Boys: A Pseudo-Scientific Observation

Back Breaker - Hit the Lights (mp3)
Highschool Stalker - Hello Saferide (mp3)

The school at which Bob and I work has several hundred boarding students, all male. Every weekend, one faculty member must spend Saturday and Sunday afternoons leisurely walking around the campus. That person must also walk into every dorm and enter every single dorm room on the campus.

Some call this responsibility "Suicide Watch," in honor of the original reasons this policy was first enacted roughly a decade ago. Others call it "Faculty Snoop Patrol," because it can at times be a little creepy and a little awkward, entering the sole private living spaces of boys, most of whom you hardly know. I call it "Prostitute Watch," because it amuses the boys and lightens the mood. Better to imagine scouring the campus looking for Vivian Ward in a compromising position in a boy's twin bed than to be thought of as searching for someone who's hung himself from sheer misery.

I was on Prostitute Watch last weekend, and I found myself studying our little incubator of adolescent males based solely on what I saw while walking through the dorms and across campus two afternoons on a weekend in November.

First, on average, our boarding student body is wealthier, smarter, and whiter than your average bear. We are not without color, nor are we without boys whose parents are middle or lower-middle class. Just wanted to get that out there so you know what kind of boys I'm mostly talking about.

Muhammed Ali: Still the Greatest
This was the observation that began my pseudo-scientific study. The first dorm I entered has maybe 20 rooms. Of those 20 rooms, at least eight had a poster of Muhammed Ali. It wasn't all the same poster, either. Throughout all the dorms, I can think of at least five different posters, maybe six. All but two were variations of him lording over his unconscious prey in the ring (mostly from the Sonny Liston fight, I think).

An African-American who converted to Islam*, whose last significant bout occurred 31 years ago, was easily the most popular icon on dorm room walls of mostly white boys from generally more privileged economic backgrounds. And these boys are fairly conservative both politically and religiously. Am I wrong to find that strange and somehow encouraging? Despite this fear and feeling that issues of race and religious prejudice are festering and refusing to heal, a ton of white boys admire the black man formerly known as Cassius Clay?

Strangely, I can only recall two posters of Michael Jordan, and only two or three of Tiger Woods. Roger Federer and Michael Phelps were much more popular... which is precisely what I would have expected in dorms of mostly well-to-do white boys. But none of those dudes had a thing on Ali.

Video Games Are a Social Activity; Accept It and Move On
Many of my coworkers spent the first years of the 21st Century lamenting the slow death of boys going outside to have fun. More and more boys, they cried, spent hour after hour staring at a television screen in isolation from their peers and the beautiful world around them. These boys were losing social skills and disconnecting with reality.

As someone who spent his Atari 2600 youth crammed into a basement spending hour after hour playing Dungeons & fucking Dragons, I can merely attest to the fact that one need not have modern technology and a TV screen to isolate oneself from the beautiful world and stunt one's own social growth. Fighting a Class Nine Hydra with a paladin named Lucius, his elf thief friend Shadow, and their wise wizard father-figure Ebenezer, does the trick just fine, thank you very much. I daresay that before D+D and before video games there were millions of other ways for boys to be anti-social or nerdy or wrapped up in some odd world. Hell, I'm not sure why sitting in a deer stand for seven hours is all that more admirable than playing Halo.

Most of the boys were out of their rooms on Saturday afternoon, but many were there on Sunday, and most were grouped as couples, threesomes or foursomes watching a movie or playing a video game. Some of the boys played sports games like football, basketball and soccer, while other boys played first-person shooter games like Halo and Call of Duty, and others played those long-range strategy games or shit that's way past my comprehension like World of Warcraft.

My point is, these boys talked. They socialized. Their use of the TV screen and XBox controllers was no different in its purpose than a bowling alley. Boys prefer having an excuse to gather first. The conversations and socializing is vital, but secondary. Boys don't generally meet over coffee. They meet to compete, or to play a game, or to throw a frisbee, or to watch a movie.

