is the word 'diary' better than the word 'blog'? probably not.
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Time Held Hostage in a Car, Compounded by Music.
Time Held Hostage in a Car, Compounded by Music.
I have lately undergone the passing of some time that could have been better spent. Often this time has passed in my automobile. You see, I am new to this region and thus I am unfamiliar with which roads to avoid and when, and so I often find myself in �mysterious� traffic. For this reason, and because I keep neglecting to bring my Ipod and Itrip with me, I have of late listened to much more music on the radio than I have in years years years. As such I am newly qualified to tell you that the content of most of what gets advanced as music on popular radio is often enough to make one despair. My reactions to a particularly bad song depend on my mood. In the last week I have been made to laugh with joyousness at the absurdity of who gets paid for what in the music world; also, I have become physically ill; sometimes depressed; other times absolutely indifferent, daring the world to produce something on the airwaves that would make me feel anything, even if it�s only nausea.
The poisonously catchy song called �Breathe (2 am)� by Anna Nalick is remarkable. By that I mean only that it bears remarking on. Because it is so much more substantial than anything else I�ve heard in my car-times. Even if, as a song, it isn�t exactly my thing, I appreciate the words it puts forth for me to hear during the few minutes that it presents itself to me there in my car. So far I haven�t even gotten angry at how often it gets repeated on various area stations.
At first I thought maybe the song was penned by some older person with a sly sense of humor, perhaps even of conspiracy. I thought this because the song is just like so many other songs penned and then sung by young white female songwriters whose names don�t get remembered, and yet it also has some moments that are so much better (more remarkable) than that. So I thought that someone out there was writing songs with the goal of getting young girl singers to sing them, and while singing them, subtly enrich and/or undermine the very fountain from which such music springeth. This �project� would resemble the plot hatched by Jill and Halliday some time in the early 1990s, when we thought it would be a great idea to become writers of Harlequin romance novels. We would stick to the formula, per the rules, but also somehow introduce details that undermined the goal of the formula (which is to inure romance readers to the conventions of an unquestioned patriarchy). Hal and I went on about this plot for some time. I think he even went so far as to inquire into the ways in which one becomes one of the Harlequin writers, etc. But then we did something else. In fact, I think we may have done h2so4 instead! So much for the better, though for a much, much smaller audience. And also for no pay at all. Most of my choices have an ending similar to that! But only if viewed economically.
I blame American Idol (and various other contributions to the pop music �culture�) for the fact that so very many singers now sing with exactly the same vocal affect. Now not only are all the songs about roughly the same thing, but they are sung in the same way too! So anyway, I found, upon consulting the World Wide Web, that Anna Nalick had written her own song and is about twenty years old. You can tell she�s twenty years old because she has that vocal affect. As if she were trying to combine toned-down-diva with earnest-poetess all the while wondering if her stomach is too big for her tight shirt. The �she� in that sentence doesn�t refer to Nalick, it refers to the generic affect of her vocal tone. Nonetheless, she (Nalick, this time) is remarkable. I have remarked on that. Perhaps she will even become someone whose name gets remembered. She has time.
Then there�s that song �Collide� by Howie Day. I object to Howie Day�s name, first of all. But I do appreciate that in the Philly area DJs tend to give the names of artists fairly often, so at least you know for a moment whose name it is you will promptly forget. The thing about the song �Collide� is that I�m not sure I know what is actually saying. I mean, Howie, when you somehow find that you and I collide, is that a good thing or a bad thing? I�m not sure. Luckily I don�t care that much. But your song is pleasant enough, and your voice doesn�t make me angry or annoyed. Still, if that�s all I can say, aren�t you sad, Howie Day? Don�t you want to (try to) be remembered?
Maybe not, if you are clocking much dollars! There are many paths to value.
You know who, I�m recently reminded, has a voice that never should have been let anywhere near a recording studio? PAULA ABDUL. For some reason I hear some part of �Straight Up� every time I�m in my car. Oh, how grating and uninteresting and squeaky and lacking in depth her voice is! The only phrase that fitly describes my reaction to it comes from the husband of an ex-co-worker of mine: �That makes my butt pucker.� That is something I would never say out loud. But it gets the point across.
Of course, Paula Abdul is partly responsible for the American Idol-ization of the pop universe. We have come full circle, and now it is time to leave!
There is less to say about the classic rock stations. Certain bands get heard over and over again no matter where you are, but from region to region the song you hear will sometimes differ. Take Foreigner, for instance. In the Bay Area, you�ll hear either �Hot Blooded� or �Juke Box Hero.� In Philly, it�s �Head Games� every time. Also, in Philly, if you hear Aerosmith, it will be �Sweet Emotion� rather than �Walk This Way� or �Back in the Saddle.�
Speaking of the opposite of a time-saver, last night I got home from Target and opened one of my prescription bottles only to find that the pills in bottle look very different from the pills I usually take. This of course made me wonder whether a mistake had been made. I didn�t know what to do. So I went online and googled �pill identification,� and by using a tool that seems to be meant for parents who find pills in their children�s rooms I found that the pills I have are indeed what I think they are. But then I could not find a picture of the pills I�ve been taking until now under the same name. So have I been taking the wrong pills for years, and now I have the right ones, except that they won�t really be the right ones if the wrong ones have been working? It all made me feel paranoid and crazy. But perhaps they have a pill for that, too. Unfortunately, I have no idea how to identify that pill.
Today I had a bad day. I felt ill, and also sad, and a bit lonely, and even the beauty of my surroundings and the good class I taught made no difference. I just wanted to go to sleep. For a year. I think I might actually be ill. I almost vomited twice yesterday. But it is probably just my crazy allergic-to-the-world body trying to assimilate all the new plants. Or I�m being poisoned by the pharmacist at Target. Anyway, of one thing we can be certain: listening to the radio will never improve a mood as dire and deeply set as the one I was in earlier to day. You know what did help? The Loud Family, Days for Days.
Tomorrow, if I have the strength, I will return to the theme of the dog who recognizes Ulysses in disguise when none of the human beings who knew him see him for who he is� and discuss how human stupidity about matters of sense (rather than intellect, not that we aren�t stupid there, too) is related to our dismal record in ethics. If I have the strength. For now, some sleep.
11:33 p.m. - September 06, 2005
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