a word about my (and, for that matter, your) musical tastes

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it happened again today, only this time at work--guy grabs my ipod off my desk (because i'd forgotten to hide it), scrolls through my songs as i inwardly cringe, awaiting the inevitable; finally looks up at me incredulously and says, "where the hell do you even find this shit?"

this would be the point at which i'd usually make some lame apologetic excuse for my idiosyncratic tastes like i've been doing all my life.

but not today.

today, hungover and ornery, i snatch the ipod outta his hand and snarl, "each and every one of those songs is there for a reason, and they're reasons you wouldn't understand if you lived a thousand goddam years. now get outta here and let me get some work done."

surprised, he retreats--and i have my next blogpost.

because you know what? i've pretty much had it with people who mindlessly slam the musical tastes of other people without having the slightest clue as to what they're talking about.

what none of 'em realize (and what you probably don't realize either) is that music is as much a drug in its own way as is alcohol or pot or meth or crack: to the degree a particular combination of sounds hits your endorphin receptors just right, you like it; to the degree it doesn't, you don't--it's that fucking simple.

and it's pretty much non-negotiable--i mean, you can try, for the sake of your standing amongst your peers, to get into whatever music they're into, but the bottom line is, you like what you like, and that's pretty much it.

[case in point: i can't even begin to tell you how much more easily the first 17 years of my life woulda gone had i been able to get excited about hard rock--or for the last 17, techno house music--but that's another post for another day.]

i realized this eternal truth about music early on--back when i was a lonely kid in high school, i spent countless hours locked up alone in my room, headphones on, chain-smoking and transported to another world by the music that moved me then. different songs, individually or in combination, would bring on different moods; more often than not i'd get caught up in one particular song and listen to it over and over and over.

these two drugs--nicotine and music--became linked so strongly in my psyche that when i finally quit smoking fifteen years ago, i found i had no choice but to quit music as well--and i mean all music.

why? because as soon as a song came up that i liked, i'd reflexively reach for a cigarette to enhance the high, just like i'd always done in the past.

it took me eight long years to break that trigger and actually be able to listen to music again without feeling the irresistible urge to reach for that other drug.

alcohol helped.

guttermusicality

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i may have been outta the business for awhile, but that doesn't mean i can't still recognize pure genius when i come across it.

consider for a moment a minor but vexing problem shared by all architects [because i just know that's why you come here]: namely, how to get rainwater off of and away from your building without fuglifying the design.

you've generally got three choices when it comes to gutters and downspouts: you can (a) hide them in the walls (expensive and problematic); (b) try to find some way to subtly blend them into the facade (usually not very successfully); or (c, and what usually happens) tack 'em on on after the fact and say fuck it.*

or you can do what this guy did (and click if you're really interested--it embiggens nicely):



and get this--when it rains, the whole system becomes a musical instrument. can you even imagine how cool that must be?

back in architecture school, if i heard "if you can't hide it, celebrate it," once, i heard it a thousand goddam times--and now, 25 years later, i finally know what they meant.

[sorry for the left turn into near-respectability this post took, but i'm sure it'll be back to business as usual around here in no time.]
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*then there's option (d): blow off gutters altogether (yeah, it was a disaster when it rained but i didn't care--it was beautiful, goddammit).

post 272, in which mkf makes a guilty confession, but draws the line at drunk-commenting to himself

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hell, i'll say it--sometimes i really get off on going back and reading my own shit.

never ignore the vibe, children--it always tells the truth

.poured a cocktail, went exploring backwards tonight and came across this post, which re-reading triggered the following heretofore-forgotten memory:

the celebrity wife is walking me around the garret with its dormer windows overlooking the beach, airily explaining how she wants to turn it into a playroom for her kids; all the while i'm nodding, smiling and taking notes, my insides are screaming "please god get me the fuck outta here."

it was only later that i learned that this claustrophobic little space which had so given me the cold, clammy heebie-jeebies was the self-same attic where william peter blatty spent several months polishing his final draft of the exorcist.

coincidence? you think so, go spend an hour there and then get back to me.

sober update: oh, wait, you can't--i forgot; we tore it all out and changed it all up. whatever; i still wouldn't let my kids play up there for all the fuckin' tea in china.

love keeps coming to my door with a sleeping roll, and i keep telling it to fuck off

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i am a conflicted soul of the highest order; the gap between (a) what my heart tells me i should feel and do; and (b) what i actually do feel and do, has been insurpassably vast for as long as i can remember--and it just keeps growing.

and whenever i nut up for the good fight against my dark side, the backlash can be intense and immediate.

a former roommate summed it up this way: "you know, mike, whenever you start talking about the emptiness of hook-up sex, i know it's time to get ready for one of your famous four-day fuckfests."

thing is, he was usually right.

[this would be the same roommate who would equally-famously go on to sneer "spare me your gutter morality" at me in front of lots and lots of people, but that's a story for another day.]

whatever--when i was younger, the therapists i consulted called this phenomenon "resistance," and they all told me i had an awfully strong case of it.

in other words, there's something very strong within me, that--no matter how bad it might fuck me up in the long run--not only likes things just exactly the way they are, but, when faced with a strong pull in the other direction, will go to inordinate lengths to maintain that uneasy equilibrium that keeps me where i am.

such is the case today.

i won't go into it all now; suffice it to say that, no matter what comes along to pull me up to the light, all i can seemingly do in response these days is kick back down towards the dark as hard as i can.

i'm feeling you strong tonight, joni--while i'd like to believe you've long since left your city of the fallen angels behind, i can't help but wonder every time i listen to this song if i'll ever let go of mine.

the whole susan boyle thing

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several months back, i consulted with a local healer who'd come rapturously recommended by someone i respect, only to find yet another of those gibberish-speaking, spirit-channeling types that seem to gravitate to southern california.

fifty minutes later and $300 poorer, i got up to leave, another dead end explored--when, as a parting shot, she sat up, her eyes focused and the only coherent thing i'd heard in our entire session came outta her lips:

"whenever you come across something," she said, "a puppy or a baby or a sunset, whatever--that touches that part of you that you think you've lost forever, even if it's only for a moment--i want you to grab it and hang onto it for dear life."

i paused, hand on the doorknob. was there something to this crazy bitch after all?

"because here's the thing," she continued. i waited, interested for the first time. "if you can string enough of those moments together, you'll start to feel again, i promise."

i took that little insight with me as i left.

today i experienced one of those moments she was talking about, courtesy of a dowdy and unloved little mud-hen of a woman who had hidden her light under a bushel for far too long, finally ventured out into the cold, cruel world and risked ridicule of the highest order, only to instead find the validation her heart had always told her she deserved.

i'm not gonna link to the clip--you've all seen it, i'm sure--but know that i've watched it at least a dozen times today, and my clenched fist of a heart has swelled and i've teared up every goddam time. and i'll probably watch it a dozen more times tomorrow.

even if it's only for a moment, it's nice to feel a part of the main for a change.

mkf posts a comment

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doesn't really matter which blog, or which topic--tonight, for whatever reason, i'd suddenly had enough, so i posted the following:

you know, whenever [insert gay/leftist blogger here] throws fresh meat like [insert middle-america-bashing topic here] into the pit and i sample the resulting comments, i generally find they're of the sort that most of you faggots would bend over backwards to get hate-speech laws passed to prevent the other side from making about us.

in other words, you guys are no better than the people you hate.

i'm posting this here tonight because it pretty much sums up everything i've ever tried to say in this blog regarding my feelings about the extremists screaming at us from both edges.

in other words: shut the fuck up, all of you.

sober update: perhaps a better title might've been "screaming from the middle."