Goldilocks: Brief Encounters of the Third Kind

Part I
One needn't be blond to suffer from Goldilocks Syndrome:

The indefatigable quest to find your niche (notch) in the world: to find a place where you fit in, where you are comfortable.

And I need that now more than ever — to feel that at least one fleeting aspect of my life is "just right."

And yet:

I am too liberal for conservatives; too conservative for liberals.

Too tall for petites; too short for regulars.

Too hippie for squares; too square for hippies.

Rich enough for expensive tastes; too poor to accommodate them.

Base enough for certain instincts; too moral (or uptight, depending on your interpretation) to act on them.

Full of words without the means to organize them.

Obsessed with photography without genuine ability.

Exhausted in the mornings; unable to sleep at night.

Too rural for the city, too urban for the country.

Part II
And I feel as though — no matter where I am, and no matter the crowd — I fail, and desperately so, to belong.

Like last night, sitting next to the only empty seat in the house: my presence noted by conspicuous absence, and so diminished when the show was over and I attempted to work my way through a crowd of people that never saw me coming.

"Excuse me," I would say. "Excuse me."

But I was invisible again — a blurred face among many — a reality which transformed my solitude into an ineffable queasiness in the pit of my stomach.

Once again, though, the train ride offered the mostly unlikely sort of contrast: my seat was "just right" until the car started to fill and a newcomer sat down beside me.

I shifted my bag and my book to give him ample room, but felt his eyes wandering to my pages as we shuffled on towards our many stops.

"What do you think of that book?" he asked, the alcohol on his breath and the redness of his eyes unmistakable signs of the evening.

From there we conversed, talking about literature and film — an oddly decent single-serve conversation — before he nudged my leg with the back of his hand and said, "Well, this is my stop."

In that instant I offered a hurried goodbye, marveling at how the only people who have seen me in the past two weeks would most assuredly not remember our encounter by morning.

And that, I suppose, is where I fit in.

Somewhere between the stops — the spaces. Somewhere between two chords in a piece of music, or the background to a painting noted for its foreground.

It is there, nestled between the gin and the tonic, that I reflect again on those words spoken to me by the man who sideswiped my vehicle earlier this month:

"I'm sorry," he said to me then. "I just didn't see you there."

That's Me in the Corner

I walked around and behind the United Center, exploring new territory before the sun faded and the concert began.

It was somewhere near the Blackhawks statue that I became remotely aware that someone else's eyes were exploring the image upon my shirt (or so I told myself), a sketch from Daniel Johnston with the ephemeral words, "Hi, how are you?" scrawled across the bottom.

I looked up to see this man's half-stoned eyes staring into mine, thus affirming that my suspicions were not entirely unwarranted.

Minutes (seconds really) seemed to pass as the eye contact continued and he said, filled with ironic conviction:

"I love you."

"Thank you," I responded, smiling weakly and walking past him, unconsciously aware that he had half-turned to watch as I continued on, peasant skirt swaying in the breeze.

---

And so began my first ever experience seeing R.E.M. (a favorite of mine since the early 90s) live. Or Modest Mouse (a favorite of mine since 2004), for that matter. Or, shoot, let us not forget The National, who I only just discovered in March of this year but labeled a "new favorite" immediately thereafter.

So when you see three favorites on a single ticket, you don't exactly let the opportunity pass you by.

And so I went, tucked into the far back row (and in the worst section) where altitude-related nosebleeds are more than a sardonic concern.

But, whatever, I was there (and with binoculars) and enjoyed the show all the same. Even though the acoustics weren't so great for either opening act (there was even occasional feedback when Modest Mouse took the stage, a horrible ear-screeching sound that had some people in my section taking unscheduled breaks). And even though the National had fewer than 1/3 of the seats full (and I assure you, they deserve better than that). And even though I could only understand about 1/2 of whatever Michael Stipe said when he was speaking on stage.

I was otherwise entirely entertained on countless fronts, and by all three bands.

But what I found most peculiar — particularly when you consider my adoration for the opening acts and the main event — was how the energy so undeniably changed when Stipe ran out onto the stage when it was his band's turn in the spotlight.

I saw him even without the binoculars, recognized him from miles away from his trademark hairline; his two-piece-suit and tie.

Forget singing for a moment.

