Meat Hunter

If you haven't heard the term "meat hunter" before—and even if you have, because I know how you people think, and it can be a wee bit warpy—it means simply this: a hunter who's purpose in partaking of the predator/prey process is, entirely or primarily, to consume the hunted. While the term doesn't carry an obligatory negative connotation, it's my opinion that those who consider themselves "true sportsmen" (regardless of gender), more often than not look down upon the lowly meat hunter.

I could get into the ethics and philosophy of the various factions of hunting fans—and I would have a good time doing that, too—and from my general and blather by-product-specific perspectives, I can understand virtually any hunting style—with the notable exception of trophy-hunting—but again, that's not exactly related to my point.

A "sportsman" will be the first to tell you that hunting is about more than meat. There is a spirituality to it, though it varies on just as many levels as any other spirituality, from the deep and devotional followers who live in constant anticipation of their next, profoundly sacred pilgrimage, to the casual, weekend-worshipper whose interest is evenly divided between getting out of routine household chores and the somewhat-droning sermon at hand.

Thus, the True Sportsmen tend to disdain—to some degree—the Meat Hunters. Even if the meat hunter might tremble with the same fervor that the true sportsmen experiences from time to time, they are not the same, for the meat hunters will not make an effort if to for the fact that they intend to eat what they kill ... they are less likely to seek new sites, pursue new game, or pass up on a Sure Thing for the chance at a Maybe Bigger.

As a (lapsed) meat hunter who lives with a true sportsman, I am very well aware of the distinct differences in our philosophies. I no longer choose to partake of the (often dubious) "thrill" of the hunt when faced with inclement weather, or an increased density of hunters in the field, or even an increased fee for a license. I do not have so great a need to hunt that I see a fair exchange in my comfort—and hours of sleep—for a chance to stalk wild game in the great outdoors, as opposed to Little Girl's daddy, who will happily make do on three hours of sleep during turkey season, for example. As for me, well, I no longer concede that wild turkey tastes THAT much better than an on-sale Butterball®.

Of course, neither does Little Girl's daddy, for the opportunity to put meat on the table was never his primary motivator in hunting. While we both enjoy the rawness of nature and the challenge of providing food in the very basic sense of such a venture, to me, it's more of a necessary evil than a way of life. I do not enjoy practicing the necessary techniques and calls, and I certainly do not savor the expense of time and energy involved.

No, when I hunted—mainly pheasant and pronghorn antelope, and all of it in Wyoming—I hunted for food: for the ability to take my necessary ingestion of calories all the way from the field to the dinner table, getting my own hands dirty and, in so doing, acquiring complete and total understanding of what it took to put a steak on my plate. There was no hiding behind a plastic tray, neatly wrapped in cellophane and presented with the clean, gloved hands of a grocery-store butcher ... not at all. There was sweat, there were tears, and there was blood—the sight of it, the scent of it, and the slowly-cooling warmth of it.

As it should be for everyone who chooses to eat meat, I think, but I was not going to go there, was I? :)

Musically, I make a more enthusiastic meat hunter than I did with respect to wild game—I don't mind investing my time at Amazon, listening to samples and comparing notes. I don't mind the discomfort (and the chair that sits before the computer can only dream of rivaling the lousier goose blinds I've had the distinct displeasure of crouching in, I'll have you know), or the effort of tracking down a snippet I've heard on the Internet or radio (ask me about the time I got enthralled with a defunct band called Shun). I do what I have to in order to procure music that moves me, and I do it with the single-minded focus of the dedicated religious zealot.

However, while I can wax poetic and go off and on and on and on about my favorite styles or qualities or songs, I cannot discuss it with knowledge so much as I can with instinct, and I cannot analyze it with surety born of intellect so much as heart.

In other words, dear musical sportsmen, I can savor the steak or the hamburger just as much as you can, but I can't tell you if the beast was corn or grass fed. I like what I like, but I don't like it because of the notes of flavor that are well-understood by the musically-literate ... I like it because it feeds me, fills me, and nourishes me. All of which are excellent reasons for liking music, but none of which will place me in the haloed spotlight streaming out of the clouds of expertdom and thus make me look and sound like I know what the heck I'm talking about.

I thought I'd mentioned it before, but as my search of the archives has not turned it up, perhaps I have not: I once attended a presentation by my old graduate school compatriot, The Professor (this professor, not this professor, whose excellent-metal acquaintance I made much later) that addressed, in very technically impressive terms, The Physics of Music. I was never so good at The Physics as I was at The Math (or even the Chemistry, which makes it all the more ridiculous that I went after The Physics in graduate school), but I may never have been so in love with The Physics as I was that day, when The Professor—a double-major in physics and music—dissected, with deep and adoring abandon, the conjugal relations of the two.

I don't remember the details, but I remember the surprised thrall in the room, and we were (the lot of us) rapt, which was particularly remarkable because we all hated the class—a torturous, required course that was intended to improve our largely limited instructing abilities—so that we might better serve as Graduate Teaching Slaves Assistants. When The Professor took his turn on the assignment that included a real, live presentation, though, we all forgot about the annoying course instructor—whose favored disturbing habit was quoting HIMSELF to us for our edification, or maybe just to piss us off—and we basically just tried to keep up.

The Physics, as it pertains to music, you see, is freaking AMAZING!

And when it was over, and The Professor's praises were being sung in off-key but ravingly-enthusiastic tones by He Who Quoteth HisSelf, I remember my own awed and congratulatory response. I also remember knowing that I would never really understand that which I had just heard ... I knew it with absolute and profound certainty, too, because I knew it with my HEART—yet another supporting fact behind the "never really understand" feeling, 'cause if my head HAD been capable of wrapping around it, I would have had at least a little glimmer of "a-HA!" to go with my embossed impression and glittery amazement.

The true sportsman—of game or music—may find it hard to imagine (and sometimes, to accept), but I think that there are those among us meat hunters who are able to nurture our spirits simultaneous to nourishing our bodies. But given the physical reaction that I have to certain songs and specific musical phrases, it's blatantly obvious to me that even though my taste may be deemed hamburger-chic by the musical elite, my soul's savoring it with the same worshipful reverence as if it were tenderloin.

Now if you'll excuse me, all this babbling has made me awfully hungry ...

It's the End of the Year as We Know It (and I Feel Fine)

I am not a fan of New Year's Eve, or New Year's Day, for that matter. This is not surprising, I suppose, for someone of my inherently introspective pessimistic nature: where some see the bright promise of a brand new year, I see another 365—in this case, 366! oh joy!—days of screw-ups, difficulties, and stressors.

It's not that I'm unaware of the fact that there will be many positives blossoming amongst the negatives, but simply that I'm so much better at spotting the underbelly of depression than the shiny topcoat of happiness. It's like I have Glum-O-Vision™ spectacles permanently affixed to my head and it takes some sort of weird contortion and/or eyestrain to see around their gray borders.

For example, take the Old year here (yes, PLEASE take it). Do I consider the bright beauty of watching Little Girl learn to swim, conquering an incredibly debilitating fear of the water? Do I rejoice in my success at my 20th high school reunion, wherein I was twice told I was beautiful by a member of the old "in" crowd and also handed a glass of my very favorite beverage in the world by a now-doctor? Do I recollect the great fund-raising successes of the two team efforts I organized, the difficult project I successfully completed, the new job I acquired, the happiness of friends that I shared (The ListMaker and Huggy Bear are HAVING A BABY!), the novel that I started writing, the caption contest I won, the parties I attended, or even the music that I listened to?

No, I do not. Not at first, anyway, and not without substantial effort and an embarrassing amount of time and hmming.

Instead, when I think of 2007, what springs to MY demented mind is that I was laid off from a job I wasn't even fond of. That I got depressed and quit blogging for six weeks. That I put my foot down and ended what was left of a once-marvelous friendship. That I gained 30 pounds. And this list, I could continue almost without thinking, and at such length so as to rival the longest piece of drivel I've ever produced here. Which, incidentally, I believe is this one. No, wait ... it's this one, and it's actually quite good! But I digress.

I've actually tried a multitude of times to get over my anti-New-Year nature. I've researched various and sundry ways in which New Year's is celebrated, being particularly attracted to every silly little "good luck" ritual out there, including some that are described in comic strips. One of my fondest such activities was the penny-tossing; I've long since lost the link, but the idea is to take a penny marked with the old year's date, and at the very stroke of midnight on the new year, chuck the old penny out the door, as far as you can hurl it, thereby casting out all the "bad" of the old year.

(The ListMaker may not recollect it, but I found her verbal enhancement of the ritual quite inspiring, as she LOUDLY ordered, "BAD SHIT! GO AWAY!" Or something like that; I was drinking a lot, too.)

Anyway, suffice to say that while it was fun to toss the penny, interesting to "leap" into the new year, and enjoyable to try to bond all color varieties of good luck to me by virtue of donning a brand-new, rainbow-hued thong, none of these "traditions" have lasted as long as the one I adopted in my teen years, wherein I stayed up, alone, listening to the "Top 40" countdown of popular songs from the past year. For, while I've long since—and very snottily—abandoned pop music, I continue to spend the majority of the evening alone, as Little Girl and her daddy tend not to last much past 10:00, despite repeated vows to do so. And neither one of them wakes up well, even when they specifically direct me to render them conscious in the event that they should somehow, however unlikely, wind up snoring as they ALWAYS FREAKING DO.