Girls, it seems, are completely comfortable with the idea of simply hanging out and talking. One frequent reader meets monthly with her local pals to play "Bunco," which they call "Drunko" because they haven't actually played the game in more than a year. They just use the game as an excuse to sit around and gab, because it makes more sense to their husbands if they explain their activity being centered around a game.

Boys Are Best Enjoyed Without a Microscope
For the last several years, I've struggled to enjoy my dorm responsibilities. The job requires that I police the boys somewhat stringently at a time in their night where they are desperate to unwind. Further, teenage boys have and will always seek to push limits, experiment with freedom, and buck authority. These are important and essential things, and when I see the boys at our school as a forest, I find myself feeling very happy and optimistic. They are, on the whole, good kids. Smart kids. Talented kids.

Unfortunately, when forced to get to know a semi-random assortment of them on a deeper level in my dorm job, I must get to know boys I might like less than usual, and I must deal with their inevitable imperfections more than usual. It is, in some sense, having to be a foster parent to a child you don't really like. Worse, it's almost a direct correlation between how unlikable they are and how much of your time they suck away. The squeaky wheels, as they say, get your grease.

It's so easy for boys -- and men, and girls and women -- to carry on this illusion of being an "all-around good person." Our students especially are smart enough and raised in the kinds of environments where they can play the parts they feel expected to play, and they can do so dutifully and with great skill and flair. It is only when they are observed so closely, when almost every waking moment exists under the watchful eyes of adults, that their flaws surge to the forefront, when their every misstep and mistake risks risks being brought to light. It's like asking Eliot Spitzer to be on The Truman Show.

And who really wants to watch that??

Hit the Lights and Hello Saferide are the kind of bands that have no illusion of going multiplatinum. They must do it because they're possessed by evil demons. Consider supporting them.

* -- or the Nation of Islam, if you're into splitting hairs

Life as Gumbo

Johnny Nash--"Stir It Up" (mp3)

Tony Trischka (featuring Syd Straw)--"Alfa Ya-Ya" (mp3)

One of the better pleasures of life is sitting down to eat a bowl of real gumbo, made without haste using a traditional recipe. But, arguably, an even greater pleasure is constructing that gumbo. I have spent much of the weekend doing just that. Hang with me, if you're not a cook (yet) and trust that my purpose is not to brag on my gumbo. I'll try to make a broader point.

The complexity of a gumbo depends on several steps, none of which can be rushed. Sure, there are shortcuts one could take, bottled this and frozen that, but each one would diminish the final stew. Gumbos tend to split into two basic camps: seafood gumbo and chicken and sausage gumbo. I made the latter, mostly because I had picked up some incredible andouille sausage the last time I was in New Orleans.

Gumbo's nuances are built layer by layer. The first layer is the chicken. You need to fry or roast it to intensify the flavors in the bones, meat, and skin. After you pull the skin off the bone, the bones become the base of the chicken stock, which, when boiled, then simmered, with onion, celery, carrots, garlic, peppercorns, and parsley in water that, left on low heat, becomes a rich broth. So, two things done. The key, though, is the roux. The gradual browning of white flour in hot oil until it becomes as dark as chocolate is the essential component. As it becomes the color of peanut butter and then darker, it takes on a carmelized flavor like nothing else. To achieve that perfect roux requires constant vigilance and stirring for the better part of an hour.

SIDEBAR: When is the last time most of us stirred anything for 40 minutes?

The addition of the Cajun trinity of chopped onions, green peppers, and celery, with garlic, to a dark roux releases smells into the room and house that seem like some heavenly blend of fried chicken and soy sauce. After the vegetables have softened, pouring in the chicken stock, brought to a boil, with bay leaf, thyme, and a blend of other spices, and then simmered for an hour or so, creates a base of some 20 different tastes, some added twice and in different ways. There is no quick way to duplicate it.

Then the chicken is added back in, and with it, the chunks of andouille, itself a myriad of flavors, including pork and pepper heat and smoke. And, finally, the okra, both as a taste and as a thickener, sauteed to eliminate the sliminess and to include yet another seared flavor. Finally, the seasoning is corrected, and over two days with essentially 7 major steps, eight if you serve it over rice, you have gumbo.

