I Am From...

I am from dreaming of roller-skating and a basketball hoop in a driveway I would never have.

I am from overdone fish sticks, crinkly-cut Ore-Ida French fries, and frozen mixed vegetables from a single mom too tired to make anything else...and loving every bite because I loved her.

I am from never feeling like I quite fit in to the dozen schools I attended before I was twelve; I am from latchkeys that let me into houses I could never call home. 

I am from a Commodore 64 that always sat on the C:\ prompt, eventually playing the embarrassingly inferior Space Crunchers while I desperately pined for Space Invaders, Donkey Kong, Dig Dug, and Ms. Pac Man.

I am from no father but a mother worth a million men or more.

I am from unity through diversity; I am from having the courage of your convictions and suffering the splintery consequences of riding the fence.

 

I am from racing horses bareback, speeding into sunsets looking for a love that would define or destroy me, but settling for nothing less.

I am from Wildcats, Salukis, Volunteers, Panthers, Redhawks and Raiders.  I am from never knowing the score but never once missing the games on Friday nights.

I am from “getting ready”; spending hours under the pretense of trying to look cute for cruising around parking lots, up to no good on a Saturday evening with my best friends.

I am from tingly hand-holding in dark theatres, a mouthful of cold air sparking in my teeth while kissing late on a Saturday night in a wintry cold parking lot, and the tickle of butterflies in the tummy for the love of a man I have searched for almost half of my life.

I am from being a jack of all trades, but a master of only one that I will never name.

I am from waiting—maybe not for marriage, but for when it would matter.

I am from university life:  diversity, multicultural education, identity, introspection, self-reflection, and social action.

I am from open minds, open hearts, open arms, and open mouths.

I am from nickel pitcher Tuesdays and hating cigarettes and the way they prey upon the vices of men, but open to the hypocrisy of the occasional social smoke because, damn, are they ever delicious.

I am from House Party, Heathers, Pretty in Pink, Dirty Dancing, Say Anything, Footloose, The Breakfast Club, Chasing Amy, and Reality Bites—all fragments of a fractured reflection of who I thought I was or might one day be. 

I am from being okay with being the not so small girl with the big heart; I am from never, ever being willing to return to the eating disorders that (for a short time) made me thin and "beautiful" on the outside, but sick and ugly on the inside. 

I am from a bowl of cereal in my jammies on the living room floor at dawn on a Saturday morning spent with my best friends  Tom & Jerry,  Smurfette, Strawberry Shortcake, Daffy Duck, and Foghorn Leghorn (turned way down low so my mom could sleep).

I am from worshipping my precious children as the golden apples that they are and the absolute joy in knowing that, without hesitation, I would happily lay my life down for their happiness.

I am from Philip Roth, William Faulkner, Vladimir Nabokov, Eudora Welty, Chuck Palahniuk, and John Irving.  Though I am from the Canterbury Tales and Piers Plowman, I am also from pride in my fervor for all things Stephen King.

I am from the belief that book snobs suck.  Movie and music snobs, too.  Life it too short not to love every moment you can.

I am from loving Pac and Biggie in equal measure…from being unashamed (and willing to lose a bit of credibility) to share my penchant for Digital Underground, Biz Markie, Hammer, and Ice (Cube, T, and Vanilla).

I am from Carole, Janis, Alanis, Tori, Fiona and Cheryl—chicks who flipped their fingers in the faces of those that cut them and cauterized their pain through the community of sisterhood and the power of the chords.

I am from Dylan and Young and Buckley and Cohen and Cobain and Vedder—I am from music being my family and these men being my fathers—supportive ones at that.  At least they were always there. 

I am from racing toward being a stupid teenage statistic at 88 miles an hour in an ‘88 Grand Prix down country roads with the windows down and my hair slicing into my eyes screaming music from Morrissey to Megadeth and never feeling more alive for the rest of my entire life than the way I did in those stolen seconds.

I am from carpe diem, because YOLO is for the lost and the lazy.  I am from loving Mr. Keating, crying “Oh Captain, my Captain”, and sucking the marrow from the bones of life.

I am from Freddy and Jason and Michael, the crappier and slashier the flick, the better…though I humbly bow at the altars of Fellini, Welles, Waters, Wright, Hughes, Scorsese, Smith, and the Coen brothers.

I am from Nickelodeon, The History Channel, VH1, CNN, BRAVO, and TLC.  I am from pre-VHS, but I am unafraid of DVR.

I am from The Giving Tree and the philosophy of Warm Fuzzies.  Take whatever you need from me; it is all I have to give.

 

I am from the religion of recognition; I am from the prescience that there may be nothing waiting on the other side...and from knowing that our only obligation in this life is to making the breaths that we take and the moments that we make matter more than anything that ever came before...

