Best of 2007: Music

So, time flies, and now we find ourselves at the tail end of another year. Before we say goodbye to 2007 forever, we here at Destroy All Evidence want to take a moment to look back and remember all of the things we loved in 2007. Starting today and continuing every few days till the end of the year, we'll post a new top 5 list of our favorite things from 2007. It's like Oprah's Favorite Things, except, you know, you don't get anything for free. But you also don't have to fake-fawn over Her Majesty and pee your pants in front of the entire world, so I'm giving us the advantage. Enjoy Day 1's festivities: The best music of 2007.


5. “Black Tears” by Miss Derringer


I turned 22 on my birthday this year, and at first, I really didn’t feel happy or excited about it. What I did feel was indescribably old, older than I usually feel, which, trust me, is really saying something. I was thisclose to giving up the fight, throwing on a caftan and settling in for a “Golden Girls” marathon with a steaming hot cup of chamomile tea. And then…then I heard this song.

Ah, Miss Derringer. This song totally threw me for a loop when I first heard it. I was immediately launched back in time, to a moment when I was still goofy and awkward and anxious to grow up, when I thought that I had personally discovered every awesome thing about the ‘80s – John Hughes movies, Duran Duran, “Jem,” and, of course, mismatched Converse. Because on first listen, that’s what “Black Tears” sounds like: A really great ‘80s song, the best Blondie track that Blondie never recorded. It’s totally girly and completely badass and so sad in the most ridiculously fun way possible. But keep listening, and you realize there’s a lot of the ‘50s and ‘60s American music scene in there too. That just makes me love it even more. So thanks Miss Derringer, for reminding me that sharing a smile with your younger self is a sure fire fix for the old fogey blues.



4. “1234” by Feist


I’m just going to say it: I am not cool. Like, not at all. What’s more, I’ve genuinely given up trying. At this point, I am who I am, and there’s not a whole lot that can change that. I accept it, because for the most part, I honestly like who I’ve become. I love my family, I love my friends, the future is looking bright, and I’m finally (almost completely) comfortable in own skin. Also, I can really handle my liquor, and that makes me proud.

But I digress. Back to the “me not being cool” thing: One unfortunate side effect of this is that I’m usually really behind on what’s hip in music. If I had a nickel for every time I thought to myself, What are the happening cats listening to these days?, I would have somewhere in the realm of $14. Yeah, it’s that bad. Which is why it’s so surprising that I was actually in front of the trend when I discovered Feist, all by myself, way, WAY before Apple began using it for its Nano commercials and the Grey’s Anatomy people started kicking themselves for not snagging it first. A sparkling, jangly, fantastically indie jam that I could call my own – if that’s not end of the year list worthy, I can’t say I know what is.



3. "Shampoo" by Pete Yorn


I remember when I bought my first Pete Yorn album. I had read a little article in Seventeen about him, and, I’m embarrassed to admit, I made a beeline to the record store to buy his debut, musicforthemorningafter, not because I was really inspired by the article or anything he said in it, but because I thought he was cute. Granted, I was only 15 at the time. Not that that’s an excuse, but it does help explain the motive behind it. So I bought the album, gave the liner notes a thorough ogling, popped the CD in, and…wow. Just, wow. I was transfixed. I remember laying on my bed and listening to it front to back, totally in awe of what was going on there. I loved the whole sound of it, how sad and hopeful and searching it was, how it managed to sound old and new at the same time. I was hooked from the first minute of the first track.

Cut to now, 7 years, 3 albums and a dozen completely fantastic concert experiences later, and I’m as devoted to everything Pete Yorn as I was way back then (and, in case you were wondering, time has not diminished Pete's talent - or his looks...). Some artists just stick with you like that, and PY has certainly stuck with me. He released no new albums in 2007 (his latest, the frighteningly good Nightcrawler, was released in late 2006), but that doesn’t mean there weren't fresh Pete tunes floating around the Interweb this year. My favorite is this one, “Shampoo.” It’s perfectly representative of the best of what Pete Yorn brings to the table: Winsome, contemplative lyrics set to a melody so interesting and utterly enjoyable that you can’t help but listen to it again and again.



2. “West Coast” by Coconut Records


Let’s play Six Degrees of Separation, shall we? The Godfather to Coconut Records – GO!

The Godfather was directed by Francis Ford Coppola, whose sister, Talia Shire, married movie producer Jack Schwartzman and gave birth to one Jason Schwartzman, who is - ding ding ding! – the man behind Coconut Records! Huh, that was a short one. And it didn’t even include Kevin Bacon.

Anyway.

When I was talking about “Shampoo” earlier, I described it as “winsome” and “contemplative.” These are the exact same words I would use to sum up “West Coast,” but the songs themselves are so different that it’s hard to believe they’re sprung from the same place emotionally. I think the biggest difference is that while “Shampoo” keeps a crisp, brightly somber (let’s just pretend that’s not an oxymoron, okay?) pace, things are a little more unleashed on “West Coast,” a steady, laidback crescendo from the lonesome man-and-piano beginning to the full blown sing-a-long ending. If you aren’t picturing the diminutive Schwartzman in one of those awful choir robes, conducting a mass of singing funky white boys by the end of this song, there’s something seriously wrong with you. It’s nerdy, lovelorn perfection, and a totally worthy Best of 2007 runner up.



1. “The Thanks I Get” by Wilco


Imagine this: It’s a hot summer day. You’re driving down Pacific Coast Highway with the top down. Sunglasses. Salty air. The crunch of gravel beneath your tires. No place to be, nothing to do, not a care in the world. It’s just you and the road. And on the radio plays… something mellow. Something weathered. Something that fills your soul with the roots of rock and roll. You scan the airwaves, spinning from station to station, and then you hear it. And you smile, because you know you’ve found exactly what you were looking for: The sound that warms your heart, that takes you back to an easier time, that’ll carry you wherever you want to go. The song? Wilco’s “The Thanks I Get.”

Nothing I could say about this song could do it justice. Nothing I could say about this band would do them justice. Let’s just put it like this: For a rock band that’s found a modern way to appreciate the classics that came before while establishing themselves as a vital part of the musical landscape of today, always, ALWAYS choose Wilco. Always. Not Son Volt. Not Ryan Adams. Not My Morning Jacket. They’re good, but they’re not Wilco. I’m making this song my number one most favorite of the year for precisely that reason. There you have it: Wilco’s “The Thanks I Get” – Destroy All Evidence’s Best Song of 2007. Congratulations to you, Wilco. Congratulations to you.



Honorable Mentions (The Movie Soundtrack Remix)
• “Anyone Else But You” by the Moldy Peaches: Romantic love in a most realistic way, this gem from the Juno soundtrack will melt even the hardest hearts.
• “Avril 14th” by Aphex Twin: Rent Marie Antoinette and listen for this song. So apropos for the scene in which Antoine returns to Versailles from Le Petit Trianon. You feel the full weight of the expectation and duty thrust upon her, and the song gives you a pretty good idea of how she feels about it.
• “From Where I’m Standing” by Schuyler Fisk: This is from I’m Reed Fish. That movie sucked. This song doesn’t. Fun fact: Schuyler Fisk is Sissy Spacek's daughter. Speaking of daughters...
• “Daughter” by Loudon Wainwright III: Just when you start to lose faith in Judd Apatow (like when he shows you a baby crowning – that’s just gross), he whips out a montage of sweet scenes set to this song that makes you forget you ever questioned his judgment in the first place. Wainwright’s brilliant cover of Peter Blegvad’s ode to daughters is featured in Knocked Up.
• “Where Do You Go To, My Lovely?” by Peter Sarstedt: My friend Ez and I were recently discussing our favorite movies, and we crowned Wes Anderson one of the kings of music in film (also on the short list: Cameron Crowe, the Coen Brothers, and Quentin Tarantino). This song, from Anderson’s short, Hotel Chevalier, is a prime example of his brilliance when it comes to seamlessly weaving great music into the milieu of an already great film. It’s a thing of beauty.
• “Falling Slowly” by Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova: Once was an unbelievably powerful movie, but that’s something we’ll get to later in our Best of 2007 retrospective. For now, I’ll just say what an amazing song this is. The line “You have suffered enough/And warred with yourself/It’s time that you won” is one of my favorites in any song ever. Plus, the harmony is absolutely gorgeous.



Next up in our Best of 2007 series: Books, premiering here on Thursday, December 17th. And be sure to check out the BFF blog, Bunker Complex, for Andrea's end of the year recap too.

I Heart NY, Part 2 (With Pictures!)

Let’s pick up where we left off, shall we? If you’ll remember, I was just being taxied into the city, and was starting to regain my lost optimism about my trip.

