Weekend Listen

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Ladies and Gentlemen, I am bored.

Like buzz off all my hair, jump out of an airplane, buy a bulldog, move to India bored.

For many people, being this bored is actually a good thing — it forces them to do the crazy things that they wouldn’t otherwise. Like get a tattoo on their hindquarters that says “Grade A Top Round” or something.

Another section of society should never under any circumstances allow themselves to get this bored. These are the people who do things like casually skydive. If they get this bored, one of two things will happen: 1) They will become a YouTube sensation, or 2) they will overthrow the American government. Do not wait to see which influence will win.

Unfortunately, I fall into neither of these categories. Sure, I think about all the crazy things that I could do when I’m hella bored on the couch. But at the end of the day, I just go to the mini mart, buy some Doritos, and snuggle in deeper. It’s a sickness.

So today I aim not to let that happen. I aim to dance my boredom away. And while it’s possible to dance your way out of boredom without any tunes whatsoever (Pretty sure Ke$ha could do it), I’d look a lot dumber.

My favorite thing about Clap Your Hands Say Yeah is that I can never understand what in the name of Moses Alec Ounsworth is saying — “Yesterday, Never” is actually one of the band’s more enunciated tracks. Usually that would bum me out, because I’m all about singing — nay, shouting — along to music. But in this case, it just lets me focus on the driving drumbeat and the garage-bandy guitar and the happy vibes.

This one’s a throwback, y’all. Santigold’s debut album might have my favorite album cover of all time, because she looks like she’s barfing glitter. And I dig that. This song reminds me of stomping through DC, pretending that I owned the damn place. I didn’t. I’m pretty sure it belongs to Barack Obama. But that’s beside the point…this song has everything that you could ever want: clapping, yelling, distorted voices — I mean, are you jumping up and down with excitement yet? I know I am.

I think I’ve listened to this song 6 times a day since it was released. And why not? It sounds like the super cool jam that would play in a nightclub during a Quentin Tarantino movie. All smooth vocals and plucky guitars, super sexy, crazy danceable. Plus, who doesn’t like a song with the thesis “We’re up all night to get lucky?” Isn’t getting lucky what we’re all out to do anyway? (Head out of the gutter everyone. I was talking about those record high Powerball numbers).*

*Which, by the way, isn’t the lottery always at a record high these days? It’s stealing it’s own thunder. To quote “The Incredibles,” “If everyone’s super, then no one will be.” I think that says it all.

Killin’ It: Diplomacy Edition

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This looks totally not staged at all. I repeat: this is candid. Not a photo op.

This looks totally not staged at all. I repeat: this is candid. Not a photo op.

Guys, diplomacy is hard. I could never be a world leader because it’s impossible for me to make it through a meeting at my current job without cracking an inappropriate joke. Luckily, I work somewhere that doesn’t mind that I asked my boss why the office smells like Seis de Mayo all the time.* But if I asked that question of like, Vladamir Putin or Enrique Nieto, I’d probably cause a worldwide crisis. Maybe especially if I asked Enrique Nieto.

Which is why it’s so impressive that Governor Christie, never one known for keeping his mouth shut and playing the diplomat,** did such a bang up job showing Prince Harry around New Jersey today. I mean granted, it is Prince Harry, and not the Queen herself — you could probably even make a joke about the Holocaust and Prince Harry wouldn’t be offended. He’s already made the joke himself. But still, it’s impressive.

And diplomatic gifts are an especially tricky thing. I mean what can you give someone that perfectly encapsulates your culture, is nice enough to be respectful, but not so nice as to make them feel uncomfortable? Luckily for us, Chris Christie nailed this one. He gave a gift that epitomized the American spirit — overpriced, a little lazy, and just presentable enough to get by. That’s right. He gave Prince Harry a fleece. Like the kind you wear. Like the kind it seems Harry was already wearing when Christie handed him the replacement.

Although it’s likely a better alternative than some other things that could serve as souvenirs of New Jersey…like factory smog, gang violence, or Baby Lorenzo.

So my commendation stands.

*It smelled like warm tequila. You’ll get there.

** “If anybody in this room thinks they understand Washington, DC, please come on up stand behind the podium and you give the answers, because I don’t have the first damn idea of what they’re doing down there.”

Happy Monster’s Day

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It’s Mother’s Day.