 

I am from a passion for educating and facilitating, for personal development and for making lifelong learning connections.  I am from never lying to you and always standing beside you.

I am from helping you to grow up, to grow into yourselves, to love life, and to leading the way by living it fully forever.

 

 

 

In Review: Elysium, “There's a notion I'd like to see buried: the ordinary person. Ridiculous. There is no ordinary person.”

“Heard joke once: Man goes to doctor. Says he's depressed. Says life seems harsh and cruel. Says he feels all alone in a threatening world where what lies ahead is vague and uncertain. Doctor says, "Treatment is simple. Great clown Pagliacci is in town tonight. Go and see him. That should pick you up." Man bursts into tears. Says, "But doctor...I am Pagliacci.”  

~Alan Moore, Watchmen   

To state that I have been in a place of self-absorption lately would be akin to saying that chocolate is delicious, driving fast is fun, and listening to loud music is cool—these are statements of inarguable accuracy and fact.

As my increasingly sassy ten year old daughter would say: “Duh.”

[While I’ve always enjoyed the rough waters in my inner seas of self-examination and ascribed to Socrates’ view of introspection as a means of self-rectification, the truth is, I’ve keep this obsessive compulsion to review my own head under a fairly tight rein—but, how does one create an online diary-blog…or, as I like to view it…a love letter to the world…WITHOUT bathing in the muddied waters of narcissism?]

Frankly, I’ve never been a terribly altruistic person—I try to live the best life possible, helping all that I can and spreading humor and hearts and flowers wherever I go, but honestly, if you look closely, most of the choices that I make that appear kind and noble have actually benefitted my life immensely:

Seriously.  I am kind and compassionate with wait staff because I know they deal with shitty attitudes all day and could use a little kindness—but also because I know I get better treatment and food that has not been inserted into their crotch before my consumption.

I am respectful and fun with my daughters’ friends because their monstrous behaviors indicate that they are not receiving adequate parenting at home and if I’m remotely kind and loving to them, perhaps they won’t steal shit from my house or go home and reveal to their parents the freakshow realities of my home, behind closed doors.    

I teach because I am really good at it, I adore working with the kids, and because I hope to make the world a little better for my children by helping make the world better for someone else’s children.

So, you see how most of the "upright" and "principled" actions I conduct are little more than personal needs coated in magnanimity.  I’m not proud of this fact; I am just trying to be candid.

I’ve recently seen a phenomenal film (twice) that twisted my conceptualization of good and bad, right and wrong—and sent my overly-introspective/self-absorbed ass on a journey with a bit of an embarrassing destination.  That film: "Elysium."  

For those unfamiliar, the Elysian Fields were believed by the ancient Greeks to be a place of utter bliss, harmony, and contentment—an afterlife reward for the decent and valiant.  Ironically, although Elysium was to be the final resting place of the good and the virtuous, its ruler was Hades, the god who was not inherently evil or cruel, but deeply feared and loathed by the Greeks because he fully exemplified the inexorable nature of death.   

Death and decay are everywhere in this film; "Elysium" is set in in the steam-punk ruins of a future Los Angeles that looks like something from a Trent Reznor video, in a world where the privileged have purchased their refuge from our burned and broken planet and are secreted safely and securely upon a glossy hub anchored in the sky above our scorched and sick minds and bodies.  Their mass exodus to a better standard of living taunts the denizens of earth with the health and wealth and opportunity only a nineteen minute shuttle ride away…if we were lucky enough to be a Citizen of Elysium, that is.

 

You see, simply being a human being or a native resident of earth affords no entrance to the harmony of Elysium—your only ticket to ride is encoded into a DNA tattoo that is scored into your flesh.  And lest you think that black market DNA stamps are all that would stand between you and the eternal happily ever after, be warned that the gates of this paradise are fiercely guarded by two of the most serenely vicious and uncompromising characters in recent cinematic history—Jodie Foster as the sublimely wintery Secretary Delacourt, and her mad merc-on-a-leash, Sharlto Copely as Agent Kruger.  Delacourt is hell-bent on totalitarian rule of her beloved utopia and Kruger is only too happy to bathe in the blood of anyone she directs him toward in her quest.  Delacourt’s strength upon Elysium depends wholly upon Kruger’s brutality upon Earth—and upon the digital prowess of the Elysium citizen who created the network of codes and armament that protects the Elysium Citizens from our filthy Earthling invasion, Carlyle, who is played with brilliant robotic indifference by William Fichtner. 

As if their clean, coiffed hair, silvery-white clothes, perfectly dermabraded skin, and lustrous abodes did not do enough to differentiate the haves from the have-nots in this film, the movie goes to great lengths to make it clear that upon Earth, we speak a mix of English and Spanish exclusively—but upon Elysium, the Citizens speak in strange and deeply affected English, occasionally lapsing into a charmingly fluent French…and, if ordering mass murder, perhaps even a touch of guttural German. 

