Yeah, I know it's Hagar. Still.

So crazy Britney has been placed on "mental health evaluation hold," or "5150 hold."

All I know is, in the 8th grade I spent a lot of time on 5150 hold, too. I loved "Love Walks In."

(Worlds Apart)

It is a shame that this has nothing to do with Steve Perry.

I'm just saying.

Pulling into Cleveland in a seven-seater tour van

I saw the Old 97s the other night, and I just have to say that they are damn good. Really damn good. It's been a few years since the last time I caught them live -- but there was a stretch there in the late '90s, early oughts, where I did things like travel to South Carolina to see them play, or stand in line at the Fez in NYC to see lead singer Rhett Miller's solo shows. So it was with great hospitality (and beer) that I welcomed them back to Cleveland, and myself back into the fold of a Bloodshot Records-like envelope of "insurgent country" obsession.

Following an immensely entertaining band called Ha Ha Tonka -- who, like Thunderbirds Are Now!, have entered my own personal Pantheon of opening acts that are impressive rather than yawn-inducing -- the Old 97s took the stage and played for more than two hours, reminding me that they are among the hardest-working bands out there. With a set list that long, they performed nearly everything I wanted to hear (with the notable exception of "Singular Girl," which I love not only because of the lyrical simile, "Talking to you girl / is like long division"). Lots off "Satellite Rides," which surprised me because I did expect a little more from the more recent "Drag It Up." But since it's ALL SO FUCKING GOOD, who cares?!?

I took a couple friends with me who are new to the Old 97s. At the conclusion of the show, one of them, Tiffany, turned to me and said in reference to notable looker Rhett Miller: "You could have warned me that he is so hot." The other friend, Chris, simply stated in the most hetero way possible, "He is one handsome son of a bitch." Guitarist Ken Bethea is looking pretty hot these days, too, in a way I've not noticed before. Perhaps it had to do with his wrinkled t-shirt that topped off his perfectly pressed yellow-green pinstriped pants, which boasted not only a perfect break but also the mark left from the hanger. They fit him perfectly, if you know what I mean, which I know you do.

Anyway. Totally not the point. But kind of the point, as it's no lie that Rhett (and, I suppose now, Ken) is not unpleasant to look at and therefore adds a certain je ne sais quoi to the Old 97s experience. But really, he's not all sweaty scruffy hair, beauty marks and s-e-x-y stage presence. His lyrics and music -- and the music he makes with Murry, Ken and Philip -- are just brilliant. Anyone who can write something like, "I believe in love / but it don't believe in me" or "And you'll try to find a doctor / who can prescribe an elixir / that will make everything better / except your late wife and her lover" is top-notch in my book. All the hotness is just a bonus.

When Paris hurts, we all hurt

Weeping Heiress is the name of my new introspective-Kate-Bush-inspired-ethereal-pop collective.

The rock manifesto of a 32-year-old who's gotten a little out of touch

I've been thinking a lot about music lately: why I love it, what it means to me, why I've gotten away from it in the past few years. I'm having my own little sonic rediscovery, if you will. I don't have any good reason for letting the daily enjoyment of the rock and roll slip away from my life; I am not old, I do not have children, my CDs were not burned in a house fire. Maybe it's a consequence of working at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum for six and a half years: at some point, rock and roll became my daily grind and, in retrospect, I do not appreciate that. I had Word documents on the subject matter. Rock and roll exists in the heart, mind and soul, not on a shared server.

So it is with great relief that I welcome music back into my day-to-day life like an old friend whose companionship used to be more vital to my well being than oxygen. In much the same way humankind's ancestors slithered out of primordial sludge, my 2007 Great Music Reawakening began slowly. In January I saw Sloan: always a favorite, they can do no wrong (even on "off" nights, which this was, because at least half the band was stricken with some sort of rock-deflating illness). In March a fortunate gene mutation helped me develop little legs, the better to traverse the rock and roll landscape: Australia's phenomenal but little-appreciated-in-these-parts You Am I played one of the best shows I've ever seen (and that includes Pearl Jam at the old Chicago Stadium on March 10, 1994, the night that will live on as The Night I Realized What Music Could Do). In May I was surviving like the fittest, and broke one of my old stupid habits of not seeing live shows of bands that I was not totally and completely mind-alteringly into: I saw Southern Culture on the Skids at one of the best live music venues in town. (Take that, naysayers! You know who you are.)