*ahem*

So this year, I do believe I will give in to Fate, such as it is, at least insofar as aloneness and music are concerned. If it is to be, so be it, I say, but this time, I will be listening to all-new, specially-ordered METAL by Wintersun and Agalloch, so it's going to be a giant step up from the "top 40."

Happy New Year! With lots of bass and maybe just a little screaming. ;)

More Than a Feeling

Editing the blurb I babbled about my keepsake color reminded me of the time I took the writing prompt about describing something while specifically focusing on just two of the five senses and ran straight to my beloved heavy, heavy metal. But it occurred to me this morning while running—like I need more time to be alone with my impending doom of a thought-storm, d'oh!—that while I've certainly written bunches of stuff about how death metal affects me, it's most often about how it makes me feel and not about how it my senses are fully involved in the process of converting music to emotion.

Hell, I'm not entirely certain that I've ever composed a proper metal tribute "hearing" at all, and I've probably only skimmed the surface of "touch," too. And while I'm certainly not one of those rare people who can physically SEE music—I get a harsh red flaming flush of envy just thinking about how incredible that must be—I do have moments where I can almost see a song materialize visually out of the invisible auditory realm. And I can inhale the barest whispers of the scent, and I can feel my mouth watering for the taste of it.

Of course, it's hard to type with all that going on, but what the hell—I'll give it a shot. I'll be using "Day of Your Beliefs" by Amorphis for my inspiration this morning:

The soft, melodic introduction appears as a gentle mist that rises after a spring rain. It's rich and filling, like cheesecake, but unlike cheesecake—so often served at the end of a fabulous meal—I know that there's something more and better yet to come. It smells like rain, too, but rather than a post-rain scent, it's the somewhat subtle, lightly electric odor that precedes an unexpected storm, building gradually but quickly, and heralding the end of a long drought.

Just before you expect it to, it strikes. The wind-like touch of the song on my skin is deeper than the caress of a breeze, but falls short of the slap of a dangerous maelstrom—it's the perfect thrill of the perfect storm, washing the sweat-stench out of the air and replacing it with crisp lightness.

And it's bright! It's bright like a fresh-struck match, stunning and unexpected, and flaring for too brief of a time. The smell is that of a match, too. There's a hint of sulfur—unpleasant to be sure—but I am reminded by that smell that without that combustible chemical, the light and warmth of the match is not possible. The clean burn of the wood beyond the match is a soothing smell, like a summer campfire surrounded by friends, and it blends with the initial sting of the scent, filling, too, in its own way.

The flavor is unbearably sweet to me, with tartness carried over the layers of melodious and proudly declarative guitar right onto the tangy topping of the lyrics, blending in harmony that even a musical illiterate like myself can read. I long so strongly to be a part of the song that I join in despite the fact that my voice is better suited to silence than singing.

And I feel like I am, for the alarming, unfair brevity of the lightning flash and the scent of sulfur and the sound of the transitional burst of power, incorporated into music, transported beyond my body and my very being, and inexplicably elevated beyond my feeble senses ... all by the very sounds that I know are struggling to break free of their single sense into the realm of the other four, or even more.

I sometimes cry when it's over, and the lingering warmth and salty taste and foundation-streaking, brazen emptiness of the void that the music filled is the last thing I hear before the painful silence of the ordinary world pulls me back into it.

Precious Metal

Perhaps the most wonderful thing—and certainly the most unexpected—that happened at my 20th high school reunion that occurred just a few weeks ago was the shocking discovery of a musically kindred spirit. If you don't already know, I am an anomaly among everyone I know—with the exception of one largely uncommunicative former coworker who lives about two hours away but nonetheless trades metalishious tips and suggestions with me about once a year—I like heavy metal music; the heavier the better, and the best being melodic death metal.

Now, I know I've mentioned this specific, subgenre of traditional death metal before, but since 1) it was only very recently that I discovered there was actually a real classification for that which has heretofore been known unto me and my friends simply as "that stuff wyo likes" and 2) past experience has conditioned me to the fact that pretty much nobody cares that much, as they associate my ultimate favorite style of music with screaming, raging depression—given that most of these people have no difficulty laughing their asses off at black humor, you'd think they could make the leap to how death metal might be uplifting, too, but NOOOOOOO—I rarely introduce the specifics anymore.

However, because I had need of a means of summarizing my taste in music for the reunion booklet whose questionnaire I had designed (d'oh!), I went poking around on Wikipedia, which is where I found THE TERM. And so, when Harmony and I discovered our mutual musical passion by way of a beautiful, album-cover-inspired tattoo across her lower back—a memorial to her father—we hugged and laughed and jumped up and down in our happy shock! For although Harmony's husband shared her taste in music—indeed, because he was a musician, he had even made such music himself—she, like me, had no friends who could relate to her preferred "poison."

So she and I exchanged a barrage of e-mails starting that very next day, and she invited me to her home to view her husband's very extensive collection of death metal CDs, including an incredibly grand array of such that were classified as MELODIC DEATH METAL—in fact, Harmony's favorite band, Sentenced, was my second favorite, and my favorite, In Flames, was her second fav. And so, as I gazed longingly at the wall-to-wall musical banquet before me—doing everything but actually drooling on the floor in my daze—and Harmony pointed out, with perfect understanding, those that would thrill me the very most and THEN mentioned that she'd asked her husband to compile a small sampler for me, I practically fell right the hell over ... especially since I was visiting Harmony a mere week after the decidedly UNpleasant shock of being laid off. With that simple, sweet musical gift, I was pleasantly and surprisingly transported into another realm entirely, FAR beyond the depressing world of unemployment.

And when, on my second visit to Harmony's home, she presented me with not one, not two, but THREE CDs chock full of a song or two from what must surely be near or even over TWO. DOZEN. metal-making musicians, I was beyond thrilled. Again! This time, I'd arrived straight from discovering—after I'd worked so hard to psyche myself up for my last visit to my ex-employer—that they'd not only neglected to inform me that they could auto-deposit my last paycheck, but had gone and done so despite the fact that they'd also informed me that I could pick up my check in person in order to safely deposit in in the very nick of time to pay my mortgage (and BIG thanks to the person who suggested I call my bank—you know who you are, or you WOULD, if your read my blog—before heading over to my ex-employer's establishment). Harmony brightened my day substantially, and after a great little chat, I left with the tunes of Amorphis—a band I'd never even heard of before, but will definitely be hearing more of in the future—blaring in chill-inducing glory out the open windows of my car.

Because Harmony's husband had neatly alphabetically organized all of the bands he'd sampled for me on the three CDs, and included their countries of origin, I am not only having a blast—figuratively and auditorally—going through them all, but I'm also able to instantly see that those Scandinavians really, truly, make some SERIOUSLY amazing music. I guess living in the land of ice, snow, and very long winters' nights makes for some heavy musical creativity, among some major seasonal depression. Uh huh. I can relate!

So in addition to this little blurb, you can—because I haven't even finished the first CD of luscious, melodic metalness—undoubtedly expect more and more musical interludes in the weeks and months to follow. Which might not be your cup of metal-infused expresso, but hey, at least it's better than another post on how much I loathe being unexpectedly unemployed!

All I Want For Christmas

You would think I had learned my lesson—or maybe you know me, and therefore you wouldn't think any such thing—from all the magazine-reading fiascos I had in October (Perfectly Contradictory, Physics in Hell, and Thanks for Understanding) and November (Still Not Getting It), but NO, by golly, I have NOT GOT THAT MUCH SENSE IN ME, and thank goodness, or I would've missed what might possibly be THE single greatest technological invention EVER. Although I am obviously not so much up on techie innovations, because if I didn't realize this one existed, clearly I don't know what else is out there, too. It might be something EVEN. BETTER. Though I can't quite imagine how.

Anyway, there I was on Thanksgiving Day, perusing a bunch of old magazines and ripping pages out of them for eventual inclusion in my dusty three-ring binder. I should probably explain—or maybe not—that I do try to make the most of my magazine-reading experiences, and therefore after I've finished with a mag, I remove any pages that I think might actually be useful to me in the future that never arrives, three-ring-hole-punch them, and file them into a binder that is neatly organized by category, including (but not limited to) quick fitness routines, workout suggestions, recipes, beauty tips, and general health information.

The problem is, of course, that I'm about four years behind on this project. Plus, I'm not sure I've ever used my binder as intended, except for sporadically attacking the recipe section. But that's all about to change, along with my meditation and Bible-reading "plans" that have thus far only masqueraded as habits. Of course, I've not only said this all before, but BlogWorld has HEARD it all before, so what's to say this time is going to be any different?

(That's a rhetorical question, and I totally digress.)