Matt Damon plays Max Da Costa, the orphaned-ex-con-with-the-heart-of-gold archetype kind of role that usually goes to the Channing Tatums of the Hollywood food chain—but Damon handles the role deftly, with a quiet dignity and an emotional stoicism that most modern action stars simply could never convey.  Seriously.  Max Da Costa follows amiably along trails blazed by fellow reluctant fictional sons of heroic anarchy like Eric Draven, Thomas A. Anderson, and Tyler Durden.  [From “The Crow,” “The Matrix,” and “Fight Club,” respectively.  And, respectfully, if you didn’t already know that, why the fuck are you even reading this blog…?]

Without giving too much away, I will share that there is a glaring, ironic, and unavoidable disconnect in the fact that Max labors for scab wages, trying to earn his parole and his soul, in Carlyle’s company, Armadyne—the very defense factory that creates the machines and weapons that control, abuse, and enslave his people.  Consider yourselves warned: Be prepared to leave the theatre drenched in shame of capitalism and reeking of the stench of corporate greed.  A terrible thing happens to him on the way to work and a terrible thing happens to him when he is at work and…well, hell…spoiler alert: Max is given five days to live.

Now here is where that whole inner-conflict/ self-absorption issue came to bear for me.  Like most indulged, first-world inhabitants, I’ve played the “What if…” game a million times.  What would you do if you had no wife, no kids, no responsibilities, and you were given five days to live, your freedom, and a pint of potent painkillers?  The answer, for me, would likely never have been the path that Max takes—but his Darwinian prime-directive for survival demands that Max never lose hope as he drives himself to near-annihilation to exhaust every possible avenue for his own preservation…which means making his way to the healing medical “bays” that come standard to every Elysium home.  These medical bays are miraculous pod-like devices with the power to detect, analyze, and cure everything from leukemia to mending broken bones in less time than it takes to nuke a frozen dinner upon our planet.

How the story unfolds becomes complicated and weighted with the emotional gravitas of Max’s childhood friend, the beautiful Frey, played with solemn compassion by Alice Braga—the fellow soul whose place in Max’s youth he has tattooed upon his flesh and in his heart, based upon his childhood promise to one day take them both to the big miracle in the sky.  Without giving away more than would allow you to enjoy the film on your own, I will only say Max becomes the unenthusiastic courier of precious cargo that serves as his key to the Elysium kingdom, but Frey’s presence brings the burden of choice and consequence, hammering home the message of what, if anything, we owe to ourselves, our families, our friends, and our fellow man. 

I’ve read interviews where Damon, good-naturedly, reduces this film to a “summer popcorn flick”—but I’d venture so far as to say that he has deeply undersold the greater significance of this movie.  The only thing I can say, without giving away more than I already have, about my emotional and intellectual response to the conclusion of “Elysium” is that I have never felt more acutely aware of my personal privilege, nor have I ever felt more grief in a movie that had nothing to do with romance and everything to do with renovating a broken system to distribute all opportunities equally to all people.  I never thought I could weep, not once, but twice, at a story without relationships between lovers or heartache between broken souls—but Elysium awakened my love for principle and my heartache for my fellow man.

As the brilliant film “District 9” (both films were written and directed by Neill Blomkamp) was a parable for apartheid and mistreatment of immigrants, so “Elysium” becomes an analogy for the spoils of wealth, privilege, immigration, and health care reform—all neatly packaged in one hell of a kick-ass dystopian sci-fi narrative filled with action that was actually interesting.  (And this is no small thing and well worth noting, as I tend to zone out in elaborate action sequences, especially when cliché or overly lengthy.  “Elysium” struck the perfect balance of innovation and emotion in each of its carefully crafted fight sequences.)  This allegory translates to a personal journey for each viewer as we ponder what we would do to save those we love—as well as forcing the viewer to grapple with meatier issues like the basics of human rights (how do we define or uphold these for some but not all if, by definition, they are inalienable for all humankind?), constructs of social responsibility (do we even have it?) and more philosophical questions (like: “If everyone could be healthy and wealthy...why would that be special?” or “If everyone had universal access to excellent physical care, how would we control our population?”)

 

Between seeing the film for the first and the second time, I read that the earthbound slum scenes were filmed in dumps outside of Mexico City and that the scenes of the wealth and privilege of Elysium were filmed in Vancouver, Canada.  I wasn’t trying to draw any conclusions or cast aspersions in one direction or another based on this information, but you can be assured that I was gnawing on that bone throughout my second viewing.  As the lights came on in the cozy theatre where I had lain (yes, there were soft couches and blankets and pillows, oh my…), sipping vanilla Manhattans and noshing on shrimp and Caesar salad, it took me longer than the usual moment to adjust.  As I wiped away my tears for the second time in less than a month, my server—Hector—graciously folded my blanket for me and cleared away my glasses and dishes with a warm smile, inquiring if I’d enjoyed the film.