That man can perform.

---

But allow me to backtrack to where fantasy meets reality and I struggle to discern the two.

Because, I swear, when I raised my binoculars to get a better look at Isaac Brock (lead singer for Modest Mouse), my first response was a single, muffled chuckle.

If the man who declared his love for me before the show wasn't Brock himself, he was a darn good facsimile.*


*I realize it was most likely the latter but, please, allow a lonely girl her fantasy.

---

And then there was the ride home; lost fans being told by police to take cabs and buses but to absolutely not walk to the nearest train station.

I had had no problems walking from the train during the daylight, and didn't see why the reverse trip should be any different.

And it wasn't, really, not until I was well beyond the "danger zone" of the area surrounding the United Center.

I was heading towards one of the city's more affluent neighborhoods, in fact, when the man (most likely batting for the "other" team, and most likely strung out on heroin — by his demeanor and the way he clutched his arm) next to me swayed in his seat, his eyes opening and closing, consciousness fading and reappearing just in time for him to pull himself from his seat and go to the door.

"Wrong stop," he'd say, sliding back to his seat.

They had rerouted our train; the red line was making brown line stops, which further compounded this man's misery.

"Where are we?" he said to anyone.

I explained what was happening. Told him that though we were making brown line stops, that'd probably change once we got to a transfer station.

I asked him where he was going; he told me. I told him when he could expect his stop.

He smiled — as best the muscles in his face could manage, anyway — and touched my hand.

"You're my friend," he said, rubbing my arm.

"You're my friend."

Once (Movie Review)

Speaking as a girl who generally despises musicals, Once (2007) symbolizes — for me — everything a musical should be.

Rather than the typical scenario whereby actors suddenly — and unrealistically — burst out into song, Once is far more subtle. It chronicles the interactions of an Irish street musician in Dublin and a Czech ex-patriot peddling roses in the same vicinity.

Though never given names, this "Guy" and "Girl" set about to intermingle their musical proclivity, with his talent on the guitar — and her soft tickling of the ivories — resulting in some rather beautiful, touching melodies.

[Yes, I (legally) downloaded the entire album after my first viewing.]

Thus, the "musical" aspect of this movie is very... fluid. Natural, never forced. But of course a charming Irish boy and an attractive Czech girl can't make beautiful music together without, eh, making beautiful music together.

But for each their love of music — as well as their clear attraction to the other — is punctuated by emotional baggage (who can't relate to that?) and so a fair amount of tension. The end result: possibly the best "musical" I've ever seen, and not at all bad if you instead count it as a "romance" (another genre I generally despise).

It's cute. Funny. Sad. Touching. Well-written. And, at only 80 minutes of run-time, it knows precisely when to quit.

I'll be adding this one to my permanent collection.

FINAL GRADE: A-/A

CAUTION: Comments section contains spoilers. It's OK to click and comment, but don't read previously posted comments if you haven't yet seen the film (and have any intention of doing so).

The Road Mistaken

Very seldom do things work out precisely as you plan. You will find yourself loving people you'd never planned on loving and staying in places you'd never intend to stay.



But this is life, and you can take it or leave it — as the cliche goes — and so long as you're avoiding the latter, you may as well make the best of whatever time you have.


But sometimes it is... difficult. Like listening to one of your favorite musicians belt out one of your favorite songs, experiencing the moment as if only by proxy


Your hands too often on the shutter


As though wanting to share a moment that is — you acknowledge with a sigh — entirely your own.

But there are others all around you. Hundreds upon hundreds, your uncommon life experiences most common among this crowd.

The consensus undeniable as a stranger turns to you during intermission and says, "So what do you think so far?"

"Brilliant," you tell him. "But then again — I've never known them to disappoint."

From there two strangers politely converse, united for a moment by a shared fondness for sound and a fear of passing time in silence.

But no moment lasts forever, and with the end of intermission — and then the encore — you rise from your seat and turn from one another as if strangers again.

"So this is life," you think, joining the crowd in a chest-to-back rush for signs marked "EXIT."

You look over your shoulder and return your mind to the empty stage, a little sick to note that the one once closest to you

is now the furthest away.

Pimp My iTunes

So today, after sleeping 12 hours, I woke up to a pool of sweat and a 90 degree apartment.

