We're Almost There.

Hey! So nice to see you again—in a figurative sense, anyway. Why is my face petrified into a semi-congenial grimace here? Two reasons, really: 

a) I've just wrapped up a week of freezing morning bike rides and am relieved that marginal sensation has begun seeping into ancillary flesh bits.

b) I'm remembering that we're another day closer to cleansing an ugly, orange splotch from our collective fabric. Cold cycle, please. Yeah, go ahead and throw in another Tide Pod, but first, hit it a couple of times with that stain pen.

Now that we're into December, the monsoon that was Election 2020 has dwindled into a single, toxic layer of bronze vapor that lingers over our nation's capital. Meteorologists are theorizing, however, that the disturbance could abruptly change course during the next few weeks and disintegrate somewhere over south Florida, never to return. If only.

I'm not going to lie, I've still got a spring in my step, and it's been almost a month since this thing was called for Joe and Kamala. Admittedly, I didn't behave all that well in the immediate aftermath, gloating on Facebook and prodding a handful of my fellow Caucasian fifty-something-ers to meme the shit out of my feed and flood it with their "it-was-rigged-and-by-the-way-COVID-is fake-too" counterpoints. 

Of course, things devolved rapidly, which they always do. Even so, all I cared about at that moment was spiking that goddamned pigskin as hard as I possibly could. To put it another way, if schadenfreude were a cat, I felt like a freaking Tigon:

But that's enough of that, you know? As with past dustups, I ultimately discovered that spite is petty, hollow and mean when it spills over into social media. It never amounts to anything but a prolonged pillow fight, and as much as I'd like to persuade these people, it's never going to happen calling Loren Culp (Washington State Republican gubernatorial candidate) an ass clown on Facebook.

In light of the presidential victory, and with the promise of a vaccine in the next few months, I've already been feeling reflective of the past nine months. So much has happened and so much has changed, some of it maybe forever. 

Then the other day. I got an email, from Spotify of all people. As you may know, they like to accumulate playlists and they provided me with my most listened-to songs of 2020. Talk about an accurate snapshot of the year we've had. Turns out my number ten most played song for 2020 is Linger, by the Cranberries (Well, so far, anyway. I could still binge on Time to Change by the Brady Bunch and propel it to the top spot by year-end.). But wow, so accurate. This damn year has lingered like leftover mustard packets. 

But you be the judge. Tell me if my subconscious wasn't somehow trying to make sense of the year through selective listening. Here are the rest:

9) Goodbye, Yellow Brick Road, by Elton John: This one's a little spooky, because I do live in Seattle, aka the Emerald City. And, all you have to do is replace the words "Yellow Brick Road" with "West Seattle Bridge," and it's like Sir Elton is suddenly Nostradamus, only with hair plugs that came from his bottom.

8) Edge of Seventeen, by Stevie Nicks: Totally makes sense that this was one of my top songs of 2020. In fact, during last Saturday's Husky game, I was on the edge of 17 Oreos by the end of the first quarter.

7) Don't Stop Believin', by Journey: Remember, ain't no "g" on the end of "believin'". If you pronounce it with a "g" on the end, you'll sound like Siri. 

I knew you'd try it. 

Anyway, Don't Stop Believin' is kind of the comfort food of pop songs, right? It's loaded with good intentions and gives us a nice warm, cheesy feeling inside, sticking to our ribs (and in our heads) for a long, long, long time.

6) True, by Spandau Ballet: I've always really liked this song, so sue me. This is the sound of my soul.

By the way, who's the old man at the club today? For God's sakes. So far, every song on this list was performed by someone who's slated to get the vaccine right after the health care workers.

5) Don't You Forget About Me, by Simple Minds: An old favorite that has inspired me to "reply all" to every company-wide email. Feeling a little isolated, is all.

4) One, by U2: I must have been drawn to this song since it's the number of different hoodies I wear per week. 

3) Don't Dream It's Over, by Crowded House. Obviously, this is the ironic pick of the pandemic, since I DREAM IT'S OVER EVERY F*CKING NIGHT! Whoa, geez, sorry about that. Might be time to stock up on some more of that special toaster strudel from Uncle Ike's.

2) Nothing Compares 2 U, by Sinead O'Connor: What started as reflection on alienation and despair has morphed into my personal ode to the Nineties, a decade of amazing music and hassle-free airports, an era when half of America didn't think Bill Gates was a mind-harvesting antichrist, or if they did, it was because of Windows 95.

1) Jolene, by Dolly Parton: I just straight-up love this one, 2020 or no 2020.