Indeed, Hector. 

(Sometimes even 20% will never, ever feel like enough.)

 

That's what SHE said: Summer Songs, 2013

“So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”

 

Mmm. 

The Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald’s infinitely quotable, timelessly devastating novel of undying love, obsession, idealism, disillusionment, and—ultimately—desolation and destruction, has been in the forefront of my mind for the entirety of this summer. 

Perhaps it is because I reread it this spring in preparation for teaching it to my juniors…perhaps it was seeing the completely decent Baz Luhrmann film adaptation…or, perhaps it is simply the fact that, once something gets under your skin, it lives within you for your whole life, even if dormant and invisible to your consciousness.

The quote above has haunted me this summer—spinning slowly in my head like a needle stuck on a scratchy old 33. 

Whether you like the magnificence of the novel or DiCaprio’s transformation into the inimitable, James Gatz, I sense that too few people really look beyond the parable of the gloss, the glamour, the decadence, and the indulgence of that obsessive love affair to actually examine the pathos of Gatsby’s quest for personal identification and place.

Me?  That’s about ALL I do any more. 

You see, during the long days of this unseasonably mild summer, I stared long and hard, darkly and deeply, into the eye of the abyss of memory—and I witnessed the wreckage from the collision of the identity we build within ourselves from the past and the reality of who we become today. 

I used to be the most sedate romantic…always half asleep in the past, drowsing on dreamy memories and feeding upon altered fantasies…but something changed in me this season.  Nothing profound, I suppose—we’re not talking a Kafka-esque metamorphosis or anything—but it was a molting, nonetheless.

In less than three short months, I haven’t become anything different…but I have let go of the pieces of myself that didn’t fit inside me any longer.  I’ve moved my base of operations from my heart to my head…and the romantic has humbly acquiesced to the dominance of the pragmatic I’ve kept leashed inside my brain.

People, perhaps this is common sense to you, but for me, it was revolutionary: I’d never given in to this kind of mental self-absorption before because I always thought it would be selfish and wrong to spend an inordinate amount of time this way—but now I get it.  If you take the time to sort your own shit out yourself, you’ll save others the trouble…and you’ll have more of the best of yourself to share with those who matter most to you.

Mind = blown.

I’m not sure to what I owe this transfiguration of my identity over this summer—that is, except to say that I believe that I have learned, laughed, and loved more in under ninety days over magnificent conversations with incredible people than I have in my entire life.  What’s more, instead of trying to lose my heart and myself in them (as the romantic in me might have once been inclined to do), I brought them all home inside my head and I chewed on them late into every night and wrote about them every morning. 

Hell.

And most people just went to Great America, The House of Mouse, or hung out by the pool this summer? 

Pfft.

What’s up with all my self-reflection, yo?  [There ain’t a lifeguard alive that would dive in to save me from the darkness I swim in up in my own head, y’all.]

The truth is, this summer I read less than I meant to and my television is covered in thick ropes of cobwebs… but I reconnected with old friends, made amazing new friends, and throughout it all, I listened to a shitton of great new music.  Sure, I kept plenty of Biggie and Jay-Z and Jack White and Radiohead around, but instead of spinning the same tired playlists of the past, I actively sought out some fresh new music to accompany my experience with personal growth this summer. 

After all, I suppose you could say that transformations and transitions have been the theme of the evolution.  I’ve told you before—every incident of my life has had a soundtrack.

 

You see, Gatsby (spoiler alert if you’re under eighteen—and if you are—stop reading this blog.  I am a filthy, deviant person and a terrible influence!) might have died drowning in that current racing toward the past—but the point was that the man was trying to swim forward toward that orgastic future.  He was desperately endeavoring to reconcile the weight of his past with the limitless future of his imagination—an admirable quest… and one I could wholly identify with. 

The music of my summer list is all about my efforts at emotional and mental transformation: not into something new—more about shedding that which has been holding me back.  In many respects, I am the same me I’ve always been inside…but I feel like, layer by layer, these songs have helped me to shrug off the pieces of me that were never more than shells of others’ expectations or shadows of past dreams, keeping me from reaching for anything more than the green light of a forgotten life.

I’ve spent a lot of time putting together a rather special list—I genuinely hope you’ll enjoy it and check out the songs I’ve shared, but, more importantly, I hope you’ll consider your own journeys and spend a little time giving yourself the opportunity to dream for your future and to release the stranglehold that the past may still have upon you.

