Less Change, Even Less Hope

A few weeks ago, when I learned of the National Defense Authorization Act of 2012, I made a fairly bold statement.  Of course, I did it via Twitter, so it was lost in a sea of dick and fart jokes, as well as updates like “making dinner and watching American Horror Story!” Suffice to say, it’s not like it hit the twitterscape…verse…osphere with the resounding hydrogen bomb-level explosion I’d hoped.

Hoarding Nostalgia

I am someone who doesn’t really like to throw things away.  Case in point: I have this old, beaten up messenger bag that has been with me since 2005.  I started using it regularly in 2006, and it basically became the thing I carried with me everywhere I went. I stuffed things into it, forced its buckles to snap shut - tore at it, dragged it through the rain, threw it, dropped it, scraped it against all manner of things.  Surprisingly, though I imagined myself carrying this messenger bag, which I began to call my “murse” throughout the streets of lower manhattan (and I did - my senior year at NYU), I mostly toted it with me in Northern NY - to and from work at this crappy little water park called the Enchanted Forest/Water Safari. No one even bothered to make fun of me, because they knew I didn’t care.  When I moved on to Columbus to attend The Ohio State University, the bag came with me.  I carried it with me everywhere.  It became rather threadbare.  It came with me still to Stony Brook, NY, to my first professional job.  It’s with me now in Montclair, NJ.

Don't Stop Believin': Unbelievably Popular after 29 Years

A distinct, if uninspired bass line, repeating piano chords, and a 20 second long intro are the way one of the most popular songs in the world begins.  When the lead singer’s voice begins to cry into the microphone, there is an almost barked quality to the performance, though the voice is nasally, and high pitched.  But it is an opening line that cuts across regions, countries, language barriers, and time.  Just try it some time.  If you drop a dime (realistically, a dollar) into a jukebox (or more likely, swipe your credit card through a digital rock-o-la at some club/lounge), and the din of conversation is too loud for people to pick up on the quiet, brooding intro, as soon as the vocals begin, everyone will be on the same page.  The song does not even need to be sung.  Speaking the lyrics results in a parroting back of the completion of the line.  As soon as it strikes it’s hum through the bar:

“JUST A SMALL TOWN GIRL…”

In the Rough: 2 Surprisingly Prescient Tiger jokes

I’ve been sort of forming this in my mind for a few weeks now, and I know this is what we in the biz call “late to the game.”  By “we in the biz” I of course mean not me in the journalism business.  Because this is just some weird blog with a name that’s not snarky enough to be a witty sports blog, and it’s not unironic enough to be an overindulgent personal e-journal.  Either way, I understand that this is coming out extremely late.

Awkward boy meets callous girl: “Nebraska” and “Some Girls Do” - A Multi Worlds Interpretation of Two Folk-Rock songs

Bruce Springsteen sat down in 1982 and wrote the haunting “Nebraska” album.  The album’s title track, “Nebraska”, was written about Charlie Starkweather, a man who, after meeting a young girl in Lincoln, Nebraska, went on a killing spree across the plains states.  Years later, a song called “Some Girls Do” would be released that bears similar themes and scenery, only exchanging the barren and haunting guitar and harmonica for a chuckle, aw-shucks, and pop-country hooks.  Allow me to elaborate.