I know we've got a dark winter ahead of us and it's probably going to suck and we're probably going to get really tired of our surroundings and hear a lot of bad news. But please, we're almost there! Stay safe.

When a song captures you and demands ransom.

I've been getting more into hockey lately. Seattle is due to get a National Hockey League team in 2020, which is pretty exciting, and currently we're in the midst of a riveting Stanley Cup series between the Boston Bruins and St. Louis Blues.

By the way, did you know that the 1917 Seattle Metropolitans are the first U.S.-based hockey squad to win Lord Stanley's silver chalice? It's true—they defeated the Montreal Canadians 3-1. It all went down in an era prior to air travel or antibiotics, yet only three short years prior to the birth of America's premier cannabis-inspired confection: the Hostess Ho-Ho.

The Blues are the sentimental favorite to take home the cup. It's their first trip to the finals since 1970, and they're the longest-living NHL franchise to have never won it. Just to cement this year's team even further into its underdog legend, St. Louis was dead last in early January. And I don't mean dead last in their division, I'm talking a basement residence in the entire 31-team league!

During those dark winter days, a small group of Blues players discovered over beers their mutual adoration for a song that went platinum in 1982 and stayed in the Billboard Top 100 for 36 weeks: "Gloria" by Laura Branigan. Familiar with it? If not, here it is in all its lip-synced gloria:



After a come-from-behind win over the Florida Panthers, one of the boys decided to blast the hyper-catchy tune in the Blues locker room and the team went crazy. After that, it could be heard following wins in Tampa Bay and Nashville, and before you could say "towel snap," a tradition was born. Now, with every victory that propels the team closer to the holy grail, you can count on the catchy number being belted out everywhere from the club locker room to the Angry Beaver sports bar at Gratiot and South Broadway.

Okay, I love "Gloria," I really do. In fact, I dug that song so much in college that I bought her whole cassette. Must have cost at least eight bucks.

But holy shit, during my half-century plus on the big blue marble, no greater melody exists that can establish residence in my posterior grey matter and take out a 30-year fixed. It's consumed entire fortnights in my brain. Sweet lord, how many mornings have I awakened only to find Gloria still lying beside me, telling me she'll be happy to serenade me while I get up and pee.

Before you continue with this list of my top ten song-worm-inducing ditties, I must warn you, any one of these may trigger hours-long loops in your own mind. Please read with caution. I would encourage you to follow up with a cleansing rendition of "Happy Birthday," then proceed with your day, tune-tumor-free.

10) "Afternoon Delight":



Whether performed by Will Ferrell or Starland Vocal Band, good luck purging this little nasty from your constitution.

9) "Wheels on the Bus": I don't think we need a video for this, do we? I can remember coming up with so many ludicrous contents on that GD bus just trying to keep my toddler from falling asleep in the car so she could take a proper nap at home. I'm not aware of any official lyrics past the first verse.

8) "Living on a Prayer":



Sure, it's a good song, and gee whiz, isn't that JBJ just the cutest little wookie you've ever seen? For Pete's sake, don't you just want to tuck them all in and tweak their shiny little noses? Yeah, I don't after spending a good long weekend living and living and living on a prayer.

7) "Lightning Crashes":



This is the lone song that I don't grow tired of, just because it brings back such powerful memories of when my first daughter was born. It was on the radio and MTV constantly during that spring of 1995, and it became the soundtrack of the most profound life-change I'd ever experienced.

6) "My Mommy's Coming Back (She Always Comes Back)": And so did this evil song. Chances are that you haven't heard it, so count yourself lucky. It's the demonic polar opposite of of "Lightning Crashes," encouraging small children not to despair when they're hastily dumped off at daycare. It'll stick with you like a dynamically-fed programmatic online ad.

5) "Umbrella":



Hella, hella, hella, hella, annoying!

4) "Don't Stop Believin'": Streetlights, people, oh noooooooo!

3) "Time to Change":



Okay, this was most definitely a wonderful way to make a pubescent Peter feel included, but no amount of go-go boots and hippie fringe can compensate for this rhythmically-deficient gaggle of honky tots.

2) "It's a Small World After All": Wait, never mind, this is just too cruel to even mention by name. Oh, too late? Sorry.

1) "Total Eclipse of the Heart":



Turn around, bright eyes. Every now and then I want to gouge my eyes out with a Craftsman® brand screwdriver. Nothing I can do.

Wow, congratulations! You made it through this ten-part minefield of musical torment. If I were you, I'd read a magazine or something.

iKnow, right?