 

 

1.) Lorde- “Royals”

The New Zealand native is sixteen years old and spits like a ghetto-fabulous baby Fiona Apple in the 21^st century.  “Royals” tops my summer song list because this is a no-bullshit anthem of adoration that disavows the trappings of our synthetic culture and brings back the rawest essence of true love: the ebb and flow of dominance and submission.

Lorde’s awareness of the artificial elements of the pre-packaged “romance” that surround her, coupled with her vow to remain unaffected by the soulless life that the contemporary culture is selling, is punctuated with each staccato snap of her fingers. 

My GOD, I can’t even imagine the confidence I might have had if only I’d had an anthem like this as a child—but, instead, I had Madonna selling me on the material world and inviting me to be a material girl. 

Thanks, Madge.

From the very first lines Lorde drops, “I’ve never seen a diamond in the flesh, I cut my teeth on wedding rings in the movies…” she crushed this song—and this song crushed me. 

Runner Up: Cayucas- “High School Lover” Hyper-sexy and super-cool, this quirky little song feels like an amped up dance anthem from the 60’s and evokes all the right elements of Weezer and Beck to make it one of my favorites of the summer. 

Lorde, "Royals" Video Link

 
 

  

 

2.) Arctic Monkeys- “Do I Wanna Know”

Fun fact: Every lady needs a song that immediately turns her into a high-class stripper.  (You know, unless she already IS a stripper.  I guess they might feel differently.)

But, seriously. 

Ask any woman and, if she’s honest (or you fan enough cash at her), she’ll tell you hers. 

It just so happens that this song is that song for me. 

[This fact has been catalogued as evidence: my daughter recently caught me on high-def video working my suburban mom ass overtime to it while loading the damn dishwasher to this jam.  With all due apologies, people, it’s just SO damn sexy I couldn’t help myself.)

I’ve liked the Arctic Monkeys for a while—their album, Whatever People Say I Am, That's What I'm Not, was in constant play in the latter part of the 2K’s for me…but the boys have matured.  It’s nice to see how much they’ve grown—and this song (with its ridiculous sexual energy) is not to be missed.  If you’re looking for the song so suck a face off with, look no further. 

What kills me most about this song is that, aside from its infinite level of lust—it’s a beautifully honest token laid in tribute to the desolation of being in love with someone who isn’t ready to receive what you’re offering.

[Ouchy. For reals.]

Look, let’s be honest:

I’m not exactly known for my subtlety, so allow me to use my bluntness for the greater good—

If by the time Alex Turner croons the line “…the nights were mainly made for saying things that you can't say tomorrow day…”, her panties are not on the floor, your game is seriously flawed, my friend. 

Take note.

Runner Up:  Thirty Seconds to Mars- “Up in the Air”  Jared Leto crying the words “I’ll wrap my hands around your neck so tight with love, love, love?”  Hell, YES.  Please and thank you.  Mmm.

Arctic Monkeys, "Do I Wanna Know" Video Link

 
 

3.) MS MR- “Hurricane”

Ladies?  Cover your ears for a moment.  I’ve gotta tell the guys something.  Go on…it’ll just take a second, I swear.  Thanks, girlfriend…

(Pssst.  Boys?  Can the girls hear me?  No? 

Then listen up:

Bitches be trippin’, my sweet friends. 

Seriously. 

They’d kill me if they knew I was telling you this, but damn it…we’re fucking crazy. 

We tell you one thing, mean another, and usually expect you to finish our sentences without having to speak them.  And even when we are being direct, we’re still nuts.  Perhaps it’s the millennia of subjugation to a misogynistic society that we’ve endured that predicated our mental decline…perhaps it’s our decades of overuse of hair products.  Whatever it is, our heads are wrecked. 

We don’t MEAN to be insane…we just ARE.  Up is down.  Left is right.  Right is wrong.  Oh, and while you’re at it, read our fucking minds. 

If you think I’m being disloyal to my own kind, just wait until you listen to Lizzy Plapinger’s apologetically velvety pleas to be seen and known and understood…set to the dreamy alternative sound of MS MR’s amazing song, “Hurricane”…she gives up far more of the ghosts inside our heads than you may ever be ready for, gentlemen.

But, please, be gentle, men... 

We might be crazy, but if you prick us…do we not bleed?

Stop pricking us, motherfuckers.

This shit writes itself.)

Alrighty, ladies!  Come on back!  I just finished telling the fellas how great the new MS MR song is…who wants a cosmo?  Damn girl, did you lose weight? I LOVE your hair, lady.  You look amaaaazing, ma.

Runner Up: Blondefire- “Waves” This song is so pretty, it lulls and romances you—though it never fully engages your head to connect to your heart.  You feel adrift upon the sea, slightly melancholy, but strangely unsure as to why.  Mindless summer bliss, like an icy-cool popsicle for your fevered summer brain.