No kidding. Last year I was freezing in a 55F apartment. This winter, my new pad is having problems regulating the boiler, and the heat is being trapped in my little ol' place.

But don't get me wrong: I prefer this problem over last years. At least now I can open a window or two and turn off a radiator.

But, anyway. Where was I?

Oh, yes. Pool of sweat.

I spent the rest of the day drinking lots of fluids, napping intermittenly, tidying up my apartment, talking on the phone to let the world know I was on the verge of a heat stroke, and even made a necklace out of yarn.

Man, I'm so cool.

The first one of you to comment on how lame and/or boring I am gets an "Obvious Blogger of the Year" award and a long, drawn out sigh from yours truly.

So in the middle of all of this, I received an e-mail from iTunes reminding me of all the money I had in my account, asking me to please use it so they could count those dollars as earnings for the year.

So do me and Apple a favor.

Recommend a song or two to me. Should I have a theme? How about... your favorite depressing tune?

I'm in the mood for expanding my melancholy horizons.

You can leave your recommendations in a comment here, or drop an e-mail to thirdworstpoetinthegalaxy@gmail.com.

My Life as Rocker Chick

I have never been what you might call "musically gifted."

I can't sing.

I can't dance.

And, for the life of me, I cannot play a musical instrument.

But that's never stopped me from trying, on all counts. My sister, for example, plays the piano beautifully — my parents forced her to take lessons for several years, but when it came to imposing extracurriculars on yours truly, they instead turned to sports (softball, volleyball and basketball).

So I'm a wicked first base(wo-)man, but when it comes to music I struggle with a few pieces I've taught myself.

I first began tickling the ivories (one-handed) when I was eight or so. An uncle had gifted me this toy instrument — a piece of plastic about two feet long that had about 20 buttons you could push to create different keys and chords (each of them numbered). It came with a book of songs, but instead of telling you what "keys" you were playing, it told you only to push a sequence of numbers.

One day I hopped on my sister's piano and figured out which keys on the piano corresponded with each of the numbers in the booklet. And by the end of the week, I could play about 15 songs on the piano.

Nothing too difficult, mind you — every song was one-handed, and the only "touching" piece of the bunch was "Brahm's Lullaby" or maybe "Greensleeves." But, man, did I play them over and over...

Eventually my sister took pity on me and taught me a "real" song — we started easy with "Heart and Soul," and after watching her play Beethoven's 5th a few times, I was able to imitate the first portion of that.

But we were moving around a lot at this time in our lives, and the piano was often in storage. By the time it was back in our "home," my sister was away at college and I was back to playing those same silly little songs on a pathetic loop.

***A couple years later, I signed up to participate in my elementary school band. Problem being I had no real training on any instrument, and when you're with a teacher trying to teach 20 kids 10 different instruments simultaneously, you don't exactly learn much.

And because I struggled rather severely to understand how notes translated to the beats I'd kick out on my drum set (yes, I was a drummer for six weeks), I quickly gave up on the endeavor.***Next up was music appreciation class in junior high: we were all required to participate for a semester, and because it was overseen by the choir instructor, most of the time was spent singing and learning how to read notes and the like.

I found the class to be entirely stressful, and was more anxious about making good marks in that course than I was advanced lit or algebra.

And the teacher used this course as a means of recruiting future choir members — secretly I very much so wanted to be recruited, and he did talk to me about it once or twice. But I always got the feeling it was more so because it was a "more the merrier" sort of mentality. Fact remains some people in my class could really sing.

I just wasn't one of them.

I even somehow managed to ace all of our exams (which included music history, being able to tap out rhythms, being able to "draw" a note when you're told its name/count, etc.) and I could sorta imitate people OK when they'd sing.

But I couldn't reconcile the two.

That is to say: when given the time to think, I could comprehend what a note entailed. And for the most part I could repeat a note/pitch when someone else sang it first. But I couldn't read music and play/sing it at the same time.

I could study; memorize; do well on exams; but when it came time for any practical application of what I learned, I was useless.

And not to mention: crestfallen.

[This also holds true for art class, where I was never able to translate my thoughts onto canvas, though I filled pages of my notebooks with silly little sketches.]***But I'd still sing whenever no one was listening. And I'd still step up to the piano whenever I was the only one home. I'd make up songs, forgotten just as quickly as I'd create them: never sure of which notes I was using, what time I was keeping, etc.