If you have somehow managed to cut yourself off from the tsunami of mother-based advertising that’s taken over television, radio waves, and the interwebs over the past month and forgot, you still have roughly 6 viable hours to buy some carnations, call the lady who birthed you, and not be a dick.

Mothers totally deserve to be celebrated. From what I can tell, pregnancy ruins your body forever. They get vomited on more times than any human should. They have to pretend to like the macaroni necklaces and drawings of unicorns that their kids make them. Not even Meryl Streep could do that acting job. And they have to stop drinking alcohol just so that their child doesn’t come out with webbed feet and an inability to understand human emotion.

But, despite all that, being a mom doesn’t totally suck. There’s plenty of perks — and I’m not talking about the love and affection of your spawn, because what good is that ever going to do you? No, I’m talking about the secret benefits to being a mom. The ones that mothers don’t really want you to know about because it would wreck that whole Mother Theresa martyr vibe they like to cultivate. But they’re real.

Things like…

1) Treat Your Children Like Mannequins: Sure, anyone can make outfit recommendations for a friend or loved one. But adult humans are autonomous beings, and if they don’t want to wear stripes and a beret to look French for your picnic, they don’t have to. But children are essentially paper dolls — Moms buy their clothes and dress them. If I had kids, I would make sure they were wearing four different shades of plaid at all times. Just for kicks. And they couldn’t do a thing about it.

2) Eat Leftovers: Technically anyone can eat a diet of chicken nuggets, mac and cheese, bagel bites, and gushers. But this is frowned upon by society — grown-ups are supposed to subsist on things like kale and farro. Moms have what I like to call the “Leftover Loophole.” They can eat anything that their kids leave on their plates without fear of judgement. Plus, they don’t even have to count it as a meal. More like a light snack.

3) Use Your Children as an Excuse: When non-moms get invited to a cocktail party they want to go to, or don’t feel like meeting up with their friend for lunch, or decide to quit their book club, they have to work hard to come up with excuses. Did you tell the same friend that you had food poisoning last week? But moms can just blame their kids for everything — the excuse never wears itself out, and no one can question it without feeling like a jerk for implying that you’re a terrible parent. Perfection.

4) Take in Children’s Entertainment: No one wants to be the adult sitting alone in the matinee of Pixar’s newest movie. Or reading “The Hunger Games” on their morning commute. Or absentmindedly singing the Hannah Montana theme song. But kids are their mom’s ticket to doing all of these things without seeming pathetic — even going to Six Flags past age 25. Reason enough to pop one out.

5) Be the Center of the Universe: If you’re not a mom, then you’ll never know what it’s like to to have another human love you and fear you completely. Seriously, being a mom is like being the freaking Sun King. With one word, you can reduce your child to a puddle of tears on the floor. (To be clear, the word is like “no,” or something. I’m not suggesting you call your kid a filthy name). With another word they’re giving you hugs and smiling and radiating happiness because you’re the only thing that matters to them. (Maybe two words. “Ice cream.”) Next to being a dictator, being a mom is as close to all powerful as a human can get.

So go ahead and celebrate your mother. Pat her on the back and pour her a glass of champagne. But don’t feel too bad for her — she had it pretty good.

21st Century Philosophers

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Let's play a game called "Yawning or Smiling?". Are you ready? Go!

Let’s play a game called “Yawning or Smiling?”. Are you ready? Go!

In our constantly connected, tweet-snapchat-instasham world, no thought goes unshared. Even if you come across a thought-gem late at night, or on your way to work, or while working out, you can instantly share the fruits of your magnificent brain with the hundreds of people you (hopefully) know online.

As a result, we’re all apt to feel like the Dali Lama — the world should be waiting to hear our inspirational  intelligent thoughts with baited breath. Even when we sound like the liner notes to a particularly vomit-inducing Hallmark Card.

Take this recent pearl of wisdom from Taylor Swift:

“Life isn’t about learning to survive the storm. It’s about learning to dance in the rain.”