Such Sweet, Sometimes Sickening, Summer Songs.

As of today, we’re forty-two percent into our summer. And in my opinion, until August 3 when we step onto the sun splashed summit, plant a couple of prayer flags and begin the darkening descent toward autumn, it's an opportune time to soak it all in. 

It's the sights, it's the smells—nothing permeates our senses like summer:

Jumping through the sprinkler and skidding along the soaked brown grass. 

Blowing the wrapper off a popsicle, your anxious tongue gluing itself to the icy crust.

The aromas of coconut sun screen and salty air filling the car as you troll for a parking spot at the beach.

But more than anything else, it’s the music. Nothing yanks me by the scruff and hurls me into the Dr. Emmett’s DeLorean faster than an old summer tune. 

The other day I popped on the old classic rock station while piloting our gangrenous Kia through West Seattle’s narrow thoroughfares. The song playing was “Beautiful Girls” by Van Halen, and for the next three minutes, only muscle memory and an urgent bladder navigated the car homeward, since my mind had taken a sharp left at 1978.

I found myself on the shores of Lake Tapps, a man-made reservoir in the shadow of Mount Rainier, fed by its silty glacier water. Go ahead and hold up your thumb and forefinger. Yep, I'd say it was about that cold. 

On one of my many lazy days spent there during that summer of Van Halen, my friend Corey and I found ourselves living an actual beer commercial. As we floated on inner tubes out in the middle of the lake, two girls slowly approached, paddling a raft. Gesturing to a cooler, on of them asked if we wanted to share a twelve-pack of Rainier and drift around a little. 

Why, yes. As a matter of fact, we would. 

Corey always had a way about him. How can I put it? Let’s just say the pizza guy tended to show up on the porch even when Corey didn’t order anything.

Even though summer pop songs elicit powerful nostalgia, not all of these emotions are positive. One night during 1976 while playing Kick the Can with the neighbor kids, I felt the urge to relieve myself. Knowing that my parents wouldn't let me go back out if I went in the house, I opted to use an alternate organic source. 

Okay, I peed into a shrub. The song I remember pulsing through my head, just before a kid named Howard shoved me into my own filth midstream, was “Don’t Go Breaking My Heart,” by Elton John and Kiki Dee.

I retreated to my house, ashamed and itchy, forever tying the essence of juniper berries and urine to two smartly dressed Brits.

“Shout,” a 1985 summer release by Tears for Fears, also dredges up some early-Twenties angst. I know I’ve droned on a lot about my ex-girlfriend, but dating her during college was like registering for  an extra twelve-credit class in “I-can’t-believe-how-much-I-hate-you-but-sure-I’ll-be-right-over-with-some-wine-and-cheese-nips-ociology.

If you remember the Tears for Fears video, the guy is standing on the edge of a cliff, singing and looking pissed. Okay, that was exactly how I felt, except I don't remember singing or having the other three guys in the band lip syncing at my ten-o’clock. 

Speaking of old MTV videos, they always seemed to have a hard time figuring out what to do with the drummer. The three other guys could stand out in the field with their acoustic guitars, but the drummer had to either bob his head and look cool or play a saw or something. Poor guy.

Anyway, that’s enough of my long-winded stories. Here are a few other summer pop tunes that have throttled a pressure point or two in my central nervous system since I started listening to the radio around 1973.  Is there some cheesiness? Absolutely, but we can’t always control when songs and events become permanently intertwined, right? The list goes until 1992, when CDs and digital music usurped a lot of my FM radio listening:

1973—“Goodbye Yellow Brick Road”—Elton John

1974—“Seasons in the Sun”—Terry Jacks

1975—“Fame”—David Bowie

1976—“Afternoon Delight”—Starland Vocal Band

1977—“Telephone Line”—Electric Light Orchestra

1978—“Just What I Needed”—The Cars

1979—“My Sharona”—The Knack

1980—“Sailing”—Christopher Cross

1981—“Tom Sawyer”—Rush

1982—“Stone in Love”—Journey

1983—“Safety Dance”—Men Without Hats

1984—“Sister Christian”—Night Ranger

1985—“Don’t You (Forget About Me)”—Simple Minds

1986—“Your Wildest Dreams”—Moody Blues

1987—“Alone”—Heart

1988—“Sweet Child o’ Mine”—Guns-n-Roses

1989—“Angel Eyes”—Jeff Healy

1990—“Janie’s Got a Gun”—Aerosmith

1991—“More Than Words”—Extreme

1992—“Hunger Strike”—Temple of the Dog

I’d love to hear your choices and maybe a few words to describe the back story.

