Ouch. That’s Hot.

Here’s a little tidbit from this month’s Wired:

“By 2020, native English speakers will make up only 15 percent of the estimated 2 billion people who will be using or learning the language. Already most conversations in English are between nonnative speakers who use it as a lingua franca.”

Ah, this warms my heart. I never was much for foreign language. Never really had the patience to put my mind to something so, uh, foreign. My grades the second semester of college looked something like this:

American Lit Survey: A
Literary Criticism: A
19th Century British Novel: B
Introduction to Physics: A
Spanish 3.0: F

As an excuse, I always copped to some sort of imbecilism whenever the topic came up. My father pronounced my failure to achieve in the southern tongue an “anomaly” and left it at that. Unfortunately, I was mostly just lazy. I was well aware of the difference between a gerund an infinitive. I had a fondness for the culture, cuisine, and charisma of my chicano friends. I just didn’t try.

Now, thanks to trends beyond my control, I may not have to. Funny how such an awkward little language is taking over. Lucky me.

(Thanks to Kingtycoon Mathoslah for the tip.)

Whether it left a soft spot or a sore spot, there’s no doubt that anyone who slid through the 70s could do so unfazed by the smooth sounds of Southern California’s Yacht Rock. Sailing a swath of pure stereo bliss from the cool waters of Santa Barbara to the spicy shores of San Diego, Yacht Rock was more than a sound: It was a mindset, a philosophy, and a takin’-it-easy way of life.

And now at YachtRock.com you can relive the adventure through the struggles of a young Kenny Loggins and Michael McDonald as they wrestle with life, loss, and the urge to rock. Every episode is worth watching (and hey, they’re only 5 minutes or so each), and each one tackles a new angle of the Yacht Rock story. From its 60s hippie roots, to its 80s dalliance with Pop Metal, to its sampled-resurrection in 90s hip-hop, every line cast into this sea of cheese lands a catch of AM Gold.

Give it a try. And be sure to keep it smooth.

Perhaps I’m going about things all wrong.

In the last GQ there was an article about the necessities and excesses of the hyper-trendy green movement. It was mostly fluff, bouncing between the dire results of every Indian & Chinese owing an internally-combustible car, and the ridiculousness of buying a shiny new hybrid-SUV because somehow you’re going to save the earth by stretching each gallon of gas another mile or two.

Nothing new there, but there was a quote from one Bjorn Lomborg that made me wonder about my approach to life:

“The reason we’ve done so well as a civilization over the past 300 years is specialization — I don’t fix my own computer, I don’t produce my own TV programs. I do very few things, but hopefully I do them well.”

And then there was this quote from my friend John’s blog:

“When I grow up, maybe I’ll learn to say “no” to things that fall outside my talents, skills and giftings. I know for a fact that God has not equipped me to be a travel agent. I shall never again be the one responsible for flight plans, fund collections or any of those kinds of details related to a missions trip. I’m just not good at it.”

I’ve always been one to try to go it alone, fix it myself, make it happen on my own terms. But when I look at both my domestic and professional life, I see mostly loose ends that I could fix if I had the time, but I don’t have the time. I’ve got no time for anything. And then these self-inflicted responsibilities just start stacking up and choking out any space to do what I’m actually kinda good at.

For instance, I’m massively behind in my attempts to get a new e-commerce platform up-and-running. It would/could/should be a good thing to do, and it’s plum necessary in my line of work that I continue to evolve this “solution” to keep up with the times. However, I’ve never felt any desire to hang out with a database, let alone tweak the code to get it to jump through my hoops. Now, I’ll stay up all night tweaking the layout of the user interface. I think that’s fun.

Am I less of a man for hiring some help? Why my lack of faith in the word “team”? Does this all go back to a childhood kick-ball game gone bad? The blacktop broiling under the summer sun. The bounce of the ball, the dodge, the jump the crash, the burn, the Sears Toughskin corduroy jeans not tough enough. Argh!! The iodine!!

Feeling better… I think I’ll go make some calls. Go team!