(In order to understand the importance of my going to three shows in three months, it is critical to realize that I used to go to shows all the time. Certainly when I lived in Chicago, but even after I moved back to Cleveland. There was even a time where I would drive all over the damn place, to states near and far, across Mason-Dixon lines and international [well, Canadian] borders, to see the finest in live rock and roll. But then I randomly stopped. As previously stated, there is no good reason for this other than the fact that, I don't know, I might have been tired.)

The live element is returning for me. I'm planning at least two shows in June, followed by what is sure to be the TRIUMPHANT return of the Old 97s to Cleveland in July. Beyond that, however, is my attendant rediscovery of the recorded music of bands that went missing from my life years ago. A lot of this has to do with the (un?)fortunate breaking of the 10-CD changer in my car. I have been forced to bust out some old mix tapes that have been rattling around in my car like coins that appear to be of negligible value but that, taken together, comprise a significant amount of useful American currency. For the first time since Bill Clinton was not having sexual relations with that woman, Miss Lewinsky, I am listening to Morphine again. Morphine is (was) a unique, dark, low, sexy three-piece made up of a drummer, a singer/slide bass player and a baritone saxophonist. It is nearly criminal that I have not heard "Thursday" or "All Wrong" or "Super Sex" in a decade. I mean, what is up with that?

Morphine is just one example. Soul Coughing. That is another example. Remember Soul Coughing? I didn't, for a long time there. But I am once again enjoying how "Screenwriter's Blues" perfectly captures the sound of Los Angeles in the middle of the night (or, I suppose, how I imagine Los Angeles would sound in the middle of the night, seeing as how I've only been out and about in the middle of the night in Los Angeles once, and I feel like that's what it sounded like). Midnight Oil? They deserve to be listened to, savored, for at least one hour per day. That is the least I can do for a band that writes lyrics about Holden wrecks and four wheels' scaring cockatoos and road trains and Kelly's country and our poet Henry Lawson and ANZAC Day and Truganini and Norfolk Island pines and currency lads -- a band that awakens such a strong desire within me to visit Australia that when I hear them I am thisclose to clicking over to the QANTAS Web site to see if I can get any good deals from LAX to SYD.

I just finished reading Nick Hornby's Songbook, and his connections with the songs about which he writes were, for me, the straws that broke the camel's back in terms of getting my rock and roll lifestyle back in order. I'm not familiar with all of the songs in Hornby's book, but it doesn't matter. His articulation of precisely why the songs touch him is so universal that we all can apply them to our favorite compositions. I don't get a deep-seated, visceral feeling of warmth and comfort when I hear Paul McCartney because he is such an astounding bass player and a brilliant songwriter (though he is both of those things); my knees get weak because both Beatles and post-Beatles Paul McCartney sounds like the entirety of the 11-year relationship my husband and I have shared to this date. I don't smile idiotically when I listen to Wilco's Yankee Hotel Foxtrot because of Jeff Tweedy's roots-music-influenced genius or because I once had a crush on a girl who fell in love with a heavy metal drummer; YHF floods my senses with what it was like to travel around the country with my best friend in 2002, trailing Sloan, losing our ability to remember what it was like just to enjoy a band from afar, gaining a friendship that will last forever.

How could I have pushed something so powerful and personal to the back burner? I should be flogged for my behavior but, like a loyal and loving dog, the music was waiting for me to return, happily greeting me with its fucking awesome rock and roll leash in its mouth, welcoming me home.