Anyway, there I was, looking for something—ANYthing—to rip out of the May '06 issue of Marie Claire, which I have NO IDEA why I had at all, unless that was around about the time I was looking for a new 'do (umm, nope, that was in September) and lo and behold, I came across an article intriguingly entitled "ORGASM SECRETS YOU HAVEN'T HEARD." Which might even explain why I bought the magazine, right? Except that this tantalizing little eight-point exposé was stuck deep in the inner bowels of the magazine, and thus highly unlikely to catch my impulse-buy-aisle wandering eye.

I quickly scanned the section, because I'm THAT kind of person, and initially, it didn't do much for me. I mean, really: "1 GET COMPETITIVE?" Sorry, but signing up for 5K race is not so much my idea of a turn-on as it is my idea of a turn OFF. No doubt this does float the proverbial boat of some folks, and as much as "Merely anticipating a competition triggers a 24-percent boost in testosterone for women," I think I would get more out of putting a stalk on the nearest chocolate bar than trying to ramp up my horny-boy hormones to, in turn, fire up my Southern-belle-languishing libido (by an equivalent 24%? not sure; the article didn't say).

Suffice to say, I was ready to turn the page already but sheer stubbornness forced me to read all eight paragraphical points, just in case there might be that single, beautiful, FLASH of orgasmic enlightenment hidden therein, and THEN I GOT TO NUMBER SIX: "6 RECHARGE YOUR BATTERIES," which concluded as follows, "If you're tech-friendly, try the iBuzz, a vibrating "bullet" attachment that plugs into your MP3 player and stimulates you in time to your favorite tantalizing tunes."

*pauses to let the full implications of this technological wonder sink in to the snickering reading audience's minds*

Now, seriously. HOW FREAKING GREAT IS THAT IDEA? But I have to wonder how the worker-bee who came up with it proposed it to his or her boss:

"Hey, Boss! I have the BEST idea for an MP3-player attachment! It looks like ... well, it ... it translates the music into vibration and ... umm ... here, let me draw you a picture ... uhhhhhh ..."

Or, if it was the boss's idea, how s/he tossed it out to Product Development without TOTALLY coming off as harassing? And how Product Development passed it off to Testing? I mean, what sort of scenarios would you have to come up with to put THAT puppy through its paces? Obviously, you'd have to try it out with "Bolero," right? I mean, it's redundant as all hell, but it IS a sexy song. But where do you go from there?

Personally, I would go straight to a compilation I worked on with McCoy—but that we never actually put all together on one CD—of "Naughty Songs," not so much because they're particularly moving, but because they're NAUGHTY.

Here it is:

• "You Shook Me (All Night Long)" (AC/DC)
  
• "Love In An Elevator" (Aerosmith)
  
• "Pink" (Aerosmith)
  
• "Pour Some Sugar On Me" (Def Leppard)
  
• "I Touch Myself" (Divinyls)
  
• "Paradise by the Dashboard Light" (Meatloaf)
  
• "I Want Your Sex" (George Michael)
  
• "She Goes Down" (Motley Crue)
  
• "Talk Dirty To Me" (Poison)
  
• "Tease Me, Please Me" (Scorpions)
  
• "Finish What Ya Started" (Van Halen)
  
• "Cherry Pie" (Warrant)
  
• "Slide It In" (Whitesnake)
  
• "Slow An' Easy" (Whitesnake)
  
• "Pearl Necklace" (ZZ Top)
  
• "Woke Up With Wood" (ZZ Top)

Nominations from other friends for the Naughty PlayList include the following:

• "Big Balls" (AC/DC)
  
• "If You See Kay" (April Wine)
  
• "She Bop" (Cindy Lauper)
  
• "I Wanna Sex You Up" (Color Me Bad)
  
• "I Wanna Touch You" (Def Leppard)
  
• "Come On Eileen" (Dexy's Midnight Runners)
  
• "Sugar Walls" (Sheena Easton)
  
• "Stacy's Mom" (Fountains of Wayne)
  
• "Relax" (Frankie Goes To Hollywood)
  
• "All I Wanna Do Is Make Love To You" (Heart)
  
• "Rebel Yell" (Billy Idol)
  
• "She Bangs" (Ricky Martin)
  
• "Your Body Is A Wonderland" (John Mayer)
  
• "Let's Get Physical" (Olivia Newton John)
  
• "H.W.C." (Liz Phair)
  
• "Dance, Music, Sex, Romance" (Prince)
  
• "Darling Nicki" (Prince)
  
• "Erotic City" (Prince)
  
• "Get Off" (Prince)
  
• "Let's Pretend We're Married" (Prince)
  
• "Sex In The Summer" (Prince)
  
• "Sexy M.F." (Prince)
  
• "Let's Talk About Sex" (Salt n Pepa)
  
• "Bedsitter" (Softcell)
  
• "Tainted Love" (Softcell)
  
• "The Stroke" (Billy Squire)
  
• "Everybody Wang Chung Tonight" (Wang Chung)
  
• "Maggie May" (Rod Stewart)
  
• "Tonight's The Night" (Rod Stewart)
  
• "I'm Turning Japanese" (The Vapors)

Actually, if there was ever ANYthing that AC/DC, Prince, or ZZ Top did that was NOT innuendo-laden, I'd like to know about it. ESPECIALLY ZZTop. Or maybe I wouldn't, 'cause it would crush my illusions about JUST HOW TWISTED THEY REALLY ARE.

Despite seriousness of tone in this particular missive, I am not really including the iBuzz on my request letter to Santa this year. Not that I'd turn such a gift DOWN, you understand, but I should probably upgrade my current MP3-player before I start accessorizing it, because it's a bit short on memory—not unlike me, actually—and I'm thinking that once I have an iBuzz of my very own, I'll want to play music All. Day. EVERY. Day. *evil grin* And as fun as that might be, it wouldn't pay the bills, so ... alas. (But maybe next year?!)

Meanwhile, please feel free to submit more Naughty Songs! I'd like to get the list as complete and up-to-date as possible.

Just in case.

Finding My Music

Because Halloween is near enough to my birthday as nevermind, and because it necessarily involves a somewhat lengthy jaunt to a Really Big City (for the Most Excellent Annual Halloween Bash EVER, courtesy of X-Man and his Lovely Wife, whose birthday is even closer to Halloween than mine, albeit on the "other side" of the holiday), there's always the possibility that pre-Halloween travels might include a pit stop at a music store with a larger selection than those in my immediate vicinity, and which I can indulge my cravings for NEW METAL without the typical guilt associated with such senseless frivolity.

All of which is to say, sometimes around Halloween, I go shopping for new music, and justify the cost based on the fact that "it's my birthday, it's my birthday!"

So there I was, in a big-ass shopping district with The ListMaker and her Lovely Boyfriend, and upon the horizon of our intended stops—I was still on the quest for a decent bra, but that's a whole 'nother story, The ListMaker required some nylons, and her Lovely Boyfriend needed a tie—there did appear a rather large Music Store.

"I'll be in there," I mumbled, pointing, and heading off in its general direction with scarcely a backwards glance.

Inside, I dismissed the overzealous music salesman who glommed on to me with leech-like tenacity with a wave and a sort of grimace that I really meant to be a grin. I did not need any assistance, NO, for in the Grand Tradition of true geekishness, I had MY LIST.

It's not a list that I could impress The ListMaker with by any means, except possibly its length. It's not at all organized, and it's PAPER, for goodness sakes, NOT EVEN programmed into a handy little hand-held computer. However, it includes practically every tune that I've heard on Chronix that's ever impressed me, and it's annotated, as appropriate, with the specific items that should, ideally, be acquired AT FIRST POSSIBLE OPPORTUNITY.

And yet, because it's on paper, it's not the first incarnation of my musical requirements. Thus, there are some sad omissions from its past lives, during which it was contained in various other scrawling formats.

I practically shrieked when I stumbled across one such item, scanning the band names for something else entirely. This particular album had been on my mental Metal Wish List since the earliest days during which I'd discovered Chronix—so long, in fact, that although I remembered the song which had specifically tickled my fancy, I'd entirely forgotten that it was performed by a "chick singer." And that's pretty pathetic, given the song title: "When I Am Queen."

So, with Clear Hearts Grey Flowers by Jack Off Jill neatly corralled, I continued on my quest. The ListMaker and her Lovely Boyfriend stopped by, and The ListMaker giggled at my clearly manic-obsessive focus (I was also smiling and already rhapsodizing ridiculous about this particular store in which I would obviously be dropping a wad of cash—or credit—in short order), and then they left me to my gleeful insanity.

While stocking far from every item on my lengthy list, there were exhilaratingly many options from which I could choose, and so I selected three more in addition to Jack Off Jill, which is just a lot of fun to say:

• Shadows Are Security by As I Lay Dying, for "The Darkest Nights" and "The Truth of My Perception"
  
• The Jester Race ~ Black-Ash Inheritance by In Flames, because it's IN FLAMES and I love pretty much everything they've ever done!
  