Jump ahead a few years later, after academia had run its course. I was inhaling new music by the handful, marveling by how sometimes the sweetest melody was a lone voice accompanied by a single string instrument.

So one day I asked my brother if I could snag his guitar: that was the instrument my parents had forced him to learn so many years ago, and by this point he hadn't touched it in a decade. It seemed somehow accessible to me: acquiring a piano was unrealistic, particularly given my nomadic way of life. And, besides, one of my cousins and several of my friends had taught themselves to play.

So why couldn't I?

Said cousin helped me tune the guitar; gave me a print-out of "easy tabs" that'd he'd found online. And I was off.

Only... I wasn't.

C-Major was the first chord on the list, and I struggled for weeks to "master" it. I couldn't for the life of me get my fingers on all three strings without snuffing out the ones between them. The chord was muffled, and hollow, whenever I'd try to play it.

So I did what any other struggling musician would do: I cursed my short fingers as the cause of all my troubles, wondering if there wasn't some way I could make them a centimeter or two longer...

But then one day my cousin and I both took our guitars to our grandparents' home. And though I'd heard my grandfather play the guitar my whole life — but always from a distance, with him on stage at church — I'd never seem him play up close. And suddenly these massive fingers — each as thick as two or three of mine — were strumming out gospel and bluegrass in the most hypnotic fashion.

Translation: I no longer had my short, fairly stubby fingers to blame.

It was just... me. I couldn't do it. I had this immense desire not just to play music, but to create it. And I was useless on both counts.***But this was all happening shortly after I moved home, after a few years of being away for school. And those friends who were self-taught started creeping out of the woodwork, and before I knew it we were regularly getting together on the weekends, playing Scattergories well into the midnight hour, and sitting around strumming our guitars (yeah, I know... we're a wild bunch).

There were sometimes more than a dozen of us, at least 6 with a musical instrument in tow. And a couple of them convinced me that my problem with C-Major was simply a matter of learning songs that didn't require it.

So they taught me a few other chords. And through the fine power of imitation, I also learned to play a handful of songs.

And knowing these few chords enabled me to go home, look up "new" songs, and learn a couple more tunes.

Until one day I showed up and played the first half of "We Are Going to Be Friends" — my favorite White Stripes song. And for once, I was actually showing other people how to play something.

[Granted, the first half of that song is easy — but it gets difficult, and I've never mastered the whole thing.]

And so it goes for about a year of my life. One of the best years, really, now that I look back on it. But I'm a restless sort, and I was frustrated with how little there was to do when friends weren't handy (which was increasingly the case as they got involved in long-term relationships, started having kids, etc.). Not to mention, job opportunities were few... and though I liked the "gig" I had, the pay was awful.

So I moved.***And I still played the guitar from time to time in my new city, but my two hour daily commute was really cutting into my free time. Besides, since moving here I've had a difficult time finding like-minded individuals who were up for hanging out without getting wasted — or the ones I did find were boys who weren't content with just being friends, though I wasn't interested in anything else. But that's another story.

Suffice it to say that when it comes to music, I need the sort of guidance I don't have here. And so: before I knew it, the instrument was held captive in its case for. Well.

Far too long.

But something happened last week. I don't know if it's because I was sick and not going to the gym (coupled with my home computer being next to useless) — so I had ample amounts of free time — or if it was watching The Devil and Daniel Johnston (Daniel Johnston doesn't have the best voice, and really isn't even all the good on the guitar... but the end result is still raw... and touching). Or maybe it was when I went to clean my apartment before a visit from a friend, and I felt a little sick to my stomach to realize how much dust was on my guitar case.

Whatever it was, I've been thinking a lot of those months where I played the guitar rather consistently — and how rewarding it felt to hear a real tune produced by my hands — and it seemed somehow wrong to continue to allow my guitar to languish in its case.

So I took it out of retirement this past Monday. Cut off my fingernails (which I'd grown to a respectable length).

And then cursed myself to realize how much I'd forgotten. None of those songs came to me. I struggled again with C-Major (the only chord I remembered "how" to do, though I still couldn't do it). And even the one song I'd (mostly) taught myself was somehow this distant creature that existed only in memory.