Gumbo is a pleasure both ways. If you don't know how it's made, then you are amazed by the complexity of its flavors, and each bite is a revelation. Your tongue, your mouth, your brain all know that you could not pour it out of a can. Or, if you do know how it is made, if you make it, then you are equally rewarded, in that you have successfully executed each step.

I could have talked about bread or ice cream or even a relationship. The point would be the same. Taking the time to do things the way they need to be done, the way they are best, is neither a luxury nor just a nod to some nostalgic vision of the past. The reality is that back when the world was slower, when money wasn't as important, when quality could reign over quantity, there were slower processes of life that justified themselves easily--first because the shortcuts weren't available, and, second, because the waiting increased their worth.

In the past few years there have been a plethora of books about things/places/books/etc. to do/see/read/visit/etc. before we die. I appreciate the sentiment. It's a big world, as Joe Jackson would say, so much to see.

But the book that really spoke to me was the one by Jan and Michael Stern, 500 Things To Eat Before It's Too Late (and the Best Places To Eat Them). You will note the slight shift in emphasis. Sure, the "too late" could refer to our potential imminent demises just like the rest of the books, but when you get into the Sterns' book, you quickly realize that the places, the joints, the specials dishes they advocate are ones that are made in Mom 'n Pop places whose offerings are specific to particular parts of the country. They have been making the same foods in the same basic ways for decades. When these places don't make them, who will? Who will carry on the traditions of making these foods the way they always have been made? "Before it's too late" means before the rush of the modern world squeezes them out, before their expensive, time-honored techniques become too expensive.

I tried to hit a number of these places when I was in Chicago this summer and to indulge in the best Italian Beef sandwich, the breaded steak sanwich, the Chicago hot dog, etc., but for me the larger issue becomes even more important each year when the holidays approach. That's when treasured family recipes, things that a deceased parent or relative or neighbor used to make, come to the forefront.

And here's the news that no one wants to hear: those people are deceased and they aren't going to be making those special treats that they used to make. We have to do it. But, maybe, we don't have time, we don't know how to, maybe we just don't want to, maybe we don't even care to, maybe we don't cook, maybe we don't bake, maybe our children will never know the difference. Hey, wake up! The past is disappearing and it isn't coming back. It's about to become an extinct animal. Short of cloning it, and I don't know how you clone time, the things that were important or comforting to us are going to be gone if we don't save them.

So that's why, up above, I wanted to give you an idea about how gumbo is made. And I'm here to say, it's all just gumbo, baby. Seven steps, one step at a time. Totally worth it. Ain't nothin' like it. Nowhere. Because it's my gumbo or your gumbo and that means it becomes my family's gumbo and maybe someday, a child or a grandchild makes it just like I used to. 'Cause families, too, are like gumbo--layers upon layers upon layers.

Bob will be serving his gumbo at the Mocs' tailgate this coming Saturday if the weather holds. Johnny Nash and Tony Trishka are available at Itunes. I don't know why the classic Johnny Nash track does not play, but it does download, so you can listen to it that way.

Ant-agonists

Chain Reaction - Journey (mp3)
New Shoes - Pi (mp3)

So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
                        -- Shakespeare, Sonnet 18

Ants bother me. Philosophically, ants haunt me.

I'm not phobic. I don't lie awake at night worried that ants will eat me. Ants don't appear in my sexual fantasies or in my nightmares. I don't find myself scratching up and down my whole body at the thought of ants crawling up a pants leg or a shirt sleeve. Yet, more than any other living creature on this planet, ants freak me out.

Everything about them bothers me. They are the anti-humans: efficient and productive and undistractable. They are like The Terminator in miniature form.

When the day comes that Mother Nature finally decides to hand out the appropriate punishment to humanity, a consequence far more dire than Time Out or a spanking -- or maybe we'll beat her to the punch and cause our own mutually assured destruction -- creatures like the industrious ant will move up the evolutionary ladder. Our face will fall off the earth's totem, and the ant will move closer to the top.

