An Album For Every Year I've Been Alive: 1987

The Full Roster

Syd Barrett, The Peel Sessions
Def Leppard, Hysteria
Echo & the Bunnymen, Echo & the Bunnymen
George Harrison, Cloud Nine
Pink Floyd, A Momentary Lapse of Reason

Still trudging along, just a few albums at a time. In all honesty, I'm fudging it with Hysteria a little bit, in the sense that I don't (to my knowledge) actually own a copy of that album, digital or otherwise. But as one of the first cassettes I ever owned--back when I was a mere whelp in the '80s--and given how much I listened to it back then, I figured it deserved a spot on the list. And, as you will see below, it still has an impact to this day.

Favorite Album: Echo & the Bunnymen, Echo & the Bunnymen

While 1984's Ocean Rain is a superior overall effort, it's not merely a lack of options that sees Echo & the Bunnymen take the top spot for 1987. Perhaps best known for the karaoke-ready single "Lips Like Sugar," the band's eponymous fifth album would be their last featuring original drummer Pete de Freitas (and, for a while at least, lead singer Ian McCulloch). As such, it's easy to nitpick its shortcomings--it feels a bit less lively than its predecessor, and de Freitas' drumming in particular doesn't seem as insistent as it had previously (he would die in a motorcycle accident a couple years after the release of Echo & the Bunnymen) In particular, "Bedbugs and Ballyhoo" sounds like the kind of song de Freitas would have attacked with some relish in a previous incarnation. But even a somewhat blander Echo & the Bunnymen album still makes for a pretty good album, and this one happens to contain "Bombers Bay," one of my favorite songs in their catalog.

In fact, "Bombers Bay" is part of a five-track run in the middle of the album which carries much of the weight, quality-wise. It's preceded by "All In Your Mind," which has De Freitas' best work of the album on it, and lurches and propels forward in a way unlike most of the rest of the album. Next up is "Bombers Bay," which in some ways bears some of the major problems with Echo & the Bunnymen; de Freitas at his most subdued, a heavy reliance on keyboards, and a fairly basic composition overall. But it sits well the way it is, in spite of that; if this was the sound the band was going for with the rest of the album, you can't really blame them for trying. Immediately following is "Lips Like Sugar," which despite my karaoke comment I like quite a bit, "grandiose" as it may be by the band's standards. It's biggest sin, in fact, might be overshadowing the songs around it; it's followed up by "Lost and Found," which is like a distillation of the two previous songs, featuring "Bombers Bay"-esque vocals and sounding a bit like "Lips Like Sugar" with a bit more tempo. Rounding out the quintet is "New Direction," which closes out the sequence in much the same way that "All In Your Mind" began it, and features some stellar guitar work from Will Sergeant.

Like I say, I don't think Echo & the Bunnymen is an album without its flaws, but I do feel it is underrated slightly, perhaps due in part to the more streamlined sound the band chases, and that is shown on songs like "Lips Like Sugar." In retrospect, being the final album with the original lineup (not counting "Echo," their original drum machine) maybe sours opinion as well. But while it might be a blessing in disguise that this outfit didn't get to continue along the same path that Echo & the Bunnymen seemed to indicate, it was still an immensely entertaining and enjoyable first step.



Honorable Mention: George Harrison, Cloud Nine

In a tougher year, perhaps Cloud Nine doesn't grab this Honorable Mention. I don't mean to damn it with faint praise, since it is a pretty good album in its own right, and arguably Harrison's best aside from All Things Must Pass, but it's not like it faced much of a challenge from Pink Floyd's A Momentary Lapse of Reason. But enough of what Cloud Nine isn't; what it is is a solid collection of Harrison's typically upbeat songwriting, featuring a consistency that was maybe lacking from the likes of Gone Troppo. I have particular fond memories of the hit single "Got My Mind Set On You," the video for which stands among my earliest television memories, and reminds me of hanging around in the background while my sisters did cool stuff like watch MTV with their friends.

Although I have my reservations about a few of the songs--"That's What It Takes" in particular is an exercise in bland, '80s contemporary rock--there's enough  good stuff throughout to recommend Cloud Nine.  The title track leads off with something of a Bob Dylan sensibility, and "When We Was Fab" is probably the most light-hearted song about the Beatles written by a former Beatle (in stark contrast to John Lennon's less-than-enthusiastic looks back).  In fact, there's a palpable sense of joy--perhaps just with recording music again in general--that permeates the album, and seems to cement Harrison's arguable status as the coolest Beatle.  That's maybe most evident on "Got My Mind Set On You," a cover of a song originally recorded by James Ray but given new life by Harrison's version.  It's a pretty simple song, and pretty repetitive, but effectively and insidiously enjoyable.  I'm not always one for such things as joy, but I'll admit to liking it on this album.  Well-played, Harrison.



Narrow Miss:  Def Leppard, Hysteria

In fairness, when I started looking at 1987, the first album that popped into my head was Hysteria.  That says quite a bit about the impact this album had on my early childhood.  It was the first album I ever owned, having been gifted it by my older sister (which sister currently escapes me).  I owned that old cassette tape for more than a decade, and I have a sneaking suspicion it might still be buried in an old shoebox somewhere, if I didn't give it away as a gag gift at some point.   

Hysteria is a landmark album of hair metal, which may be a blessing or a curse depending on how you look at it.  But when I was a wee lad, I played it incessantly, because this was the coolest fucking thing I'd ever heard (I had yet to hear most curse words by that point, "fucking" included).  I guess technically speaking Hysteria isn't a part of my actual music collection, in that it may have gone the way of the cassette tape format in which it was owned, but...it was part of my collection once, and for a time it was my entire collection, if you could call it that.  And though it takes a strong sense of detachment to listen all the way through monster smash hit "Pour Some Sugar On Me" now, back then I knew the whole thing by heart, and would sing along accordingly.  Even to this day just mentioning a song title off this album can pop the melody, or at least the chorus, into my head.  Whether it be "Rocket" ("Satelli-ee-ite of Love," they sing) or "Hysteria" ("Whoa can you feel it") or even "Armageddon It" ("Yes I'm a-gettin' it"), this entire album is ensconced in my brain and I fear only a mental re-programming by the robot hordes would ever unroot it.  How can one ever tear themselves away from a wrenching power ballad like "Love Bites?"  I ask you.



Most Ridiculous Song:  Def Leppard, "Love Bites," from the album Hysteria

Speaking of "Love Bites," here you go.  The great thing about hair metal power ballads is there's only one way to shoot a music video for them, and it is absolutely the perfect visual accompaniment for such a song.  Such symbiosis is not to be taken for granted.