Once we got to our hotel, we hunkered down for a few hours of much needed sleep. We wanted to get an early start on our sightseeing, so we woke up at six the next morning (which is unthinkably early for me on any day, much less a vacation day. I don’t think I ever see the world properly till around…noon.). From what little pre-trip research we were able to do, we knew that we could pick up almost any subway line we needed from Grand Central Station, which just so happened to be about four blocks from our hotel. Grand Central Station is beautiful – when you walk in, you’re taken aback by the enormity of the marble concourse. It’s a seamless mix of bigness and delicacy, the latter coming in the form of several exquisite chandeliers and, of course, the famous painted ceiling, a loose depiction of an astrological map. What really struck me was the windows, these great arched portals with the most gorgeous light just streaming through them, and the huge American flag, which was hung just after September 11th. I think it’s easy to feel strangely reverent about New York, especially when you’re in a place like Grand Central Station. There’s something about it that feels important and necessary, and even in our rush to get out into the city, we spent a good fifteen minutes just absorbing our surroundings in the terminal.


From there, we really hit the ground running. We snagged a subway map (which quickly became our best friend) and headed down to Times Square, where we were all set to pick up one of those double decker bus tours. Now, I realize that this goes directly against our goal of living like true Manhattanites (Manhattonians?), but we had to find a way to get our bearings in the city, and for us, the best way to do that was to take a guided bus tour. We must have been on that bus for four solid hours, but we saw everything: the Fashion District, the Financial District, Wall Street, Greenwich Village, Soho, Chinatown, Little Italy, Chelsea, the Upper East Side, the Upper West Side, Central Park – everything. You name it, we saw it, all from the open-air upper level of a ridiculous-looking, gigantic double decker bus. It really helped us figure out where we wanted to go and what we wanted to do for the rest of our time in NYC, though. So thank you much, New York Sight Seeing Gray Line.

Once we completed our bus tour, we grabbed a quick bite and made our way down to Battery Park, where we were going to hop on a ferry to visit the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island. It was a beautiful day, perfect for a ferry ride and an outdoor audio tour of Lady Liberty. I initially wasn't too excited for Ellis Island, but I'm so glad we did it, simply because there’s no way I could have fully appreciated what the Statue of Liberty meant for so many people had we not. Visiting Ellis Island was extremely moving because their audio tour had interviews with people who actually came into the U.S. through Ellis Island. So many of them described difficult journeys filled with illness, crowded quarters and unsanitary conditions (not to mention all the reasons they had to leave their native countries in the first place), but what was so moving to me was their reaction upon seeing Lady Liberty’s shining golden torch ablaze across the sharp blue sky – it’s like they knew they were finally safe, that their grueling voyage was over, that they were home at last. They were so grateful, so full of hope, and hearing their stories made me feel the same way. Love that.


Our day of exploring was tiring, but knowing that we had very limited time in Manhattan (we’d have to spend at least a few days in New Jersey and its surrounding areas for my brother’s tournament), we wanted to make the most of every moment, so we decided to push through the exhaustion and hop on the subway to Little Italy for dinner. I remember this part very vividly: Getting off the subway and not knowing which way to go, I smelled and heard and saw the twinkling lights of Little Italy all at once, and it was like an instant shot of warm, tingly happiness. I think we spent maybe half an hour walking up and down the blocks that comprise Little Italy, checking out all the restaurants. We finally sat down to eat at a little café with outdoor seating so we could take in the whole scene. There was a lot to see: the streets were crowded with tons of people, some visitors like us, some vendors, others residents of apartments located over the restaurants and shops, and, to my great surprise and delight, many, many genuine Italians. The vibe was so homey and welcoming, and colorful in the best possible way. I think it’s one of those places where anyone could feel like they really belonged, which is definitely a beautiful thing. After dinner, we strolled some more and picked up the most delicious cannoli in the world (Four words: Chocolate covered cannoli shell. Fifth word: Wow.), and headed back to the hotel, full and happy and nothing short of enamored with the city. It was the perfect way to end our perfect first day in New York.



I Heart NY, Part 3 (the finale) - coming soon to a blog near you!

I Heart NY, Part 1

I have a brother, AJ, who plays high school baseball and is an outstanding third baseman. As anyone who knows baseball will tell you, once you hit a certain age and show a fair amount of talent, you'll want to transition into playing on a travel team (we call it “travel ball”), which caters to a more upper echelon type of player. Travel ball is pretty intense and can get a little cutthroat at times, but the level of competition affords the players valuable game time experience and prepares them for the challenge of playing at the high school (and, hopefully, college) level, which is definitely a good thing. And, as the name suggests, you get to travel, and travel you do, mostly in the summer time, which means that the destination of many a family vacation is determined by the baseball gods. Nine times out of ten, you end up in some bizarre, BFE-type locale (Joplin, MO, anyone? My brother’s Joplin assessment: “Fireworks, sex shops, and boredom.” So sorry, Joplin.). But then there are those glorious moments when travel ball takes you somewhere fantastic, and a few weeks ago, we were finally dealt a winning hand when AJ’s team qualified to play in the Don Mattingly World Series, a prestigious tournament set to take place over seven days in…Flemington, New Jersey!

I know what you’re thinking: Flemington, New Jersey? Really? Sounds…awesome. To that end, I would say that your sarcasm was not only well placed but also very warranted. It’s completely correct to assume that no one would find the prospect of spending a week in Flemington thrilling. The thought that I would be forced to spend my vacation there was horrifying, especially since there are only two things worth noting about Flemington: 1) The Lindbergh trial was held there, oh, I don’t know, a million and a half years ago, which also happens to be about the time it stopped being interesting, and 2) There’s a bunch of pharmaceutical research facilities in the general vicinity (which is not at all riveting, but would explain the multitude of two-headed dear prancing along in that neck o’ the woods). I was all set to bring the serious hate to the Flem, until a little pre-trip research revealed that, miracle of miracles, Flemington was only an hour outside of Manhattan! What once sounded like yet another shaft out of a summer vacation at the hands of Mother Baseball instantly became our ticket to finally (FINALLY!) getting to explore NYC. Needless to say, I was very excited. It was like Harry Potter levels of excitement - times a thousand. Plus five. Squared.

Once New York came into the picture, the prospect of having to tough out a few days in Flemington seemed far less odious. My brother and his teammates were told they’d be flying separately from their families and that once they got there, they’d be staying with host families, which was the second piece of good news: Without having to cart him around to the gym and the batting cages and meetings all day long, our time was more our own than it had been on any baseball-related trip ever. With that in mind, we started planning our great New York adventure. The trouble with that, however, was that none of us really knew anything about New York City. Where do we want to stay? What do we want to do? How do we exist in Manhattan without looking like total rubes? Those are all legitimate questions. Because you don't mess around in New York. Or so we'd heard.

I wasn't overly stressed about the lack of info, though. Rolling out with a few maps and a suitcase full of light layers rarely freaks me out. That kind of vagabond vacationing just so happens to be my family's signature travel style, and I've been flying by the seat of my pants in new places for years as a result. Plus, I like to think that I'm a fairly openminded, adaptable gal, both of which are favorable attributes when exploring an unknown city. I was still slightly troubled by the last minute nature of the trip, though. Since we were all hesitant to sign on the dotted line when we thought the tournament would tie us down in Flemington, it was pretty late in the game when we started getting the essentials in place. I think we ended up booking our flight two days before we had to leave, and our hotel wasn't locked down till around eleven o’clock the night before we left. I don't like to be rushed, and you really can't be more rushed than that. I was still excited though. I mean, it’s New York City. It's the capital of the world. Fuhgeddaboutit.

We flew out of LAX on a Saturday morning. The first leg of the trip, from LAX to Las Vegas (where we’d pick up our connecting flight to JFK), was lovely. I had my traditional airplane beverage, ginger ale, and a purse full of tabloids – all was right in my world. Our connection was smooth, not too much of a layover. Well, enough of a layover for my mom to convince me to play $5 in an airport slot machine, which I promptly lost (Can someone tell me what’s fun about slot machines? I don't get it. Forgive me for being so limited.). Anyway, I would say the first half of the flight to New York was fine. They played “Shrek the Third.” There was minimal turbulence. I had another ginger ale and ate some pretzels. Life was good.

That's when things started to get hairy. Inexplicably, I began to feel…woozy, I guess is the right word. I got that cold, tight, fizzy feeling between my stomach and my throat. I started taking short, shallow breaths. I got sweaty and became unnaturally pale. I’d never felt like that, to that extreme, on a flight before, and that’s why it never occurred to me to take a Dramamine. Which obviously I should have. Because obviously, in my old age, I’ve become pretty weak in the motion sickness department. What made it even worse was the thought that my trip to New York was starting out so unfavorably. I get a little dramatic sometimes, especially when I’m feeling gross and panicked, and in my motion sickness-addled brain, it felt like horrid overshadowing of things to come. It didn’t help that once we landed, we taxied around the tarmac for what seemed like an eternity when what I wanted most in the world was to get as far away from the plane as possible. I was so out of it by the time we deboarded, got our luggage, and made our way to the taxi line that I couldn’t have cared less that we were in New York. I was miserable, and all I wanted to do was get to the hotel, take a shower and go to sleep.

