take me home

"almost heaven, west virginia"



The most total bullshit to ever open a song.

south by northwest

"but if their hearts were dying that fast, they'd have done the same as you ... might have done the same as you"



No less than four times a week do I employ the "run out the clock" strategy. That does not include Monday or Tuesday.

I use the phrase "run out the clock scenario" more often.

You've played ugly all game and you're struggling at 3-5 Illinois. You lead 14-9 with 2:32 left in the fourth quarter. The Illini have one time out left and you're at your own 23-yard line. It's first and ten. It's strictly a "Run. Out. The clock. Scenario." Take your knees and get the hell out of there. 74 East never looked better.

You'll hear boos and you may drop from No. 6 to No. 8 but it's mid-October. There is plenty of time to rebound.

It's a marathon not a sprint unless you're involved in a 100-meter dash.

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A "K" may be worth five points in Scrabble but I can't credit Death Cab for Cutie with a five or anything higher than a three for Narrow Stairs. They struck out with the effort.

What do you call the hottest girl in Cleveland? "Queen of the Fives."

One of the better songs on their weakest album is "Long Division." Midway not the airport through the song Ben Gibbard describes in passing the relationship of the couple in the song. He explains that they "carry on like long division," another in a storied career of stunning lyrics from the 35-year-old from northwest Washington state. I carry on like long division in my "Tuesday morning before work" routine. I meander from a bed I didn't make the night before to the shower that's low on hot water before a joyless session of brushing my teeth and not combing my hair.

The rest of the album save three or four songs feels like a "run out the clock scenario."

The slogan at Harry's Chocolate Shop on the campus of Purdue University in West Lafayette, Ind. is "Go Ugly Early." Death Cab heeded those words and went grizzly early inserting "Cath" as the album's fourth song. They stopped in after work for a few drinks and took home a girl from Cleveland at 6:17 p.m.

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Cath carries on like long division all the way to a marriage she does not want. The song includes examples of brilliant songwriting too many to recount. But for one line, the song would rank amongst my favorites. An anthem for those men who have both learned and accepted losing, "Cath" is my least favorite #DCFC song.

"No," I thought. "Oh no." My ears saw it coming upon first listen. I hadn't even used a Q-tip on that Tuesday morning.

"Don't do it, Ben. Don't do it."

Then it happened.

" .... But you said your vows and you closed the door on so many men, who would have loved you more."



Death Cab set the bar high in their previous decade so this cheapo lyric has always bothered me. It seems so forced. So pathetic. It's like having round-trip tickets anywhere in the world and flying to Roanoke, Va. Much like condoms pre-1990s television shows, they didn't even have to use it. It's just so un-DeathCabby.

The video for "Cath" also fucking sucks and is creepy.

While we can't say the same about Cath, "Cath" redeems itself with its closing lyric. To me, the song deals with the way so many women rush into marriage because they feel there is a clock ticking to quad zeros and they are running out of time. They're not. Their hearts "aren't dying fast." They have plenty of time to support a beating heart and pick up two or three bad habits like cocaine or something that actually would stop their beating hearts.

The songwriter, in this case a total pu--------pansy, makes a good point in the closing seconds and it stings. The audience at the wedding - they who employ the whispers that it won't last - likely would get married too ... to a man (or woman) they didn't love if their hearts were dying fast. No one's heart is dying that fast. Yet even in that case, the case of the dying heart, they "might" only get married to a guy with that haircut.

Luckily, Death Cab did not simply run out the clock in the final moments of this song even if Cath is destined to for the rest of her pre-divorced life.

Welcome to the eternal Tuesday morning, C. That will kill your heart.

smooth operator

" 'cause i can't read the number that you just gave me"



As someone whose writing far too heavily leans on parenthetical remarks, I perhaps am not in the right. Jim Croce's "Operator (That's Just the Way it Feels)" is burdened in its title with six unneeded words.

The fall of MTV is saddest to me because I miss the saddest part in each of my favorite videos. A few seconds into one of those three- or four-minute excuses to watch until the next commercial, small white font appears on the lower, left-hand corner of the screen letting you know the artist's name, the song title, the album name and the record company. Inclusion of the record company's name is akin to drink specials from 1 a.m. to 2 a.m. at a bar following a noon college football game. OK, I guess, but rather unnecessary.

MTV (and later other music video outlets albeit in different fonts) ran the same script right near the conclusion of the song. Hated that saddest part. Video almost over. This is where I learned of the word fat associated with the name of this particular slim Jim song.

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It's not my favorite song nor do I think it's the best song, but I just don't think there could be a better song.

"Operator" is timeless other than the line about a guy named "Ray" because we all know no one has been named "Ray" in at least 30 years.