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An Album For Every Year I've Been Alive: 1986

The Full Roster

Billy Bragg, Talking With the Taxman About Poetry
The Kinks, Think Visual
They Might Be Giants, They Might Be Giants
Toy Dolls, Idle Gossip

A measly four albums to choose from in 1986. No prizes for the person who guesses my favorite out of this group; it should be pretty obvious, if one knows my musical tastes at all. I am a bit surprised that the Kinks were still plugging away this late into the '80s. Also, Billy Bragg shows up; I think for the only time, at least in solo form.

Favorite Album: They Might Be Giants, They Might Be Giants

Well, it should have been obvious, especially given the lack of competition. Even with a full slate of competitors, though, They Might Be Giants' self-titled debut would likely win out. They Might Be Giants is not the first TMBG (yeah, that's how the fans do it) album I ever heard--that would be Flood. It wasn't their first album I ever purchased--that would be Miscellaneous T. But They Might Be Giants were certainly the first band I could rightly call my favorite, and are the only band from my childhood that I still listen to today (oh, where have you gone, Def Leppard?).

They Might Be Giants is more synthesizer and drum-machine reliant than the band's later albums would be, which does give it a dated sound, but the songs are just as quirky and clever as they ever were, and in places sneakily witty and rousing. "Don't Let's Start" is an early alternative-rock classic, and "(She Was A) Hotel Detective" is both a parody and well-executed homage to the kind of driving rock songs with which the Kinks were concurrently failing to convince. Wordplay has always been a hallmark of TMBG songs; "Hide Away Folk Family" includes one of my all-time favorite lines: "Sadly the cross-eyed bear's / been put to sleep behind the stairs / and his shoes are laced with irony." The album-closing "Rhythm Section Want Ad" engages in a bit of self-mockery: "Do you sing like Olive Oyl on purpose? / You guys must be into the Eurythmics." It also features the line "Laugh hard, it's a long way to the bank," which would later be borrowed by noted fan Isaac Brock on Modest Mouse's The Moon and Antarctica. And "Don't Let's Start" features perhaps the most pitch-perfect two lines in all of music: "No one in the world ever gets what they want, and that is beautiful / Everybody dies frustrated and sad, and that is beautiful."

I'll probably get plenty of chances to say this in this project, but I'll say it now anyway: I have long loved, currently do love, and almost certainly will forever love They Might Be Giants.



Honorable Mention: Toy Dolls, Idle Gossip

Idle Gossip is a far superior album to 'A Far Out Disc', so it's a tad unfortunate for the Toy Dolls that it had to contend with They Might Be Giants this year. Toning back on the goofiness a bit, and fine-tuning the production, Idle Gossip finds the Toy Dolls sounding just the slightest bit more professional...except for the increased emphasis on football-style chanting, especially in the choruses. Meanwhile, Olga Algar's lyrics address a few more traditional punk rock tropes, such as girl troubles ("I Tried to Trust Tracy," "Silly Billy") and troubles with the law ("PC Stoker," "Geordie's Gone to Jail"), but always with his distinctive sense of humor and high-pitched whine. All of this makes the album a bit tighter and more cohesive than its predecessor, but it's on the more carefree tracks that the band shines best. "Idle Gossip" is a lament of the titular vice, while "You Won't Be Merry On a North Sea Ferry" details the particular pleasures of that particular mode of transport. With, of course, a football-chant chorus.



Most Ridiculous Song: They Might Be Giants, "Put Your Hand Inside the Puppet Head," from the album They Might Be Giants

There's plenty of odd to go around on They Might Be Giants' debut, but this song--released with a promotional music video shot on a 16mm Bolex camera--perhaps encapsulates it best. Love it as I might, even I find the bridge of the song ("Memo to myself / Do the dumb things I gotta do / Touch the puppet head") giggle-inducingly weird.



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An Album For Every Year I've Been Alive: 1985

The Full Roster

Ray Davies, Return to Waterloo
Echo & the Bunnymen, Songs to Learn and Sing
The Pogues, Rum, Sodomy & the Lash
Toy Dolls, 'A Far Out Disc'
Tom Waits, Rain Dogs

Still running short on candidates, and in this case even shorter than it looks. Songs to Learn and Sing is a solid compilation, but a compilation nonetheless; meanwhile, Return to Waterloo is a soundtrack that features old songs along originals. It's decent, but even if it weren't for its pseudo-album status, it wouldn't crack the upper echelons. That's because, thankfully, the three remaining options are all pretty solid.

Favorite Album: The Pogues, Rum, Sodomy & the Lash

Despite its lack of competition, Rum, Sodomy & the Lash has plenty to recommend it besides being the best of a small bunch. In many ways superior to Red Roses For Me--the band had improved its songwriting, and the blend of styles and influences is more seamless on their sophomore effort--Rum, Sodomy & the Lash is, song for song, just about a stone-cold classic. The album sacrifices a bit of coarseness for a dash of sympathy, and despite my general distaste for such things, it does the album good. "A Pair of Brown Eyes" has a sweet, gentle melody that belies its dark and somewhat cryptic lyrics; Cait O'Riordan is wisely handed the mike for a version of "I'm a Man You Don't Meet Every Day;" while Shane MacGowan ably evokes the life of a bitter street-dweller on "The Old Main Drag." Elsewhere, "Navigator" is a fine tribute to the men who built the railroads, and a cover of Ewan MacColl's wistful ode "Dirty Old Town" is lent a bit of edge due to MacGowan's gruff delivery.

But it's another cover--this one of Eric Bogle's eight-minute folk song "And the Band Played Waltzing Matilda"--that provides the album's signature moment, closing out the record with MacGowan mustering all his limited diction skills to do justice to a bittersweet depiction of warfare through the eyes of a crippled Australian World War I veteran. It's a song seemingly written with MacGowan's gravelly, half-spit delivery in mind, and it's probably his finest moment, recorded several years before his drinking would strain his abilities to their breaking point, and find him turned out of the band altogether.



Honorable Mention: Toy Dolls, 'A Far Out Disc'

This Honorable Mention was a close-run thing indeed, but in the end, I went with the Toy Dolls' 'A Far Out Disc.' There seems to have been a youthful fad in mid-'80s Britain that consisted of acting "nutty," and perhaps no group epitomized it more than the Toy Dolls, the long-lasting if ever-changing punk rock outfit fronted by Olga Algar. The Toy Dolls took punk rock and turned it into childish fun, incorporating brief, comedic bits of dialogue into their songs and converting their choruses into football-style chants. Brief and simple, A Far Out Disc's song titles are a good indicator of its tone: "We're Mad," "You and a Box of Handkerchiefs," "Modern School of Motoring," and the delightful "My Girlfriend's Dad's a Vicar."

