Hear The End Of It?!? I don't wanna hear the end of it!

It is important for all (two) of you out there who read this blog to understand that the new Sloan album, Never Hear The End Of It, is one of the finest albums they've released in their entire career. (Yes, I realize that, of my two precious readers, one of you already knows this fact. And the other doesn't even care about music. So I guess this post is an exercise in futility. Yet I blog on.)

Never Hear The End Of It is up there with Twice Removed, One Chord To Another and Between the Bridges, and it gives me hope in the future of Sloan. I wasn't sure they'd make it, given the difficulties they've had getting their albums released in the United States and the somewhat middling success of their last non-greatest-hits release, Action Pact. I was a tad fearful of what might happen next.

This new offering has no fewer than 30 (30!) songs, and is NOT a double album. My husband has described each harmony-laden track as the sonic equivalent of the 100-calorie pack. (I am ravenously jealous that I did not come up with this metaphor.) The tracks are short, sweet, satisfying and perfectly timed: the best ones leave you wanting more, and the not-as-fabulous songs end before you have time to reach for the "skip" button. Not that there are very many not-as-fabulous songs; only two or three, tops, which is an admirable percentage when you're listening to an album with nearly as many tracks as Christ had years.

Additionally, most songs include handclaps, the most excellent "instrument" there is next to the cowbell.

It's hard to pick favorites, but a few exceptional gems rise to the top o' the Beatle-y heap:

"Fading Into Obscurity"* (This song is easily among the best songs Sloan has ever recorded. Easily. It is Chris Murphy at his most phenomenal: witty turns of phrase, self-deprecating sentiment, semi-crippling insecurity, meter changes, internal rhyme, handclaps. Of course, handclaps.)

"I Understand" (As track 14, "I Understand" sounds like it's the last song on the album. But with another 16 tracks remaining, the song's chime-y fadeout is a marvelous reminder that you still have more than half the album to enjoy. It's like that feeling you get when you wake up early Saturday morning only to realize that, thrillingly, you don't have to go to work.)

"Another Way I Could Do It" (The hey-la-la-la-las at the end of the song will be stuck in your head after one listen. Go ahead, try it.)

"Something's Wrong" (Andrew Scott at his arena rock best.)

The tragedy, if you could call it that, is that this album probably won't bring Sloan any more success than that which they've already established for themselves. Their fawning mass -- a relatively moderately-sized yet vocal and enthusiastic audience -- will always be with them. But the blog and print space devoted to other indie darlings probably won't yield to Sloan, even though Sloan could show them all a thing or two as elder statesmen of rawking out. This album is better than anything Paris Hilton's done this year; though Jay Ferguson might not weigh as much as Ms. Hilton, Never Hear The End Of It should be garnering the heiress' share of attention from the music media at the very least.

Alas, it's the cross Sloan bears. You can hear it in a lot of the lyrics on this album, especially Chris Murphy's tracks*. I only hope that they continue to find artistic satisfaction in songwriting and recording, so that those of us in the know can keep appreciating their wares.

Thankfully, this story has nothing to do with Troy Polamalu

As if I haven't had my fill of sad animal-related news this week, I've read that Steelers' linebacker Joey Porter's dogs got loose and killed a neighbor's miniature horse. Poor little guy was less than three feet tall (the miniature horse, not Joey Porter).

Though Porter says he raised the dogs as pets -- not attack dogs -- Cesar Millan would be sure to say that if your dogs are attacking and killing other animals, clearly you have screwed up in your pack leadership. He would also be sure to tell you that dogs' killing other animals is a severe red-zone warning sign; such animals might be inclined to kill again (perhaps a human) if they are not rehabilitated. (The Presa Canarios that killed Diane Whipple in her San Francisco apartment building had honed their skills by killing farm animals earlier in their lives.)

So, Joey, get it together and call Cesar. Or at least tune into the National Geographic Channel to watch his show. And my condolences to the owner of the miniature horse.

Please indulge me in two more thoughts about the Crocodile Hunter

I mentioned last night that one of the saddest moments of the Steve Irwin memorial service was when his fellow croc-catching mate loaded up his ute and drove it out of the arena. Here's a photo of the ute as it appeared during the service:

I'm so moved by this. What is left of a man? A truck, some canvas, a net or two, a surfboard. Why do these meaningless things endure while the most meaningful thing of all must leave? Certainly his legacy is his widow and his children, but there's an inherent cruelty in the permanence of possessions and the transience of being.

It's a notion that has haunted me for many years, since it was first articulated by the pile of victims' shoes in the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum. Inscribed on the wall above the 4,000-odd pairs: "We are the shoes, We are the last witnesses / We are shoes from grandchildren and grandfathers. / From Prague, Paris and Amsterdam / And because we are only made of fabric and leather / And not of blood and flesh, / Each one of us avoided the Hellfire". Of course I'm not comparing Steve Irwin's death to the Holocaust. But the concept of what remains behind once we are gone is the same. It's sad, and unfair. And it's unavoidable.