But then, in the cab on the I-495, I saw it: The Manhattan skyline. It was peaceful and beautiful, and, in direct opposition to everything I'd ever heard about NYC, quiet. Not to cheese you out too much, but it really felt like the city was taking a breath with me, helping me calm down so I could drink it all in, and I instantly felt better about things. I always thought people were romanticizing when they waxed poetic on how "magical" New York is. But even then, even from the inside of a cab on the outskirts of the city, I started to understand what they were talking about. And I was ready to let myself be bewitched.

***

Tuesday, September 4th - I Heart NY, Part Two . Have a good weekend.

From Me to You: An Independence Day Gift

Today is Wednesday, July 4th. It’s widely accepted that the headlining event of the Fourth of July should be the celebration of Independence Day. For the most part, I agree with that assessment. After all, for a while there, Independence Day was my number one most favorite holiday (even beating out Christmas, and that is hard to do). I still look forward to it because on our street, it means a gigantic block party and tons of fireworks. Everyone’s house is open, everyone serves food and drinks (alcoholic ones too! Huzzah.), everyone’s family and friends come and hang out all day, flags are hung up everywhere, there’s music, one of those bouncy houses invariably shows up on someone’s lawn, and there’s almost always some kind of game going on (for the past two years, it’s been volleyball. Not as fun as the football/baseball/foosball hybrid we had a while back, but fun nonetheless. Plus, there's less crying, less rib bruising, and the rules are way clearer, so I guess it's superior in almost every way...). It’s a total idyllic scene, like something straight out of Mayberry, except, you know, without the eccentric sheriff’s deputy. Also, I have an Aunt Dee, not an Aunt Bea. And our theme song is way more rockin' - none of that whistling business for us. Whatever, all that stuff is besides the point, which is this: With all that goodness going on, how could Independence Day not be the highlight of the Fourth of July? 1) Thanks for asking, and 2) I’ll tell you how: Independence Day happens to fall on a Wednesday this year. And what else falls on Wednesdays? That’s right, a new episode of Clark and Michael. This, of course, trumps all else, even free-flowing margaritas and borderline illegal fireworks.

If you don’t know anything about Clark and Michael, well, hold on to your hat, because it is…what is the word…oh yes: legendary. To quickly summarize, Clark and Michael is a series of online shorts written by and starring Clark Duke and Michael Cera (of Arrested Development fame - that’s one of my absolute most favorite shows of all time, by the way) as two friends who live together and have written a script for a TV show which they are tying to sell to a network. The concept is that they’ve hired a film crew (at their own expense) to document what they believe will be their road to stardom, and the result is the most hilarious display of idiocy and camaraderie amongst goons that I’ve seen in a really long time. I love that, ostensibly, the show is about how much hard work it takes to achieve even a modicum of success in Hollywood, yet you rarely see the guys actually working to improve or promote their script. Instead, they’re going to the gym (because their bodies are their “tombs” – I think they may have going for “temples” there…), picking up movies at Vidiot (where they’re pissed because no one carries Touched By An Angel), dancing while drunk (self-explanatory), awkwardly hitting on women (Michael, to a woman who just told him she had a child when she was 16: “Did you breastfeed her?”), and fighting and making up (wrestling, hugging, and ablutionary trips to the local mini-golf course ensue). A new episode is posted on their website every Wednesday, and for the last six weeks, each one has left me cracking up and zealously awaiting the next installment. See for yourself, peep the trailer:



How could you not love a show like that? Seriously, go on over there, take an hour, and watch the show in its entirety. It might not be the most productive thing you do on Independence Day, but it will definitely brighten your day. Though I guess fireworks do that too… Eh, the margaritas are clouding my ability (and desire) to ponder such things. Just go watch the show. Do it because it's the patriotic thing to do. Not reason enough? Then do it because it's what our forefathers would have wanted you to do. Still no? Wow, you people are a hard sell. How about you do it because it's free? Aha, there it is.


***

Happy Fourth of July!

"Jamz" Is A Legitimate Synonym for "Songs," Right? Yeah, Let's Go With That.

For as long as I can remember, my best buddy (and fellow blogger), Andrea, has been a music fiend. We were shopping at Borders the other day (fine – we were there to reserve copies of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. Whatever.), and when contemplating the purchase of a new full price hardcover, she said, “When I see that the price of that book is $26, I immediately think, ‘That’s 26 songs I could buy from iTunes.’” She’s just passionate and hardcore about music that way. When we were in high school, she used to have this gigantic book of CDs that she would take everywhere with her (this was before the days of the iPod, kiddos). I loved that book. It was so fun to look through it and see what tunes she loved. I mean, sure, there were some questionable choices (*NSYNC’s No Strings Attached comes to mind, but then again, I was into Hanson, so I have no room to talk), and yeah, she did go through a regrettable country phase, but on the whole, her taste in music was generally fabulous and still is to this day. She’s constantly expanding and refining her collection, which is a true gem. It’s a soulful, eclectic mix of hidden treasures that speaks to just how hip a person she is. Whenever I’m looking for something new and cool to listen to, I just ask Andrea what she’s been hearing lately, and I’m always more than satisfied with her recommendations.

A few years ago, Andrea and I started doing these “Best Of” mixes with all of our favorite songs of the year on them. We’d burn each other our “Best Of” CDs and then write out why we loved each song and why they made the cut. There was really no method to the madness (there rarely is with any of our schemes), and the only real rule was that you could choose any song you wanted, just so long as it was new to you in that year. I think we originally started doing these mixes because Andrea was bored at work and needed something to do, and because I am always willing to share my opinion on anything at anytime with anyone. But ever since their inception, they’ve become like a hallmark of our friendship. Every June (the halfway point of the year), we offer up our favorite 15 songs from the first part of the year, and then in December we finish things off by bumping it up to the best 30 jams of the entire year (just because we like that kind of symmetry. Wow, that paints us as way nerdier than we actually are. Maybe not…). I love these mixes. They’re invariably filled with great music, and reading each other’s comments on each song is always interesting (and often hilarious). This year, we thought we’d let you in on the fun and share our midyear “Best Of” mixes with you. And, because we’re cool like that, we’ve made it possible for you to snag the songs for yourself. All you have to do is click the song title and it’s yours to keep, just so long as you promise to go and support the artist if you like what you hear (which, oddly enough, you can do by simply clicking on the album art. We make it so easy to be a good person here, don’t we? You people are so lucky to have us.). Anyway, on to the music:

Nicole’s Best of 2007 So Far
1. “Brand New Set of Wings” by Joe Purdy: I was one of those latecomers to the Lost fandom. Andrea, on the other hand, was all about the show from its inception, and she’s the one that conned me into watching the first season on DVD. I’m so glad she did. Not only do I completely love the show (RIP Charlie, you little reformed cokehead, you), it also introduced me to Joe Purdy, whose track “Wash Away” was featured in the third ep of the first season. That’s a beautiful song, and so is “Brand New Set of Wings.” I love the chorus: “Oh Sally, don’t get down/’Cause I’ve been looking all over town/For a brand new set of wings for you.” It’s such a sweet sentiment. And the sound, the actual instrumentation of the thing, is so full and rich in a folksy, unpretentious kind of way. It’s a keeper!




2. “F*ck Was I” by Jenny Owen Youngs: There is nothing that I don’t love about this song. First of all, the lyrics (about being stupid enough to think that you won’t get hurt by a bad guy) are clever without being obnoxious. I especially dig the chorus: “Skillet on the stove, it’s such a temptation/Maybe I’ll be the lucky one who doesn’t get burned?/What the f*ck was I thinking?” The track is slow and melodic and heavy on the strings, which I love. And even though there’s nothing fancy about Jenny Owen Youngs’ voice, it’s the simplicity of it that makes it so good.





3. “Walt Whitman Bridge” by Marah: I read a review of a Marah album once that compared their sound to Springsteen, if Springsteen and the Replacements got together and made an album. I have to admit that I could never describe who Marah is to you more perceptively or more accurately than that. Listen to this song, note it’s deceptively poetic lyrics (especially right at the end there), enjoy its blue-collar, everyman-accessible vibe, and become a Marah fan. You’ll thank me later.




4. “Amazing Glow” by the Pernice Brothers: Did you ever hear a song where the lyrics did not at all match the music? This song is the exact opposite of that. The simple, melancholy tune is the perfect accompaniment to the lyrics, which tell the story of a guy who dumped a girl, only to realize too late that she was the one for him, and subsequently can’t get her off his mind. My favorite verse (though the whole song is a lyrical gem): “I changed my master plan/I changed my friends and city/I go to sleep, I still wake up screaming//A dream so full and real/You’d think I would know better/I try to stave off a new day from rising.” I think the imagery is just perfection there; he can’t escape her or his broken heart no matter what he does, and it’s no one’s fault but his own. He’s left with memories and loneliness and nothing else (take note, gentlemen – giving up a good girl is not a good idea). What a great song, and also a seriously good band - make it a point to sample their back catalog if you’re not already familiar with their stuff. You won’t be sorry.