It might not be the deepest, most meaningful album ever recorded, but it's a hell of a lot of fun to listen to, and there's a lot to be said for that. In the end, it comes to down to enjoyment, and honestly, I just like listening to 'A Far Out Disc' more than Rain Dogs, even though I'll recognize that Rain Dogs is likely more accomplished.



Narrow Miss: Tom Waits, Rain Dogs

Rain Dogs probably suffers somewhat for emerging in the shadow of Swordfishtrombones, which as I've mentioned before I like quite a bit. Rain Dogs continues in much the same vein, perhaps even with a bit more variety than its predecessor. But because of that, it doesn't quite stick with me the same way, despite its obvious quality. "Hang Down Your Head" is a cleverly disguised, straight-ahead rocker, while "Big Black Mariah" and "Union Square" are Howlin' Tom at his best. On the other side of the spectrum, "Jockey Full of Bourbon" and "Gun Street Girl" maintain a more even keel, with Waits sounding like a smoother-voiced version of Beetlejuice, spinning tales of New York nights. Perhaps my favorite song is "Clap Hands," which seems to straddle the various tones of the album simultaneously. I'm nothing if not equivocal, and "Clap Hands" hits the sweet spot on a pretty sweet album.



Most Ridiculous Song: Toy Dolls, "Florence Is Deaf (But There's No Need to Shout," from the album 'A Far Out Disc'

It couldn't be anyone other than the Toy Dolls, and it couldn't be any song other than "Florence Is Deaf (But There's No Need to Shout)," which is essentially one long joke featuring a repeated doorbell-ring, some knocking, and shouts of "Florence!!!" all to set up the corniest of punchlines at the end. The Toy Dolls, ladies and gentlemen. This is what I'm talking about when I say it's a fun listen.



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An Album For Every Year I've Been Alive: 1984

The Full Roster

Echo & the Bunnymen, Ocean Rain
The Fall, The Wonderful and Frightening World of the Fall
The Kinks, Word of Mouth
John Lennon and Yoko Ono, Milk and Honey
The Pogues, Red Roses For Me

Back to just a handful of albums this year, and yet again there is a clear and deserved winner. I can go ahead and tell you it's not John Lennon's posthumous effort, which despite being pretty good for a dead guy isn't an all-time classic by any means. Also note the debut from the Pogues, who should play a part in most of the '80s from here on out.

Favorite Album: Echo & the Bunnymen, Ocean Rain

And thus we have the first album on this list that could reliably hold its own against any other in my collection, no matter what year it's from. It's the band's fourth album, and of all of their albums that I own (missing only 1983's Porcupines, an oversight I should reconcile post-haste), it's my clear favorite. Certain members of my generation (or younger) might have first learned about Ocean Rain and/or Echo & the Bunnymen from the use of "The Killing Moon" at the beginning of the cult film Donnie Darko, but my own origin story involves a stolen CD (from my sister's room, naturally), the band Pavement, and their typically laid-back cover of the same song. So I owe discovering Ocean Rain to Stephen Malkmus instead of Jake Gyllenhaal; I'll take it.

"The Killing Moon" is the album's standout track, and probably its most famous; in this case, that fame is deserved, as it's a fantastic song. Echo & the Bunnymen incorporated a lot of strings on Ocean Rain, more so than they had previously, and while such developments are often a source of frustration for me, they work splendidly well--"The Killing Moon" being a fine example, with the classical instruments buttressing the song rather than dominating it. "My Kingdom" is probably the album's unsung hero, a fine example of both the band's skip-along melodies and singer Ian McCulloch's darkly oblique lyrics: "I've lost and I've gained. and while I was thinking / You cut off my hands when I wanted to twist / If you know how to dance to Boney Maroney / He's doing the ballet on both of his wrists." But honestly, pick any song from Ocean Rain, and you can't really go wrong. "Silver" and "Seven Seas" are nice, jaunty choices; "The Yo-Yo Man" will satisfy those looking for oddity, while "Nocturnal Me" will suit your gothic love-making quite nicely.

McCulloch once said that "The Killing Moon" is "the greatest song ever written." That wouldn't be the first (or even most) self-aggrandizing statement he's ever made, but it's probably the one I'd have the hardest time arguing about.



Honorable Mention: The Pogues, Red Roses For Me

I don't spend a lot of my time in fake Irish pubs, nor do I spend a lot of time drinking or dancing a jig. And yet I find the music of the Pogues, for the most part, irresistible. I can't chalk it up to any kind of Irish heritage because the last Irish person in my family was long dead before I was ever born, and I've certainly never been anywhere near the Emerald Isle in person. Red Roses For Me might be the most traditional of all the Pogues' albums, borrowing more from the traditional music of the Old Country than any of their subsequent efforts, but it doesn't hurt it one bit.

The tone is set early on, with "Transmetropolitan" deftly combining folk instrumentation with a punk tempo and Shane MacGowan's slurred lyrics of angry, drunken escapades. From there, it just gets better. "The Auld Triangle" is a straightforward cover of a lovely Brendan Behan folk tune--straightforward, that is, except for MacGowan's brogue-heavy wail. It's one of several re-interpretations of old Irish music on Red Roses For Me, but it's the "originals" that truly stand out. "Boys From the County Hell" touches on the Pogues hallmarks of violence and drink, "Streams of Whiskey" is self-explanatory, and even the relatively upbeat "Dark Streets of London" finds time to mention "drugged-up psychos / With death in their eyes." But perhaps no other song sums up the album's nihilistic glee like "Sea Shanty," which, on top of its familiar pirate-theme melody, drops this immortal quatrain: "A man's ambition must indeed be small / To write his name upon a shithouse wall / But before I die I'll add my regal scrawl / To show the world I'm left with sweet fuck-all."



Narrow Miss: The Fall, The Wonderful and Frightening World of the Fall

The Fall are a frustrating band to follow. Between an incomprehensible amount of releases, some official, some not, some inbetween; wildly varying quality from album to album; and the unavoidable fact that singer and chief songwriter Mark E. Smith is perhaps the music world's biggest asshole, listening to the Fall can be a tiresome endeavor. But not so with The Wonderful and Frightening World of the Fall, which on the surface would seem to bear all the hallmarks of a chore but is instead a pleasure. It's probably too long--over 70 minutes--and Smith isn't exactly bothered too much with his singing, but then again he never is. Though many of the songs carry the same, pounding tune, the album remains remarkably fresh, never getting dull or repetitive, although it might still put off the uninitiated. The class of the album is definitely "Oh! Brother," which owes much to a particularly popping bass line. "C.R.E.E.P." might be the closest the Fall has ever come to writing a pure pop song, and elsewhere Smith's Bob-Dylan-on-methadone delivery works wonders with songs like "2 x 4," "Draygo's Guilt," and "Clear Off!"



