Musical Notes

Happy St. Patrick’s Day, where people all over the world celebrate the life of a legendary saint by committing various sinful activities! This is a weird world.

Stu Picks a Real Winner

(And I am not referring to a real winner picked from the confirmed existence of Stu’s one nostril. Yuck!)

No, actually, what I’m referring to is Stu’s recognition of a rising star in the music industry, Matisyahu. A month ago, I’d never heard of him. Now, according to Rhapsody, my legal music downloading service, he’s the fourth most popular artist on their Top 15 list. To give you an idea of how popular he’s become with the secular world, he’s up there with such current notables as Jack Johnson (#1), James Blunt (#3), Coldplay (#5) and Kelly Clarkson (#12).

I totally lost my faith in the taste and class of the American listening public when the Black Eye Pea’s “My Humps,” which has got to be the stupidest song ever recorded (even the liberal Slate Magazine agrees with me, calling it “A song so awful it hurts the mind”), hit the number one spot on the charts. Matisyahu’s popularity makes me think that maybe, just maybe, the American listening public can be redeemed. Ironically, on Rhapsody’s Top 40 chart, “My Humps” is sandwiched in between Matisyahu’s “King Without a Crown” and “Fire of Heaven,” at 21 and 23, respectively. Now there’s a contrast for you!

A Mad and Furious Master

And since this has something to do with music . . . Below is an article I started and will probably never finish. However, since I liked what I had so far, though, I decided to post it here:

Rolling Stone magazine recently, although rather unofficially, just named the biggest “nutjob” in the music business. That distinction belongs to Rivers Cuomo, the lead singer of the band Weezer, which first injected itself into public consciousness in 1994 by crooning, “Oooh weee oooh, I look just like Buddy Holly” over and over and most recently with its number one hit single, “Beverly Hills.” It’s a rather dubious honor, to be sure, as the world of rock ‘n’ roll is full of weirdos: Kelly Osbourne and her strange wardrobe, Alanis Morrisette strutting nude in NYC. Madonna. Kiss. Michael Jackson. Need I say more?

In an industry where the weirdest of the weird reign as kings and queens, what stunt could an English major at Havard possibly have pulled to mystify and bewilder even the most jaded mag into questioning whether he was the weirdest man in rock? A two year vow of celibacy, that’s what. Killing chickens onstage a la Marilyn Mason? Yawn. Biting the heads off bats courtesy of Ozzy Osbourne? How cliché. But a two year vow of celibacy. Now that’s strange.

A brilliant, raw and surprisingly unpretentious essay entitled, “A Mad and Furious Master,” posted on Cuomo’s myspace account was quickly deleted by his PR people, but not before getting copied and pasted onto another forum by a fan of his. In it, Rivers describes the excesses of self-indulgence that led to his taking a two-year vow of celibacy. “I thought that if indulging my desires only led to more suffering, then maybe resisting them would bring me peace.”

In the essay, Rivers unintentionally gives voice to the futility of attempting virtuous deeds purely on human effort, concluding that he seemed to be experiencing more suffering than peace. In desperation, he turns to another honorable establishment in the hopes that it, instead, might appease his desires – marriage: “I concluded that modern society was just not conducive to celibate living for a single, successful musician. Marriage, which once had seemed as undesirably permanent as a tattoo, now seemed to be the one, clear hope for my coming out of my longing. It would allow me to have a peaceful physical relationship with one person and continue my work in society without constantly having to fight or give in to the temptations all around. I promised myself to remain celibate until either my wedding day or the end of my vow, whichever came first, and set about trying to find a wife.”

He describes several humorous but failed attempts at online dating: “In retrospect, I probably should not have described myself as someone who is all 5’s looking for someone who is all 10’s.” Finally, he decides to “find someone the old-fashioned way, face to face. College, which I had never quite finished before, was probably my best bet. I made all the arrangements and busied myself writing out a list of the qualities I sought in a partner, so that I could be sure to recognize her as soon as I saw her.”

His plans fall flat, however, when the women he dates refuse to respect his vow of celibacy. In desperation, he turns to extremes: “I was devastated that my desires, it appeared, had led me again into pain, and caused pain for someone else. All alone in my apartment, now, I decided to try a new tack to escape my longing. I made a strong determination to avoid the sight of women altogether.” Needless to say, such a fruitless resolution doesn’t last long: “What would I do with them if I never had kids? My life yawned out before me, no wife, no kids, and seemed unbearably lonely. I decided that I had to at least keep my life open to the possibility of meeting someone and starting a family. With this vague resolution in mind, I headed back to school” but admits what he really needs is help with his sexuality.