• The Funeral Album by Sentenced, for "May Today Become The Day," "Her Last 5 Minutes," "Vengeance Is Mine," and "Drain Me" (which is totally as naughty as you may think it is)

And then, while The ListMaker and her Lovely Boyfriend were off finding the wing pins we needed to complete our costumes, I sat outside the music store and fondled my purchases, perusing the CD inserts and sighing happily ... it was like a happy little sex-afterglow, and I HADN'T EVEN PLAYED A SINGLE SONG YET.

Nor would I for about 25 more hours, for, you see, my traveling companions were not exactly enamored of my selections, even if they did both seem to be entertained by how entertained I was by just HAVING new music. Indeed, I spent the remainder of the journey in largely uncommunicative communion with MY PRECIOUSES, and immediately upon our happy return home from the completion of the 2006 edition of the Most Excellent Annual Halloween Bash EVER, I threw my bags into my car, turned the volume knob waaaaaaay to the right, slid Sentenced into the CD player, and absorbed the sheer bliss that pumped out of the speakers, cleverly disguised as raucous guitar, raspy voice, and pounding drums.

Although I did feel a little sheepish when I noticed The ListMaker and her Lovely Boyfriend bobbing THEIR heads to the beat and laughing as I backed out of The ListMaker's driveway to head home. Only a little, though. ;)

I have listened to the entirety of all four albums now, and I am most enamored of Sentenced, although I enjoyed each of my four selections, and consider every one well worth its purchase price. I've absorbed the chill-inspiring lifts and twists of the tunes, I've basked in the audible massage of the drumming, and I've thrilled to the often emotionally-oppositional lyrics, where phrases like "When I am queen they all will see / The patron Saint of Self Injury," (Jack Off Jill, "When I Am Queen") "They all think that I am brave / The strongest link of our chain / But really I ... just want a bullet between my eyes" (Sentenced, "May Today Become The Day") are placed on a heavy background of upbeat and uplifting music.

(Interestingly, As I Lay Dying seems to use a mirrored approach, with uplifting lyrics and darker-toned tunes, emphasized most in the vocals. In Flames is generally dark, layering intricate vocal and lyrical obscurity over a veritable cheesecake of unique and complex guitar and drumwork. *dreamy sigh* They're my FAVORITE!)

Little Girl and I were talking about music the other day in the car, in anticipation of a certain country-music awards show that McCoy had informed me would be airing that evening—wow, country music AND Monday Night Football on the same day ... I was truly torn between two Hells—and Little Girl had wondered aloud whether the music she liked fit the genre.

"Well," I said, quickly warming up to a favorite topic of mine (MUSIC!), "music isn't always one thing or the other; sometimes it's a blend of styles. And it doesn't really matter what anyone else calls it, or even if anyone else likes it! If YOU like it, it means something to YOU, and it doesn't much matter if anyone else likes it after that ... not even if you're the only one."

"WELL," Little Girl responded pragmatically, "if I like it, I can't be the ONLY one who likes it, because the singer must like it, too."

It's really hard to argue with a literalist, and so I conceded with a laugh that she was clearly right, and she went on to discuss her singing abilities (poor child; she doesn't realize, yet, that she inherited her supposed "abilities" from ME) and express an interest in writing music of her own someday (which made me wonder: what IS the musical equivalent of long-winded blather?), and of course I told her she should try whatever interested her, and many, MANY of those things.

And as Jack Off Jill screeched into one of their less-than-operatic but more-than-poptastic scary-lyrics-over-happy-music, I really, deeply realized the truth of what I was saying ... and understood that it applied not only to Little Girl, but to me, too.

Rock on, Little Girl. You're already writing lyrics on my heart; putting them onto paper is gonna be cake and pie. ;)

Recommended for Me

Amazon.com has been my source for the heavy metal ragin' tuneage that I just can't find locally, and I have to say, they've been FABULOUS. They almost always have what I want, and they ship it just as soon as they say they will, or even sooner. (I actually think that might be a bit of a ploy on their part, but WTF, it obviously WORKS.)

Better yet, I keep and maintain a "Wish List" there, which helps me—and anyone who might want to get me a rockin' little birthday gift, not that I'm hinting with all the subtlety of Paris Hilton at a bar on a Friday night ... and Saturday ... and Sunday—know JUST what it is that I really, really want.

And it's not just music I have on my list, but BOOKS, too! Because as most people know, Amazon.com sells damn near everything there possibly is, and I do believe books is what they actually started with. So they've had even more practice in that arena.

They're also quite good at keeping track of stuff, as the "Wish List" reference might have indicated. Oh yes, Amazon.com knows what I want to listen to and what I want to read, but they also know—from my long, established, and somewhat checkered past with them—what I've already bought to listen to and read. And what do they do with this knowledge, you ask? Well, let me tell you.

They fucker stuff up. Oh yes. They do.

They call it "Recommended for You," and it comes in an email with THAT precise bolding and capitalization, with a subject line that indicates one thing—and then teases "and more," with the same tact that Lindsay Lohan exhibits when she is repeatedly hospitalized for "exhaustion" and other such ailments—and a message contents complete with handy links to your "new recommendations."

They claim it's "based on items you purchased or told us you already own," and IF IT WORKED, it would be a great little marketing ploy, but the thing is that I'm so much NOT convinced about it working, that I couldn't really be MORE UNconvinced, no, not even if I were a cat being coached to take a flying leap off of a 15-foot diving board.

And yes, I realize my metaphors are all over hell AND leave much to be desired, but it's just been THAT KIND OF A DAY, so get over it or quit reading.

Anyway, although the music that Amazon.com recommended for me in their most recent missive might, in fact, be stuff that I would, indeed, listen to, I was not quite convinced that the selection criteria were ... well, reasonable. Because if you're just going to throw metal my way, that's one thing, but if you were really going to base suggestions on STUFF I'VE PURCHASED ('cause I haven't told them what I already own), I'd kinda think you might look at lyrics, average drumbeats per second, decibels delivered, or bass lines, instead of ... keywords.

Keywords, yes. And again, "keyword" isn't a dirty word; goodness knows keywords can be extremely useful in analysis and in making predictions. But I can CLEARLY SEE that my recent purchase of a King James Version of The Holy Bible has skewed the HELL—if you'll excuse my inopportune and somewhat gratuitous metaphysical crassness—out of my musical results, peppering my typical, discordant recommendations with HOLY references.

But don't take MY word for it; see for yourself:

• Dark Ages by Soulfly
  
• Christ Illusion by Slayer
  
• IV by Godsmack
  
• King James Version Concord Reference Bible : Concordance, Cross-Reference, Bible Dictionary, Words of The Lord in Red, Presentation Page, Family records page (Black Calfskin Leather) by You-Know-Who
  
• Whitesnake - Live in the Still of the Night (Deluxe) [DVD/CD Combo] by Whitesnake

That's how it appeared in my email, though the underlines were actual links, and of course I added "by You-Know-Who" after the Bible, because I'm THAT WAY. (I do like how I purchased a budget model—a complete Bible, but without all the references—so they had to seize THAT and think that after spending only about $10 just about a month ago, I'd be all fired up and ready to blow $75 on the study-guide version ... clearly, Amazon.com does not take cheapskatedness into account when preparing their recommendations.)

Anyway, now take a look at it with what I suspect are the keywords affiliated with Bible-purchases, neatly highlighted in red:

• Dark Ages by Soulfly
  
• Christ Illusion by Slayer
  
• IV by Godsmack
  
• King James Version Concord Reference Bible : Concordance, Cross-Reference, Bible Dictionary, Words of The Lord in Red, Presentation Page, Family records page (Black Calfskin Leather) by You-Know-Who
  
• Whitesnake - Live in the Still of the Night (Deluxe) [DVD/CD Combo] by Whitesnake

Granted, the "snake" in "Whitesnake" is a BIT of a reach, but considering the critical—pivotal, really—role the serpent played in Biblical history, I'd say it's not as much of a stretch as the mere idea of Kevin Costner as suitable romantic fodder for Jennifer Anniston, even in a movie setting. That said, I think I must conclude that although I appreciate Amazon.com's dedication to customer service—and indeed, I ENCOURAGE them to recommend tunes and reading materials to me—I am distinctly NOT, thus far, impressed with the either the thoroughness or the appropriateness of their suggestions.

Even if I did have a damn good time trying to figure out the reason Whitesnake wound up in that illustrious lineup.

Magic

So I got some new music again, and just a little over a minute into the first song, I wished fervently—to the point of violence—that I could compose music myself.

This isn't the first time I've wanted to be musically inclined, but it is the only time in recent memory that I've desired compositional ability over vocal ability. Generally, I just long to be able to sing along to whatever it is without shame—because, dear imaginary reader, MY singing voice is about as appealing as that of a yak that's been smoking a pack a day of Camel straights for 20 years running—but this time I truly longed to be able to create the music itself.

The album was The Fury of Our Maker's Hand by Devildriver, and the song was the first on the disc: "End of the Line." I know what you're thinking, and you're right: my dad would NOT buy me this album, for he would not consider the album title, band name, or song name to be indicative of anything he'd like to spend money on, even if it WAS a specifically-asked-for gift. But that's beside the point, because the first minute of that song is SO heavy-metal lovely that I actually thought I was on the cusp of some incredible new musical experience that could, should, and would absolutely transcend anything I've ever felt before.