Most Ridiculous Song: The Pogues, "Down In the Ground Where the Dead Men Go," from the album Red Roses For Me

I'll be honest: there were a couple of Yoko Ono songs from Milk and Honey that could easily have won this honor. But, in light of her husband being murdered in front of her, I can forgive the mawkish sentimentality (in two languages, no less) of "Your Hands" and even the what-the-fuck-is-this?-ness of "You're the One." Plus, Yoko honestly gets a lot of shit, mostly for having the temerity to be a woman John Lennon liked more than the Beatles. So I'll give her a pass and instead happily present "Down In the Ground Where the Dead Men Go," which even by Pogues standards is fairly ridiculous. Any MacGowan song already starts with a leg up due to his voice, but from the moment the accordion and banjo fade in, dueling hyperactively, "Down In the Ground Where the Dead Men Go" is a delightfully delirious trip to the Underworld. MacGowan is joined by the slightly less incoherent Spider Stacy on vocals, and seemingly the whole band breaks into anguished wails of the damned for the song's final minute. A great wedding song if I've ever heard one.



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An Album For Every Year I've Been Alive: 1983

1983

The Full Roster:

Cock Sparrer, Shock Troops
Bob Dylan, Infidels
The Kinks, State of Confusion
Madness, Madness
Pink Floyd, The Final Cut
Pink Floyd, Works
Violent Femmes, Violent Femmes
Tom Waits, Swordfishtrombones

There are a few more albums to choose from in 1983, but like the year before there's a pretty clear winner nonetheless. Both Madness and Works are compilations of songs, and not "proper" albums, and so the purist in me must reject them from consideration. Not a big deal in either case; while they're both good in their own way, only Madness has a collection of songs that would even come close to rivaling the frontrunners. The Final Cut is, in all honesty, pretty bad, and I'm having a hard time figuring out why it is still in my library. State of Confusion is similar to It's Hard in being a mediocre late-period effort by a once-great band, but in this case it's got enough competition to see it safely avoid Honorable Mention status.

Favorite Album: Violent Femmes, Violent Femmes

An early alternative-rock classic, Violent Femmes is the runaway winner for this year. The debut album from Milwaukee's finest starts off incredibly strong, stringing together five songs that could or should rightly be considered hits: "Blister In the Sun," "Kiss Off," the under-rated "Please Do Not Go," "Add It Up," and "Confessions." That's half the album right there, and though the rest of it doesn't quite hit the same highs ("Gone Daddy Gone" excepted), it's not as if songs like "Promise" and "To the Kill" are boring filler. The only thing I can find slightly wrong with the album is that "Good Feeling" is a bit of a disappointing close, slowing down the momentum ever so slightly right at the end; this would be rectified on the CD re-release, which tacks on "Ugly" and the excellent "Gimme the Car" at the end.

It might be a product of aging, but the Violent Femmes would never again be able to capture the same spirit of snotty, youthful angst that they did on their debut. Brian Ritchie's sloppy bass stylings still resonate, complimenting Gordon Gano's digressions and complaints perfectly. "Blister In the Sun" and "Gone Daddy Gone" (later covered by Gnarls Barkley) have gone on to overshadow the rest of this album, which is a shame, because there's plenty of quality to go around here.



Honorable Mention: Tom Waits, Swordfishtrombones

Swordfishtrombones is the kind of album that can sneak up on me. It's not my favorite album by Tom Waits, and while I often remember liking it, it's not until I actually listen to it that I remember just how much I do. I can hear individual songs from it out of context--when I'm shuffling my iPod, for example--and I'll enjoy them, but I don't get a real "wow" factor out of any of them. But put them together and listen to them as a whole, and all of a sudden Swordfishtrombones seems worthy of all the praise it gets from rock critic-types. I suppose in a way that's the whole idea of an "album" in the first place, but I never said I was uncommonly perceptive.

Swordfishtrombones is like a perfect beverage--wholly satisfying and enjoyable in the consumption, with no aftertaste. Probably due to its somewhat experimental nature--odd bits of instrumentation, Waits' signature howl/growl--the album doesn't necessarily stick in your brain and refuse to let go, but it does take you on a pleasurable little journey while it's playing. "Underground" begins things with a gruff, off-kilter introduction to the netherworld, and from there Mr. Waits spins tales about shooting at crows ("16 Shells From a Thirty-Ought Six"), an arson brought about by a chihuahua ("Frank's Wild Years"), and (of course) a cuckolded drunk ("Gin Soaked Boy"). Meanwhile, "In the Neighborhood" paints an amusingly bleak portrait of said neighborhood, and "Swordfishtrombone" serves as an ideal title track, combining all the disparate elements of the album into a trademark Waitsian half-sung, half-spoken tall tale.



Narrow Miss: Cock Sparrer, Shock Troops

I bought this album for one reason: "Take 'em All," the song whose chorus is sung with gusto by the Brougham End at Sounders matches. When I discovered that this gleefully, incongruously violent anthem ("Take 'em all / Take 'em all / Put 'em up against the wall and shoot 'em") was the product of a somewhat unknown '70s British punk band, I was intrigued. So I tracked down this album--the band's debut, despite having been a going concern for quite some time by 1983--and was pleasantly surprised to find that it wasn't just a one-song pony. I'm about as punk as Steve Urkel, but I'm also a sucker for this kind of music. And no, there isn't anything incongruous about blasting stripped-down, no-nonsense punk rock while I'm staying up late updating my blog.



Most Ridiculous Song: The Kinks, "Cliches of the World (B Movie)," from the album State of Confusion

State of Confusion is aptly named, as it find the Kinks struggling to stick to one distinct identity. Half the album finds them straining to be a big arena rock band like The Who had become, with disastrous results; the other half finds them more at ease with Ray Davies' trademark sketch-songs set to more traditional or pop-based arrangements. "Heart of Gold" is a shining example of the latter, and the album's title track a woeful example of the former. But by far the most ridiculous byproduct of this confusion is "Cliches of the World (B Movie)," which attempts to marry the heavy guitar riffs and pounding keyboards of '80s arena rock with Ray Davies' regrettable late-career fascination with rock-opera-style lyrics. By the time "Cliches of the World" reaches the break mid-way through the song wherein Davies speaks about the protagonist dreaming of aliens from outer space taking him away, I can't help but feel like that would be a lucky escape indeed.