Sometimes, I miss CDs and tapes

Sure, sure, sure, the iPod is life-changing and digital music is akin to the second coming. But I never used to have such issues with my analog media:

notmyIM: Did you download that T Bone Burnett album for me?

nothusband'sIM: YES. it's on the other computer. i"ll email those files tonight

nothusband'sIM: i promise

notmyIM: Thank you. Also, did you get the new Wilco?

nothusband'sIM: no. i'll look for that tonight

notmyIM: And what is this business about DRM-free mp3s on iTunes? Can you ask hipeditorofamusicblog'sIM?

notmyIM: What does that mean?

notmyIM: Apparently you can "re-buy" mp3s you bought on iTunes for $.30 in the DRM-free format.

notmyIM: Do I need to do that?

nothusband'sIM: no

nothusband'sIM: it doesn't have the restrictions of just 5 computers, etc. also, it's at a higher bitrate -- better sound quality.

nothusband'sIM: but i'm not sure any of us can tell the difference. i guess you could. but it's one of those things that you may not even care, you know?

nothusband'sIM: i could rip two songs for you -- same thing at the old rate and the new rate. then you can see if you'd want to re-buy

notmyIM: My "problem" (among many) is that, currently, my iTunes only lets me have the purchased songs on ONE computer -- let alone a computer and an iPod, let alone 5 computers. Each time I sync my iPod it tells me I can't put my purchased songs on it.

notmyIM: So I cannot listen to "WIND IT UP," by Gwen Stefani, and I get cranky.

nothusband'sIM: well, that in itself isn't supposed to be that way -- it should be multiple computers. doesn't work when you log in with your user/pass?

notmyIM: It doesn't make me log in to sync my iPod. The problem happens when I sync -- it gives me an error message at the end of it listing the songs it was unable to "export" to the iPod.

nothusband'sIM: hm. next time you try that, can you write down/type down exactly what the error is? i'll track down a solution

nothusband'sIM: e-solution

notmyIM: You are the eSolution to all my eBusiness eProblems

nothusband'sIM: YES

Asphalt workers ROCK!

My drive to work involves going into and out of a (large for Northeast Ohio) valley. This morning, as I came to a stop at the bottom of the hill where I turn left to start back up the other side, I saw large trucks and those big steamroll-y smoothing things. I saw a sweaty paving company employee who was preparing to direct me to stop, just as you would expect there would be someone to direct traffic around a work site.

But instead of holding his hand up, palm facing me, to communicate with me to stop my car, this dude -- who was renegade in that he was not wearing the standard-issue orange vest and didn't have one of those signs that says "STOP" on one side and "SLOW" on the other -- threw up metal. \m/

Yep. Two horns up = "ROCK ON, Ronnie James Dio; but also: please stop, vehicle, and make way for the pavers."

Partying like it's 1996

The CD changer in my car broke a few weeks ago. I'm sure that it can be repaired, but because my commute to work is so much shorter than it used to be it's not nearly as high a priority as it would have been at this time a year and a half ago.

My console holds a few mix-tape treasures from the mid- to late-1990s, that period of time spanning college and the immediate post-graduation years. As you might imagine, these mix tapes are bitchin'. Though they contain some songs that I can't stomach in 2007 ("Moondance," by Van Morrison and "Because the Night" [the 10,000 Maniacs MTV Unplugged version -- not the Boss/Patti Smith version]), most of what I hear when I get in the car are delightful little surprises, tunes I haven't heard in years for no particular reason.

Some of them are quality compositions: today I enjoyed Morphine's "All Wrong" and the Beastie Boys' "Shake Your Rump" (Paul's Boutique being one of the most brilliant and fabulous albums of all time). Also, "The Dreaming," by Kate Bush, which I admit maybe not everyone loves but I do because it is the sonic equivalent of Australia, an entire Southern continent condensed into song.

Some songs are guilty pleasures: "One Night in Bangkok," from the Chess soundtrack, is AWESOMELY cheesy; "Does Your Mother Know," by Abba, is the campiest song about statutory rape that I can name. But taking the cake this morning: "You Oughta Know," by Alanis Morissette. I feel compelled to mention this song because when it came out, it was every woman my age's motivating fuck-you to those guys who had wronged us (as if life was so difficult). It perfectly captured the angst of rejection from the female perspective; its rage was significant, harsh, simultaneously profound and petty. Whoever she wrote that song about had to have been one bad-ass motherfucker.