It was as if there was some heavy weight being lifted directly out of my heart—something broken or misaligned or just wrong that was being removed—and the means by which this error was being corrected was simply through the force of musical notes, combined just so, vibrating out of the stereo and into the very core of my Self ... a magical, inexplicable eruption of pure experience that I had not even imagined could exist. And then ...

Well, then Devildriver changed the tempo and the crescendo and they just plain lost me. The chills went away, the thrill went away, and although the tune was still headbangingly good fun, it was nothing—NOTHING—more than that. I felt as if my new toy had been mashed into component plastic before me, and my imagination had BEEN that toy; I wondered if the intro had been anywhere near as good as I'd thought, when I honestly believed it was about to heal something so fundamental and intrinsic that if a doctor had been going to fix it with a pill, I would have been scared out of my fucking mind. It was really, REALLY weird.

And the very weirdest part was that although I lost something I wanted very much when the music lost me, I didn't mourn the loss. I laughed instead. It was magic, you see, and you don't get to find magic when you want it; it finds you. And you don't miss it when you don't get to keep it; you just revel in the fact that you had it for however long you did.

Hello Chronix, My Old Friend

It occurred to me the other day when I felt the relentless and irresistible pull to dial up Chronix—which is quite simply, THE single best metal station online (or anywhere else, and do check them out for yourself, if you're into that sort of thing—that I feel that tug especially ruthlessly when I'm not at my very best place emotionally.

On the surface, that might seem like I'm admitting to those who secretly—or not-so-secretly—hold that Heavy Metal not only caters to those sorts of emotions, but that it causes them, as well. However, this would ONLY be a bare, scratching-of-the-surface, "fluffy" sort of self-supporting crap, because I am, in fact, saying no such thing.

As I've noted before, new music—especially new music of the iron-fortified genre, makes me Happy. I know this confounds people who do not find heavy metal to be even basely tolerable, much less trebley so, but it's the honest truth. Thus, in seeking out That Which Makes Me Happy when I'm NOT feeling so happy, I am clearly attempting to medicate my misery in a way that makes sense TO ME.

Shouldn't we all be so in tune with ourselves and our emotional needs, and ... dare I say it, OH WHAT THE HELL ... WISE? Yes, thanks, that'd be very nice, and I'll take mine with two lumps of sugar and a LOT OF ASS-KICKING BASS.

Anyway, so I find new music—heavy metal in particular—to be very void-filling, validating, and life-affirming. That's all well and good. But the phrase that came to mind when I stopped to ponder WHY THAT IS was this: "I come back to Chronix looking to identify the pain by hearing emanate from another source."

Oh hey. That sounds Bad again, doesn't it. CALL IN THE CYBERSHRINKS!

So seeing as how—at the time—I was just looking for a mood-boost that would get me back to the Project du Jour and reestablish my focus, I had to scrawl that phrase down for future, early-morning-basement bike-and-blogging analysis. And here we are, except it's late afternoon (I got off early today ... no, let me clarify that: I got off WORK early today).

Anyway (part deux), I tend to find that I am most miserable when I feel most alone in my misery. From what I've observed and heard directly from others—outside of this blog, 'cause as you may have noticed, I've been a little short on comments ever since ... well, ALWAYS, but particularly since MSN DECIDED THEY HAD TO CHANGE THEIR FORMAT TO BE MORE AOL-BORG-LIKE, and quite a bit resembling "MySpace," too—this is rather typical of the Human Experience in general. We just feel MORE miserable when we perceive that we are miserating alone; when someone commiserates with us, we get to use that clever cliché, "Well, at least I'm not alone."

I think quite often, things get to be clichés because they're true, and this is not an exception to that rule. While a companion in misery is certainly no antidote to the problem at hand, it alleviates the isolation that misery often brings. I mean, people ask how we're doing, but precious few REALLY want to hear anything other than, "Oh fine, and you?" It's more of a greeting than an actual request for information, and besides, once we've shared our misery and it's STILL not gone, we may not feel like bringing up the whole sad tale again ourselves, even if we are presenting with a willing ear to listen, and a strong shoulder to lean on.

Here's where music comes into it (yeah, I'm actually getting to the point, BREAK OUT THE BUBBLY, SHE'S FINALLY ARRIVED!): music is a great conveyor of emotion. Sometimes the lyrics may make no sense at all—hell, in metal, sometimes you have no friggin' idea if the lyrics make sense because you can't understand WTF is being screamed anyway—but the music still, inexplicably, conveys SOMEthing. It can speak to you privately and intimately in a concert hall packed to the brim with drunken idiots, and it can address you personally and with absolute conviction in an otherwise empty car.

MUSIC can speak to you anytime, and there's SO glorious much of it out there—if you can get beyond the tinny, limited options on the FM dial—that if you look even halfheartedly, you ARE going to find something, somewhere, that is beautifully NEW to you, and yet speaks SPECIFICALLY to your pain, no matter what it is, or how long it has plagued you, or whether it means the same thing to someone else, or ANYTHING AT ALL.

And what it can say that matters more than anything else is that
YOU. ARE NOT. ALONE.

Take Two New CDs and Call Me in the Morning

Okay, so it's been ... what, a couple of weeks now? Oh yes, so it MUST be time for yet another Musical Interlude. This—for the uninitiated and rapidly-dozing-off lurker—is where I get all verbose and hyperbolic about heavy metal in general, and my "latest and greatest" musical addiction(s) in particular. Ohhh yeaaah, baby!

But this ain't no "Headbanger's Ball" here; no way, no how. What I do is more like a roundtable serious news discussion, only it's me, by myself, riding my stationary bike in the basement, talking TO myself about music rather than news. Although at least I'm serious.

Most of the time.

Anyway, I was listening to one of several new CDs I acquired this week—three at great personal cost, and two as a generous gift from a thoughtful friend who would surely prefer to be considered a selfish curmudgeon, so I'm not about to name names—and the minutes were flying by as if they were miles being covered by the late, great Concorde. What's more, I noticed—in between the rising thrills and spine-tingling chills brought about by the swells and coalescences of music that permeated the air as if it were a hot summer downpour of oceanic proportions—that I felt as close to pure happiness as I had in some time.

It's not that I'm a miserable troll of a person, despite how I may sound here in therapy ... I mean, here in CyberLand. I find joy in every day, from the way my daughter looks when the morning sunlight glints off her sleep-rumpled hair as I tickle her into wakefulness, to seething green, rising off the moisture-saturated air and vegetation at the end of a long, hot day. I find happiness in my Old Lady Cat's purr, the glimmer of an old joke in the eye of a trusted friend even before it's told as if it were new, the shine of a pretty new polish with a silly name that has something to do with tulips (even though I somehow managed a bit of a smudgey job), and the downy young fluff of some not-quite-ready-to-go-out-on-its-own "tweener" of a bird, scampering away as their mother tries to attract my attention away from them, and I try to direct Little Girl's wide-eyed gaze to them.

Perhaps the problem is that I—like so many people, I suspect—get so BUSY that I am not as aware of the fact that I AM surrounded by happiness and greedily sucking it up like a cactus in the first drenching desert storm of spring. The busy-ness of life leaves me feeling so parched for a moment to savor, that it takes something out of the ordinary to STOP my motions so that I can realize that I really haven't been thirsty ... I've just been moving so fast that I didn't notice I was drinking.

But there's something unique in music—for me, at least—that pulls me outside of my going-through-the-motions-self to where I can see again. It's like putting on new-prescription glasses for the first time; the world gets so clear that you can almost FEEL the edges of the things you're looking at again, when before, you scarcely noticed that everything was slowly sliding into a big muddy puddle. Music puts the crystalline edges back on my world, and music that I like, ON DEMAND ... well, that draws the focus to the color and the vibrancy and the JOY of it all.

The Pretzel Logician recently asked me—quite dryly and not really expecting nor imagining a reasonable response, I believe—how I could listen to "that stuff" and not get a headache. The fact that he's heard some of "that stuff" and not found it quite as hideous as he expected notwithstanding, I could only shrug my shoulders and grin. Not only does heavy metal NOT give me the aforementioned headache, but I believe it PREVENTS them as well.

As Heavensdust's "Alive" pulsated and crescendoed into its finale, I thought to myself that although it likely wouldn't be economically-prudent, that the next time I felt the creeping coldness of depression—because having experienced it repeatedly in the past, I'm sure, unfortunately, that there WILL be a "next time"—I'd find "new music therapy" to be a efficacious supplemental treatment.

Ohhh YEAAAH, baby!

Around Sound

I've been favoring Dope and Sub Dub Micromachine in my heavy metal music rotation lately. I'm not sure what it means in the Grand Scheme of things, but I have discovered a few minor things that it means.

For one thing, as the native English-speakers of my current musical preferences, Dope tends to be somewhat easier to comprehend, even when they're being pumped through the somewhat less-than-stellar audio sound system of a four-door Saturn.