I couldn't play a single thing.

I suspect this has something to do with the fact that I never really learned to read music or associate sounds with the placement of my fingers of the strings. All I ever did was memorize songs — which is entirely different from truly understanding the mechanics of an instrument.

But all is not lost. I took my "Teach Yourself Guitar" book out of retirement as well; looked up some familiar tabs; and by Wednesday I was playing the White Stripes again.

And now I'm finally learning what the strings mean. I pluck them one by one and play single chords over and over again, repeating the name of each, trying to build up an association between the sound and the thing.***Will I stick with it this time? I'm thinking of signing up for lessons, just to force myself to give it a go for a few months.

But however I look at it, one thing is missing:

Scattergories.

Funny how sometimes you catch yourself in the middle of Everything, sick for a time and place that you once didn't hesitate to term Nowhere.

Though Lately I've Felt More Like This

Filter, "Hey Man, Nice Shot"

My Favorite New Song

"Young Folks," Peter, Bjorn & John

Sky Blue Sky (Music Commentary)

"Lyrics come to a melody like dust settles on furniture." ~Jeff Tweedy (paraphrased from a May 2007 interview)

---

If my fascination for Wilco is at all a secret, it's poorly kept.

And if you, too, are a fan of this Midwestern band, then you know why I'm bringing them up again: their newest album, Sky Blue Sky was released just over a week ago. And while there's no denying this album is their most mellow to date, I think it's a welcome addition to their repertoire.

But I'm a tad uneasy whenever I read (or hear) a review that implies the band has lost its edge, an accusation reviewers love to connect to front man Jeff Tweedy's successful completion of substance abuse rehabilitation (Tweedy has long suffered from debilitating migraines, which resulted in a subsequent addiction to painkillers).

Not only has Tweedy "kicked the habit," but he's also found a routine that allows him to minimize the frequency of said migraines. He's kicked a few other habits as well (e.g. smoking) and isn't ashamed to admit that he's happier and healthier than he's been in years.

The resultant question for many reviewers/interviewers has thus been not so much a question, but an insinuation.

"Now we all know you're healthier than you've been in over a decade, Jeff. Does that help to explain the more subdued tone of this album?"

Let me interrupt here to say that although Sky Blue Sky is a far cry from Yankee Hotel Foxtrot (2002) — an album I will continue to refer to as one of the most innovative and possibly one of the best produced in an era — it's unfair to expect any band to produce something of that caliber with every release.

Within a couple listens of YHF, in fact, I knew I was listening to something Wilco — or any band, for that matter — would be hard pressed to top. It's melodic and yet utilizes just pure... sound... in many of its tracks. That they were able to do this without the "sound" becoming "noise" was a mystery to me. But it worked, and rather beautifully at that.

The album which followed that masterpiece, A Ghost is Born, was also a treat. But it was no Yankee. There were a couple songs on Ghost that I couldn't get enough of (e.g. "Hummingbird") and others that just sorta blended in with the rest.

It follows that Sky Blue Sky is a little like that for me — though the album as a whole is (yes, music critics, you got something right) generally more mellow than previous Wilco productions.

That is to say, there's less "sound" behind the instrumentation (forgive me, I'm not entirely familiar with industry jargon), something I do kind of miss. But that also means Sky has a certain air (forgive the pun) about it that makes it easier to listen to.

I'm not saying this is "easy listening" — far from it — but rather that Sky is just a tad easier to digest than Wilco fans are accustomed to (and so may be particularly difficult for this same fan base to sink in those proverbial).

What irritates me about the recent deluge of reviews and interviews — to get back to my original point — is the insinuation that Tweedy's recent bout of happiness is complicit in some sort of artistic decay.

Sure, this album is more about finding happiness in the day-to-day and yes, it does have a more "hopeful" quality, as evidenced here by the title track:

Oh, if I didn’t die
I should be satisfied
I survived
That's good enough for now

But I also think it's a little short-sighted to term it an altogether optimistic work. There's a lot on here about being happy with what you have, but this is also spoken in the context of an ongoing battle with loneliness and uncertainty.

Song after song, Tweedy's optimism is pitted up against an intangible frustration with the world.