5. “Falling Awake” by Gary Jules: I love – LOVE – everything – EVERYTHING – about this one. It’s just excellent in every aspect, from the double entendre title, to the subtle, keyboard-laced melody, to each and every cynical, hopeless lyric in between. I feel like such a glutton for punishment when it comes to this song. It’s incredibly sad, but I keep it on repeat because it’s so gorgeous, and every time I do this, I’m always thrown into a really miserable, depressive funk. This cannot be a good thing. But I can’t stop it. I just can’t. And you won’t be able to either (I apologize in advance). Also, I honestly do not know when I became addicted to sad songs. I blame Andrea. You should too.




6. “Dragon” by Tori Amos: I’m not the world’s biggest Tori Amos fan by a long shot. Most of her songs are a little too angry for my taste. But this song…this song, I love. The vibe of the song is all over the place, hitting moments of somber restraint, sweet desperation, and burning anger, but somehow it seems dynamic rather than unfocused. By the end of the track, you feel like you’ve just listened to a rock opera. Or, like you’ve just been in a fist fight. Either way, you’re exhausted. I don’t know how Tori Amos does that.




7. “Phantom Limb” by The Shins: If you know anything about today’s music scene, you know that the Shins are, shall we say, very well regarded. I don’t think I read one bad review of their latest album, Wincing the Night Away. As I see it, the success of the Shins is based on their ability to stay cool enough to keep the indie kids feeling all hip and superior while still appealing to a more mass market, commercial demographic (ie, your John Mayer fans). I think “Phantom Limb” bridges the gap between the two brilliantly (It was the first single from the album. Coincidence? Doubtful.). Even though it’s hard to find cohesion in the lyrics (which James Mercer, the lead singer, has said are about two young lesbians - to which I say, "Um, what?"), the music is undeniably lovely and incredibly addicting.




8. “Dirty Dream Number Two” by Belle & Sebastian: I am so behind the times with Belle & Sebastian, though maybe I can’t be totally to blame; after all, the in-the-know college kids were listening to them when I was still in high school. Whatever the case, I’m on board now, and it’s all because of this song. I like to think of it as the perfect addition to the soundtrack of my life, combining my slightly ebullient and vivacious side (a la Archie’s Betty), and my snarky and introspective side (a la…Emily the Strange?). A girl can dream. Dream. “Dirty Dream Number Two.” I didn’t even plan that! Nice.




9. “Young Folks” by Peter Bjorn and John: I went to two Pete Yorn shows this year. Both shows had three opening bands. They weren’t heinous…but yeah, they were kind of heinous. The only thing that made waiting for Pete better was this song, which was on the pre-show mix. I am forever indebted to his cousin/merch guy/tour historian, Max, who writes this blog and made that mix. It’s so unusual, and unusually catchy, too. How could you not love it?




10. “Sick of Myself” by Matthew Sweet: I first became aware of Matthew Sweet through my friend, Dave. Dave’s collection is, for lack of a better word, awesome. What’s even more awesome is that it’s all meticulously catalogued on one of those portable hard drives, which Dave drops off at my house every once in a while so I can scavenge for new music. The last time I had the hard drive, I snagged Time Capsule: The Best Of Matthew Sweet because I enjoyed the Thorns’ cover of the Jayhawks’ “Blue,” and Matthew Sweet is in the Thorns. Before this, I hadn’t really heard any of his original songs, but after giving the album a thorough listen, I became a full-fledged fan, and “Sick of Myself” became my favorite Matthew Sweet song. Even though the lyrics are wrought with pessimism and desperation, I still think of this as a kind of post-punk power pop love song. All I know is, whenever I hear this song, I think, “I want a guy to love me like that.” And I also think, “This sounds like it was recorded in a garage.” So there you go.




11. “Diamond Ring” by Joseph Arthur and the Lonely Astronauts: If you have never heard Joseph Arthur’s Redemption’s Son, then I feel tremendously sorry for you. It’s one of my favorite albums of all time, and I honestly can’t say enough good things about it. His latest release, Let’s Just Be, is, well…I find it hard to give it compliments. It’s weirdly meandering and sloppy, and even though I love Joseph Arthur, I just can’t get on board with this particular bit of experimentation. Its only saving grace is “Diamond Ring,” and thank goodness for it. I love this song, not only for its spot-on falsetto and great 70s rock vibe (it’s definitely Rolling Stones-influenced), but because it gives me hope that Joseph Arthur will get his crap together and give us a quality record soon. If he doesn't, I might go all Steven from "The Real World: Seattle" on his ass. I've done it once, I'll do it again. Sleep with one eye open, Arthur.




12. “Hesitating Beauty” by Billy Bragg and Wilco: As the story goes, Nora Guthrie (aka Woody’s daughter) asked Billy Bragg and Jeff Tweedy (of Wilco) to add music to some of her father’s lyrics after his death. The result was an album called Mermaid Avenue, which fused Woody’s idealistic lyrics with contemporary, folksy melodies. This is one of my favorite tracks from that album, for its twangy, straightforward loveliness. (Side note: I'm learning so much about myself while writing this list. In addition to being a person who loves sad songs, I've apparently also turned into one of those people who say "lovely" all the time. I'm like Mrs. Thurston Howell the Third or something. That's just...lovely.)




13. “Fountain of Youth” by Grant-Lee Phillips: I have been a longtime fan of Grant-Lee Phillips. We go so far back that I remember when he was called Grant-Lee Buffalo (I still don’t get what happened there. Was it like a John Cougar Mellencamp kind of situation? Huh. Enigma.). His songs make me feel sort of dopey and light-headed in the best way possible, like I’m floating or something. Some people think heaven is filled with harp music; for me, it’s just an endless string of Grant-Lee Phillips songs, this one included.




14. “Clean Getaway” by Maria Taylor: I was debating between two Maria Taylor songs for this mix, this one and “A Good Start.” The latter is so, so good, and I highly recommend giving it a listen, but in the end, “Clean Getaway” won out (so I flipped a quarter, so sue me). The only word I can think of that would accurately describe the vibe of this song is “plaintive.” Also, “wistful.” And “jackhammer.” “Merciless.” “Insatiable.” Okay, veered off topic there for a sec. Seriously though, back to “Clean Getaway”: It’s all acoustic, just a guitar and Maria Taylor’s pretty voice. It's my most played song on iTunes for a good reason.




15. “Ziggy Stardust” by Seu Jorge: Yes, “Ziggy Stardust” is a classic track off David Bowie’s famously epic album of the same name. Yes, there have been many fine, interesting interpretations of the song offered up by many fine, interesting artists throughout the years. Hear me now: I don’t care about them. Hell, I barely care about David Bowie when I listen to Seu Jorge’s version, which, incidentally, is sung in Brazilian Portuguese. I’m usually such a lyric lover that you would think the language barrier would turn me off, but strangely, it does not. I’m so in love with Seu Jorge’s voice and loose, uncomplicated acoustic guitar work that it more than makes up for the fact that I have no idea what he’s saying. This song makes me feel completely content and grateful, and that's all I need to know.





So there you have it, my midyear mix. If you get your click on here, you can check out Andrea's (super cool) mix too. I hope you enjoy them! And if you don’t, well, I don’t want to hear about it. Seriously, zip the lip.

Alone Time

I live at home with my parents and my brother, AJ. I don’t feel bad about this because I’m only 21, and also because I’m a girl, which is way less weird than being a guy and still living with your parents in your twenties (which I know is a crazy and ridiculous double standard, but hey, if society wants throw us that one bone, I’ll take it). Besides that, I really love living at home. I have one of those great families that everyone wants but few people actually have. They’re funny and smart and just all around fantastic, and more importantly, they’re the perfect family for me. I’m 100%, completely blessed to be able to call them my own, and that’s a fact that I’m acutely aware of every day. I’m just incredibly lucky to have them.

Still, something happens when you spend large amounts of time with people, any people, regardless of how you really feel about them. Little things start to annoy you. Dishes that pile up in the sink, mail addressed to you that you never see, a total and complete lack of control of the remote – those kinds of things. And no matter how great people are, sometimes those annoyances build up to the point where you just need a break, lest you become murderous over an unflushed toilet or innumerable pairs of shoes left lying around. Lucky for me (and for them), I got that break last weekend when my parents had to chaperone my brother (who is an excellent high school third baseman) during an out-of-town baseball tournament, leaving me home alone for an entire three days.

There are only a handful of things I truly relish in life, and alone time is most definitely one of them. That’s what was so great about them going to the tournament. I would be alone. Just me. By myself. For three days. Three days! The prospect of even one day all to myself thoroughly excites me, so you can imagine how jazzed I was about having all that time just for me. Alone time is always nothing short of a beautiful thing.

My family left early Saturday morning, and from then on the perks set in. The first thing I did was sleep in. I wasn’t even all that tired, but the quiet house, the warm bed, and the knowledge that I didn’t have to do anything for anyone else but me that day made it easy to enjoy a little extra snooze time. Like, four hours of extra zzz’s, to be exact. I know that seems both ridiculously extravagant and strangely decadent, but when you’re sleeping that deeply and comfortably, stuff like that fails to register on your concern-o-meter, especially when the parameters of said meter have shifted from “Is this activity acceptable and/or healthy?” to “Is there any way I could make this activity more pleasant for myself?” Actually, scratch that. A better way of putting it would be to say that my concern-o-meter had morphed itself into a pleasure-o-meter, and that sleeping in was right up there towards the top on the new scale.