Scholars and a few dudes on the Twitters recently have been arguing about whether Croce got the number of his former flame and his best, old ex-friend Ray (living in L.A.).

There are some things to keep in mind:

1. There is no way Oppa-rate-or could have used the information the Croce Monster gave him/her regarding the woman to dig up a phone number. No first name, no last name. No identifying tattoos or scars.

2. Had this song been recorded 39 years later, Croce could have just Facebook messaged her even IF she had unfriended him. It's unlikely she would have blocked him but females have been wont to do such nefarious onliney things.

3. Croce did get the number to their new pad in Los Angeles as mentioned in the bolded lyric at the top of this post.

4. The song leaves out the part where Croce mentions his best, old ex-friend Ray's last name. The Operator tracked down the number because of the information Croce supplied about the man his woman knew well and sometimes hated.

Doubting Thomases point to the chorus. They contend that the repeated use of "give me the number if you can find it" proves Croce never received the number his dime intended to provide. That's small-time thinking. It's the chorus of the song, peoples. By the second verse, it's clear Croce had the number. That discovery adds another layer of depth to the song. He has the number. Does he make the call?

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Most people remember Jim Croce from "Bad, Bad Leroy Brown" and that's a shame. Character songs are cool and all but the songs about the no-named characters are the one's with the names we remember.

The man's collection (which really only included two years of solid song making) deserves to be mentioned alongside the all-time greats. He died before he turned 31 in a plane crash in September 1973. You read that right. If you watched that video for the first time and didn't know much about him, how old would you have guessed JC to be in that orange shirt? 45? 42? 53? Try 29.

Speaking of that orange shirt, how fashionable is Jim Croce in the video ... by today's standards? I know plenty of 2011 guys who would rob, steal or change their name to "Rob" for that outfit. I think Trent is pretty much the worst name.

Maury Muehleisen (real name) died in the same plane crash and accompanies Croce in this song although his look between 2:07 and 2:11 of the video makes me think he might have written this song about Croce. #molestereyes

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Lying to one's self through song is a hallmark of modern music. While intrigue - the better looking, younger sister to mystery - is sexy, obvious is often more helpful. When the wall comes down and the songwriter *nod, nod, wink, wink* lets us know that his spoken words are complete bullshit, it makes us feel better as a listener. (i.e. Yeah, she was beautiful, but she don't mean a thing to me.) We like the way they lie.

However unlikely the scenario that Croce actually got the phone number, the story inside surprisingly is accurate and literal.

I've overcome the blow, I've learned to take it well --
I only wish my words could just convince myself
That it just wasn't real, but that's not the way it feels.
No, no, no, no -- that's not the way it feels.

A Jim Croce has moved on and the moment where he and this woman were no longer is not going to be a life-altering/defining moment for him but B it still hurts and nothing that he tells himself will make that love any less meaningful.

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The world is smaller today. That makes the music of yesterday so much larger. I'm certainly not the first to point it out but the music prior to the Seattle Seahawks arrival in the NFL is just better. Nothing that has been released in the 40 years since this song comes off sounding as real as this recording.

That's just the way it feels.

give up

"i will block the door like a goalie tending the net in the third quarter of a tied-game rivalry"



If most of us were to think of our respective Love Life playing a role in The Postal Service catalog, we all would want to star in "Clark Gable." We believe those words because we want to believe those words. We want the final word that never comes along with being unable to spend time with the person we most desire. We all want life in every word to the extent that it's absurd until we just want to "stay in" and "take it easy" on a Friday night after having a "tough week at work" [via frustrating co-workers].

While we believe in Rhett Butler, we know our love lives to be more similar to "Nothing Better."

"Nothing Better" reminds me of nearly all relationships I have had with females who I actively want to see naked whether or not she is engaged in an active activity.

Jen Wood sings female vocals on the track and delivers a stunning beatdown to the male protagonist.

I feel must interject here.
You're getting carried away feeling sorry for yourself,
with these revisions and gaps in history.
So let me help you remember,
I've made charts and graphs that should finally make it clear,
I've prepared a lecture on why I have to leave.

I have had the misfortune of falling for girls who took Honors English 10 during their sophomore year of high school. My girls didn't cheat in Calculus and studied in college. (Save two or three but they aren't reading this post because clicking on a Facebook link is too tough on their flip phone.)

Woods' verse sounds exactly like many of the speeches I have heard from ladies born in eighties. I like the girls who would say something like this and often do ... to me.

It's accurate, it's astute and it offers no wiggle room. Do not get your hopes up for an idealistic future with Jen. Your last words are unneeded. It's not happening.