Face to face with utter failure, Rivers utters quite an eloquent depiction of a search for peace without Christ as its fulfillment: “After all this time supposedly mastering my cravings, I’m still just as confused, frustrated, and lonely as ever. On top of that, my vow is almost up and I’ll soon have to choose what to do next. . . Am I going to high-tail it back to the next party at the Playboy Mansion? Am I going to find the love of my life by some miracle? Am I going to renew my vow for another two years, or ten years, or life? I have no idea . . . And you know what? It doesn’t even matter which path I choose when my vow is over, I’m still going to have to face my completely incompatible cravings for promiscuity, companionship, and solitude. There is no one right choice that will magically bring me peace and ease the longing in my heart.”

In a society that promotes commitment-free sex and promiscuity as the ultimate in fun and fulfillment, undergirded especially by the entertainment industry, Rivers Cuomo stands as a refreshing reminder that underneath the glitzy and glamorous propaganda is the big, fat lie that lust brings love and companionship always equals satisfaction . . .

Questions, comments, concerns? Please feel free to E-mail me!

Etymology and the Study of the Origin of the Word Church: How Alleged Anti-Semitism Has Biased the Translation of the Bible and Why Certain Groups of

Ha, ha. Still kidding.

You know, it’s amazing how much trouble you can get into with the Internet and a couple hours of boredom. This past weekend, while being bored out of my skull optimizing photos for a website, I discovered rai.

And promptly fell in love with Khaled, one of the foremost rai singers in the world. Okay, so he’s a middle-aged Middle Eastern man, but he can sing at my wedding any day. Provided he’s still alive, of course.

Apparently rai is a type of music popular in Islamic countries. Of course, I couldn’t understand a word of it, but my favorite song, “Aisha,” sounds like a love song. Which leaves me terribly confused. If arranged marriages are the norm in Middle Eastern countries, is anyone technically allowed to fall in love? I mean, wouldn’t love songs be banned lest the young people start getting foolish ideas in their heads? I would think the songs there would go something like:

I am on my way to my wedding, doing my duty
I will see you for the first time in this place
May Allah bless you with beauty
So you don’t look like a camel when I see your face

Speaking of People Who Look Like Camels . . .

It occurred to me the other day that I probably won’t be at my current job forever. I may leave one day, and when I do, my replacement will have to do as good a job as I do at the most important duty I have. I call that duty Bugging the Boss.

In order to prepare her for such an important job, I came up with a handy list of ways she can do just that. I’ve entitled it Top Five Ways to Bug the Boss:

Five
Accuse him of having a crush on Britney Spears.
Bonus points: Play her music really loudly in your office and “forget” that you pressed the “Lock” button on the intercom.

Four
Tell him you really enjoyed the movie Pearl Harbor because of its historical accuracy.
Bonus points: Come in early and paste the movie poster on his door on top of his airplane calendar.

Three
Wash his coffee cup.
Bonus points: Wash the coffee pot out with dish detergent and hide the coffee filters.

Two
Inform him with a very haughty attitude that all music made before the 80s has no soul.
Bonus points: Play Weezer’s “Beverly Hills” and say, “See? Isn’t this so much better than the Eagles?”

One
Tell him that if John Wayne were alive today, he would’ve starred in Brokeback Mountain.
Bonus points: None. Just duck and get out of his office quick!

Questions, comments, concerns? Please feel free to E-mail me!

Brownies, Axe-Wielding Psychos and My Life Last Night

In the concern that this blog doesn’t turn into an online reality show soap opera, this will be my last entry in the on-going posts about My Lovelife (or Lack Thereof). Plus, I’m sure you guys are getting bored and ready to move on to better pastures now. Which is great because I have a fascinating topic in the works that I’ve entitled Etymology and the Study of the Origin of the Word Church: How Alleged Anti-Semitism Has Biased the Translation of the Bible and Why Certain Groups of People are Hacked Off About That.

Just kidding (you hope)! Anyway, I figured you deserved to know the sort of finale to my current little drama seeing as how I’ve strung you along this far.

As it turns out, the decision of whether or not to return Shy Guy’s call was taken out of my hands when he called me at work yesterday and invited himself over to my apartment that evening. I agreed, but arranged for my mom to be there so that:

1) If he turned out to be an axe-wielding psycho, he would have nothing on my mother, and she could protect us with one hand while hopefully making brownies with the other.

2) He wouldn’t think I’m the kind of girl who regularly entertains male visitors of the non-mosquito variety in the privacy of her apartment, while hopefully getting some brownies out of the deal at the same time.

Well, my mother arrived with Dad in tow, so when Shy Guy – who isn’t shy at all, by the way – arrived, it was more like a “Meet the Parents” kind of thing, minus the potty-trained cats. While I sat there and squirmed, my parents asked him all sorts of embarrassing questions like, “What do you do?” and “What kind of lawyer would you like to be?” and “Do you believe JFK was murdered due to a conspiracy theory?”