Once I woke up, I did something I wouldn’t normally do: I stayed in my pajamas. When my family is home, there are always a million and a half things to do, and as there is so little time to get all that stuff done during the weekend, we have to hit the ground running, which means no elongated pajama wearing. But I didn’t have anything scheduled for myself till later in the day, so I stayed in my pajamas. I put on my robe and made myself breakfast (on a tray, with milk AND orange juice, just because I could), and watched ten episodes of “Barefoot Contessa” that had backlogged on my Tivo. My alone weekend was off to a really great start.

Once I peeled myself off the couch (no easy task), I started to get ready for a late lunch with my favorite cousins, Denise and Stacie, and their mom, my Aunt Dee. These are three of my absolute most favorite people on the planet. Denise and Stacie are like my super fun older sisters, and my aunt is so sweet that you just want to stuff her like a doll and carry her around with you wherever you go. I never have a bad time when I’m with them. They make me feel like I’m the coolest, most dazzling and interesting person in the entire world, and that’s not a terrible feeling to have. They know the best places to go, the conversation is unfailingly excellent, and I always leap at the chance to spend time with them. This time, we went to lunch at a great little creperie (their find, natch), and, as expected, it was awesome. What made it even more awesome was knowing that I didn’t have my family to hurry back to. I could linger at lunch as long as I wanted to because no one was waiting for me at home. I can’t describe how nice that felt, knowing that my time was my own. I really liked it.

I spent the rest of my weekend engaging in similarly self-indulgent activities. I was starting to look like Peter Gallagher and Brooke Shields’ love child, so I got my eyebrows waxed. I took an insanely long shower. I read (this insane book about the Skull and Bones group - it terrifies me and I like it), listened to music (Joe Purdy’s “Paris in the Morning” – get on it), and had a Jim Halpert swoon fest while watching seasons 1 and 2 of “The Office” on DVD. You know when you get so relaxed that you’re basically dopey and have a total inability to function on a normal level? I was about two ticks away from being right there. I was probably as close to that point as a person as tightly wound as I am can ever possibly be. It was glorious.

Still, I was happy when my family came home. I missed them like you miss your bed when you’re in a hotel. I mean, a bed is a bed, but there’s no bed that will ever feel as right to you as your own bed does. And it was the same way with my family. The house was nice without them, and even though I was blissed out to the max on an alone time high in their absence, it felt good to have them back at home with me again. It felt right. Then again, it always feels right till the dishes take on new and impressive architectural heights and the mail gets lost in some sort of bizarro suburban Bermuda Triangle situation. When those things happen (and they will), I feel pretty certain that I’ll be marking the days off on the calender until they have an out-of-town thing again. I'll let you know when that countdown begins...

Finally, 3 Things: April

Forgive me. I forgot I had a blog there for a minute. I’m not crazy (well, maybe I’m crazy like a fox, but that’s a different story), just busy. Anyway, I’m back with a new post now, the much-delayed “3 Things,” April edition. Enjoy! And if you don’t, I don’t want to hear about it : )

1. Fleetwood Mac, Rumours
One recent obsession of mine has been the VH1 Classic channel. For a long time, whenever I was channel surfing, I would buzz right by this station, mostly because on our satellite it’s grouped with a bunch of other crappy music channels that I really have no interest in (unless I’m watching "Engaged and Underage," but that goes without saying). I would still be buzzing by it had “Classic Albums: Fleetwood Mac” not caught my eye mid-browse. There is something you should know about me: I love Fleetwood Mac, and have for a long, long time. I’m a Fleetwood Mac junkie (as opposed to the members of Fleetwood Mac, who were actual junkies). I love the music and I love all the convoluted, overly dramatic, tempestuous relationship crap that went on (and still goes on) behind it all. Plus, if I could trade lives with anyone in the world, it would almost certainly be Stevie Nicks, not only so that I could wear her awesome clothes and sing with her beautiful voice, but also because she’s just about the coolest chick ever. She’s a little witchy and that freaks me out but in a good way. And if the life trading is possible, I think time travel should also be doable, so I would trade lives with her in the 1970s, mainly because I would want to get it on with Lindsey Buckingham when he was still hot, and have immediate access to a lot of coke. Whoo, not unlike Pam on “The Office,” I am saying a lot of things…so back to the topic at hand, Rumours. This is, hands down, the best Fleetwood Mac album of all time, and maybe the best album of its time. At the time it was recorded, Lindsey and Stevie were breaking up, as were John and Christine, and Mick was getting divorced. I think they all pretty much hated each other during the year it took them to record Rumours, but some intense, gorgeous music came out of those sessions (definitely check out “I Don’t Want to Know” - it’s not often remembered as one of Fleetwood Mac’s greatest songs, but it’s fantastic). I have but one problem with this album: How did “Silver Springs” not make the final cut but “Oh Daddy” did? This glaring oversight, along with Bjork, her music and her fashion choices, is something I will never, ever understand. It’s still an incredible album though, and it was numero uno in my music rotation for all of April.

2. Headbands
My hair is curly, frizzy, and generally unmanageable. Couple that with the fact that I like to invest little or no time in my everyday appearance, and it’s pretty much a recipe for disaster. To make matters worse, no matter what combo of products I use, I always wake up looking like a cracked out Don King. I could blame genetics (and why shouldn’t I? I blame them for pretty much everything else.), or the fact that I sleep like a madwoman, all twisty and turny. Whatever the reason, I always thought that I was destined to forever have a somewhat frazzled daytime look - until I discovered the miracle that is the headband. Hear me now: I love headbands. In style or out, it makes no difference to me. Elastic, metal, silk, patent leather, plastic – I couldn’t care less what they’re made of, bring ‘em all on. If hairstyling were like Scientology, instead of Xenu, its disciples would be worshipping the headband. With minimal effort, I can create a couple of really cute looks. Pull the hair into a low ponytail, slap on a headband, and you’ve got a simple, businesslike look. Tuck the hair up into a high bun and cap it off with a headband – voila! Instant princess. I look finished and put together without even really trying. And that is a beautiful thing.

3. The Best Fan in the World
No, I’m not talking about you, OK.NOWwhat (though I do very much enjoy your comments and appreciate your continued readership). I’m talking about the Seville UltraSlimline Fan. This is, quite simply put, the best fan in the world. Put it to you this way: If fans were like Scientology, instead of Xenu, their disciples would worship the Seville UltraSlimline. I don’t even know where to start when singing the praises of this magic machine. I just know that its tall, thin design is easy to store when it’s cold (read: anytime it’s below 75 degrees), its three “natural breeze” settings rock my world, it’s freakishly quiet even on its highest speed, and its remote control caters to all my lazy tendencies. An added bonus: It comes with a 12-inch personal fan as well! In my house, that fan belongs to the dog, Maverick. That hound is definitely the rock star of the family, so it seemed only fitting that he should get his own mini PF. And you should get one too, because if you’re reading this, you’re for sure regarded as a rock star here at Destroy All Evidence.


I hope your April was filled with great stuff like mine was. Check back in a few days when I'll be posting about a wedding I went to last weekend. Oh, the fun we shall have!

Not As Good As A Box of Gold, But Very Close

Last Friday night I went to see my friend, Steven, in a production of Andrew Lloyd Webber’s “Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dream Coat” (he was great as Potiphar, who made his money as a BC real estate mogul investing in – what else? – pyramids! So cute.). I wanted to bring him something to congratulate him on a job well done – but what? If he were a girl, I would have picked up some flowers without giving it a second thought. We gals are easy that way. Even the toughest lass likes getting flowers, and take my word for it, any girl who says she wouldn’t love a gorgeous bouquet is, well, let’s just say that it’d be in your best interest to take a few steps back, lest her nose gets so long that it causes you any kind of bodily harm. (As a side note for the fellas, you should know that no matter what kind of gal you’re dealing with, you really, really can’t go wrong with some classy blooms. You just can’t. And may I suggest roses? Any color will do, especially if you ask the florist to make it a roses-only arrangement by getting rid of the carnations, baby’s breath, and those weird ferny fillers. Timeless and swoon-worthy, I’m telling you!). Although some dudes do appreciate a nice arrangement, Steven is not a flower guy. I figured that he would tell me he liked them and thank me for bringing them and then let them sit in the backseat of his car until they developed that really awful rotting flower smell, and really, that’s more like a punishment than a present. So I decided that instead of flowers, Steven would be getting…drum roll…wait for it…a box of homemade cookies! When this thought sprang into my mind, I became that particular brand of really great, over the top, crazy excited usually reserved for children on Christmas morning. If I were a cartoon, a light bulb and a bunch of obnoxious exclamation points would have popped up over my head. And it wasn’t just one of those ideas that seem great at the time but then turn out badly either. Steven loved them, and I was so pleased with the final product that I took it as a huge personal victory. It was such a triumph that I thought I’d share my tips to creating a fantastic baked goods gift with you on this here blog. Without further ado:

• Presentation is key: As a longtime Food Network junkie, I’ve learned over the years that we eat with our eyes first. To me, that means making it a priority to keep the presentation interesting. I’ve seen this theory taken to the extreme (a recent episode of “Iron Chef America” comes to mind, in which the challenger plated his squab with its dead, fried talon clutching a clove of roasted garlic – interesting, yes, yet at the same time undeniably gross), but I like to keep things simpler by presenting them in an understated, unfettered manner. That’s why, when it came to Steven’s gift ‘o goodies, I picked up a 7X7X4 classic pink cake box and tied it shut with silver string finished off in a simple, shoelace-style bow. It had a very vintage bakery feel to it, and I loved the look of it. Additional advantages? It was easy to carry around till the end of the musical, and I didn’t have to worry about getting a plate or plastic container back.