Far less accurate is Ben Gibbard's claim that he will block the door like a goalie tending the net in the third quarter of a tied-game rivalry.

In American athletics, the following sports use a goalie:

- Soccer;
- Team handball;
- Field hockey;
- Ice hockey;
- Lacrosse;
- Water Polo; and
- Sometimes the vagina played by the woman herself or her less attractive drunk friend (could be male or female).

Of those listed, only lacrosse uses quarters. Field hockey, soccer and team handball are divided up into halves. Hockey uses three periods. Water polo is stretched into four segments of equal proportion but those are called periods instead of quarters because the only people who play water polo went to high school on a fictional television program called "The OC" and hence are not smart because they only were in class during filmings and mostly that was just when the teacher called on someone and they were unprepared or when the teacher called on someone "dumb" but that "dumb" person had this brilliant thought as those are the only two scenarios that ever happen inside a classroom on non-pay family cable.

I applaud Gibbard's efforts here, but comparing your love to playing goalie in a fucking LACROSSE game is probably why he got dumped in the first place.

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That Postal Service album reminds me of 2004, one of my favorite years. During the Michigan-Ohio State football game that November, I yelled "Name of the Postal Service album!" at the television in the closing moments of Ohio State's 37-21 win after my 17th beer at The Lazy Gecko and before leaving the bartender a $60 tip following a 72-second conversation with her that I am sure she cherishes to this day.

The name of the album is "Give Up." No one got it. It was just awful. My unproudest moments on a day that included getting kicked out of the Hard Rock Cafe for repeated use of really vulgar language near children ... before 6 p.m.

Give up is a funny phrase and a trickier happening. Giving up is simultaneously the easiest and most difficult thing to do in most of life's matters that truly matter. I read the previous sentence three times after writing it and hope that anyone who read this post remembers it.

Four years after my "Give Up" moment at the Lazy Gecko, I atoned for my sins in Chicago. John did not like his living arrangements and looked forward to moving out after his one-year lease. I said, "John, you should just hang a Greg Oden poster on your bedroom door to signify that you'll be 'one and done' in this apartment."

He immediately got it.

Translation: Greg Oden played one year at Ohio State before leaving for the NBA and bad knees. John left his roommates after one year.

One and done.


"The Oden Poster" has become a favorite saying of mine. Recalling a Little Bar-induced meeting with a young lady earlier this month to my buddy PK, I told PK, "I might as well have hung an Oden poster on her door when I left."

One and done.

Having an unlimited supply of Oden posters and carrying two around with me at all times is a life's goal of mine.

Me: "Tried some new get fries today at lunch."
Roommate: "Oden poster?"
Me: "Definitely not. They were excellent."

So what did Jen Wood give Ben Gibbard for Christmas prior to this song's recording?

An Oden poster.

the words just came out wrong

Lowercase headlines will be the a staple and likely the only one on my umpteenth experiment in blogging.

I think a lot about Facebook status updates and this will allow me to expand those thoughts that deservedly deserve far more likes and comments. The same four or five people comment on [censored after second thought and sixth reading fo' real]. If it were acceptable to update my Facebook nine times a day, I would do it. I have the time. I do not find many other people humorous and usually cringe when I read status updates. My stuff is just better and should be shared with the world at-524-friends large.

This blog will not feature long posts. Most will be short but written in a style similar to my previous effortings with lots of sentences and paragraphs beginning with "I."

Friday nights between 5 p.m. and 8 p.m. usually are spent watching hours (3 ... or 173 minutes to be exact) of old music videos on YouTube. I consider myself well-versed in most music genres from the late 1960s through the late 2000s and weller-versed at using the phrase "well-versed" to prove some sort of expertise. It's like, I said that so you knew that you could take this "words about songs" blog seriously despite me (intended typo) usual word antics and endless non-sequitors. I do not know how to play a single instrument or read one note of music. You can always tell whose parents never made them learn to play an instrument or attend piano lessons. We are the adults substituting fries for vegetables at restaurants.

Two songs inspired me to start this blog that I'll post on maybe five or six times before it languishes in online obscurity if there is such a place. I hope it's not as frustrating as driving behind someone who stops at yellow lights.

Those two songs are "Nothing Better" by The Postal Service and "Operator" by former Catholic and alive person Jim Croce.

Reader(s) can expect two to three posts a week. I hope to complete my first two on the aforementioned songs later this week. Those will offer more insight into the future of this blog than this post which basically is just an excuse to post that picture of Jesse Pinkman that I grayscaled for artistic reasons after feeling bad about that whole fries-for-veggies thing.

I'll let you know on a Facebook status update that will NOT count against my self-imposed two-per-day limit.