At least 10 years have gone by since I’ve read a little Waugh. And that, my friend, is simply no good. I’d forgotten more of Evelyn than I’d remembered. From what I could recall, he was a serious writer with serious stories about the decline and fall of a way of life. The sort of writer who picked up the last handful of dust and pondered loss with a heavy heart and civilized snifter of sherry. And when Tony wound up in the jungle, I always found it odd, over-the-top, goofy.

Fact is, the jungle made sense. I’d forgotten just how Wilde he could be. Nonsense is not just another element of his writing, it’s a critical component of his continual commentary, a Yin to his Catholic and Cultured Yang.

In Put Out More Flags, Waugh applies the same deconstructable style to the most hallowed of recent human endeavors: the Greatest Generation’s Band of Brothers who laid down life itself to bash back against the buzz-bombing Nazi threat. His descriptions of the inner workings of Her Majesty’s Royal Forces are Kafkaesque; his soldiers are well-meaning but ill-informed; his recurring characters are by turns self-centered, aloof, removed. But things do turn serious as the war heats up, and there is maturation and growth all around. And things do turn serious for Waugh as he introduces and replays a new theme mid-novel:

“Culture must cease to be conventual and become cenobitic.”

Waugh sketches out a contrast between the mind of the modern European man (excited to be wrapped up and bound up and swept away by the latest line of thought, be it Nazism or any other sort of less-destructive fashion or fever) and the the life of a Chinese monk content to think his own thoughts in solitude without being chained to the greater collective (un)conscious.

Applied to the present conflict, he continues:

“The great weapons of modern war did not count in single lives; it took a whole section to make a target worth a burst of machine-gun fire; a platoon or a motor lorry worth a bomb. No one had anything against the individual; as long as he was alone he was free and safe; there’s a danger in numbers; divided we stand, united we fall…”

To sum, the cenobitic culture would not form an army, would not drop a bomb, would not round up the Jews, and would not Put Out More Flags. However, it would produce plenty of snarky fiction and the time to really read it.

Perhaps we all just want to re-create the world in our own image.

Interesting article in The Other Paper last week focusing on our (Democratic) Governor Ted Strickland’s marksmanship and subsequent high marks from the NRA. Although I’ve got an opinion or three on the issue, it’s not really an issue for me. What fascinated me was the unabashed contrarian position taken by The Gov vis-a-vis his party’s line. So rarely does this happen!

For instance, I can’t find a single Hillary supporter who thinks that Florida and Michigan should be excluded from the delegate vote. I can’t find a single Obama supporter who thinks that they shouldn’t. Back in 2000 there was nary a Democrat who thought that Florida and the courts were on the path to Truth after the election. There wasn’t a Republican to be found who thought otherwise.

Doesn’t anyone think for themselves anymore? How can we trust people with guns when we can’t even trust them to think? For that matter, how can we trust them to raise children? Even in Texas?

Anyway, the real reason for this post is just for a chance to post this:

The moral of the story: Like a pink Kalashnikov, the Trigger of Truth might be a mash-up we’re all afraid to fire.

It always warms my heart to have a little local flava in my national media. Spin brought back the love this month with a pithy article on a local audio contagion known affectionately as “Shitgaze”, written by local boy Joel Oliphint and centering on the bands that call Cafe Bourbon Street home sweet home. (But no reference to the Taco Ninja. Tragic.)

Out of love and respect I won’t mention the fact that I have nearly no patience for the stuff. What can I say, I like my music a little more crispy. I’m all for low-fi and DIY, but still, I’m the guy who’s favorite Clash album is Sandanista and who was secretly relieved when Iggy lost some of the Raw and just kept the Power.

Still, for a second-string city, Columbus has so much going for it. It’s a place where the little trickles of mid-western creative juice pool up and nurture something new. Not every blossom blooms to my liking, but sometimes you’ve got to gaze on some stinky shit to make the garden grow. I’m glad we’ve got it. I’m going to miss it when I’m gone.

Finally I’ve found the label for this nonsense I’ve been spinning obsessively for the last few weeks. (Picture the little rat in the cage, tongue lashing the coke-spiked water-bottle foaming away at his little lips. twitch twitCH! TWITCH!!… ) Anyway here ’tis: INDIE-POP. Post-Pop’s already taken (damn you, Peaches!) And this is more of a return to form, like your third-wave feminism: It ain’t afraid to be what it was born to be. More Carrie Bradshaw, less Murphy Brown.