• "No pleasure endures unseasoned by variety."*: To me, there’s nothing more boring than a whole lot of the same thing. Because of that, I made Steven three kinds of cookies. I heard through the grapevine that he was an unabashed chocolate chip cookie fanatic, so I made the traditional (and, in my opinion, best) Nestle recipe that comes printed on the back of every bag of chocolate chips. Then I decided to up the gourmet factor a little bit with Chocolate White Chocolate Chunk Cookies and Blue Ribbon Almond Roca Cookies. I picked those recipes because they seemed to me to be upscale variations on the classic chocolate chip cookie, and the results were fantastic. The Chocolate White Chocolate Chunk was yummy, and I liked how the dark dough and white chocolate pieces came across as sort of a positive/negative version of the chocolate chip cookies. As for the Almond Roca Cookies, anything I say about them would be a complete understatement. They were fantastic. Additional advantage? You get to try out multiple recipes and might come up with a winner or two like I did.

• Never neglect the card: The thing about the cookie box is, you can’t just shove it into someone’s arms. It has to come with a little love attached (so cheesy/so true). It’s just like giving someone money – you give it to them in a card instead of pushing a wad of sweaty bills into their hand. I found a great card for Steven that was totally apropos and just looked right nestled on top of the box under the bow. Additional advantage? Once the whole gift was completed and assembled, it was a thoroughly classy affair. Ron Burgundy would be proud.

So there you have it, my tips for creating a fantastic baked goods gift. Next time you’re hard pressed for a present and the traditional gifts seem trite or inappropriate, take my word for it and serve up the cookie box. Additional advantage? Make enough cookies to gift, then gift yourself with the leftovers.

*This quote is attributed to Publilius Syrus, who is most certainly dead but still deserves credit. So thanks, Pub - you’ve got a box of delicious cookies coming your way in the afterlife, friend.

Our Dodgers, Ourselves

I live in California. Southern California, more specifically. One thing that the nonnative sect usually notes about this part of state is that the weather is always pretty much the same here - fairly temperate and, more often than not, completely lovely. Even though my aversion to the whole “California girl” image is substantial (and yours would be too if you were brunette and pale and bookish), I have to admit that I love California. There’s something nice about being able to wear flip-flops every day for eleven months of the year. Forget flip-flops – how about the fact that you can enjoy a nice day at the beach for that same period of time as well? Hell, think bigger than the beach – how about the fact that it’s totally possible to, if you were tremendously motivated (and in tremendous physical shape), surf in the ocean, ski in the mountains, and go four-wheeling in the desert, all in the same day? That’s actually pretty extraordinary. So Cal is pretty extraordinary. And I count it an extraordinary privilege to get to call myself her native daughter.

Still, as closely as I hold California to my heart, enjoy her many pleasures, and defend her countless virtues to bitter and lofty out-of-staters (whose outward hate is, I believe, secret envy of the sunshine-y, carefree beauty of my home turf), I have to confess that living here has a tendency to become somewhat tedious. I guess you could say that the grass is always greener on the other side, but that’s just it – the grass is always greener in So Cal, and while the absence of changing seasons makes it an awfully nice place to live, it robs you of a feeling of time and space and rhythm and a sense of the natural progression of things. It’s hard to differentiate between the months when they’re all just an endless parade of warm days strung together one right after the next. There’s really no winter or spring or summer or fall here. It’s just one long, sunny blur until we roll over the calendars in January and start again…that is, unless you’re a baseball fan. To baseball fans, there are two seasons, and two seasons exclusively, no matter where you live: Baseball season, when nothing else seems to hold as much importance as how your team did that day, and the off season, when you sit around waiting for baseball season to start up again. And if you are So Cal born and bred like me, there’s more than a fair chance that you’re a Dodger fan. And if you are indeed a Dodger fan…well, I feel your pain.

Is there anything or anyone in the world that can take your heart, break it, and put it back together again more effectively than the Dodgers? I doubt it. But that’s what they do. They take your already half empty glass, knock it over, then fill it to the brim before downing it, again and again and again, until it occurs to you that your life as a blue-bleeder is nothing more than several minor nervous breakdowns in nine inning increments, 162 times a year. But you love it. It makes you a sadist, sure, but you love it for those moments when it makes you an optimist. And, to be honest, at the core of every Dodger fan’s soul lies a hidden optimist. You would have to be to cherish a team who will unfailingly win enough games to get you thinking that this is the year they’re going to make something big happen, only to inexplicably lose their steam come September, taking your heart and your dreams of post season glory with them. Yet even then, you can’t deny that every time Vin Scully declares, “It’s time for Dodger baseball!” you know in your gut that those are the most beautiful and comforting words in the English language. The Dodgers – they do that to you.

When the train inevitably jumps the tracks, it becomes a spectacle that’s literally painful to watch. It’s like a stab in the heart. Most people say that the ungodly traffic is the reason Dodger fans leave the games in the seventh inning; I say it’s because we just can’t stand to see how bad the damage is when the wheels come off. Either way, you have to know that we’re listening to the game on the radio as we shake our heads and battle our way out of the parking lot. Because that’s what we do – we love them no matter how much they screw things up for us. We keep coming back for more because we know, somewhere in the depths of our souls, that the Dodgers can find their way back from whatever defeats they will most certainly suffer. We might not have a lot of proof to substantiate this claim, but still we cling desperately to the hope that our injured players might get it together and Kirk Gibson their way into baseball history, that our misfit infield will somehow morph itself into a kind of Garvey-Lopes-Russell-Cey magic machine, that when our pitchers take the mound, the memory of the greats like Koufax and Drysdale will be there with them, inspiring every pitch to dance over the plate. We hope for these things because we have no other choice than to hope for these things. For better or for worse, the Dodgers are inherently ours and vice versa.

Maybe being a Dodger fan is a fantastic metaphor for life: It’s a constant, devastating, bullish struggle. You have to be steadfast and unflinching and hopeful, because if you’re not, you have no chance whatsoever of succeeding – you’ve lost before you’ve even really begun. You’ll strike out – a lot – but you have to come to your next at-bat believing that the next pitch is your pitch. You may have lost by 20 runs today, but you have to know that you can win by that many tomorrow. It’s about recognizing and appreciating the fact that you’ll have another opportunity to make things right. It’s a blank scorecard. A freshly raked field. A clean uniform. Another at-bat. Another game. Another chance to start over. Maybe that’s a kind of beacon of hope that we could all use in our lives every once and a while. I’m more than okay with letting the Dodgers be that beacon for me.

3 Things: March

I would now like to introduce you to "3 Things," which I hope will become a monthly tradition around here. At the end of each month, I'll hit you with three things that I enjoyed over the course of the previous four weeks. I try really hard not to be a pimp on this blog, mostly because I heard from my pals Djay and Shug that it's really hard out there for a pimp - I've got enough problems of my own, thank you very much - but also because I don't want this space to become one big billboard (especially since, hello, no one is paying us for the shout out - we ain't no fools!). Still, when I like something, I want to share it with the people around me, so I think this is a good compromise. Here we go!

1. Movie Madness Marathon (aka, “MMM”)
Last week, Andrea and I were on Spring Break. Neither of us has ever been a big time partier, generally preferring to spend quiet time at home rather than partaking in hours and hours of weirdly loud music and wildly unentertaining people. Because of this, it’s not so surprising that our big activity for Spring Break was an event that united our shared love for lounging, cooking and eating, and watching a crap load of DVDs: the Movie Madness Marathon. We’ve done this a couple of times before, once when we knocked out the whole “Lord of the Rings” trilogy in one sitting and another time when we pushed our way through almost 75% of a season of “24.” Those were exhausting times, but they were good times. It had been far too long since our last MMM, so we thought we would take this mutual time off to resurrect it, and I’m so glad that we did.