One last point: The photo also reminds me of how real Steve must have been. When a person attains a certain level of success and celebrity, often they leave the tasks for which they became famous for others to carry out. For example, Martha Stewart has an army of minions to do her cooking, cleaning, gardening, crafting, etc. Looks to me like Steve Irwin did his own work, in his own old ute, right up to the end. He had a team behind him, yes, but his car was just as he left it, ready for his next foray into far north Queensland. He didn't outsource his vision; he did it himself.

OK, enough. Tomorrow, I swear I am going to write about The Biggest Loser. The new season debuts tonight!

Fair dinkum

I just finished watching the Steve Irwin memorial service, and I have come to the official conclusion that, legally, I am not cynical enough to be a blogger.*

The service was heartbreaking. I sat on the sofa for nearly an hour, bawling. The dog was concerned. I'm not sure which moment was most devastating: Steve's father, Bob, asking us not to grieve for Steve, but rather for the animals -- who lost the best friend they ever had; Steve's daughter, Bindi, doing a brilliant job of reading a note for her daddy while displaying more poise than I exhibit on any average day; the sight of Bob, Bindi and Steve's sister feeding his three favorite elephants, who were brought into the service by Australia Zoo staff; a video of Steve's crying as a baby elephant touched his face with its trunk; Steve's "right-hand croc man" loading up Steve's ute, which was parked in the middle of the arena, and driving it out of the venue for the last time.

I weeped like a child during each of those moments. But I think the most devastating thing might be this. Interspersed throughout the program were video clips of Steve, as well as taped messages from all manner of celebrity. One clip showed Steve as a guest on Steve Harvey's radio show. Harvey told Irwin that he was "officially a brother" for his speed and agility, ostensibly in the service of bad-ass croc wrestling. A lesser man would have worked very hard to come up with a witty, clever, ironic response. With a gravitas and sincerity that is probably not often heard on Steve Harvey's radio show, Steve Irwin said something like, "I'm just a regular bloke from Australia. Your acceptance of me just goes straight to my heart."

Then, a message from Kevin Costner. Now, I am not normally in the habit of quoting Kevin Costner -- or believing in his words as somehow transcendent. However, he perfectly articulated what's been bothering me so much about the loss of Steve Irwin. He said that of all the fearless things Steve had done, the bravest was letting people see who he was. Because letting people see who you are opens you up to criticism and mockery. But he didn't care, because he knew that his truth was much bigger than whatever jokes people could make of him. Well put, Costner. And well executed, Steve. That's the kind of perspective you need to really make a difference amid the static and choas of this world.

Perhaps that's why people liked him so much, because he wasn't afraid to be honest, positive and enthusiastic in a world where cynicism and bitterness reign. There's a dorky little kid inside all of us who still secretly loves snakes or geology or butterflies, though we may not get the opportunity to explore or exclaim that passion because we are too busy peppering our daily conversations with measured mixtures of detachment, irony, cleverness and wit. Steve was that dorky little kid, and he didn't have to hide anything behind anything. Imagine how liberating that must be; is it any wonder he was so happy? And what does it say about us that many of us thought he was too happy, too gushing?

The worldwide outpouring of emotion following Steve's death has been an "acceptable" chance for the mirthful reptile geeks in all of us to let loose. For example, check out these University of Florida students:

Maybe they only like him because he liked crocodiles and they are Florida Gator fans; I don't know if they are even the ones who put the sign there. Still, this photo strikes me as particularly poignant. If you had asked those kids two weeks ago how they felt about Steve Irwin, they might have been too cool to give you a straight answer. But that poster had to get there somehow. I imagine those fine students waking up early at their fraternity house to go to Kinko's and pick up their Steve Irwin tribute poster, then trekking to the hardware store for a few roles of electrical tape to affix it to the stadium wall. Really, they ought to be hungover or something instead. But that's the thing about true blue honesty -- people understand it; people celebrate it. They are relieved that someone has put aside the affectation and artifice to be real, even if it is just for a moment.

I haven't even touched on my pride in a nation for seeing Steve off in style and with the kind of dignity and love that only Australian mateship can provide. John Howard wasn't exaggerating when he told Terri and her children that there are "20 million pairs of Australian arms reaching out to you today." Good on all of you.

And Steve, good on you, too.

*Though I would like to state that Justin Timberlake taped a video message that was played during the memorial service. And he is bringing sexy back! So I can't be that uncool....