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An Album For Every Year I've Been Alive: 1982

1982

And so it begins. The pickings are a bit slim for most of the '80s, as I simply haven't delved too deep into the musical noodlings of that most pastel of decades. I was also just a mere whelp in those days, not so much buying scores of music from an enabling sister at her record store as I was sitting in my own poop or being mistaken for a girl every Halloween (I had very curly hair). So for me, 1982 doesn't exactly have a treasure trove of albums from which to choose. Still, there's enough here for me to pick just one, and that's all I need. Hooray for lowered expectations!

The Full Roster:

The Clash, Combat Rock
George Harrison, Gone Troppo
Lou Reed, The Blue Mask
The Who, It's Hard

It is evident even at this early stage that I am a huge fan of The Who, as only someone of such a disposition would own (and continue to own) It's Hard. It is not so evident, but equally as true, that I am not necessarily a huge fan of either George Harrison or Lou Reed, both of whom have albums I enjoy but released no such thing in 1982. This is perhaps an early sign that my music collection could probably use some culling. That's not entirely fair on Gone Troppo, which isn't dreadful by any means, but it is somewhat fair on The Blue Mask. Sorry, Lou. (EDIT: Wrong album! The Blue Mask is actually pretty decent. So, sorry Lou, again. I will properly identify your crappy album(s) later, don't you worry).

Favorite Album: The Clash, Combat Rock

While I like Combat Rock, and think it a worthy winner of Favorite Album for 1982, the fact of the matter is it didn't have a lot of competition. It's certainly not the Clash's finest album, despite the presence of radio hits like "Should I Stay Or Should I Go" and "Rock the Casbah," and would prove to be the group's swan song (not counting the half-assed and half-original-membered Cut the Crap). But it's no bad thing, Combat Rock, and it contains the excellent pseudo-reggae ballad "Straight to Hell," which is one of their finer songs and contains references to Amerasian children, to boot (it would also later be heavily sampled by M.I.A. in "Paper Planes").

Combat Rock is a top-heavy album, with the three previously-mentioned songs appearing in the first half, along with "Know Your Rights," a somewhat heavy-handed if enjoyable kick-starter. The only real highlight on the album's second half is "Inoculated City," complete with a sample from a 2000 Flushes commercial. It says a lot about my personality, I think, that sampling a 2000 Flushes commercial is more impressive to me than having Allen Ginsberg show up as a guest "vocalist," as he does on "Ghetto Defendant" immediately prior. Diff'rent strokes for diff'rent folks, I guess.

Coincidentally, Combat Rock was released on the very day that I was born.



Honorable Mention: The Who, It's Hard

As hinted at previously, I don't particularly think It's Hard is that great of an album. Still, I am a big Who fan, and there are about four songs on this album I can say with total confidence that I enjoy. "Eminence Front" is perhaps the most well-known, a slow-burning jam that echoes the synthesizer-and-guitar interplay of "Won't Get Fooled Again," albeit with less oomph. "It's Hard" is the titular track, and quite simple and unadorned, which makes it stand out from most of the album. "I've Known No War" is probably Roger Daltrey's best work on the album, and though it sounds a bit dated today, what with the Cold War being over and all, I'm a bit of a sucker for anti-war songs not written by Roger Waters. The albums' closer, "Cry If You Want," is probably the best example of Pete Townshend's late-career condemnation of his younger self and the ideals of the '60s ("Don't you get embarrassed when you read the precious things you said / Many, many years ago when life appeared rosy red").

The rest of the album isn't grating on the ears, but it isn't anything special either. It often sounds like they're less The Who and more some band who was heavily influenced by The Who but aren't nearly as good. Some of that could be attributed to Keith Moon being dead by that point; it appears at times they're trying to make up for his absence with an over-reliance on synthesizers. It's not exactly surprising that It's Hard was The Who's last album until 2006's post-John-Entwistle Endless Wire; there's some good stuff here, but in retrospect it does sound a bit like a band that's gotten tired of itself.



Most Ridiculous Song: The Who, "One Life's Enough," from the album It's Hard

As I've mentioned, It's Hard certainly has its moments, but one of its most regrettable ones is the über-earnest piano ballad "One Life's Enough." The Who are often at their worst when Pete Townshend lets sentimentality get the better of him, and boy does it strike with a vengeance here. Of particular cringe-worthiness is the chorus, which Roger Daltrey throws himself into with just a bit too much enthusiasm: "Throw back your head / Let your body curve into the long grass of the bed / Pull me down into your hair / And I'll push and swerve as we both gasp in the evening air." Not to sound immature, but....ewwwwwwwwww.



(7 of 111)

Top 1 Album For Every Year I've Been Alive (A 30-Part Series)

In Which I Throw Down the Gauntlet to Eric Walkingshaw, For Whom Gauntlet-Throwing Holds No Significance Whatsoever

I was simply going to mock Eric, as I often do to no avail, either by pooh-poohing his taste in music from his most recent post, or trying to come up with some way to school him on his musical analysis. But I quickly realized neither approach was feasible, in the former case because I quite like Ratatat as well, and in the latter because I honestly wouldn't know music criticism from the Duke of Burgundy. So instead I've opted for something a bit different, something that is more self-centered and self-indulgent than my usual Eric-and/or-robot-focused efforts. But something that, should I manage to complete it, will hopefully fill Eric with a sense of jealousy and envy, in that I shall be far closer to finishing my 111 Top 1 Lists than he is his 333 Top 3 Lists. At best, it will be much effort for little gain, a pyrrhic victory (if a victory at all), but when you're matching wits against the very personification of evil, you take what you can get.

So I'll begin. The project is called "An Album For Every Year I've Been Alive," and is pretty straightforward. Using iTunes and its wonderful ability to make anal-retentiveness easy and streamlined, I have gone back through my music collection to the year 1982, when I was summarily expelled from my mother's vagina and unleashed unto the world. Starting with that year in my music library and advancing through to the present, I have chosen an album that I decree my "Favorite," which simply means I like it more than any other album from that year that I have heard. I've also, for variance's sake, picked an Honorable Mention from the same year, as well as one song from that year in my collection that I find Most Ridiculous. It might be a song I like, but that doesn't necessarily mean it's not ridiculous. Where applicable, I will include one or more albums that I deem Near Misses, which because of stiff competition didn't quite make it as an Honorable Mention, but that I love nonetheless. Also, in the interests of disclosure and time-wasting, I will post a Full Roster of albums under consideration for the given year--in effect, the albums that I own as part of my music collection. Wondering why that incredible Third Eye Blind album didn't make the cut? It may be because it is not currently sullying my hard drive or CD books with its presence.