To get the ball rolling, we first used our combined Netflixing abilities to procure three movies: "For Your Consideration" (another one of Christopher Guest’s simple, brilliant mock docs), "The Departed" (Martin Scorsese’s Boston-based tale of two men on opposite sides of the law; also this year’s Best Picture Oscar winner), and "Stranger Than Fiction" (the one where your idea that it would be great to have someone directing your life, telling you what to do and what’s going to happen to you, gets totally shot to hell). Then we decided that we’d watch them in that order as well – start with funny lightness, follow it up with weight and drama, finish it off with a nudge-on-the-chin feel gooder. Finally, we figured we would make a veritable smorgasbord of delectable snacks to nibble on at our leisure while laying around in our loungewear, snuggled up in blankets and watching movies. The result: Pure magic. It turned out to be a completely marvelous day. We saw three great movies, ate some truly delicious snackery (Blue cheese stuffed mushrooms! Ham and cheese rolls! Caprese sandwiches! Limoncello cheesecake squares!), and spent hours of quality time together. And we were in loungewear! All day long in the loungewear. I defy you to come up with anything more perfect than that.


2. Which Brings Me to You: A Novel in Confessions by Steve Almond and Julianna Baggott
A few weeks ago, I was bogged down by some heavy required reading for class, and it seemed like all the books I chose to read for pleasure were inexplicably dark (and not just, “Wow, that was sad” dark, but, “Wow, if I keep reading books like this, I’m seriously not going to be able to get out of bed” dark) as well. For the sake of my sanity, I began the arduous process of seeking out some respectable (ie, non-cheeseball) light-hearted fare. I scoured Borders and couldn’t find anything that appealed to me (thereby confirming my theory that “respectable” and “light-hearted” are mutually exclusive in literary terms). I was all set to go home, defeated, and dive right into another hide-the-handgun novel when I saw something scribbled onto the back of my checkbook: the title of a novel I once read an excellent review of, jotted down hastily in purple ink. I don’t remember the last time I had a purple pen. I don’t remember when I made that notation. I don’t remember where I read that review. But none of that matters, because I trusted myself (my purple pen-having self, my checkbook writing self) and bought that book right on the spot. As it turns out, it was just what I needed to get myself out of my depressing book funk.

Which Brings Me to You is the story of a man and woman who meet at a wedding and have an awkward semi-sexual encounter that leads to the exchange of a series of letters laying out their past failures in love and life (those are the “confessions” referenced in the title). I bought it, read it in a day, and am now actively promoting it to all my friends, family, and, of course, blog buddies. Check it out – it’s smart, witty and real, which, let’s face it, you don’t get a lot of these days.

(And also, after reading this piece about his experience coauthoring a novel and this piece about his nephews and the entirety of this book tour diary, I think I sort of heart Steve Almond. How have I never read any of this guy’s work before? He’s smart, witty and real…I'm pretty sure I read somewhere that you don’t get a lot of that these days.)


3. The Colgate 360 toothbrush
Two things I’m always in the business of: 1) Getting my teeth whiter, and 2) Keeping my breath fresh. This fantastic toothbrush accomplishes both things, because not only does it have some soft rubber bristles to remove stains and keep you plaque free, it also has this weird nubby thing on the backside of the head that cleans both the inside of the cheeks and the tongue, ridding your mouth of bacteria that causes bad breath. In short, the brush is genius. The bottom line is, my teeth are super white, my breath is odor free, and you should throw away your old crappy toothbrush and use this one instead. Also, as previously stated, we don't get any kind of payment for recommending things like this, but maybe if someone told Colgate I’d be willing to receive compensation in the form of a lifetime supply of these toothbrushes they'd be willing to pony up. After all, this blog gets over three views a day. That’s got to be worth something. Pass it on.

WWJBD?

I love the television show “24.” I feel as though at some point, probably when I’ve run out of interesting things to say, I will speak at length (or, as I’m sure the majority of you will probably feel, “ad nauseam”) about how fantastic the show is, about how you should be watching it if you’re not, about how every time Carlos Bernard appeared onscreen during his tenure as Tony Almeida I had the overwhelming urge to reach out and touch his neck, etc. Trust me, those are going to be glorious days for you people. I don’t think I’m ready to go there yet, but I really do feel like I should tell you why I like it so much, because, not unlike the food you consume, you are what you watch. I apparently am a person who loves loads of violence and a healthy dose of patriotism with some hot guys thrown into the mix. Another thing I love: learning (or, more accurately, “I love learning things that I will most likely never need to know and that will serve little or no purpose, now or in the future.”). Perhaps that’s the real reason I love “24”: It has taught me so much about getting through life (i.e., the life of a CTU agent/hero, not my own life, that of a blogger/moron) in times of crisis (i.e., “Terrorists are attacking LA! The horror!” not “We’re out of Diet Peach Snapple? Again? The horror!”). Observe:

If you need to keep a secret, you could…
• …get a heroin addiction. I believe it was season three in which our hero, Jack Bauer, became an addict to get in good with some Mexican drug lords, thereby allowing himself to thwart their eventual goal of purchasing some kind of killer virus (Oh, "24," your complex twists endear us to you so!). He kept as few people in on it as possible, mainly the delicious Tony, his ever-present Cubs mug, and Gael, some generic, I-can’t-believe-I-remember-his-name-all-these-seasons-later Counter Terrorism Unit employee. Jack’s dedication to the project allowed it to develop under the noses of all at CTU. And cultivating a raging heroin addiction? That’s 100% commitment to your goal and keeping your ulterior motives under wraps. I applaud that.

Doing the smack, the junk, the china white, the big H - all in a day's work for our main man, JB.

• …put the info on a computer chip and stitch it up inside your own body. If I’m remembering correctly, some guy Jack was hunting down did this, and Jack only saw it when he looked at an x-ray of the guy’s chest. Because he is Jack Bauer, he dug in there bare-handed and heroic to retrieve the chip, but I still feel like this is a really smart way to conceal information, simply because there are no Jack Bauers in the real world and your chip would most likely go to the grave with you because of that. Those are just the facts, friends.

• …”go dark.” I can’t count how many times Jack has “gone dark” over the years, but he usually does it when he’s doing something, shall we say, a little outside of the accepted parameters of normal behavior. To achieve full “darkness” you have to cut off all communication with your base (or anyone for that matter) and take off of any satellite-tracking device you might have on you. This way, no one knows what you’re doing, where you’re doing it, or whom you’re doing it to.

• …fake your own death. I can’t imagine that I would ever be in a situation that would require me to fake my own death, but I know I can after seeing Jack do it so successfully on “24.” Apparently there’s not a lot to it: Take some sort of medication that stops your heart, have friends on standby ready to push epi to bring you back, then disappear to some ghetto town where you take on a new identity, complete with a new look (Jack got a sweet chop and some cowboy-looking duds; I would probably end up either looking butch or, conversely, like a beauty pageant queen), a new occupation (Jack: Oil Driller, Nicole: Perpetual trainee at a string of fast food joints), and a new, unimpressive name (Jack went with Frank; I’m going with Alice, because I’m cute like that).


Keeping your own secrets is one thing, but if you need information from a perp who won’t talk, you could…
• …shoot the guy in the thigh. Apparently you can survive a thigh shot and walk again, all while remaining coherent enough to answer questions. Hit the knee or below and you’ve permanently paralyzed your informant, which I wouldn’t think would inspire him to give you anything useful. When watching “24,” “Shoot him in the thigh!” is my most common mantra, mainly because Jack has used this technique many times to monumental success and I always wonder why he doesn’t just jump to that move, his ringer, right off the bat instead of trying some other things first. It’s probably because he gets his torture on so often that he needs to mix it up a little, lest it becomes boring and tedious.

A few inches lower = paralyzed. A few inches higher = also not good.

• …give him the “swallow the towel” treatment. In season one, Jack tells some dude how in Russian prisons (gulags?), when they need to get the 411 out of their inmates, they make them swallow one end of a towel, which slowly makes it’s way down to the stomach, while they hold on to the other end. The stomach then begins doing it’s stomachly duties and digests the towel, at which point the towel is slowly pulled out of the mouth, bringing with it the stomach lining. So gross, so fantastically effective. Love it.

• …use sensory deprivation. Remember in season four when Jack had to torture the dippy little brother of his then- paramour, Audrey? This was his chosen method, complete with screeching and screaming in what was probably one of those awesome Bose headsets. Also there were some creepy black out goggles involved, and he may or may not have been strapped to a chair, “$100,000 Pyramid” style. Anyway, that kid was such a wuss I feel sure that Jack thought this was his only way to go; if he’d shot him in the thigh (as I loudly recommended) he probably would have gone all hysterical and wet his pants, and then he would have been no use to Jack. And also, Jack strikes me as the type of man who wouldn’t appreciate a floor covered in urine. Especially someone else’s urine. So there’s that.

• …go for the electroshock, especially if it’s delivered through some live wires you just yanked out of a lamp. Jack laid the torture down on Audrey’s ex-husband this way once. I must say, it was pretty brutal to watch, which of course translates to “It was one of my favorite moments of that season.” Props to Chloe, a CTU tech genius, for using this method in the form of a good tasering when some drunken boob was flirting with her at a bar. I think she hit that guy like four or five times. I’ve never been prouder of a fictional character more so than I was of Chloe at that very moment.

Bravo, Chloe. You're a beacon of hope for annoyed women in bars everywhere.