But then I learned that the song is quite possibly about "Full House" "star" Dave Coulier. WTF?!? Every time she scratches her nails down someone else's back she hopes this guy feels it?!?


Knowing its potential subject removes a little of the song's credibility. I suppose it's possible that Dave is a raging beast of a lover; perhaps he is also an incredible actor whose "Full House" purity masks his white hot sexuality. But that doesn't really make sense and, as Judge Judy says, when something doesn't make sense, usually it isn't true. So thanks a lot, Alanis, for getting a generation of women all revved up about...Joey Gladstone.

Anyway, nothing I've written here is new or particularly relevatory. It's just what I was thinking about while I careened mindlessly to work this morning.

I have some very personal Doors-related issues

From The Plain Dealer's Web site:

++++++
Doors' Krieger and Manzarek set Rock Hall, HOB gigs
Posted by John Soeder
May 01, 2007 10:57AM

Doors members Robby Krieger and Ray Manzarek are set to drop by the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum for a reception at 7 p.m. Thursday, May 24, to mark the opening of "Break on Through: The Lasting Legacy of the Doors," a new exhibit devoted to the classic-rock band. The event is open to museum members, who can make a reservation by calling XXX-XXX-XXXX. [Number omitted because I am not willing to give the Rock Hall more "free publicity" than I alredy am with this post -- even if this is just a blog that nobody reads.]

From there, guitarist Krieger and keyboardist Manzarek zip over to House of Blues for an 8 p.m. concert of Doors music by their new band, Riders on the Storm, featuring ex-Fuel vocalist Brett Scallions. Tickets are $28-$200 at the HOB box office, or charge by phone.
++++++

Problems that I have with this:

(1) The Rock Hall now has a "special" Doors exhibit, after it's had a permanent Jim Morrison exhibit for 12 years. (I know that Cub Scout uniform has been hanging there for as long as I can remember.) The history and ongoing evolution of rock and roll is rich territory to mine; surely they can present something totally new?

(2) The Rock Hall's "special" Doors exhibit is titled, "Break on Through: The Lasting Legacy of the Doors." Love the curators though I do, the Rock Hall has such a lame template for exhibit/program naming:

"Popular Song Title Here: The Life and Legacy of Band or Musician Who Wrote Aforementioned Popular Song"

Other examples of this issue: "Revolution Rock: The Story of the Clash." "Hard Travelin': The Life and Legacy of Woody Guthrie." "In the Name of Love: Two Decades of U2." "Catch A Wave: The Beach Boys, the Early Years." I think you get my point.

(3) Robby Krieger and Ray Manzarek have sunk so low that they have named their new band "Riders on the Storm," which is a worse name than that of probably 95% of the Doors tribute bands out there.

(4) The most expensive ticket for the House of Blues show is $200! $200!! Because I measure prices in number of drinks at the bar (for less expensive items) or cost of an airline ticket to Australia (for more expensive items), let me just say that you could get from Cleveland to Sydney for less than it would take to get you and three "Touch Me" fans through the House of Blues door that night.

I'm just saying.

Geddy Lee is a powerful motivator

There is an ad on ESPN for the network's free fantasy baseball "service," and it fucking rules.

I do enjoy baseball, but I would never participate in any sort of fantasy league. In fact, participating in some such league, for me, would be much less of a fantasy and much more of a hellish reality. My husband -- lifelong Mets fan, Major League Baseball employee, knower of all statistics -- as you might imagine participates in several leagues each year. He even won some cash money last year in his favorite league, thereby earning himself the right to tote around a communal trophy for the 2007 season (which is roughly the size of the Stanley Cup).


As you can imagine, I make fun of him a lot. (Except for when he wins the benjamins. That I am OK with.)

