were to look back over all the ex-girlfriends and think of all the songs that are attached to them...oh boy, that would make one helluva mixtape. Think "Monster Ballads" but WAY cheesier.

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There is one that still stings though...well actually, now I am going to cheat a bit. This story requires 2 songs. They are both written by Ben Gibbard.  One is a love song, the other a break-up song...both make me sadder than hell.  They both remind me of the one who got away...

All this took place at the end of college. I wrote the first part of the story years ago, while the hurt was still fresh. I guess you should listen to the songs as you read the story...

Two pairs of eyes trained themselves on the broken white line dividing the eastbound lanes of I-85.  The green pair was focused on keeping the tires in close contact with the pavement. The brown was concentrating on avoiding the green. The only sounds came from the radio and the wind as it whistled past the bulk of the SUV. They were hurtling down the road; running headlong into the future, but all he could think about was the past.

Their story was not dissimilar to a bad date movie. He had doted on her for years. She had kept him at a distance but not too far. They had finally made a go of it and now they were about to go their separate ways.  As he pondered the timeline, he wondered if anyone did anything original anymore. He also wondered how many awkward goodbyes would be said in the hourly parking lot of Hartsfield International Airport that day. He played the song he had played the first night. He wanted to immerse himself in the glory of the melancholy mood.

Tears began to cloud the vision of her sharp, green eyes. The yellow specks that surrounded her pupil shone like distant stars. A single tear defied its progenitor and slipped down her freckled cheek. He allowed himself a single glance in its direction as she slammed her hand on the dial.  Now the only sound was the wind.

For the first time in an hour, her eyes left the road. They searched out and found his. They pleaded for clemency. This was a ride to an end…mention of the beginnings would shatter the frail confidence that was keeping her from breaking down. He had seen her cry only once before and it had nothing to do with him. It was unsettling then, to see her become vulnerable. It was even more so now. He had always imagined that he would be the only one to mourn the death of their relationship.

He began to rethink the necessity or the current situation. Was there another way?  No, he finally decided. Better not confuse sadness with a willingness to change. To look back now wouldn’t fix anything. The decisions had already been made; all that was left was to play out the ending.

She parked the car. Now the waterworks began in earnest. Through stifled sniffles and sobs she laid out all the reasons that this was the end. Each one was carefully worded and well thought out.  Every aspect of her argument was sound and logical, irrefutable. For one of the few times in his life, he was rendered utterly speechless. He babbled incoherently about fate and circumstance. He mumbled oaths and pledges. She silently shredded his positions with her stare. Finally, his volleys exhausted, he resigned himself the inevitable. He got out of the car. She watched as he unloaded his pack. He reached for her hand. She gave it willingly.

As they walked hand and hand though the corridor, he was suddenly struck by the realization they were both leaving. He had been so concerned with his own departure that he had completely missed hers. For the first time he felt the sharp stab of regret. He squeezed her hand and pulled her toward him. He grasped her gaze and kissed her with purpose, but she was already gone.

When I returned from Europe several months later, she was living in Atlanta in one of those gated condo communities. I made the trek up from New Orleans at her request to put the final period on things...I wanted to look her in the face one more time and try to change her mind. In the intervening months since my departure, alone amongst the masses, in cities and on trains...through all my adventures, I had begun to regret leaving her more and more. I had decided that she was the one and I had fucked up hard! I held out a glimmer of hope that maybe she felt the same way...that she would give me one more chance.

She was late meeting me and I had no access to her building. I had to wait in the rental office for her roommate to come down and retrieve me. It was reminiscent of our study dates in college when I would wait in the lobby of her dorm for an escort to her room. It had never been weird back then, that was just the way things were done. However, in this instance, it seemed demeaning and just served to underscore how much of an outsider I was in her new life. By the time she got home from work, my slim hope had vanished. She wouldn't even look at me as we said our last goodbyes...I regretted coming at all.  She had been gone from the moment we had gotten out of the car at the airport all those months ago.  Not only was she gone, now she had moved on...leaving me standing there, like a child, grasping to hold on to a bubble that had been burst long ago.  

THE 30-DAY SONG CHALLENGE Day 03 - A song that makes you happy

Day 03 - A song that makes you happy

You ever find yourself staring in the mirror at the end of one of those days...one of those days that was a part of one of those weeks...months...hell years...one of those days that make you want to crawl into bed, bury yourself in the covers and never get back up?

Well, I was doing just that a couple of years ago. Bourbon drunk and bleary eyed, I stood there berating myself for being a baby. "Get your shit together man!" I said, voice seething with disdain for the bloated loser staring back at me.

I was coming off a year that saw my grandfather passing away, a relationship with a loving and caring girl disintegrate as I pined for an ex who couldn't give a shit about me, massive weight gain, increasing job insecurity, and a whole myriad of lessor problems that began to create a suffocating pile of morosity around me. I was depressed, and let me tell you, depression is a motherfucker. We have all been there, sometimes for a brief moment, sometimes longer. I had had enough. In the words of Jack Kerouac "It was one fast move or I'm gone."

The cliché goes something like, "It's always darkest before dawn." And they are clichés for a reason. Somewhere around that time I heard this song...

I cancelled my subscription to cable. I deleted my facebook (read: stalker) account. I got my tubby ass off the couch and hit the gym. Basically I set about getting my shit together...everything I could actively control anyway. All whilst chanting what would become my mantra for the next year..."I AM GONNA MAKE IT, THROUGH THIS YEAR, IF IT KILLS ME!"

The bright piano immediately hooked me into John Darnelle's deliciously succinct lyrics. The brilliantly painted picture of adolescent angst brought about by a troubled home served as a kick in the pants as I thought about my own silver spoon, "Leave it to Beaver" upbringing.

-What sort of trouble had I ever experienced?

-Who was I to wallow in self pity when others had real problems?

-C'MON FATTY, one more mile!

-"I AM GONNA MAKE IT, THROUGH THIS YEAR, IF IT KILLS ME!"

It's a liberating and self actualizing mantra that even to this day puts a smile on my face and a pep in my step! I fully recommend playing this song at max volume in the car by yourself and singing along with the chorus at the top of your lungs...if that's not catharsis, I don't know what is! Beat on the steering wheel in time with the infectious beat. Lock into the promise of feasting and dancing next year!

"I am gonna make it - through this year - if it kills me!"

"I am gonna make it - through this year - IF IT KILLS ME!"