Therefore, since the group also tends to compose lyrics that are of the—shall we say, "extremely flammable" nature? yes, DO let's—it behooves the person playing the music to be intensely aware of their surroundings AT ALL TIMES. Even more so than when you're eating a popsicle in traffic (trust me, it's just not a good idea).

What I mean to say is, when you roll up to a stoplight whilst blaring "Fuck the Police," you'd better make damn sure you know when an officer of the law is rolling up next to you. Yes, I was, yes, he did, and YES, I was quick to turn down the tune and smile innocently, with my hands in perfect driving position, at 10 o'clock and 2 o'clock on the steering wheel and my halo only slightly askew.

Disclaimer: I have nothing against the police, personally, with one notable exception of the guy who took my complaint when my purse was stolen out of my Blazer, but that's another story. I think by and large the men and women in all areas of policework do a helluva job, and it's a job I certainly would have a difficult time doing, but DAMN, I like that song ... the beat is just SO sexy!

Another thing I've noticed is that the bands that sing some or all of their stuff in their native German, like Sub Dub Micromachine, just naturally manage to sound more vile and heavy-metal WILD than English-speakers, even those who overdrop the F-bomb, like Dope. Even in English, they have a little edge to their words, and it's fuckin' awesome! Oops, sorry, couldn't resist. ;)

But in German, heavy metal truly takes on a life of its own. I'm pretty sure that Rammstein—of which I have yet to obtain any albums, but they are on my Metal Wish List!—could sing songs about happy little butterflies, cotton candy fluff-clouds, and pixies frolicking in the forest and make it sound more deathly black and ass-kicking than anything Metallica ever did, for example.

Another Disclaimer: I like Metallica, I really, really do. But if they sang in German, OMG ... they'd be even more legendary than they already are!

Next, something about the umlaut—the little dots that go over a u in some German (and other) words, like this, ü—the etymology of the German word "umlaut" comes from um (meaning "around") plus laut (meaning "sound"). It's "around sound," if you will (and even if you won't; etymology speaks louder than personal preference!).

Now, this ties in very nicely with a little something I was thinking the other day while listening to Sub Dub Micromachine's hip-grinding, possibly atheist-themed, CLEARLY underacknowledged classic, "So Far." I was thinking, while the sound pulsed all around and even through me, that listening to heavy metal music at surpassingly appropriate volumes is rather like being inside a huge microwave oven when it's JUST turned on and your molecules start to vibrate and simmer ... but not quite cook, because that would really suck and, like, TOTALLY ruin the experience ...

Mmmm. "Around sound." I LIKE it!

Darkness, Light, and Lyrical Insight

And now, it's time to take a break from the annoying and get back to the music! Why no, as a matter of fact I DON'T think I've blathered enough on this nor any other subject, why do you ask?

It's well-documented that I'm a metalhead with an unnatural adoration for a strong, driving beat and a deep, pounding baseline. But I'm also a fool for clever lyrics, be they shouted in what one of my more musically-inclined friends refers to as "Satan talking to me" (Sub Dub Micromachine, for example), screamed (Killswitch Engage, though their lead screamer has a remarkable capacity to slip directly from shrieking into truly melodic tones), or actual, beautiful SINGING (Dream Theater is a fine representative here, though they tend to be categorized as "progressive" or "alternative," rather than "metal").

I don't really care if the lyrics are good from start to finish in any particular piece—though that's certainly a plus and I DO adore groups who are consistently good at lyrical poetry—because I often find that the most personally meaningful lyrics come in snippets, and have nothing, really, to do with the meaning that the songwriter intended to fuse into his or her work. (Although, with groups like In Flames, it's hard to tell, and not just because you can't understand the words when you hear them in the first place; they're usually just as or even more puzzling when you see them in written format.)

But let's get to a specific example, shall we? Take the not-so-harsh, not-even-B-side rock piece "Taste of India" from Aerosmith, off 1997's Nine Lives. So I've been going through my CDs lately, with a decided preference for old favorites, and I happened across this album, popped it in, and was blissfully boppin' along when suddenly ...

"When you are born, you're afraid of the darknessThen you're afraid of the light."

... reasonated off me like a cartoon echo bouncing back off the Grand Canyon. (You know, with increasing magnitude and the power to knock over Bugs Bunny with a single sound wave!)

Now, I really have no idea what the song's about. I like the Indian-sounding intro, and the sing-a-long capabilities of this particular work o' rock art, and Little Girl and I have been known to dance to this song, too; it's got an infectious beat and fairly demands twirls, which she adores. But although I can probably recite the lyrics from start to finish ('cause there ain't NO WAY I'm going to sing in public), I don't really consider what they MEAN.

But that phrase! That's got more meaning than most high school textbooks I've read, or had read to me! (Which, by the way, is NOT conducive to learnin' ... not at all, in my experience.)

The duality of light/dark and of course its many metaphorical equivalents is a source of endless fascination for me, especially as I've got a long-standing tradition of trying to understand the perspectives that allow us to categorize things as "good" (light) and "bad" (dark). I sometimes think I've contracted Devil's Advocatism (unwillingly, of course) because I can hardly STOP from pondering the light in darkness, and vice versa.

Take the time Little Girl asked me about mosquitos, for example. Just a few miles from home, she threw out this ponderriffic pleasantry, purely at random (or so it seemed to me; I'm sure the timing of her inquiry made perfect sense in HER little head): "Mommy, are mosquitos BAD?"

"Wow," I said, already mulling that one over at several levels of increasing ridiculous detail. "Well, no, I wouldn't say they're BAD. I don't like them, but when they bite, they're not doing it because they're bad, they're doing it because they're hungry. People say they're bad because they are hurting us by biting, but all they are really doing is getting food the only way they can."

I thought it was a good answer to a deceptively hard question, and I still feel that way. But the simple answer would have been, "Yes." Because certainly, any mosquito that bites my daughter is BAD in my eyes, and I'll smack the sucker into mosquito heaven without a second thought for its hunger, or the "naturalness" of its behavior.

When we are born, dark and light are easy to understand. We're afraid of the dark, because we can't see in it; the light gives us the opportunity to utilize the sense upon which many of us are primarily reliant, and so it gives us a sense of security and dispels our fears. But as we mature, we come to understand that darkness offers its own comfort, by way of camouflauging the aspects of the world which we'd rather not consider.

(You know, like whether saying "Mosquitos are BAD." is technically or ethically accurate.)

Time and experience are excellent instructors in the fine art of looking beyond the surface of reality to see what's under the covers, and our perceptions of dark and light are no exception. I think there comes a point, though, where checking under the covers (and the bed, and so on and so forth) becomes a compulsory habit, and that's not so much of an improvement on not looking at all.

I guess what I'm thinking is that seeking balance in ALL things—including balance itself—is an incredible effort, and unbalance in this arena leads directly to the dark/light conundrum that Aerosmith so succinctly described. And that can't be good. ;)

Grammy Who?

So the Grammy awards are this evening, and guess what? I couldn't care less. Seriously, these are at least the most-touted of the award shows in the musical arena, and I LOVE music, and I so don't care.

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, YOU don't love music, you doof. You only love a tiny little slice of musical pie and you're biased and close-minded and unnecessarily harsh on the ENTIRE REST OF THE MUSIC WORLD so of course you don't care, and guess what? NO ONE CARES THAT YOU DON'T CARE!

To which I reply, no kidding.

But the thing is, I know a lot of other self-professed music lovers who don't care, either. And let's face it, most people are plenty close-minded when it comes to the music that they love. The Professor—the single most musically-literate individual I have ever met, and will likely ever meet—is arguably more "biased" than me, but it's okay for him, because he knows his shit.

(If you've never had the opportunity to listen to someone explain music from the perspective of the physics behind it, I urge you to seek it out; it's unfuckingbelievable. But I digress.)

The only difference I see in the question of musical bias is this: if you happen to like what's POPular, you have a much wider base of artists for whom you can cheer at the Grammy awards than, say, I do.

I don't expect a chorus of violins and I don't care that no one cares, I'm just sayin' that everyone likes what they like and I'm no more "shutting myself off" to a genre—or a hoarde of genres—than anyone else. But I am kinda bummed when I look at the artists that are up for the various categories of awards and I can't find more than a handful that I even vaguely enjoy.

Are these really the people who are "the best" in their field? The most innovative? The most talented? The most likely to influence the history of music by become PART of it instead of fading into it? Or are these the people who have appealed to the broadest spectrum of listeners and have managed to find the lowest common denominator in musical marketing?

Granted, I'm a cynical, non-musical observer who doesn't even have a claim to fame, but I do have some small idea of the huge variety of music that's actually out there in the world, and I do not see it represented anywhere near accurately on the stage of the Grammys, and I expect to see even less variety in the selection of award-winners.

In short, the Grammys seem to be about as choreographed as my junior-high student council elections, and with possibly even less substance. The winners are, unsurprisingly, those who have managed to achieve the most popularity, with substance falling so far behind in the running that few people remember it was even in the race.

Thank goodness I got my package of underachieving metal from Amazon.com today; it would've been a long friggin' night without it.