MS MR, "Hurricane" Video Link

 
 

 

 

4.) The National- “Don’t Swallow the Cap”

While I am a lover of music of all varieties (with the exception of modern country…you’ve heard me say it before…we all know I think that shit sounds like bags of cats being smashed against spiked walls) I must admit that the paucity of lyrical aptitude is a bit disappointing in the typical contemporary song. 

Sometimes you get the musical styling, sometimes you get the vocalists, sometimes you get the great production—but, what’s delightful about The National is that you sacrifice nothing.  You get it all—coupled with some of the most poetic lyrics in modern music.

“Don’t Swallow the Cap” devastates me: Matt Berninger’s deep, wistful voice sing-talks me into the darkest corners of my own melancholy.  When he croons: “I have only two emotions, careful fear and dead devotion.  I can't get the balance right—throw my marbles in the fight” I scream inside—HOW?  How do you KNOW the madness in my head???

Some have said that poetry is dead; I’d like to think that I disagree.  At least with the music of The National, I feel like there’s still a beat in this old girl’s heart.

Runner Up: The National- “Cardinal Song” This isn’t a new song, but it is their most dreadfully personal for me—an exquisite ode to hungering for someone who will never hunger back for you—at least, not like you so desperately need them to.  “Cardinal Song” is immaculate perfection; only The National could bump The National on my list this summer.

The National, "Don't Swallow the Cap" Video Link

 

 

 

5.) Two Door Cinema Club- “Next Year”

Everyone needs a coulda-woulda-shoulda song—you know, the kind of song for those missed chances, those overlooked opportunities, for beating themselves up late at night as they are fighting to avoid picking up the phone and reaching out to that squandered someone.

This is that song.

This little folksy Irish group hits all the right notes for a nostalgic night walking down the darkened path you never took—where so much is left unsaid. 

As it should never be.

To quote the incomparable Charles Bukowski: “We are all going to die, all of us, what a circus!  That alone should make us love each other, but it doesn’t.  We are terrorized and flattened by our trivialities; we are eaten up by nothing!”  

Two Door Cinema Club approaches the emptiness of the human experiences in effervescent pop deliciousness—a startling and surprisingly palatable dichotomy.

Runner Up: Phoenix- “Trying to Be Cool”  Like “Next Year”, there is so much more going on under the breeziness of the beat.  “Trying to Be Cool” captures the desperate need so many of us bear to remain in apparent control as our hearts are bursting from our goddamn chests to be felt and recognized.  A damn fine song in every respect.

 Two Door Cinema Club, "Next Year" Video Link

 

 

 6.) The Neighbourhood- “Afraid”

Last year, my hyper-stylized-electro-rock-dance heartache song slot belonged to Alex Clare’s magnificent “Too Close” (a song that still rotates in my mix with alarming regularity), but this year, “Afraid”, by Cali alt-rock band The Neighbourhood is my speaker-blowing, subdivision-kid-scaring anthem of “FUCK YOU for not loving me BACK, MOTHERFUCKER!!!” 

Every summer needs this kind of song—and this one is a beauty.  Petulant lyrics, whiny vocals—everything you need to match a heart that has been bruised and feels like bruising someone back…even if just a little bit.

Runner Up: (TIE)  Kendrick Lamar- “Bitch, Don’t Kill My Vibe” and A$AP Rocky/ Skrillex/ Birdy Nam Nam-  “Wild for the Night” Both are smokin’ sexy as hell and bring the perfect George Clinton-tone of “I might cry two tears in a bucket—fuck it—let’s take it to the stage” to their odes  to independence of thought and mind and spirit and soul.  Both songs tell people you’re unleashable and to mind their own damn business and leave you to do you.  Grrr.  YES.

[I could easily list you five people whose throats I’d kill to shove these songs down right now…but Imma keep it classy.]

The Neighbourhood, "Afraid" Video Link

 

 

 

7.) Imagine Dragons- “Radioactive”

This is probably the most overplayed and throwaway song on my list—it’s about nothing and it means nothing to me...but damn, aurally, it just works. 

Much as it courses through my veins, I don’t really know a lot about music…but I do know what I like.

This song hits in all the right places for mindless listening pleasure—“Radioactive” was designed to make you turn up the volume, roll down the windows, and bang out the beat on your steering wheel on an early summer evening, you know?

(And yo, that muppet cage match video starring Lou Diamond Phillips?  Hell, YES—well worth the price of admission.)

Runner Up: The Lumineers- “Stubborn Love” Again, top 40 killed the radio edit song…but after the spectacular two minutes and forty three seconds of perfection that was “Ho Hey”, “Stubborn Love” is a lovely requiem to the wreckage of the human heart in love with that which cannot…or will not…love it in return.  Folksy and sweet and infinitely listenable.  Nummy, nummy heartache: I eatz it up.