First of all, I’d like to know how Taylor arrived organically at a thought that sounds exactly like an African parable.* You just know that this metaphor descended upon her, fully formed by Aphrodite, while she was having a particularly rough day and stopped her dead in her tracks — because this thought was deep.**

But like most of the self-invented Confucian ethics of the Twitter generation, Ms. Swift’s life lesson is full of holes.***

Because, unless I somehow misunderstood every piece of advice I’ve heard in the past two decades, life is exactly about learning to survive the storm. If you’re on an ancient sailing vessel in a particularly rough patch of ocean — with cartoonishly scary waves, hurricane level winds, and rain to boot —  I’d make darn sure that you’ve double-knotted the jib and hoisted the main sail before you start break-dancing on the poop deck.****

Similarly, if you’re about to fail out of school, or you just got fired, or you’re fighting with your paramour, or…[insert your given terrible situation here], it would be wise to face the challenge. You know, rather than just giving it the middle finger and pouring yourself a margarita. Even though I do love margaritas. You can wait and pour yourself one as a victory drink after you vanquish your trial and/or tribulation.

Although after listening to “Teardrops on my Guitar,” I kind of understand why Taylor doesn’t want to tackle any more hardship. She’s suffered enough. And we’ve all suffered with her.

*“If you can walk, you can dance. If you can talk, you can sing,” anyone?

**What’s a particularly rough day when you’re Taylor Swift? Getting lightly kidded by Tina Fey and Amy Poehler at the Golden Globes?

***Especially unfortunate given that it seems to be raining in her universe.

****Fine, I don’t know how to sail. Sue me.

Weekend Listen

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SPRINGTIME FOR HITLER AND GERMANY!!*

It’s warm. It’s sunny. People are out in the streets and actually seem happy to be there. The Seasonal Affective Disorder that settles over New England from October to April has officially lifted. People are being kind to one another, like not honking their horn as much when an a-hole (usually me) cuts them off in traffic. They seem to be calling their families more frequently, if the results of my wiretapping are any indication.

It’s the time of picnics and popsicles and ponies and poppies and pop art and pop tarts and peaches and plums and pears and puppies and peonies.

I’m pumped.

And to get even more pumped, I’m pumping up these jams.

First up is “Dirty Paws” by of Monsters and Men. We’re starting slow here, and shaking off the winter haze. The whispered lyrics and lightly tapped cymbals make this the perfect song to fall asleep on someone’s shoulder too. At least until it picks up in urgency around minute 3. But even then it is nothing but melodious and harmonious and keyboard-y and seriously, those cymbals are outta sight. Take a cat nap and think about how cold you were for six months. That’s all over now.

I think that “Bourgeois” is my favorite song off of Phoenix’s new album. Why, you ask? I think it’s the ethereal sounding synths and the fact that I’m a sucker for Thomas Mars’ voice when he sounds particularly plaintive. Plus, I consistently fall in love with Phoenix’s lyrics. Like this: “You lost your mind on a cruise ship, bartending crucial lies. We’re destined, wise, and we socialize.”

Lastly we kick it up a notch with a throwback from my high school days, when all I did was listen to mashups from The Hood Internet. I’m obsessed with mashups, because they compine my undying love for rap with my undying love of listening to really upbeat tunes. Tragically, gangsta rap in it’s original form is not often the most uplifting. It’s good for feeling like a badass, but not so good for boarding a bicycle and trying to chase down the ice cream truck. This combo of the Beastie Boys’ “Rump Shaker” and Matt and Kim’s “Good Ol’ Fashioned Nightmare” feels kind of like I imagine taking ecstasy would — insta-happiness.

What are you waiting for? Go outside and smell the snapdragons! (Roses are the most mundane flower in existence. Sorry I’m not sorry.)

*Calm down. Mel Brooks said it first.

The Best Kind of Alcohol Problem

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This weekend is an incredible confluence that, like a lunar eclipse, happens just every so often. Saturday is first Saturday in May, meaning that it is time for the Kentucky Derby. Those of you who have never travelled below the Mason Dixon line might not understand it, but Derby Day is an amazing holiday. When I was a child, my mother used to throw elaborate Derby parties and force my brother and I to dress up in white tuxedos to serve her guests bottomless mint juleps. That’s what we call classy child labor for a good cause. Anyway, all this is to say that for those of you who claim that you don’t like horse races or bourbon, I can only say: haters to the left.

But here’s the incredible part: the next day is Cinco de Mayo. The day when respectable adults for miles round act like teenagers getting drunk for the first time. For me, Cinco de Mayo is like Christmas. Why, you ask? Well, friends, many people have a troubled relationship with tequila, but I don’t. Tequila is the superhuman elixer I take to make me stronger. I can essentially use tequila like Lance Armstrong used moose antler steroids, or whatever he junked himself up with. Usually I struggle to find anyone who can join me in tequila consumption. But on Cinco de Mayo, no one can say no. It’s a beautiful and helpful form of peer pressure.