When our Great Gettin' Up Mornin' comes, as Morgan Freeman calls it in Glory, perhaps the most frightening part for someone like me is that even those things we casually consider immortal die with us. Our literature. Our great works of art. Our philosophies. Our politics. Our forms of government and means of organization. Our technology. All of these things will die with us.

Even someone like Shakespeare, who in many ways had convinced me he was immortal, will have had the stake driven into his undead heart. (Yeah, I believe there's a heaven, but I'm hard-pressed to think we're gonna give a shit about Shakespeare or any other earthly thing there. If so, I'll consider it a pleasant surprise and dance a little earthly jig in celebration.)

If it seems like I'm stating the pathetically obvious here, I apologize, but what I've had to accept is that, ultimately, Kansas was right. Eventually, at some point on the horizon, all we are and all we've done really is dust in the wind.

Know what else bothers me about ants? I go back to this quote from John Adams:

“I must study politics and war, that my sons may have the liberty to study mathematics and philosophy, natural history and naval architecture, in order to give their children a right to study painting, poetry, music, architecture, tapestry, and porcelain.”

Ants don't do any of that shit, and they aren't losing sleep at night wondering what it's like to get a master's degree in political science or Elizabethan poetry. I can look down on them and step on them with my nice dress shoes and laugh at their naked single-mindedness, and I can mock them for caring nothing for politics and war, or mathematics and philosophy, or natural history and naval architecture, or painting, poetry, music, architecture, tapestry and porcelain. They care about the queen. And one could argue they don't even have enough brain power to care about any of the things they do. They just do. Ants ARE the Nike slogan.

Caring and wondering and worrying and musing is left to us silly mouth-breathers.

For all of our amazing brilliance and advanced states, their species will outlive our species.

I'm just not sure how to handle that part. So I just step all over their mounds every chance I get. Give 'em more stupid busywork. That's what I say. Not like they're gonna put me on trial or unleash some ant detectives to track me down or anything. Might as well enjoy my superiority while I'm around to lord it over them.

"New Shoes" was provided by Pi's music promoters, and I encourage you to search this lady out if you find the song worthy. Pretty good, no? As for Journey, I have begun to concede to the viral revival of their pop-rock catchiness after having mostly successfully ignored it since college.

Yes'm

A Little Respect - Erasure (mp3)
Do You Believe - Charn (mp3)

Wanna know what one of the biggest points of disagreement about raising our children used to be? The definition of "politeness."

Raised in the South by two very Southern people from lower- and middle-class backgrounds, I was taught to believe politeness requires showing respect to all people you meet, to all people with whom you interact. You say "please" and "thank you." You say "Yes sir" and "No ma'am." You hold doors open for people walking behind you -- yes, especially for women, but even for men. You wait for everyone else to be served their food before you start eating yours. You stand up when a guest walks into the room. You shake hands and look people in the eye.

The only permitted exceptions to these rules, at least where my parents were concerned, were for close friendships. You didn't have to follow these rules with true friends in a relaxed environment.

My father was good friends with the man who was his boss. When they were at work, my father would address him as "sir" in all interactions. When they were lounging around on weekends drinking whiskey and soda at my dad's very 70s lounge bar downstairs in our house, you heard no "sir" used. No sir you didn't. I have no idea whether my father's boss found this practice annoying, empowering, or if he even noticed.

My wife, on the other hand, was raised in a different manner. One only needed say "yes" or "no" (rather than "yeah" or "nah") to be considered polite. One needed not include "sir" or "ma'am." And the uses of "please" and "thank you," while certainly appreciated, were not as ubiquitously required as they were in my family in order to be judged a polite and decent human being.

We are both still very much the products of our upbringing, although my wife has gradually fallen into my way of thinking either because she gave up trying to fight something so pointless or because she began to see it much like certain people view heaven: better to teach your children to err on the side of too much politeness instead of too little, y'know, just in case.

Further muddying the broth is how quickly I can dredge up examples of students or kids whose use of proper politeness tags is impeccable yet whose actions and behavior sans adults belies someone more two-faced than Two-Face. Which means I'm stuck believing in something with little more reason behind it than the nauseating "because that's the way I was brought up" excuse.