So last night during the Mets vs. Cardinals season opener this ad came on, and because I love the rock I immediately looked up from the issue of This Old House that I was reading. I thought, OK, this is a funny ad. Could have been done better, but there is a keytar so I can't complain. Then we reached the end of the ad, where it became the most awesome television advertisement since Domino's Pizza mocked my silly rules: Rush's Geddy Lee wails, "FANTASY BASEBALL IT'S FREE AND IT ROCKS!!!" Case, closed. Fucking socks, rocked off. And I don't even like Rush.

(The YouTube video of the ad unfortunately cuts off a split second too soon, so one can't appreciate the full sincerity of Geddy's exhortation. Sadly, I sort of suck at the Internet and can't find a better version.)

When the ad was over, Husband turned to me and said, "See, now you're going to want to do fantasy baseball." And instead of my normal response, which would have been something like, "I would never do fantasy baseball; no way it is for losers," I instead said, "I don't know enough about baseball to do fantasy baseball."

Because if I knew more, dear Geddy, you and I would be negotiating a trade RIGHT NOW.

Indianapolis Colts Are Now!

Husband and I went last night to see CanRock superstars the Sloans. As a perennial favorite mount in my stable of rock and roll horsies, I never miss them on their way through town and, in many instances, have followed them to other towns for additional rocking.

Though half of the band was considerably under the weather, their overall rocking was not proportionately diminished. Then again, I'm not sure it's physically possible for Sloan to put on a bad show. They played many songs from the new and genius Never Hear The End Of It, and given that album's 30-track run of variable length-tunes, I wasn't sure how some of the songs would translate to a live format. But they did, fantastically. Sloan worked them into little three- or four-song packages, one right into the other. The band was in good spirits and their famous wit was on display per usual -- save for Jay Ferguson's general demeanor of misery (he seemed the sickest) and the one time Andrew Scott started into a song before Chris Murphy and Patrick Pentland were done with their clever banter, as if to say, "Shut the hell up, fuckers, I want to be done with this."

Anyway. All of this was to be expected. The unexpected portion of the evening came in the way that one of the opening acts, a group from Detroit called Thunderbirds Are Now!, ruled. Now, typically, I am miserable at the mere thought of standing through opening acts. I go out of my way to avoid them, even if it means, in some cases, sacrificing precious position at the front of the stage (a must for short chicks like me). So it was rather convenient that the NFL AFC Championship game between the Indianapolis Colts and the New England Patriots was going on during the two Sloan openers. Something to do instead of stand there, bored, staring at some local rock and roll hoodlums. That should tell you something: I am no football fan, but I'd rather watch a championship game than watch an opening act.

It was an interesting scenario: people who like Sloan enough to come out on a frigid Sunday night are generally not huge NFL fans, while people who are big enough football fans to be cheering wildly with each play are generally not really into Nova Scotian power pop. Not to make generalizations or anything. And it's not like you could be in the bar without paying the Sloan ticket price, so I'm guessing someone only in it for the game would have gone to one of the other no-cover bars just a few doors down.

So poor Thunderbirds Are Now! start their set, and they sound pretty awesome. Keyboard! I hear a keyboard! But the plays taking place as the Colts beat the Patriots were garnering much larger cheers. You had to sort of feel sad for the band, that Tony Dungy was getting a louder reaction from indie rock fans than they were. One dude was such a huge Colts fan, I thought he might strike me down in his exhilirating attempt to share a high-five. Dude turned out to be a huge Sloan fan, too, standing right behind us for most of the show until he disappeared, no doubt too overcome by all the football and CanRock excitement to remain upright any longer.

What I want to tell you is this: once we made our way to the stage after the game was over, we were treated to one hell of a show by Thunderbirds Are Now!. Specifically, their keyboard/tambourine player. Their sweaty, hyperactive, phenomenal keyboard/tambourine player, who is nothing less than the heir to the Flashing Lights' keyboard playing, tambourine shaking, cape wearing savant Gaven Dianda. Though Gaven continues to make music with various outfits -- and though my Thunderbirds hero was not wearing a cape -- I am glad to see someone else continuing in the general direction of misunderstood genius keyboarder tambourinist.