Imagine Dragons, "Radioactive" Video Link

 

 

8.) The Limousines- “Love is a Dog From Hell”
 

This brand new song from the self-proclaimed “indietronica” band (DAFUQ? Is that seriously a thing now?) caught my eye the very first time I saw it come up on my Sirius satellite radio—after all, the title itself was taken directly from a Charles Bukowski (yes, him again) poem about the damage and debris of the human soul by love and loss and loneliness.

How could I not adore this song?  It was custom designed for a dying romantic trying desperately to remain rational in a sea of emotion and longing.  “Um, Mrs. E.L.?  Party of one…?”

You see, I have this incredible friend who has been dealt an extremely shitty hand in his life and, quite honestly, played a great game nonetheless…bluffing and calling, but never folding…and for this, I respect him immensely.  Sadly, however, despite his bravado, love has wrecked him in a way that has changed the composition of his emotional DNA. 

Not long ago, he decried his feelings and asserted that he had sworn off true emotion, choosing only to live in his head—and every time I hear this song, I think of him.  I do not judge his choices, his path is his own—but they do make me sadder than a tiny blog about summer music could ever fully explain. 

I get it, though…when you’ve aligned your heart with another and fused your soul to theirs, the devastation of its amputation leaves behind more than phantom pains and scar tissue…

But STILL.

God. 

The feels.

Go.  Don’t go.  Stay. Don’t stay. 

This song encapsulates every tic and twitch of both the advent and the impending demise of a love beyond reason and expectation…and its haunting simplicity catapulted it to the very top of songs that leave me stony and spaced, reeling in a derelict place of hunger and desire and torment in in my own head.

If Gatsby had had his own theme song, I absolutely guarantee that “Love is a Dog From Hell” would have been that song.    

Runner Up: Kodaline – “All I Want”  What’s that: ANOTHER new indie group?  Say it isn’t so…?  [Are they breeding amazing indie-rockers in a laboratory petri dish somewhere to keep the Lollapalooza pool stocked each year?  I mean, seriously?  I don’t get it.]  I digress:  I really do love this song—it’s whiny and haunting all at once…and the perfect prick of an antidote after a hard day of thinking (and avoiding feeling) to remind yourself that you’re still human and that your heart does, indeed, still bleed.  As it was MEANT to…

The Limousines, "Love is a Dog from Hell" Video Link

 

 

9.) Rhye- “Open”

Every song off of Rhye’s album, Woman, is beyond sensory, beyond sexy.  As a fan of the acutely carnal, haunting rhythms of “Shelter” by The XX or “Who Needs the Sunshine” from The Heavy, everything about what the Candadian-Danish duo (who could have foreseen THAT fusion coming?) create is sensually spellbinding.  “Open” is my favorite of the tracks—from the first pull of the bows across the strings and the intimate introduction of the brass, I’m down…but by the time Mike Milosh’s ultra-sexy, feminine voice slips into my head, I am GONE. 

There is a revelation that will occur between your head and your heart…and perhaps other regions of your body…and it will feel like a revolution when you surrender to an intimate experience like Rhye. 

[You may send me flowers the next day as a thank you. 

I like lilies. 

Roses are for romantics.]

Runner Up: Silversun Pickups- “Dots and Dashes”  Oh, LAWD, these breathlessly sexy summer songs with the tricky poetry will be the death of me.  There is nothing I could write about why this should be a top pick for the summer that it cannot say for itself:

“I'm already born…I'm already wise…I'm already worn… I'm already wondering what am I/ I'm already rough…I'm already lean…I'm already wanting to be obscene/ I'm already cursed…I'm already dry…I'm already wondering what am I/ I've already learned a bit of sin… Enough already, let me in…” 

Yes sir, right away sir. 

Rhye, "Open" Video Link

 

 

 

10.) Macklemore ft. Ryan Lewis- “Same Love”
 

Who doesn’t love a little Macklemore in their lives?  After “Thrift Shop”, the boy could write or rap anything and we’d have been on that Kool-Aid. 

So what does he choose to tackle for his follow up venture? 

Pimping bitches? 

Driving dirty?

Rolling with his homies?

Um, no. 

No, he does not.

Instead, young Master Haggerty releases a lovely ode calling for tolerance and understanding in an unforgiving world—a plaintive plea for people to put down their baggage, their preconceived notions, their prejudices…and to take up their eyes to look at one another for the beautiful, broken creatures that we all are.

Look, not to trample on political toes with a simple summer music blog, but DAMN: sometimes I look at the photos and posts and writings of people protesting equal rights and I am so hopelessly heartbroken that human creatures, who are so capable of glory and empathy, consciously choose paths of ignorance, defamation, and hatred based upon the doctrines of ancient texts.