But... but... what's wrong with a little respect?

I can't help but believe that one part of the problem with much of our educational system is that the worst parents worry more about their children's self-esteem than they do about their child learning in an atmosphere of respect for their peers and their leaders. And I'm a little worried about our place in history where my writing those words makes me fear that my German roots are showing through. If you're a good parent, it's very likely your children are plenty respectful to most adults, thus freeing you up to worry about those other things in their proper perspective.

If the "Broken Windows" theory of crime has the slightest bit of validity, isn't there room to believe in a "Broken Windows" theory of manners, that the more we expect our children to adhere to the small details of politeness, the more likely they'll be aware of and display those important notions in the big moments?

Lest my opinion seem inflexible, the following are names given to me by students I truly loved and whose company I frequently enjoyed: "Bambi," "F-word," "F-bomb," "Uncle Billy." Some teachers would vomit themselves before allowing their students to address them so casually, and I doubt I would ever allow my children to do so to any adult I didn't know incredibly well. But I tell myself that these boys, who gave me these names, had already moved past the first level of manners, for the most part. They knew how to color in the lines. They knew how they were supposed to treat their authority figures and fellow man and woman, and now they were stretching out those boundaries, experimenting, playing. Once you learn the basics, you can advance.

Is it possible that respect and courtesy are like muscle tissue that must be worked out and built up over time? That one need not start out saying these things with sincerity, that the habit builds first, and the sincerity follows?

Or do I just need to get out of the South more often?

Charn's song is available thanks to the band's promotional team providing BOTG with their album, which is darn good, actually. As for "A Little Respect," I can remember exactly where I was the first time my classmate -- who came out of the closet five years later -- introduced it to me. I can even tell you the subject, the classroom and the seats where we sat. It's weird shit like that that keeps me from remembering people's names when I meet them now.

He Brought Me The Book

Yo La Tengo--"Nothing To Hide" (mp3)
The Feelies--"The High Road" (mp3)

He brought me the book. “Here you go,” he said. “I read it.”

I nodded. I waited. Finally, “What did you think?”

“I think you should read it,” he said.

“I have read it.”

“I think you should read it again. I’m not sure you know what it says.”

“I wrote it,” I said.

“No matter.”

“Well, it has to matter some. I mean, I did write it after all.”

“I think it’s changed since you wrote it.”

“How is that possible?”

“It’s entirely possible. You’ve changed since you wrote it.”

“Did you change it?”

“No.”

I picked it up and looked at it. Flipping through the pages, I couldn't really tell if it looked as it should. “Did someone else change it?”

“No.”

“No one changed it.”

“Didn’t have to.”

I was starting to get a little irritated. It had taken me a long time to write it. I knew it like a child. "What do you expect me to discover if I read it again?"

"What do you expect to discover?"

"Thank you for answering a question with a question."

"I think that you wrote the book, but it isn't yours."

"Why not?"

"Once you put the words down on paper, you lost control of them."

"Says you."

"It happens."

"Says you. I know exactly what I want this book to say, what it says."

"Says you. Tell me."

"Tell you what?"

"What do you think it says? What do you want it to say?"

"Well, that's where I'm not willing to go. I put the time in to put the words down to say what I wanted to say, and now I'm not inclined to summarize that."

"You're avoiding."

"You're annoying."

"Says you."

"Well, anyway, I do appreciate you reading it. And though you haven't really said what you think, I guess you've said it by not saying it and by implying that I probably need to resay it."

"That's what I'm here for," he said. And left.

So I sat there. Picked it up. Flipped through it again. But eventually, after hours of holding onto it just for the fact that it was mine, I had to open it as you would, and begin to read it as you did, and when I did that, I discovered that, indeed, another hand had written it and that I didn't know him or the words he used or the story he had to tell. My story.

Yo La Tengo and The Feelies are both available at eMusic.