You should all go buy their albums.

If I have to be scarred by it, you have to be scarred by it, too

I just read on msnbc.com that Britney Spears could possibly be pregnant again. Whatever.

More alarming: the detail with which the story was written, and, I guess, the extent to which said photo was circulated:

In one widely circulated photo, Spears was shown throwing up peanut butter and reports said she had been drinking, but according to ITW, Spears has been skipping the booze.

Does anyone really need to see that? Does anyone even need to read that?

Please, Lord, in all my time-wasting Internetting, don't let me stumble across that photo.

Your apparent interest in campy metal gives me hope for the future of our world

Since I posted a few days ago about the heavy metal Domino's pizza commercial, several of you fine folks out there have stumbled across Sympathetic Weather through Web searches utilizing the following strings:

-"it mocks your silly rules"
-it mocks your silly rules
-Domino's "your silly rules"
-singer Dominos commercial silly rules
-Dominos pizza commercial metal
-dominos pizza+metal song
-metal new dominoes commercial
-dominoes pizza tenacious d comm
-"silly rules" dominoes
-dominos pizza metal song
-dominos pizza heavy metal commercial

I can't even tell you how excited I am to learn that such searching is going on out there. Not even because it leads you to this blog. But because it means that, dammit, you need to know, specifically, how it is that Domino's is going to mock of your silly rules.

Meanwhile, your interest in Joel McHale's sexual orientation continues. Which I find to be fascinating, because he is totally straight. And cute. Anyway. I tell you, I don't know what I did for entertainment before I could monitor traffic to this blog.

That's about right, part 2

From the "Listening Party Forum" on cleveland.com, the online home of The Plain Dealer (and, for the record, I have no idea why I am reading forums on cleveland.com):

Anyone out there know why the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame website has been flagged by Google and StopBadware.org as a site that can harm your computer?

And the most excellent response:

well several reasons
there may be a bug/virus,.. not sure..
but i know another reason
rock and roll is bad for society and listened to bad citizens

(Also for the record, this anti-rock response was written by a different user than the one in the post below.)

Meanwhile, I would like to draw your attention to the outstanding new Domino's television ad that's being aired here in the Cleveland area. It features two red flying v-shaped electric guitars swooping in over a pepperoni-laden pizza, and the details of the special are displayed on screen in an awesome font not unlike this one. Apparently this deal is so great that it "breaks all the rules," and when those words appear on screen the heavy metal singer who's been wailing in the background articulates the following brilliant lyric about this phenomenal pizza opportunity: "It mocks your silly rules!" Best. Ad. Ever.

Tenacious D is right: you can't kill The Metal.

That's about right

From the "Arts Scene Forum" on cleveland.com, the online home of The Plain Dealer:

To Anyone it May Concern,
I’m a college student returning to Cleveland, and I want to bring the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Induction Ceremony to the city of rock as well. Any information, names, numbers, advice would be greatly appreciated. Thank you for your time, It will not be wasted.
Shine On,L. Palsa

The one and only response:

rock and roll fans are hoodlums

Ziggy Stardust was always very diligent with SanDisk rebates

So I'm sitting here on a quiet Sunday night, balancing my checkbook, paying some bills with the non-existent cash money in my account and otherwise tying up loose mail-related ends. iTunes is shuffling away on my laptop.

David Bowie's "Young Americans" comes on while I'm filling out a Best Buy rebate form for a 2 GB memory card that I recently bought for my new camera. So far, thrilling.

But as I'm filling out the envelope, I see that I must mail the rebate info to a P.O. box in -- wait for it -- Young America, MN.

Honestly.

Who even knew such a place existed.

Today's screencap of last night's "Lost"

In which Juliet has her own "Subterranean Homesick Blues" / "Mediate" moment:

Just in the same way I didn't get the Eggo waffles slogan until the mid-'90s...