She still rolled up a pretzel rod inside a piece of salami and called it an appetizer, so it's OK

I just had to do it. I had to watch the first episode of Rachael Ray's new daytime talk show. As I programmed the TiVo, I thought: (1) it might be sort of like watching a train wreck; (2) I need to know what she can do beyond "taking a little help from the store" by opening a can of beans; and (3) I am curious to see just how far Oprah's influence can take you, even when you are a babbling fool. (Yes, I know the answer to #3 is very, very far, unless you are James Frey.) I wanted to be able to write something nasty, such as "I don't know what makes me more nauseous: Rachael Ray's rotating stage or her persona."

And?

You guessed it. She wasn't half bad. I absolutely hate hate hate to admit this, but she has a little personality in there that is pretty funny and surprisingly articulate. One that has been totally obfuscated by the EVOO on her Food Network gig. A few times during her new show, this little personality appeared and made me think, maybe she is a little like me. Is it possible? Am I relating to her? Shit.

Then there's her unbridled enthusiasm. I always knew she was this way, as it's a characteristic that comes through very clearly on her Food Network shows. In that context, however, it is extremely annoying. Her thrill at spending less than $40 per day on meals makes me want to slap her. On the daytime show, though, she seems more genuine. More relaxed. More grateful for her success, which many (including jealous ol' me) argue that she should not even have. At one point she said, "I'm Rachael Ray, and I'll give you a dollar if you watch me." It appears that she has some wit under all that vapid garbage bowling.

I don't think I'll watch her each day; she's not that good. Plus, I already have a two-hour daytime TV commitment and if I increase that to three hours, the dog will never get walked again. And then I will no longer be Pack Leader, and Cesar Millan will be all over my ass. But still....Maybe my husband is right after all. Maybe I like Rachael Ray. Is it possible? It can't be possible. I am having an identity crisis of epic proportions.

Sounds like he's just afraid of commitment

Are you freaking kidding me?

Brad Pitt says he won't marry Angelina Jolie until "everyone else in the country who wants to be married is legally able." That is so very noble of him.

Don't get me wrong. I have no problem with gay people, marriage, or any combination thereof. I just think it's a particularly weenie move for Brad to pull. If I were Angelina, I would be pissed. Given the fact -- unjust as it is -- that gay marriage is unlikely to be made legal across all 50 states within Mr. Pitt's lifetime, he might as well stare deeply into Angie's doe eyes, observe her quivering, ripe lips and say, "I wouldn't marry you if hell froze over. But here, let me offer this selfless, righteous reason."

And by the way, am I supposed to feel sorry for him? Are politicians? Are they going to start campaigning for gay marriage, claiming that they won't be able to live with themselves until poor little Brad and Angie can tie the knot?

I can think of many more effective ways to campaign for gay rights.* Which is why this whole thing is a load of c-r-a-p designed to make Brad look noble while masking his true failing as a man who can't commit. Not even to one of the most beautiful women in the world.

*Volunteer with an organization like the Human Rights Campaign. Send them money. Send letters to your elected representatives. Participate in marches, demonstrations. Do something like what Brangelina did in Namibia when they donated money to hospitals and maternity wards, i.e., support a cause that you care about by doing something practical and effective.

Why I am upset about Steve Irwin (even though I did not particularly like him)

As everyone from Cairns to Surfer's to Hobart to Torquay to Adelaide to Kalgoorlie to Perth to Darwin to Alice already knows, the Crocodile Hunter died Monday in a freak diving accident involving a stingray's barb and an unimaginable level of accuracy.

My heart just sank when my husband told me the news. And I didn't even really care for Steve Irwin, especially after that crocodile feeding/infant dangling incident in 2004. Yet....

My reasons for feeling so awful are seven-fold:

(1) He left behind those little kids.

(2) He is Australian and therefore would have been my mate if I had ever met him.

(3) People are idiots and will claim that he harassed the stingray, and/or people are idiots and will think that stingrays are evil villains -- a perception of "dangerous" animals that Steve Irwin spent his life trying to change.

(4) The animal kingdom lost a high-profile advocate. I can't think of many other people who could look at a snake and see "beauty." Yet there is beauty in every animal. Steve Irwin understood this.

(5) It's always extra-pointless when someone dies in a freak accident. It would have been "better" if he had been killed by a crocodile.

(6) Australians rally around their own and I just feel bad for the whole country.

(7) Like him or hate him, he was passionate. I've read that he was passionate about the big stuff (his wife, his family, his work, reptiles) as well as the small stuff (a delivery of mulch to the Australia Zoo). I totally get people who are passionate about things; a few months ago, I was totally excited about a mulch delivery to my house.

(8) The world needs larger-than-life personalities who are working for good.

The whole thing really has been bothering me. And although I am surprised to be typing these words, I will miss Steve Irwin. My heart goes out to his family and his little ones.