John Lennon would have turned seventy yesterday.

I walked through the door around 9:30 that night. Band practice had gone late, and I was glad to finally be home after a another long day during a busy senior year.

"Did you hear what happened?" My mom's face wore a grave expression.

"What?"

"John Lennon died. He was shot."

When something profound happens in our lives, we take mental snapshots which allow us to easily access that memory for the rest of our lives. We remember time, place, even what we were wearing. And since yesterday would have been John Lennon's seventieth birthday, that Polaroid in my mind has surfaced again with vivid clarity.

I had just begun to explore The Beatles that fall of 1980. During a typical youth filled with exciting discoveries and subsequent journeys, this was one of the grandest. I dove in head first, decorating my locker with Beatle paraphernalia, attending a show in Seattle called "Beatlemania," where the performers looked and sounded like the Fab Four through each phase of their odyssey.

John had just released an album entitled "Double Fantasy," so the planets were aligned for my obsession with all things Beatle, past and present. I had already decided that he was my favorite; his edginess and his rebelliousness appealed to the region of my personality which never dared question authority. Sure, Paul was no slouch, but in my eyes, John represented the band's essence.

As a teenager, the news of his death hit hard, yet my adolescent brain couldn't quite grasp its permanence. "Forever" is an abstract concept to an eighteen-year-old, but the older I got, and the more I became acclimated outside my universe of instant gratification, the worse I felt about a world without John.

October 9 is his birthday, not the day of his death. We should celebrate his life and his music, his causes and even his struggles, and try not to dwell on his abrupt departure. Since he's been gone, however, I can't get past what thirty more years would have been like with John Lennon in our lives.

You probably shouldn't read this if you're under forty.

September...we hardly knew ye, and now you're a soon-to-be hologram of a summer left behind. Every fall, as school begins and the mornings grow a little crispier, I tend to wax about autumns past.... and nothing harkens to autumns past more than music.

This morning, as I listened to my pseudo-stodgy, adult contemporary radio station, I heard my teenager in the adjoining bedroom, singing and bopping along to every tune that sprang onto the airwaves of her teenage contemporary, a.k.a. hip hop, station.

I thought, When did I lose my passion for top forty radio? When did I pull out my tent and drive stakes into the pop music campground?  


I'll tell you when—when the seventies ended and I outgrew the demographic. So, rather than fight the tide, I've decided to revisit some of my favorite music from the Seventies.

Cheesy? Sure, some these songs are, but I love all of them. People sometimes criticize this era for its lack of variety, its emphasis on guitar rock and disco. But you be the judge.

And since we're saying goodbye to September, let's say hello to "September," by Earth, Wind and Fire:


In my opinion, E, W &; F defines 1970s-style R&B. K? And since we're on the subject of groundbreakers, here's one of the decade's definitive pop songs:


After the Jackson Five, it seemed like everyone wanted to throw their bell-bottomed leg onto the cool wagon, and here's the Brady Bunch's attempt:


I still wish my mom had agreed to buy me one of those fringy leather jackets like Greg had. It wouldn't have matched my horn-rimmed glasses very well, but whatever.

I'm not quite ready to leave the pop category yet, since I haven't mentioned the world's most popular group at the time:


Do I love these Swedish seductresses? Guilty. I also love the women in the group.

Time to move on to another genre, defined by a band which continues to be universally loved. I remember hearing this song shortly after getting my first FM radio:


No one will ever match Freddie.

This next tune can induce puberty in a TV tray, it's so chock full of teen angst. To me, it's the poster child for power ballads:

Excuse me for a second. I need to pop a couple of Sucrets after listening to that guy.

Even though I wasn't much of a disco aficionado, I can't leave out the kings of bearded, Australian camel toe beats:


I'm sure lots of run-down, 1970s-era neighborhoods had roving bands of skinny thugs with their white jackets slung over their shoulders.

The times were a-changin', even though we weren't quite ready for these guys yet:


It's funny how tame they look now.

Here's one of my favorite melodies from the emerging new wave movement which set the stage for the next decade:


And last but not least, we've got my favorite example of the arena rock we loved so dearly. I swear if I had David Lee Roth's stomach, I'd wear this outfit to work tomorrow:


Viva la 1970s!

Who are the true rock-n-roll immortals?

Yesterday morning, my daughters and I were sharing a rare moment of leisure together, and the subject somehow drifted to Elvis.

"Dad, I heard he died on the toilet," offered my ten-year-old.