Yes, friends, that’s right. Two of the celebrations most associated with a singular alcohol fall on back to back days. Over a weekend. It’s like the earth goddess Gaea has been listening to my prayers. Of course, it’s not easy to drink so much alcohol in such a short period of time. But that’s what I like to call the best kind of alcohol problem. I suggest that, like with running a marathon, you power through by carbo-loading, drinking lots of water, and never stopping to take rests. Also by kicking ass and taking names. But those last two help with pretty much anything.

And if you run into trouble and need someone to hold back your hair, all I can say is I am so sorry for the pain and suffering that you have incurred during the most special weekend of the year — for even in times of light we can find darkness. But dwelling upon that darkness only causes it to grow and take root in our souls, so buck up, get over it, and start getting ready for Independence Day, which is the next time we’re all allowed to act this ridiculous.

All Time Low

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carnival

You may not be able to tell, but this seedy death-trap is ready to render you financially handicapped.

In case you missed the beat, I hate almost all humans. Here’s a list of just a few of the kinds of humans I hate: small children, teenagers, the elderly, anyone who misuses “less” and “fewer,” anyone whose watch cost more than my car, anyone who uses “summer” as a verb, anyone who insists “Scarface” is their favorite movie, and anyone who writes reviews on Amazon.

Seriously, folks. Don’t count on me to keep the species alive.

But despite my negative outlook towards almost all of my brethren, they keep finding new ways to surprise me and make me judge them.

Take the New Hampshire native who recently lost his life savings at a carnival, for example.

Yes, you heard correctly. This man lost his life savings a dollar at a time, playing Whac-A-Mole and shooting at rotating ducks.

To be fair, he only had $2,600 dollars in life savings, meaning that he had roughly the financial acumen of a fourth grader. But, as you’ve likely guessed, that doesn’t increase my sympathy for his plight.

But riddle me this — if you had a gambling addiction and you lived in New Hampshire, wouldn’t you do something a little more festive to blow your cash than compete against a pudgy 12-year old for a giant stuffed gorilla? Like go to the race tracks in Salem? Or find a high-stakes, closed-door poker club? Or start your very own Hunger Games?

It’s the lack of creativity here that baffles me above all else. That’s why we need to keep the arts in elementary schools.

Things That Are True #12

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It's this sort of high-falootin' marketing that's raising the price on your material goods.

It’s this sort of high-falootin’ marketing that’s raising the price on your material goods.

Goods cost less if they are transferred directly from buyer to consumer,without a middle man.

Example: The grandfather who sold a baby on Facebook for $830.**

Bargain basement prices.

**To state the obvious: I do not condone the sale of a baby for any price, no matter how good a deal it might seem.

Killin’ It: Employment Edition

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I’ve only been in the workforce for a year now, and already I’m ready for retirement. Wasn’t there once a time when if you worked for a company forever they would just hand you a handsome pension and pay for your health insurance until you died and say, “Get out of here, you crusty wrinkle with a face, you’re slowing us down”?* We should totally return to that employment model. Who cares if it bankrupts our society for future generations.

Anyway, I guess what I was trying to say is that working is terrible. Even if you love your job and are an ice cream taster, some days you’re going to get a huge brain freeze and curse the day that you signed a contract with Baskin Robbins.

That’s why it’s so inspiring that there’s a spunky 7-year-old who’s looking to get in the employment game. And I don’t mean with a lemonade stand, because that’s practically a game. Anyone could run one of those things. In fact, no one could run one of those things — if you put out a pitcher and a tip jar and a picture of an adorable child, the place would run itself. No, this youngin’ is looking to do real work. Like dog walking. And housesitting (although the thought of leaving a 7-year-old child alone in your house with a strange animal is horrifying. Despite the free market rationale that you can pay her like a quarter a day). Check this out:

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And just look what she’s trying to earn money for — a mermaid tail, so that she can swim like the human/fish hybrid that she was born to be. Adults waste the money they earn on superficial things like rent, utilities, and food. This kid is working for a real cause that we can all get behind: bringing some twisted version of the Animorph book series to life.**

So yeah, I think this 7-year-old is killin’ it. Someone near Garden Street give her a freaking call already so she can start mending that broken heart!

*Society was more ageist in the 50s. I assume. Mostly I don’t like old people very much. Sorry.

**90s nerds in the house. I caught you guys.