So there you go. The project shall commence shortly. It will conclude in thirty days, or so, barring any interruptions caused by robot attacks.

Oh, So It's Like Risk?

I open my eyes and am struck by the thought that I don't know where I am. I investigate my immediate surroundings. They are dark. My mind swims. My head tries to follow, and I realize that my face has been buried in a pillow.

I am in my room. It is dark, but not of its own volition. The blinds have been drawn, the door shut, a towel wedged into the crack between it and the floor. Through the gloom, I spy a large, hand-painted sign hanging lazily from a thumbtack-supported rope in front of my sole, small window. It reads, in bright red paint, "GO BACK TO SLEEP."

Always one to question signs written in my own hand, I sit up in my bed. I am comforted to realize I have slept in my bed and not, as is too often the case, on the floor, supported only by wrinkled, half-on clothing and a near-empty bottle of liquor. In fact, as my eyes adjust to being open, I notice the room is immaculate and tidy, which leads me to suspect my mother has broken in and cleaned the place while I dozed. I am about to call and berate her for intruding on my disheveled independence when another thought strikes: What time is it?

I glance over at my clock radio, which proudly boasts that it is in fact 11:47. But questions still linger: AM? PM? And what day is it? What month, even?

I need a calendar. Cal-en-dar. The word sounds funny, even in my brain; it is a word from a different world or someone else's life, a place full of events and plans and schedules. A place where the passage of time is not marked by the rise and fall of a dirty laundry pile. A scary, cold, unwelcoming place. A place, I am afraid, I now inhabit.

I reach over to my end table, beyond the suspiciously dusty clock radio, in search of my cell phone, which legend has it counts some kind of cal-en-dar as one of its many unused features. As I do so, the LED numbers cast enough light on my hand to make it recoil in horror from itself; it is covered in hair, nails stretching out far beyond any reasonable amount of growth. I bathe my other hand in the soft green light and it, too, is furry and long-nailed. I gingerly stroke my chin and discover I have a long, ZZ-Top-style beard cascading down from it. I dare not look at my pubic area.

I break out into a cold sweat as a single question loops in my mind: "How long have I been asleep?"

Desperate for an answer, yet wary of what I may discover, I leap out of bed--stumbling briefly as I adjust to the length of my toenails--and flick on the light switch. The bulb in the fixture above me hisses and rattles and pops, before exploding in a shower of sparks that very briefly catches my beard alight. I crawl back over my bed and rummage around the end table until I do find my phone, which offers no answers, its battery having died long ago. Frustrated, I throw it against the wall, from which it rebounds nonchalantly and lands safely back onto my bed, flipped open, mocking me with its blank expression.

I hop back off the bed and throw open my bedroom door, expecting to be bathed in light. Instead, more darkness. Curse my basement apartment! I silently cry. I am happy to remember I do in fact live in a basement apartment, and that my name appears to be Patrick, if the hand-written sign across the hall from my bedroom door is to be believed: "YOUR NAME IS PATRICK," it says, in the same bright red paint. Again, I am suspicious, but I have no reason to doubt it.

I advance down the hallway to the small kitchen, which, like my bedroom, is dusty yet tidy. With hibernation fueling my hunger, I open the fridge to sate it; this turns out to be a bad move. A pizza box beckons me closer, but upon throwing it open I am greeted by a surly face, eyebrows made of onions, a mouth of pepperoni, and teeth of what I swear is calcified bone but who would put that on a pizza? The pizza face snarls at me and bellows, "What? Come on, punk, I dare ya!" I slam the fridge shut. How long would it take a pizza to grow a face and develop vocal chords? I try to do some quick mental arithmetic, but my bowels don't like the sound of either of those words and urge me to visit the toilet post-haste. I do so. Unlike hand-written signs, I have learned from experience it is highly unwise to ignore your bowels.

I emerge, some time later, from the bathroom, having taken care of all my hygienic needs. Clean-shaven, nails shorn, and aerosol can of air-freshener depleted, I calmly move back into the kitchen, eager to start my day, first by figuring out exactly what day it is, and then hopefully moving on from there. I gingerly crack open the fridge door and politely ask Pizzaface if he can toss me a can of Coke; he obliges with a grunt, and though he whips the can out at me with unnecessary speed, I politely thank him and leave him to his privacy. I crack the can open and take a long, gluttonous gulp; it is delicious. Coke, unlike pizza, is indestructible. And they say it's bad for you!

My eyes having adjusted, cat-like, to the apartment's lack of light, I walk calmly over into the TV area, where I sit down on the couch to the accompaniment of a cloud of freshly-disturbed dust. My laptop lies quietly on the coffee table, sleeping peacefully. I am loathe to arouse it from its slumber, remembering my own rude awakening earlier, but this mystery needs solving. I lift the screen, and am greeted by another hand-painted sign, this one reading "I HOPE YOU'RE SITTING DOWN." I double-check to confirm that yes, I am sitting down, and I remove the sign from the screen and press the power button.

I sit. And wait. I sip some Coke. Still sitting. Still waiting. The laptop sputters and rumbles as it awakens from its sleep. I wish it would go faster, but I must be patient. I can empathize with it, after all. I, too, am a heavy sleeper. Apparently.

Finally, it is finished, and as my desktop appears I hover the mouse over the time display in the bottom corner and discover...

September. September? September!? September!

I run a song from my childhood through my head, a song about the months of the year. Which one sounds the most familiar...?

April! April. That sounds good. So, April, May, June...it must have been...five months! Five! Five months. How can I have slept for five months? Wasn't there something I should have been doing?

A panic grips me. I run down the list of things that I hold dear. It is a very short list. In fact, it is far shorter than the list of things I think I should probably hold dear, but aren't really gripping me at the moment. Employment? No, that's not it. I'm pretty sure I missed a few family birthdays, but that's fine, there will be others. My own birthday? Ha, don't make me laugh! A wedding or two? Graduations? Perhaps. But I'm sure a belated greeting card will smooth things over. What is it that is gnawing at my soul like a hungry beaver? What is it I have neglected to do? What is it that the world will have been missing?

At this point I notice on my desktop a singular icon, right in the middle of the screen. It is labeled "IMPORTANT!!!!" It is a generic icon, with no hint of what opening it will produce. With some trepidation, and a sip of Coke for courage, I hover the pointer over it and double-click.