The Fun Theory

You Make a Fool Out of Me - Brendan Benson (mp3)
Thoughts/Facts - Ice Palace (mp3)

This video is awesome. Like, really really cool. Four different people have forwarded the link to me, and a number of folks have promoted it on Facebook. If you haven't seen it, I've included it for your edification:



There's this cool French phrase that stands for the brilliant responses that come to you only after the opportunity to use them is long gone. You know what I'm talking about? Like, when you were in fifth grade and got in that playground insult contest and that big kid says something about how he bets you eat your own poop and like it, and all you say back at the moment is, like, "Ohh yeahhh?" And everyone's standing around waiting for you to offer something, anything, with more teeth, but you just can't think of anything. And then, you're in the bathroom that night after dinner at home with your parents, still reeling from the shame of your pathetic response, and you come up with a big comeback that would have been totally awesome in the middle of the fight, but is now completely useless.

A friend of mine had something like that happen to him allllll the time.

So this is one of my mutant powers. The ability to manufacture great comeback lines after the milk has already spoiled, so to speak. In the heat of the moment, I am a gullible human being, often rendered speechless or befuddled by things which don't deserve such gawkery. On the bright side, being easily duped also makes me easily awed, and it's that sense of naive wonderment that probably makes me a generally happier person than others who are more wizened, who see through magic tricks and sniff out conspiracies.

Initially, The Fun Theory sounded really awesome, and it proved a really powerful point: If you make something generally less palatable more fun, more people will do it. That this theory should give us a big "NO DUH" moment doesn't make the theory less true. Anyone who's played Big Brain Academy or one of those cool typing games can attest that learning games make learning more fun. The ever-present example of Schoolhouse Rock! reminds us that crafting a cheesy but catchy song packed with an educational pearl is a powerful tool.

But watch it again. And again.

This video is just like a magic trick. It's well-done propoganda. The aim is to distract you from asking vital questions by offering you simple answers and making you happy with the outcome. People who like an outcome naturally ask fewer questions about the method of achieving the outcome.

Here's some questions worth asking:

• How much did those musical stairs cost to build?
• How much energy/electricity is required to operate those stairs?
• How does that compare to the amount of energy required to run the escalator?
• How much benefit does walking one extra flight of 24 stairs provide someone?
• How long does the Fun Factor last? Days? Weeks? Months? Forever?
  

Here's what I suspect: dollar for dollar, the piano stairs is an overly expensive exercise. It only proves that, if you spend a shitload of money making something, people will be fascinated with it. Yes, the stairs got people walking instead of being lazy and taking the escalator. But for how long, and at what cost?

The group has a second video that attempts to make recycling more entertaining. A third video explores what happens when you make tossing trash an adventure, with similar great results.

But the questions still persist, because inevitably, they're important and valuable questions.

And here's what's even worse. The biggest question of them all:

Why is Volkswagen sponsoring something called The Fun Theory and paying people to conduct all these pseudo-experiments when it has absolutely nothing to do with automobiles?

The wrong answer is that they're interested in improving humanity. I'll let you figure out the correct answer all by yourself.

Sorry if I ruined the magic trick. But at least it was fun for a little while.

Just Good Songs

I was having a casual conversation with a friend at the football game on Friday night, and he made the passing comment that he figured that I knew about "about a million places to get free music," but wanted to tell me about another one.

"Actually," I said, I hope not moralistically, "I buy most of my music. Itunes and eMusic and occasionally Amazon."

He looked amazed, even incredulous. I couldn't tell if he didn't believe me or if he thought I was an idiot. Or both. So I tried to adjust: "You know, I do borrow songs from Hypem from time to time to post when I need a song on a particular topic and do a search there."

But this is not a post about the ethics of buying vs. stealing music. I'd venture that everyone is compromised on that one to one degree or another, including the creators and promoters of the music themselves.