...today, for the first time, I paid attention to the lyrics in the last verse of The Sugarhill Gang's "Rapper's Delight." Brilliant:

Have you ever went over a friend's house to eat and the food just ain't no good /
I mean the macaroni's soggy the peas are mushed and the chicken tastes like wood /
So you try to play it off like you think you can by sayin' that you're full /
And then your friend says momma he's just being polite he ain't finished uh uh that's bull /
So your heart starts pumpin' and you think of a lie and you say that you already ate /
And your friend says man there's plenty of food so you pile some more on your plate /
While the stinky food's steamin' your mind starts to dreamin' of the moment that it's time to leave /
And then you look at your plate and your chicken's slowly rottin' into something that looks like cheese /
Oh so you say that's it I got to leave this place I don't care what these people think /
I'm just sittin' here makin myself nauseous with this ugly food that stinks /
So you bust out the door while it's still closed still sick from the food you ate /
And then you run to the store for quick relief from a bottle of Kaopectate /
And then you call your friend two weeks later to see how he has been /
And he says I understand about the food baby bubbah but we're still friends

I don' t even have anything to say, this is so phenomenal. How have I not heard this before? I'd be way more into hip hop these days if Snoop would only rap about some rotting chicken.

(Though I must admit that, naturally, I have a certain ownership of popular music today, which of course includes hip hop and its enormous influence. Husband and I were celebrating my birthday last week at a nice restaurant with a live jazz trio, and a four-top of older people were singing along to the standards the group was performing, including a touching husband-wife duet. My husband pointed out that in 35 years or so, that will be us: I will sing, "Got me lookin' so crazy right now / Your love's got me lookin' so crazy right now," while husband will reply, "Young hova / Ya'll know when the flow is loco / Young b and the r-o-c uh oh.")

'Sup with all the gaiety?

I have a fancy little tracking device in this here blog that lets me see how many people visit the site, where they're from and how they got here. It is a fascinating tool, as I now know that I have readers from Lisbon to Delhi, from Queensland to Kent, Ohio. I do feel a little creepy monitoring the site like this, but it's totally fascinating to imagine someone in Alberta, Canada, reading this crap.

The best part of my stint as Big Brother: reviewing what search strings people enter into Google or Blogger that lead them to Sympathetic Weather. It seems you are very interested in which people -- real or fictional -- may or may not be gay. Recent searches:

-"Shawn Brady" gay
-patrick pentland gay
-"the soup" joel mchale gay

Then there was the search for "Steve Irwin baby elephant," which, though not overtly gay, is kinda gay.

And so...today's screencap of last night's Lost -- which I hope to make a recurring feature on the 'Weather -- is also kinda gay. Enjoy:

Memory girl

Today I'm experiencing a bit of Warren Zanes nostalgia. Not for the days when we worked together, but rather for the days before we worked together, before I knew him and I was simply a fan of his brilliant and beautiful Memory Girls. (Which is not to say that working with him was an unpleasant experience; to the contrary, he is smart and interesting and funny and nearly everything one needs in a co-worker. Well, what most people need: I was spoiled with an exceptionally phenomenal office-mate for several years. But anyway.)

Memory Girls reminds me of a very distinct time in my life, a time when lyrics like... "Maybe we can / remember all the things we planned when we began / And when the words come / let's clear the strip and let 'em land while we still can" ...described perfectly every crappy and joyous thing that I was feeling. And every lover of music worth his or her salt knows that emotional connection, and the way in which it can elevate already excellent tuneage to a much more rarefied place. I also feel this way about Sloan's Pretty Together, Wilco's Yankee Hotel Foxtrot and Tori Amos' Little Earthquakes (among many others).

Maybe it's the changing seasons, maybe it's the chill in the air, maybe it's my impending 32nd birthday, but today I'm just feeling...wistful. Yearny. Full of memories for a time just a few short years ago that was somehow simpler. Which is ridiculous, because I am still very young and, really, not much has changed. And life is good. But still.

I have a copy of Warren's newest CD, People That I'm Wrong For, but I haven't spent as much time with it as I should. Thus, my assignment tonight is to give that another listen or two before Wednesday's powerhouse 9:00 p.m. hour of TV watching (Lost; The Biggest Loser).