A window opens up, like a web browser, but different; more sparse and unassuming, with not a drop-down menu in sight. A miniature 3-D model appears in the center of it, a series of tiny interlocking bluish-green lines, spinning away in front of a deep black background. I cannot for the life of me identify it. I search for a zoom tool but find none. In fact, there seems to be no way to interact with it at all. Slowly, I realize it is getting larger, albeit in no great hurry. It spins at a constant speed, gradually increasing in size. I notice it is somewhat triangular in shape, with a large, rounded bottom, tapering off at the top, but not to a point. In the middle of it, on one side, there is a large sort of bump, but what it represents I cannot tell.

I decide to give it some time, to study it as it rotates. As I do, my mind wanders. It appears to be in search of something. Normally, I would be hesitant to let it do so, but in this case, given my circumstances, I figure it can only lead to good, even if the information it recalls is horrifying. At least it would give me a reference point.

Instead, all it seems to come up with is "metal." I don't see how that helps.

The model on the screen has now approached about an inch in height, and there is definitely something familiar about it, but I cannot quite place it. My mind begins to wander again, and I implore it to do better this time. It ignores me, returning only: "usurpers."

Maybe it meant syrup, I think. I do feel like pancakes.

I turn my attention back to the model. It continues to grow, steadily, menacingly. My palms begin to sweat. My back begins to ache. I set my Coke down gently onto the coffee table. I put my hands to my chin. My eyes are glued open, focused on the screen. Something horrible is about to happen, I can feel it. My mind races, desperately, either to resolve this mystery once and for all or avoid doing so at all costs; I cannot tell. It is beyond my control. It continues tossing nonsense at me: "hands," "soccer," "skin," "flame," "future," "alive," "fiends." None of it makes any sense. The model on the screen grows larger. I prepare to cry, for no reason I can think of, but whatever it is it feels like a good one. Then my mind tosses the word "program" at me and I physically repulse; the 3-D model now spins into a recognizable shape, and I let out a girlish, high-pitched scream, and immediately wet myself.

It is a nose. A large, malformed, hideous nose. A "bleeder," as the medical professionals say.

And I know whose it is.

I let out an agonized, near-inhuman wail. Why have the gods cursed me so? Why was I not allowed to slumber? Why awaken me to such unspeakable horror?

And then, strangely, a calm, washing over me like baptismal waters. My mind slows down to a steady gallop, its synapses firing on all cylinders now. I sit up, ignoring the pungent wetness settling into the couch beneath me, and direct my web browser to Your Mom's Favorite Blog. And there it is. The reason for my awakening. The cause of all my anguish. The bane of my existence.

Eric Walkingshaw speaks.

He speaks of board games and their designers, of physicality and highfalutin. My blood boils. How dare he? I could have slept forever, but now this? This!? My peace disturbed and my pants wettened for an essay on the new version of Risk?

My mind gleefully throws another word at me: "revenge."

I get up from the couch, walk back down the hall, and re-enter my room. I move to the closet and, reaching up to the highest shelf, pull down a dilapidated, dusty cardboard box labeled "That Which Shall Not Be Opened." I place it down on the carpet and disobey my own handwriting, opening it, and removing the contents within. It is a board game. It is Risk. And in small letters in magic marker, written in a shaky, childlike hand, just below the picture of a 19th-century cannon, are the words "Property of Eric Walkingshaw."

I scoff. I take the cover of the Risk box and toss it contemptuously aside. I remove the board and unfold it, its color-coded continents staring up at me from the ground. I take out an army of plastic star-shaped soldiers, and starting with Australia, I spread them around the map, piling groups of them along continental borders except between North and South America where that cunning little bastard always has a truce with someone. After a short time, my task is complete; the board and its contents now represent, in fine detail, the state of Eric Walkingshaw's army, on the cusp of victory, only a single enemy soldier standing in the way of total victory, holding on for dear life in Irkutsk.

I remove the attack dice from the box and place all three of them into my mouth. I hold the two defensive dice in my right hand. With my left, I undo the button and zipper of my pants, and I crouch down over the Risk board, over Eric's massed armies, over the zenith of his military campaign, and with a great grunt and straining of muscles I unleash an atomic bomb of shit over his strategy-game world.

Beads of sweat dotting my forehead, I raise my right fist, clutching the defensive dice, high into the air. I swallow the attacking dice in one decisive gulp, and my victory complete, I shout to the heavens, "LEGACY!!!!!"

Your move, Walkingshaw.

Top 1 Liverpool Photographs

It kind of says it all, really.

http://i.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2009/10/11/article-1219274-06C39C4C000005DC-762_306x206_popup.jpg

Just a link until I can figure out how to re-size the damn thing.

(6 of 111)

Top 1 Liverpool Footballers

Well, Eric is back, and thus so am I. And with Eric zooming into the lead with his mass of "favorite baseball player" lists, I suddenly, at one stroke, find myself at a disadvantage, superior Top 1 lists or no. So I too shall dip a toe into the sweat-scented pool of sport, and write for some considered length about footballers who have played for Liverpool.

There is a caveat to this, however, since I have only been an ardent Liverpool fan since round about 2002, when my love affair with The Beautiful Game* really began. That in itself is a story, mostly involving all-nighters, college, and a World Cup particularly suited to winning the heart of a Korean/American hybrid, but I won't get into that now. Suffice to say that England's strike partnership that summer consisted of Big Bad Emile Heskey and Speedy Little Runt Michael Owen, and when I found out they both happened to play for the same club team (Liverpool), my allegiance was decided.

The thing about Liverpool is that they, like most other European football** clubs, are a team steeped in history and tradition, of which for most of my life I was blissfully and completely ignorant. My life was consumed with thoughts of baseball and basketball and ice hockey and yes even American football, as strange as that may seem now. And then soccer-football--like an elegant and brilliant and beautiful young woman who comes swooping into your life when you're already settled with a wife and three lovely children and charms you with her grace, glamor, and glorious bazongas--came and swept me off my feet.

But I was still largely ignorant of the game's past and it's various storied histories, from the glories of World Cups gone by to the rich cast of characters who had helped shape and define the game in decades previous. Thus, strong as my ardor for Liverpool may have been, I had no first-hand knowledge of such greats as the goal machine Ian Rush, or the mercurial Emlyn Hughes, or stalwart mustachioed defender Alan Hansen, or rappin' John Barnes, or hard-charging Graeme Souness, or clever wide-man Steve Nicol, or even the great King Kenny Dalglish himself. I would learn their names and hear of their exploits, but I couldn't rightly claim them as favorites of my own; they simply lived on through the nostalgic cooing of Liverpool fans past and present.