What I Wore (This One’s for Jody)
Well, I wish I had a whole story about having a closet full of nothing to wear so I ran to Wet Seal or wherever and found the perfect dress and shoes to match, but the reality is much more boring. Everything happened so fast that I wore the same thing I wore to work yesterday: an army green t-shirt that had the word “Rebel” and a skull and crossbones on it in very feminine silver and gold glitter, only I exchanged the denim skirt that made my hips look big for a black skirt that was more slimming.

You think I’m joking, but I’m not. That skirt really did make my hips look big.

How the Evening Went (This One's for Jody Too)
Much to my disappointment, Not-So-Shy Guy did not turn out to be an axe-wielding psycho (I’ve never met one before, and I think it would be a different experience for me); instead he turned out to be a very nice guy and a perfect gentlemen, and we had a lovely evening listening to choir music and having um, “lively” discussions about traditional vs. non-traditional points of view on certain issues of which I am remaining purposely vague. He laughed really hard at all my lame jokes, which scored him some major points with me. I figure he’s going to need a really great sense of humor should he ever run across these entries about him. Heh, heh.

So now that he’s graduated from Blogfodder to Real Person, this will be the last entry in which I go into detail about My Lovelife (Or Lack Thereof). Actually, I feel a little guilty about making him Blogfodder in the first place. While we were discussing the merits of authenticity, I sat there and squirmed, knowing there was no way I could tell him about these blog entries and feeling like a hippo-sized-crit, which he plainly stated he loathed. Let’s keep praying for a really good sense of humor!

An Interesting Twist
One final note for all you commenters who accused the poor guy of a lack of chivalry: He claims my mother asked him for his phone number when he mentioned he’d be interested in meeting me. A claim she vehemently denies, meaning someone got his or her story a little muddled. Ah, the plot thickens!

Actually, it wouldn’t surprise me in the least if she had tackled him, wrestled him to the ground, subdued him, then hung him up by his thumbs and tickled the bottoms of his bare feet until he screamed in agony and surrendered his phone number. Like I said, axe-wielding psychos don’t have anything on my mother. Never underestimate the power of a woman desperate to get her spinster daughter married off.

And we never did get those brownies, dag-nabbit.

Questions, comments, concerns? Please feel free to E-mail me!

Welcome Back to the Game!

Nowhere is interacting with the opposite sex more confusing than in Christian circles, where some people date, a shrinking number forego dating in favor of "courting" and some have declared themselves temporary monks.

--Jessica Inman, "I'd Follow the Rules if I Knew What They Were: Dating in an Ever-Changing World"

I Am a Gutted Chicken
When I originally blogged about this whole Shy Guy episode last week, I did so on a whim, thinking it might be fun to include you on the somewhat confusing inner workings of my mind. And it was fun; I really enjoyed reading your thoughts about what I should do concerning the awkward situation in which I found myself.

But after reading through all your comments and discovering some of you had very strong opinions, the whole thing began to take on weightier proportions. It occurred to me that since I had brought up my love life (or rather, lack thereof), I now had a moral obligation to live out in front of you my convictions of what I believe a Christ-honoring relationship looks like. One of the bedrocks of my beliefs (learned the hard way through much trial and error) is that guys should be the initiators and women the responders. You are free to disagree with that, of course, and I will still like you if you do, but that’s just what I think.

However, forgetting that just because the majority rules doesn’t mean the majority’s right, I gave my word that I would do what the majority of you said do. And I am a woman of my word, so I was determined to call him. And boy, you guys gave some really persuasive arguments as to why I should! Deep down, I was glad you did because I really did want to give this guy a chance. I probably would have spent the rest of my life – or at least the rest of my week – wondering what it would have been like if I had and regretting that I hadn’t.

But when the moment of truth finally came, I just couldn’t do it. Call me a gutted chicken, but the minute I placed my hand on the receiver, a thought floated into my head: Relationships that don’t start well rarely end well. And I wondered if I were really giving this whole thing – whatever it is -- the best start possible. I wasn’t sure.

My Mother Is an Eager Beaver
So, I took the only other option at my disposal – to respond without initiating. I had my mother call him instead, and she was a little too eager to do so.

I sat there while she left the message on his voicemail, giving him my apartment number, my cell number and my work number.

“You forgot to give him my e-mail address, my fax number, my MawMaw’s number and Mackie’s baby-sitter’s number,” I told her after she hung up.

She detected the sarcasm in that statement but didn’t bite. “Should I call him back?”

“Mother, there’s such a thing as being too accessible, you know! One number would have sufficed!”

When someone wrote the rules to the game of dating, he forgot to give them to my mother. In her eagerness to get me married off, she breaks them on my behalf quite often.

Back to Square One
Since my mother had given the poor guy my cell number, I figured I should probably locate it and charge it, but I wasn’t too worried. The guy certainly had my other numbers he could call if he were so interested.

But I did finally locate it and plugged it in to charge and sure enough. There’s a message from him on my voicemail: He left his name and number in case I'd like to call him back.

Argh!

Questions, comments, concerns? Please feel free to E-mail me!