“Same Love” addresses my weariness with living in such an unforgiving world—and when Mary Lambert’s mournful, lilting refrain hits…?  Goosebumps, plain and simple.  It’s not often that a song can ground you and lift your spirits all at once—but “Same Love” manages to achieve a genuine sense of empowerment.  And that video?  Oh, HELL.  Go get the tissues. 

You’re going to need them.

Runner Up: Macklemore- “Can’t Hold Us” At thirty years old, Macklemore isn’t a kid any longer—except in his heart, perhaps—so this is his frenetic tribute to the manic impregnability of youth and a delightful token for the young of heart.  No message rings truer in the ears of maligned youth than an elegy that cries: Fuck, yeah, I came from shit, but I sure as hell don’t have to stay here—watch me fly.

Macklemore, "Same Love" Video Link

 

 

 

11.) Mac Miller- “Goosebumpz”

Mac Miller has made my summer listening list three years running now…and this song, produced by LA DJ and master-wunderkind, Diplo, is simply another dope gem from the Pittsburg kid that won’t stop.  

Seriously, he is just so snappy and scrappy and I want to slap and hug him all at once. 

Be warned—this song is fillllllthy.  “Goosebumpz” is a dishonorable homage to wild women and those who ride in the fastest lanes; but Mac’s rhymes are tighter than ever and the chaotic horns and electronica lay a taut track for the ride. 

And it’s so funny: I DIE when he raps “when I die bet she fuck my hologram”… Mac Miller is so white he glows, but the little shit has balls of steel when he spits. 

He’s not Em and he’ll never be MCA, but damn, I cannot help but adore this guy.  “Goosebumpz” is the perfect dirty ditty for pissing off parents and impressing trashy girls with tans…you’ll forget it by the fall, but I’ll bet you two porn stars and a sports car that it’ll be a hella fun ride for today.

Runner Up: MIA- “Bring the Noize” The badass auteur with the heart of gold has been a consistent favorite in my listening rotation since her album Kala.  “Bring the Noize” hasn’t quite received the attention of the pop-culture-permeating “Paper Planes”—but give this manic little treasure a bit of time.  It’s saying a lot more than people may realize.

Mac Miller, "Goosebumpz" Video Link

 

 

 12.) Vampire Weekend - "Diane Young"

The NY group's songs always seem to holla "summer”… but the first single from their album Modern Vampires of the City is even more driving and effervescent than usual—and its quirky vocal effects, coupled with its hipster street-cred, will give it cause to be imitated by kids of all ages throughout the season.  “Diane Young” is simply a cool summer treat…eat it up before it melts.

Runner Up: (THREE-WAY-TIE) Fitz and the Tantrums- “Out of My League” and 1975- “Chocolate” and Atlas Genius- “If So”  All three songs have been in regular play along my summer journey of self-actualization and have the same kind of crazy-awesome summer vibe that buoyed Vampire Weekend to the top of my song choices.  All are delectable…all are forgettable.  Again, my best suggestion?  Eat ‘em up before they expire.  Summer music is known for having a short shelf-life.

Vampire Weekend, "Diane Young" Video Link

 

Your summer bonus—

W. Somerset Maugham once wrote that it was his belief that “…there existed hardly anyone whose sexual life, if it were broadcast, would not fill the world at large with surprise and horror.”

Apparently, a lot of musicians bank on this premise.

With the exception of my occasional co-blogger brother-from-another-mother, The Suburban Acrobat, I try to be the only trick in town for you when I write…hence why I tried to avoid the obvious and keep the shit on mah list fresh for y’all.  After all, if you can get it everywhere else, why in the world would you come here, right?  (Metaphorz, dawg.  I haz them.) 

But these two were unavoidable nuggets of summer sex goodness…and so I give to you:

 

Daft Punk- “Get Lucky” and Robin Thicke- “Blurred Lines”

WHY?

Because:

A.) Both are sexy af.

B.) Both have Pharrell.

C.) Both make errybody wanna get busy with errybody

 

 

—so, despite the fact that you couldn’t hide from these songs even if you cryogenically froze yourself (c’mon…you just KNOW they’d play them in the hyperbaric chamber portion of the process), give in to them and get laid already.  That is their functional design, after all…

What’s that, honey? 

You wanted a good girl? 

You got her right here, bae…hey, hey, hey. 

And she’s up all night for good fun…

 

(OMFG.  WHY didn’t I see this before?)

 

Please, if there be a higher power, I invoke thee:

 

MASH-UP. 

 

That is all. 

 

Amen.

 

Happy summering, errybody. 

 

Mad love and music, lovers.  Make it all matter...I know I'm trying to.

“Every time I write something, I think, this is the most offensive thing I will ever write. But no. I always surprise myself.”  ~Chuck Palahniuk