• …go very, very gorilla and just plastic bag their head. I’ve learned from Jack that when you don’t have time to get creative, you can always hit them where it hurts: oxygen deprivation. Jack did this to his own brother recently. When I saw that, I told my brother, “You know, I don’t think I would have any qualms about torturing you,” to which he replied, after about 30 second of deep thought, “Yeah, me neither.” Huh.


Finally, if torturing is not enough and it becomes necessary to kill someone, or if you have to kill them anyway…
• …use a gift card that you’ve snapped in half. Jack can’t take credit for this little gem; his arch nemesis, the evil Nina, whipped out this technique way back in season three to get slice open the neck of another random, nameless CTU peon. It was unexpected, and while my hate for Nina and her bizarre wardrobe and hair choices runs quite deep, I can’t help but give her props. That’s ingenious.

• …deprive them of their essential medications. Another little biscuit Jack can’t claim; this one was doled out by Sherry Palmer, the (again) evil wife of our beloved President David Palmer. I forget how this all went down, except that she withheld meds from an old dude who had some dirt on her husband and he died. I like it because it’s simple, it’s to the point, and most importantly, it’s bloodless. Plus, who’s to say that she really did anything? Maybe the old coot just couldn’t get himself to his meds in time. There’s no case there, Your Honor.

• …use a pistol fitted with a silencer. I had no idea what a silencer was the first time I saw it, but I liked it immediately. I remember asking Andrea, “What is that thing on the gun?” and she said, “That’s a silencer,” and I said, “Wow.” There were just no other words. I still get excited when I see a silencer on screen, just because I know that there will be some serious business going down. Plus, I think a silencer is indicative of a classier, better thought out production, as a stock gat without a silencer seems more…pedestrian. Because I’m nothing if not a lady, I say bring on the silencer.

• …get your stab on. This is undoubtedly my favorite form of physical violence, mostly because it seems like you’d have to have quite a bit of rage to effectively carry out a stabbing, or else it’s just a poke. You’ve got to have a lot of feeling behind it, you know? It’s very purposeful. I mean, you can accidentally shoot someone, but I would think it’d be super hard to accidentally shiv a guy. Also, it has given Andrea and I an excellent new phrase that we use all the time: “I’m feeling a little stabby today,” as in, “I’m having a bad day, and most likely, if push came to shove, I probably wouldn’t have any difficulty getting my shiv on.”

• …channel your inner Jeffrey Daumer, go balls out and bite straight through a man. At one point this season, it became necessary for Jack to break free of his captors to relay some overheard intel to CTU, and he did so by biting through his guard’s jugular. It just doesn’t get more hardcore than that. He bit through a man! That is awesome.

Gives a new meaning to the phrase, "man meat."


As you can probably deduce, I have had to put exactly zero of these lessons into practice in my own life, but that doesn’t mean I never will. I still think they’re worth knowing, just in case I ever become brave or smart or useful (unlikely) and someone actually needs me to do something heroic on a large scale (i.e., saving the world from some form of imminent destruction – also improbable). Until then…more blogging.

This Just In: Ben Affleck Is Not A Hack

If there is one thing you should know about me, it is that I never love anything right out of the gate. I’m very reticent to change, and I often have lukewarm feelings towards anything new or different. Anyone who knows me will tell you that it takes me a while to warm up to things, even things I’m excited about or looking forward to. For example, last August, Pete Yorn came out with a new album. Now, I love me some Pete Yorn. When Heather over at I Am Fuel, You Are Friends (a fantastic music blog that you absolutely must check out) blogged about Pete and offered up about 20 or so previously unreleased tracks, well, that was one of the happiest days of my life (seriously). I’ve been to at least seven of his concerts and had been zealously awaiting his third major release, so much so that on the day it came out I high-tailed it to Best Buy to pick up a copy because I literally could not wait to pop it in my CD player and get a load of what Pete had been working on for something like three years. I remember getting there right as the store was opening, making a beeline to the new release section, paying with exact change at checkout and run-walking to my car with the goofiest smile on my face. I was so jazzed that I could finally listen to what I had been dreaming about hearing for months and months. I was so excited and then…eh. It’s not to say that “Nightcrawler” is not an excellent album, because it is, it really, really is, definitely one of my favorites from 2006. It’s just that even if it had been the aural equivalent of absolute perfection, I still would have been indifferent to it upon first listen, because that’s just how I roll. I remember texting Andrea to tell her I got it. Here’s how that little convo went down:

Me: “So, I just got the new Pete.”
Andrea: “And?”
Me: “I don’t know. I’m not sure I like it.”
Andrea: “Yeah, that’s not so surprising.”

So there you go.

I guess it’s somewhat of a personality flaw (or “personality quirk” as I like to call it), but I figured out a long time ago that there’s really no changing who you are, at least not when it comes to things like this. That’s why it was shocking to me that I really liked - nay, LOVED – the film “Hollywoodland” when I saw it the other day. I had put it in my Netflix queue weeks ago and didn’t expect it come for a while since it wasn’t even released yet, and I was sort of nonplussed when I ripped open the envelope and found it inside. It just seemed like another one of those goofy, self-serving biopics that Hollywood is so fond of; the only reason I put it in the queue in the first place was because of the glowing reviews Ben Affleck received for his performance in the film at Cannes (wow, that just sounded so insider-y and film savvy, didn’t it? Truthfully, I read about it in People magazine – that’s how everyone gets their news, isn’t it?). I wouldn’t have watched it at all had something even slightly interesting been on TV that night. But nothing was, so I figured, “It’s just going to sit on my nightstand for weeks if I don’t watch it, so why not watch it now?” And, holy crap, am I glad I did.

To summarize, “Hollywoodland” is sort of a dual-story piece about the life of The Adventures of Superman’s George Reeves (Affleck), and his mysterious death, first ruled a suicide but, upon further investigation by the slimy yet ultimately good-hearted private detective, Louis Simo (Adrien Brody), is perhaps not quite what it seems. As Simo takes a deeper look into the life of Reeves, he reveals not a superhero but a man whose life never panned out like he thought it would. Groomed for stardom, with undeniable talent and devastating good looks, Reeves came onto the scene at an interesting time for Hollywood and never seemed to find his niche until he was offered the role of Superman, a part that he was at best reluctant to accept. As he gained more notoriety from the series, he became pigeonholed, with viewers refusing to accept him as anything other than the Man of Steel. After the series ended, he struggled to find work and suffered several failed developmental deals, all which could easily be pointed to as events leading up to a suicide, especially if alcohol or other substances were involved. But what the movie presupposes is: Maybe he didn’t kill himself?

There were certainly others who would have had a motive to end his life. His mistress, MGM head Eddie Mannix’s wife, Toni (Diane Lane), would have been an excellent suspect. After all, he had broken up with her after an affair that lasted for the better part of a decade (during which time she supported him financially) to marry little-known actress Leonore Lemmon. And what about Leonore Lemmon herself? Perceived by many, including Reeves’ mother, to be a gold-digger, perhaps she shot Reeves after becoming frustrated by his lack of career, reputable position in the community, and fortune (He wouldn’t have any of his own money, would he? He was, after all, Toni Mannix’s kept man – he died in the house she bought for him with a bullet delivered from a gun she gave him). And what of Eddie Mannix? He not only knew of his wife’s affair with Reeves, but approved of it; in fact, the two often dined out together with their respective significant others. Could he have killed Reeves for breaking his wife’s heart? All of those situations are examined through the eyes of Simo, who in the course of his investigation begins to see striking similarities between Reeves’ life and his own.

I can’t stress enough how much I loved this film. I mean, I just can’t get over it. Ben Affleck? The horrendous star of crappy fare like “Surviving Christmas” and “Jersey Girl”? The “Gigli” guy? In a good movie? Really? Ben Affleck good in a good movie? Bizarre, right? Bizarre but true. He was fantastic as Reeves, portraying him as a gifted but ultimately disillusioned man who was never enough for himself. While his physical resemblance to the actual Reeves is minimal, he captures the essence of a broken and embattled man perfectly. How he’s not nominated for an Oscar is totally beyond my comprehension. Adrien Brody, as the fictional Louis Simo, was first-rate as well. What I really love about the film is how the stories of Reeves and Simo play off each other; the more Simo understands about Reeves, the more his eyes are opened to the realities of his own life, the mistakes he’s made and the consequences of not at least attempting to fix them. The great thing is, that realization is accomplished without becoming preachy or moralistic. I don’t know much about moviemaking (unless you count watching all three seasons of “Project Greenlight,” though the main lesson I learned from that is that you should never hire Kevin Pollak because he’s a straight up a-hole, and also that if you only release a movie on six screens across the United States, you’re probably not going to make any money), but I would guess that we can thank Allen Coulter, the director, for stopping it from going in that direction (and it was his feature film directorial debut! I couldn’t believe it when I read that). If you haven’t already seen this movie, please, please do. Do yourself a favor (and save some money) by forgoing the renting and buying it straight out – after you see it, I promise you’ll want it in your collection. And coming from me, the girl who is apathetic towards everything the first time she experiences it, that means a lot.

Now go. Your local Best Buy (or other DVD-selling retailer) is waiting.