*WHEW!*

Losing My Rhythm

I sometimes wonder about the seemingly insatiable appetite I have for music, or the strong connection I associate with rhythm and melody. I sometimes wonder all sorts of weird things, of course, but this is one of my more favorite ponderings.

So I was in mid-rumination the other day when I recalled a strange situation that had apparently been embedded in my brain the way one of my favorite physics teachers had used to say important points in his class should be, "like a bullet." (Yeah, he actually said that, and many, many times, too.)

I'd used to have a thing, when I was somewhere around nine or ten years old, I think (maybe eleven or twelve ... it's hard to pinpoint exactly, as the only thing I recall that might help me zero in on the timeframe was the color of the bathroom towels, but I digress), and this thing that I had was a little rhythm that I'd fall into when doing certain tasks.

I remember it very distinctly. There was never an actual beat to it, as you'd think a rhythm would have, but it was more that as I focussed my attention on the things that I was doing, they seemed to fall into a pattern, and the more I concentrated, the tighter the pattern would become. Eventually, it would be what I thought of as "the rhythm," and the longer the rhythm continued, the harder it seemed to be to stop hearing it.

Although, again, "hearing" it wasn't so much what happened. It was more of a feeling, a bit like what I feel now when I listen to rock or metal music very loud, with the bass generating a physical sensation almost more than it does an auditory one.

(Interestingly, my women's writing group did an exercise not long ago where we were to describe something focussing on two senses, and the ones I picked were sound and touch. I distinctly noted that sound really was a branch of touch, as the sound waves set off reactions in our ears, and the physical action invoked there—a "touch of sound"—is what we hear.)

Anyway, the rhythm got so strong that day that I had a distinct moment of panic where I fancied that I would not be able to escape it, not ever. The panic became so extreme that I remember my heart pounding faster and faster, and that is what I now think actually broke the spell I had either cast myself, or had fallen under with the attention I had paid to some strange phenomenon I observed.

I've thought of that experience occasionally over the years. Sometimes I elevated it to a unifying, underlying "life rhythm" that I had become attuned with, but as a child, had then become frightened by, and I imagine then that if only I had succumbed, I'd be living in a lovely bliss of one-ness with the rest of the universe, untouched by daily strife.

Other times, I think that this was my first hint of the madness that lies within every human being, waiting for a trigger or a crack in the armour of our self-awareness, and then bursting out and grabbing hold like a demon of ancient horror, manifesting itself in any number of disrupting ways. I think for me it would have been obsessive-compulsive behavior, and yes, I mean MORESO than I exhibit now.

Usually, I believe I had a heck of an imagination, and then I remember other things from my childhood: the tunnel that transported me to other worlds and dimensions, the perfect squares I endeavored to create from twigs of the huge old maple tree that I could see from my bedroom window, the maps I memorized to the treasure I buried and then forgot to dig up again, and the magical wishes I cast with coins into the culvert at the end of the driveway.

The times I'd twist the ropes on the swing to a dizzying height and spin myself into the child's version of a drug-induced state, staggering across the lawn and laughing at the top of my lungs at the way the world whirled and warped under MY machinations seem the most relevant to the way I used to fall into the rhythm. The only difference was that the rhythm scared me once, and making myself dizzy never had.

There's a strange liberation in letting oneself go, whether it's in spinning like a top or becoming rhythmically attuned ... or, as adults more commonly opt, in getting tipsy or downright drunk. Of course, letting go necessarily means losing control, which is quite probably why I stopped myself from falling into the rhythm that day, and prohibited myself from ever "listening" for it again.

I find that I still can't bring myself to try, for fear and dread of the memory of how losing control felt that day so long ago. But I do wonder what would happen, if I could lose myself in the rhythm.

If I only, truly could.

How Does YOUR Garden Grow?

This past Saturday, when it came time for me to finally admit that no, it was NOT allergies that were making me feel like crap, but another virulent and vicious COLD—a remedy-free, wickedly debilitating, just-another-COLD kind of cold, at that—and no, I was NOT going to be able to keep going like the erstwhile bunny in those battery ads which shall remain unspecified because I don't feel like doing trademark research, SO THERE, and yes, it WAS time to give it up and park my diseased carcass in front of the tube and JUST. SIT ...

... precisely at THAT point is when I dared to be different: instead of selecting the low-caliber, vegetative entertainment that I typically prefer, I clicked over to the Discovery channel and Learned Something.

(I'd like to say that all of this was because I was turning over a new leaf, trying to set a good example for Little Girl, or something similarly noble, but the truth of the matter is, the satellite link was lagging for some reason, and I didn't have the patience to wait for the data to load into the viewing guide, so I was just entering channel numbers at random and seeing what came up. Sad, I know, but there it is.)

Anyway.

What came up was a hilarious (to me) little learnin' show called MythBusters. I've actually seen this before, while visiting someone else's abode, and I thought then that it was a great show, but seeking it out on my own apparently proved to be too much for me, until I was playing television roulette and landed upon it with a resounding thud.

The basic premise is that the hosts take a "myth" of one variety or another—they do seem to be mostly of the "urban myth" variety; you know, the sort of thing you'd find in your e-mail "in" box, with a subject line that contains multiple instances of the dreaded "FW" notation—and attempt to either confirm or deny the myth. Well, by their classifications, I think it's more along the lines of: "Confirmed" "Plausible," or "BUSTED!" (hence the name of the program).

The episode I happened to catch included as the main entrée a delicious question of whether or not excess "bug bombs" placed in a house with an ignition source (such as a pilot light on a stove or furnace) could result in a phenomenon best described as an "exploding house."

Yeah, blowing shit up, now THAT'S entertainment!

I was interested enough already, and then I caught wind of the decadently tantalizing side-salad issue: does talking to plants, as the story goes, improve their growth and health?

Not that I'm into plants, you understand—not that there's anything wrong with that!—but it's just that the group of "Junior Myth-Busters" had determined that they would extend their test to include whether playing MUSIC to plants improved their growth. Specifically, they were testing five scenarios: a control group (no talking, no music), a sweet-talking group (who would hear nice things, in nice tones), a trash-talking group (who, unlike those at home on the range, would hear ONLY "discouraging words"), a classical music group, and ... OH YEAH BABY, a heavy-metal raging group.

Needless to say, I was hooked. I left my seat in front of the television only once, to prepare the ritual "I've been hopelessly sucked into viewing this program so don't even THINK of asking me if you can change the channel" bag of popcorn.

I didn't even much care about the exploding house at that point (although yes, the MythBusters did manage to establish the plausibility of that scenario, when HUGELY excessive numbers of "bug bombs" were set off; the local authority likewise confirmed this confirmation, saying it happens several times a year, in California, anyway), but I still enjoyed that portion of the program.

As fun as it was to watch windows blow out of a home, it was NOTHING like how I felt at the conclusion of the plant experiment. I actually had an experience akin to that I have witnessed when watching sports fans observe their team winning a game. I JUMPED OUT OF MY CHAIR and was stomping around the room chanting, "OH YEAH, WHO'S YOUR DADDY NOW!?!" (okay, not that EXACTLY, but something very similar, in stupidity).

Because the plants that were exposed to an onslaught of heavy metal (NOT JUST ROCK, boys, but HEAVY. METAL. SHRIEKING. So there!) outperformed ALL of the other groups. They grew better, they produced more, and THEY WERE HAPPY, DAMMIT! HA! Take THAT, you "it'll just make you more depressed," unsubstantiated-rumor, bandwagon-hopping ANTI-METAL ragers, you! HA! HA! HAHAHAHA!

Okay, I'm done now. But wow, SO THERE!

I missed the precise order in which the groups fell in terms of overall performance; hell, I really was only interested in the heavy metal plants. But I did calm down enough to catch the part about how even the plants that were exposed to vile tones and cranky words still outperformed the control group. Which is good, because that actually supports another personal thought of mine, which is that ignoring someone is the surest way to hurt them.

See, I think most people can concur that "sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me" is crap. Maybe it SHOULDN'T be, but it IS. But what the silly expression overlooks is what is REALLY hurtful is not being acknowledged in the first place. Bad Dog would rather be yelled at than ignored, troubled teenagers are said to operate on the same premise, and when we don't communicate with those around us—whether we are "actively" ignoring them or not!—the end result is the same.

Like plants, we do not grow to our potential OR produce as effectively as we otherwise could if we operate within a communication vacuum. We NEED words and music to be more than we are. We need them as surely as we need sunshine and sustenance, if we want to live up to our true potential.

And if we really, REALLY want to exceed, by golly, we need HEAVY METAL.

(So there.)

Awakening

Let's talk about my music issues for a moment. Why? Because it's MY BLOG and we do what I want here, unlike in every other facet of my "real world" existence. Okay, that's not fair, but what is?

Anyway.

It has been brought to my attention any number of times that I have—or, more accurately, I am PERCEIVED TO HAVE—a "narrow" musical vision. It's not been directly called "tunnel vision," but considering the fact that tunnels are generally dark, creepy places, I suppose that's apt and might even be agreed upon as such.