Why is there no breeze
No currency of leaves
No current through the water wire
No feelings I can see ("You Are My Face")

But what Tweedy seems to determine is a bit akin to Matthew Arnold's "Dover Beach" (without all of the sexual innuendo). In other words: the world is brutal, and we can't change a thing. And then where Arnold's narrator turns to his female companion and essentially proposes a rendezvous, Tweedy turns to his family (and himself) as a means to secure some degree of happiness.

And I do mean degree. Or why else is the simple satisfaction of being alive simply good enough for now?

But, again, back to point: I'm not so sure the tone of this album -- which isn't quite as simple as reviewers have implied -- is a direct result of Tweedy's recovery. I'm not even so sure it's a direct result of the band's cohesiveness (this album is perhaps Wilco's most collaborative to date).

Rather, I think this album's tone -- like Tweedy's recovery from addiction -- has something to do with the simple passage of time: Tweedy is a married father-of-two. And it sounds like, maybe, he's growing up.

And I don't care what anyone says.

That's not necessarily a bad thing.

Lost Cause

Whenever my iPod shuffles onto one of my favorite songs, I have a difficult time letting it play anything else. This is especially true when I'm working out (the only time I listen to my iPod, really). I'll hit "repeat" over and over until I'm satisfied that I've thoroughly digested the words enough for the evening.,. or, as is often the case, the workout comes to a conclusion.

This past Friday, I was hopelessly stuck on something by Beck -- whose music I've followed ever since I first heard "Loser" back in the mid-90s.

But if I may say so... I believe this may be his best song yet.

Trance

Sometimes I find myself drawn to complete strangers, if for no other reason than their apparent appreciation for music.

Take, for example, this guy I sometimes see at the gym: he treats the elliptical machine like his own personal Dance, Dance Revolution game. He'll stop the motion mid-stride; reverse it; move half forward, and then go back again... all to the beat of whatever he's listening to. Sometimes he bellows out loud; others, he'll free one or both hands from the bars to snap his fingers or thrust his arms to the side.

Last night, he was so into his music that he could scarcely board the elliptical to begin. From my own treadmill across the room, I caught a glimpse of someone standing on the floor, grabbing one bar of an elliptical with one hand, and balancing himself to dance with the other. It was, as I immediately suspected, this particular member.

I couldn't help but smile.

I'm the same way when I see someone singing or dancing on the train. Sure, for a split second I join the crowd by questioning their sanity. But I otherwise find their impromptu performance to be oddly compelling.

And then there's the guy I sometimes pass on my morning commute. I'm heading one direction in my car, whereas he's always making a long walk to the train in the opposite direction. He stands out to me, first, because our schedules are fairly in sync. And second, because he always has oversized headphones strapped to his head (the kind with their own antennae and FM dial). He's always chomping on gum as he walks along; always wearing pleated pants (usually tan); and always so engrossed in whatever blasts from his headphones (whether it's music or NPR or what, I haven't the slightest idea) that I imagine his walk — though actually quite long — occurs in a veritable blink.

Strange as this may sound, I realized recently that my days go better when I see him in the morning.

The guy at the gym reminded me of Jay Z when I first saw him. And the morning commuter reminds me of Dustin Hoffman (a la Rainman). In fact, if some poor, directionless soul should ever endeavor to make a movie about my life (I'm saying this tongue-in-cheek, of course), I'd like for Jay Z and Hoffman to both have cameos.

[I'd also like to create the lineup for the soundtrack, which I've been compiling over the years].

Speaking of which: it occurred to me tonight as I walked away from the elliptical and into the locker room that I'd spent the entire ride a million miles away from the gym. I have vague recollections of hitting "repeat" countless times on several songs but, otherwise, I can scarcely recall being there.

And let me tell you: there's nothing quite like walking away in a trance, so engrossed in music — completely unable to hear anything but a melancholy tune (see: REM's "Country Feedback") — to make you feel a million miles away from where you are (and yet: so close!).

Walking through rows of strangers: some of them lifting, some crunching. Some running, others stretching.

Watching them all at once, but still... listening... to that sad song in your ears. Desperate to comprehend everything; disheartened to realize you can't quite grab on to single thought.

So you listen harder. Take in the words. And weave your shaking legs through the crowd, as if teaching them to walk again.