Back in the summer in Chicago, when wandering around the Pitchfork Music Festival sipping on a microbrew and waiting for Yo La Tengo to come on stage (Note to self: attending music festivals alone is not fun), one of the many people there handing out stuff gave me an eMusic card, promising me 25 free downloads from that site. I was mildly interested, put it in my pocket, then forgot about it until I was preparing to do my laundry later that week. Within a few minutes of finding it, I was logged on and shopping for music. I quickly learned that eMusic, though the prices are 50% cheaper, is no Itunes.

eMusic is just like Big Lots. While it has some artists and CD that you recognize, most of the site seems to consist of the "off brands" and "remainders" that entice buys to go into that discount store. You type "NeilYoung" into the search engine, you ain't finding him. You type in someone like Ryan Adams, you may only find the occasional song of his from a little-known compilation.

eMusic is just like Sam's Club. When you find a product that you want, you may have to buy in much larger bulk that what you really want. It's the classic bargain that ends up costing you more money. Now, Itunes also will keep you from being able to buy certain songs individually, but usually just because the songs are too long timewise for Apple to justify a $.99 download. Itunes figures you're getting a steal if you can get Yes' 20-minute opus "Close To The Edge" for such a cheap prices. On eMusic, you're more likely to be forced to purchase an entire CD to get one song if that song is in some way "highly desireable." Case in point: the second disc of The Essential Bruce Springsteen has a number of songs that you can't find anywhere else, things like his cover of Elvis' "Viva Las Vegas." So that's a song you can't buy.

You probably think I'm being critical; I'm not. What I've come to really like about eMusic is how its restrictions and omissions push me into directions I would not have gone. While I assured myself back in July that I was going to get the 25 free downloads and leave eMusic forever, the convoluted disengagement process they make you go through kept me on the line just enough that I went for their cheapest monthly package--12 songs for $6. And, as I found out the hard way, if you don't download the 12 songs during that month, you lose them.

So, on or around the 3rd of every month, I go on an eMusic hunt. It's a weird sort of set of conditions--I don't have much time, I'm not going to find what I'm looking for, so I need to look for something else that I'll like just as much, and if I don't do it soon, I'll lose everything.

Here's just a sampling of where I ended up last month:

David Bazan--"Hard To Be" (mp3) If most Contemporary Christian music were anything like this guy, I'd be one of its biggest supporters. But Bazan, unlike most of the current shlockmeisters, is a searcher. Most of his stuff has come out using the moniker Pedro the Lion, but as he has become more questioning, more willing to express his doubts and to challenge himself and us, he has shifted to his own name. This song has quite an interesting melody that sticks with you, but at the same time, he makes quite a journey across his own spiritual landscape.

"You’ve heard the story you know how it goes
Once upon a garden we were lovers with no clothes
Fresh from the soil we were beautiful and true
In control of our emotions to till we ate the poison fruit"

Bobby Bare, Jr.--"I'll Be Around" (mp3) I didn't know and don't know much of anything about this guy. His name made me think of someone from the 60's or 70's, maybe that was his dad (?) and so I didn't pay any attention to him at all. But, again, the eMusic links suggested him as a fine songwriter in the tradition of someone else I was looking for. I can't even remember who it was. And then I started reading on the site and listening, and before I knew it, I had a couple of his songs, including a Smiths cover. "I'll Be Around" should be repetitious and tiresome, given its length and structure, but, instead, it's infectious and rewarding.

"When you can't recognize
your face in the morning light
I'll be around
on your way down"

Robert Forster--"Alone" (mp3) As part of my ever-expanding appreciation for someone's ability to cover a song and make it their own, I came across this guy while searching for a Grant Hart song that had been done by Marshall Crenshaw, but, of course, eMusic didn't have those better-known versions. But their links and suggestions took me to this guy, who used to write songs with Grant McLennan (before McLennan died) in the Go-Betweens and after. Here, he takes one of those Heart ballads from the 80's and gives it his own take.

"How do I get you alone?"

Sometimes, in the high-fashion and high-glamour world of blogging, among all of the accolades and hero-worship I get, I lose focus about what it is we're trying to accomplish here. Somehow, getting onto the eMusic site with six bucks or twelve songs to spend and not wanting to make one bad choice gets me back on track, and then I remember what we're doing. Just trying to write some good writing. Just trying to find and play some good songs.