So here’s The Ting Tings: Big in the UK, and (I predict) without a future in the states. We can’t handle ambiguity (see: the Darkness). You’re either in or your out. Hanging with the in-crowd or slumming with the freaks, take a pick and don’t cross the line. These kids have played both sides of the fence and can’t seem to sit still. Picture the White Stripes playing a round of Dance Dance Revolution and you’ll get the idea.

__________________

addendum: I just googled indie-pop and it’s been taken too. drat! suggestions anyone?

Like a Big Mac, I’ve been loving it. But I must confess: I’m afeared. I’m quaking in my creative boots. I’m weak in my musical knees. Atrophy, dust, rust, and disease. The problem is this: Do I only like things that remind me of the music of my youth? Is there a future left for me? Or am I on a slow slump to a Sarasota double-wide pining for the way it used to be?

First of all, the album: It starts off with (and gets back to every 3 tracks or so) a nice bit of retro-80’s pop-balladry. That’s the hook. The barb is the dub, the punky-reggae party that slips into the groove like a track off of Sandinista and lights up this little corner of the dance floor of my heart. Throw in some sonic experiments that wouldn’t be out of place as a later Massive Attack track and you’ve got yourself an album. You’ve got yourself an album that sounds a lot like something I can relate to. Yes me: a 30-something, formerly hip, trying to keep up with the day job and the kids and the wife and the rest of life. Is this really a market to target?

There’s more to Santogold than that, but there’s something purposeful about the way she snips melody from the Smiths, screams like one of Siouxie’s banshees and has a Peter Murphy impersonator guest on the track “I’m a Lady”. Or maybe she just has good taste. Maybe I do too.

Here’s to hope, and here’s to the future.

… is good for at least the drive home too.

Call me shallow, but I really don’t care that I can’t understand a word of this. I actually tried to learn French a few years ago. Rocki and I picked up a “Learn French In 24-Hours” type course on tape at a bookstore while vacationing in Chicago. It seemed like a good idea at the time. We listened to the first cassette too. Then we got bored when it asked us to repeat the phrases back to the unseen man hiding in the car radio. I just couldn’t bring myself to ask for the whereabouts of the watercloset from an automaton in mixed company. Though he did have an outrageous accent.

I liked the accent a-plenty. Which brings me back to Yelle. It’s 80’s dance-pop (with a few updated beats here and there for good measure.) She sings like Stacey Q and raps like Debbie Harry. Shatter this heart of glass!

Come to think of it, it might be better that I can’t understand the words. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve cringed mid-step in an otherwise enjoyable moment of self-adulation, dancing alone to one of Madonna’s more recent tracks. Sometimes the words just get in the way.

Need more proof? Just can’t get enough? :: You Tube !

To each their own.

If you like sports, read Sports Illustrated. If you’ve got the entrepreneurial bug, check out Fast Company.  And if you think words are fun, pick up Eats, Shoots & Leaves.

Much as I get a hankering for some Strunk & White from time to time, there’s something far more entertaining about the way that Ms. Truss goes about pausing to consider the placement of a comma. Indeed, I learned a thing or two.

For instance: Did you know that the British call a period a “full stop”? Mind blowing! Made me feel like Albert Hofmann after a hard day in the lab.

It has made blogging a little tougher on the noggin. Whereas my thoughts used to flow to the page with the grace and agility of a teenage Marylou Retton, I’m now constantly stuttering upon the keyboard debating both the accuracy and necessity of every minor mark, each stroke stuck in sacrifice to the gods of grammar, lest they damn me for running on a sentence too long.

Who me?

Overall I found the British/American usage debates interesting, agreeing more with those across the pond than with the rules passed down to me from generations of jingoistic grammarians. I’m bound to lose on that one. It’s only a matter of time until we’re all speakin’ ‘Merican.

And I got to toy with the Oxford Comma a little longer. Life is good.