I like "heavy metal." I even like "death metal" In Flames has been referred to as a prime example of that genre, although how extensive the use of the term is among actual music-philes (or whatever the proper term would be), I have no idea.

I LIKE that the music I enjoy isn't "mainstream," and yes, I'm sure part of the reason is that I want to be stand out as an individual, STAKE MY CLAIM as a interesting person, and NOT be just another member of the pop-music herd. Although when I say "herd," I mean "people who don't realize there's SO MUCH OTHER STUFF out there, that's NOT played on the radio."

(And yes, there ARE people like that, because I was one of 'em. Come on! It's a BIG world, and there's facets upon glittering facets of it that each of us will never even know exist, much less SEE for ourselves, even with the Internet bringing much more of it to our awareness.)

The strong impression I am left with by people who point out my musical tunnel vision is that I am doing myself a disservice by listening to what I like, and that they—for the ones who tell me how restricted MY tastes are also point out how enlightened their OWN auditory palates are—are somehow more musically aristocratic because they are "open" to new experiences in sound.

It actually reminds me a lot of the discussions I've had with "wine snobs." These are the people who seem to delight in telling me—in the nicest possible way, of course—that red wines are "an acquired taste," and look upon me with a touch of pity when I refuse to endure the continued joy of trying and NOT liking yet another fine red wine.

(I have by no means given up on red wines. I realize just as much of anyone and probably more than some that YES, tastes can, do, and WILL change over time. But by the same token, my taste NOW is for white wines, and NO, I do NOT want to continue to punish my plebian tastebuds with the bitter ICK that somehow alters into ruby bliss in YOUR mouth.)

Sometimes, it's difficult to tell the difference between the expression of a personal truth and the insinuation that this particular personal truth is absolute. And I know that, because I can tell when I'm on the other side of the truth divide, but I digress.

Because I seem to harbor a deep-seated need to explain myself to no one in particular, I'm going to get straight to the point. Now, I mean. Obviously I haven't gotten to the point YET, so my claim that I'm going to "get straight to it" is questionable, at best, and crooked, at worst.

I hereby acknowledge that my musical portfolio is far less diversified than those of some of my dearest and most musically inclined acquaintances. However, I dispute, ANY claim that it's as narrow as you people think. And I would like to make my case by referring you to the current contents of my CD drawer, which I will also point out was NOT "stacked" for the purposes of this bloggoblurb.

Yes, there is heavy metal: Metallica and Pantera

And yes, there is death metal: In Flames and Killswitch Engage

But there's also 80's music: Belinda Carlisle, Def Leppard, and T'Pau

There's even classic rock: RUSH and Scorpions

There's progressive/alternative rock: Dream Theater and KidneyThieves

And YES, I confess it, there's stuff I cannot deny is anything but "pop music:" 30 Seconds 'Til Mars, Bowling for Soup, and Liz Phair's latest CD

Certainly, the bulk of the stuff I listen to is "heavy," but the idea that I go for even a day without listening to something in which the words are screamed rather than sung is ludicrous. I like stuff I can sing along to, frankly, and as satisfying as a good scream may be (in proper context), it is NOT my preferred means of vocal communication, in music or otherwise. I definitely think I listen to a better variety of music on a daily basis than most people, tuned to a particular radio station, possibly could.

While there isn't a single classical selection in the present batch, nor is there any "New Age" music, I will say that I adore Mannheim Steamroller and do not consider the Christmas season to be complete without at least one playing of their holiday collection. Furthermore, I believe Gustav Holst's "Jupiter" (from The Planets) is the single most beautiful piece of music I have ever heard IN MY LIFE, and I'd play it more often, but the shit makes me cry, SO THERE.

And THAT, at last, brings me to the point where I can tie in the title of this particular snippet o' personal truth: my memory of musical awakening.

Judging by the appearance of the floor and hallway in the earliest memory I can recall that includes music, I know I was between the ages of 4 and 8. I remember being in the living room, playing, while the pretty music played. It was something classical (yes, more classical than Holst), and it was simply lovely, until the shift in the music made it lovely-sad.

I remember listening, and I remember sadness; a sweet sort of sadness, pushing aside whatever nonchalant play-time emoting I had been experiencing before the shift. A very distinct sort of sad, that washed over me and brought tears to my eyes.

I was crying in my room when my mom came to ask me whatever was the matter? I told her, "The music! It's SO SAD!" She hugged me, and must have explained to me that that was something music did, sometimes, was show a feeling with sound, because I remember thinking it was okay, then, if that's what the music MEANT to do.

However else I'd like to distinguish myself from people in general—not that there's anything wrong with people in general, it's just that everyone needs their moments of individuality as much as they need their moments of belonging—I don't like being sad. So if how I WANT to feel affects what I listen to, I can't possibly view that as a PROBLEM, even if it does limit my repetoire.

And I tend to doubt that even The Professor—the most musically elite person I know—would argue to the contrary. Even if he would argue with my taste.

(He SO would. ;)

New Music For A New Year

Well, it's a new year (you may have already noticed, but I like to state the obvious, so there you go) and you know what that means! YES! Time for New Music!

Actually, what it's TIME for is another eclectic compilation of songs that may or may not be "new"—in the strictest sense of the word—but which are new TO ME. And this time (unlike what I did with my first blog music collection, aka Marathon Music), I'd like to offer something of an explanation for the songs that I've selected.

Yes, I like them. I meant MORE SPECIFICALLY THAN THAT. Sheesh.

Of course, sometimes I like stuff just because I like it ... and/or—and I know this is going to be damn near impossible to believe, especially under the weight of blather that already smothers my bloggy little corner of the Internet—I actually haven't analyzed WHY I like it yet.

Hey, I may not be ready for the truth. I may not be able to HANDLE THE TRUTH. These things take time. LOTS OF TIME.

So, hey, while the new year is STILL RELATIVELY NEW, I'd like to get on with it:

1. "Peruvian Skies" is a lovely little tune from Dream Theater. This set of songs begins AND ends with Dream Theater, in fact, but I'm getting ahead of myself, and the view isn't pretty. Anyway, Little Girl seems to be developing a fondness for "Peruvian Skies" herself, as she remarked on some of my favorite aspects of the song just the other day, when I was playing it—at highly restrained volumes—in the car.

"This is pretty," she said, swaying gently in time with the music ... JUST as the mid-portion of vocals ended and the music transitioned with a spine-tingling guitar solo and then a deep, passionate, roll-in-the-hay of an instrumental section.

Unfazed, she became more vigorous in her head-bobbing and continued, "and then it ROCKS!"

2. "Say Goodbye" is another mellow-starting song; this one is from Theory of a Deadman, which was a spur-of-the-moment just-before-Christmas purchase that I managed to justify only because I was in the store to buy a gift for someone else. And I hadn't put this particular CD on my "Wish List" yet so I was sure no one had gotten it for me for Christmas.

I like the guy's voice, and although the lyrics are not especially uplifting, there's enough sweet under the bitter to make it as much fun as a bar of dark chocolate.

And that is a LOT of fun! *evil grin*

3. "Rough Boy" is an oldie but a goodie from the long-haired pervs (two out of three have long hair) from ZZ Top. I still want to know if they've EVER put out a song that wasn't a double-entendre, and if so, how would I ever know?

(You know, me being the kind of person who can see the pattern on an innocent bundt cake in a totally deviant light.)

Anyway, I love the intro and the sweetly sleazy singing of the guitar at the end.

4. "Change (In the House of Flies)" is from a totally new—yes, to me, THIS IS MY WORLD, AND DON'T YOU FORGET IT!—group: Deftones. It's the first CD of theirs I've purchased, and I've yet to really examine it, but it may be the last. What I find very compelling in this one particular song is (thus far) less so in the REST of the songs on the CD.

(Incidentally, I keep trying NOT to call it an "album," thereby dating myself more effectively than the number in my profile. But it's very annoying to do that, so fuck it.)

I like the unique vocals in THIS SONG. In particular, I like how they flow, in a musical moan, right around the middle of the song. But the album, it doesn't impress me the way this single does.

But, that's just me. ;)

5. "Lip Gloss and Black" is from the second ALBUM I've purchased by Atreyu, and no, I haven't researched what their name means yet (if anything). I think it must certainly have something to do with vampires, as they seem to be a bit on the vamp and/or goth fixation. And yes, you CAN tell from the lyrics, but you're going to have to listen carefully.

And let's face facts: most of you won't have the stomach to do that even with one song.

Yup, these guys SCREAM. At least, their lead screamer does. But if you hang on through the vocals, all the way past the "Live, love, burn, DIE!" part (you'll recognize it, honest), you will, I guarantee, be pleasantly surprised.

You might never listen again, regardless, but the bit from the three-minute mark until the end is totally scream-free. And it may just be my current FAVORITE instrumental metal piece: chill-inducing delight, every time.

6. "March of Hope" is an anti-hopeful militant bit of tripe from Dope. (Heheheh, now I can say "I like Dope!" with authority!) Like the Theory of a Deadman album, this one also has a definitive theme, and it's not particularly pleasant.

It is, however, REAL. And what I REALly like about it is how when I'm listening to it in