"Didn't he eat a lot of bacon? Like really a lot of bacon?" queried the fifteen-year-old. I wanted to ask her if she had a problem with people who eat a lot of bacon, because, you know, I'll blend bacon into a smoothie.

I found it interesting that my daughters each had her own impression of the King of Rock-n-Roll, but not the one most of us older folks have. He was a true pioneer—someone who inspired artists for generations, yet he represented nothing more than a bloated caricature to them.

So many other musicians fall into that category; people who define a genre, yet receive no credit for influencing the music our kids love. For every Kelly Clarkson, Clay Aiken, Jonas Brother or Miley Cyrus, there's a Céline Dion, Michael Bolton, Donny Osmond or Debbie Gibson who isn't getting his or her due. Hang on a second...I almost forgot. I can't stand any of them. In fact, if I was forced to either listen to Michael Bolton sing or eat fiberglass insulation to survive, let's just say I'd have an energy-efficient lower intestine.

My co-workers and I have a long-running discussion regarding which rock artists have remained fresh and relevant for two or more generations. This wouldn't include those who still perform on the casino circuit, but haven't had any new material since the mullet was called the "bi-level," like Def Leppard, Journey, Kansas, Foreigner, Pat Benetar or Tom Jones.

Nor does the list recognize those who revolutionized music, but weren't around long enough to span two generations or more, or simply didn't evolve much, such as Jimi Hendrix, Nirvana, Janis Joplin, the Ramones, Led Zeppelin, The Clash, Aerosmith, The Rolling Stones, The Who, Chuck Berry and The Cure.

From my middle-aged, white guy perspective, here is my ever-changing docket of rock-n-roll immortals: The Beatles, David Bowie, Michael Jackson, Tina Turner, Tom Waits, U2, REM, Prince, Madonna, Neil Young, Paul Simon, Stevie Nicks, Sting, Johnny Cash, Joe Strummer, Beck, Pink Floyd, Eddie Vedder, The Beastie Boys, Bruce Springsteen and Metallica.

And I'm open for suggestions...

The Grammies make me feel like Grampy

My family and I are suckers for a good awards show—Golden Globes, Oscars, or People's Processed Cheese Awards, it doesn't matter, we're there. So last night, it was hardly a shocker to find us in front of the idiot cube, cradling a little cherry pie a la mode in our laps, firing up the 52nd Annual Grammy Awards.

As the show began, a list of the evening's presenters and performers scrolled down the screen. My wife and I recognized, roughly, thirty percent of the names, while our daughters gazed upon the offering, exclaiming "Yes! Taylor Swift!" or "Justin Bieber! I love him!"

My kids seemed to know the words to every song mentioned or performed, other than the country variety. Jamie Foxx, who apparently has added the title of hip hop artist to his résumé, took the stage and launched into some, at least to me, indecipherable rhymes, working the crowd into a frenzy. I glanced to my right, where my fourteen-year-old daughter sat, rapping along with every word. More and more performers joined Foxx on stage, adding to the din, and soon, I couldn't make out a single word. It was the audible equivalent of one of my dad's Thursday night crock pot casseroles. My teenager didn't miss a beat; I won't say she sang along, because it really wasn't a song, but she talked along effortlessly and enthusiastically.

I thought to myself, "When I was a teenager, did I know all the words to every song performed and awarded at the Grammies?" The answer was as simple as rubbing that genie bottle known as "The Google." I accessed a list Grammy Award winners for the 1977 show, way back when I was a spry buck of fourteen years. Here are some highlights:

Record of the Year—"Hotel California," by The Eagles
Album of the Year—"Rumours," by Fleetwood Mac
Song of the Year—"You Light Up My Life," by Debbie Boone
Best Pop Vocal Performance by a Duo, Group or Chorus—"How Deep Is Your Love," by The Bee Gees
Best Rhythm and Blues Song—"You Make Me Feel Like Dancing," by Leo Sayer
Best Country Song—"Don't It Make My Brown Eyes Blue," by Crystal Gayle

Okay, that's just a sampling. And at first I thought I had googled the wrong list; this one looks more like the White, Middle-Aged Adult Easy Listening Awards. Leo Sayer actually received best R & B song? Wow. I was expecting to see some Stevie Wonder, or maybe Earth, Wind and Fire.  And come on, how does Pat Boone's kid score a Grammy, with ABBA in their prime?

Overall, a bit disappointing, but after examining each and every award-winning pop song from 1977, I came to one inescapable conclusion:

I knew the words.