Instead, my fandom began at a time when the aforementioned Heskey and Owen were leading the line, a tandem that these days seems hard to believe given the fall in fortunes of both those players. It was a time of expensive overseas flops like the much-reviled-yet-Eric-beloved El-Hadji Diouf, and the less-reviled but even more ineffective Salif Diao. In the years since there have been British flops as well, from Craig Bellamy's unfortunate disruption-to-goals ratio and Robbie Keane's disastrous short spell***. In short, it looks like I've hopped onto the Liverpool bandwagon just in time for it to go careening into the River Mersey.

Such complaints are relative, however, and despite what a lifelong Liverpool fan might consider a fallow period in their club's history, I'm rather content at what I've been offered over the last decade. While the Premier League title seems ever out of reach, two Champions League final appearances and one incredible, unforgettable victory in that competition is a lot more than fans of most clubs will ever see in their lifetimes. And while the cast of characters that has paraded through Anfield in those years might not approach the levels of Liverpool's former legends, there's enough to love about them that I've never felt short of people to root for.

It starts at number one and it starts at the back: Jerzy Dudek may never have been the most reliable of goalkeepers, but then again a consistent and reliable goalkeeper isn't exactly a common find. Even in a position known for its eccentrics, Dudek holds his own; he's given a goalkeeper shirt to the Pope, claimed his manager treated him "like a slave," has produced numerous comedy errors in the goalmouth; but most of all, he was gleefully, weirdly effective in that Champions League victory over Milan, wobbling his legs like Bruce Grobbelaar and hopping around the goal-line like a maniac in an effort to psyche out the Milan penalty-takers. And of course there's my favorite moment from that match: his double-save against Andriy Shevchenko in extra-time that prompted my all-time favorite cocky grin. Jerzy Dudek, 99 times out of 100, has no right to smirk like that; this time, I'll allow it.

Then there's the big Finnish center back, Sami Hyypia, who might well have been my favorite Red of all time were it not for the fact that he's likely Eric Walkingshaw's favorite, and I cannot bring myself to align with my enemy so. The definitive quiet, consistent defender, my favorite memories of Sami Hyypia have more to do with his offensive prowess. And less so the goals he scored from set-piece headers, but more the buildup; how the camera would cut to him as he labored up the pitch, like a loyal old hound dog being summoned by its master, and insinuated his tall frame in amongst the crowd of anxious defenders.

On the left side of defense there was John Arne Riise, really remarkable for one thing: his rocket left foot. Enjoy. Oh, and then I guess there was that time Craig Bellamy bashed his legs with a golf club following an argument about karaoke. But I'm not sure who the real winner is in that one.

Of course, Jamie Carragher will go down in Liverpool history as one of its finest center backs, his dogged defensive heroics a large part of their 2005 Champions League success and a huge part of the limited successes they've had otherwise. It's been enough to inspire the charmingly repetitive song "Team of Carraghers," set to the tune of "Yellow Submarine." But I'll always remember Jamie Carragher for the impenetrable thickness of his Scouse accent. Watch this video and close your eyes to avoid the subtitles, and see how many words you can actually understand.

There's not a lot that has to be said about Steven Gerrard, although I will say that I find the funny side in him being accused of assault after getting into a fight with a DJ who refused to play his request for Phil Collins in a club. And I can overlook his hypocrisy when it comes to diving because when a guy scores goals like these a few flops here and there aren't enough to sully my enthusiasm.

I briefly mentioned Emile Heskey and Michael Owen before, but I'll briefly mention them again. In his day, Michael Owen was a sublime finisher, and his blistering pace only added to his goal-scoring threat. It's hard to believe the man who scored this goal against Argentina is the same man who's been rotting on the Real Madrid, Newcastle United, and Manchester United benches over the past few years. But that's what chronic leg injuries will do to you, I guess. As for Heskey, I've always got a soft spot for forwards who routinely fail to find the back of the net. And Emile is no different. Fight on, Heskey, fight on.

Xabi Alonso is close to my favorite Liverpool player, but not quite there. It's true that the team has yet to find a suitable replacement for him in the midfield (also Javier Mascherano), and he's an underrated part of that Spain team that seemed so unbeatable and proved it to be the case. He put away the tying goal back in the '05 final, and then, of course, there was this.

People always mention his hard work and his never-ending running, but to me Dirk Kuyt's legacy will be this description of him: "like someone poured a pot noodle over Rutger Hauer's sister." Look.

More so than Emile Heskey, Peter Crouch is my favorite seldom-scoring Liverpool forward. His seemingly interminable, 19-game, four-month scoreless streak at the start of his Liverpool career--after a 7-million-pound transfer--made him a cult hero; his lanky, stick-like 6-foot-7-inch frame only helped matters. And of course, who can forget him doing the robot after scoring for England? Mock those robots, Peter, mock away! He's got a bit of skill, as well.

I'm still hurt over Fernando Torres leaving Liverpool, but I do hope that for his sake, and for lovers of the game itself, that he finds his best form soon. I'd hate to think that such a bright talent has flamed out so early, though if he has, that 50 million pounds Liverpool received from Chelsea for him will look like the steal of the century. Still, for ditching the team in the middle of troubled times, I can't look back too fondly on his time at Anfield.

But I can and do with my actual #1 favorite Liverpool player: Dietmar "Didi" Hamann, German defensive midfielder extraordinaire. In that magical Champions League final in 2005, Gerrard gets the credit for inspiring his team to victory, but what goes overlooked far too often is Hamann's introduction at half-time; it was his steady, disciplined work that laid the foundations for Liverpool to push forward, while keeping the Milan attack that had so thoroughly cut Liverpool apart in the first half at bay--and did so with a broken toe. A stalwart for seven years with the club, he was no mere side-to-side passer either; he had a propensity for getting forward at opportune times, and oh, yeah, he also had a cracker of a shot. He's the kind of unassuming, quietly consistent player that I admire, and thus earns top spot on this one-man list.

Honorable mention video goes to the Anfield Rap. Oh, the '80s....

And a final post-script: Dudek!

*This is the preferred way to describe soccer, if you want to sound like an insufferable prick.

**I refer to European soccer as "football" and North American soccer as "soccer," partly to reflect the regional differences in nomenclature, but mostly just to be an insufferable prick.

***I realize that technically speaking Robbie Keane is Irish and therefore not British, but I'm too lazy to re-word this paragraph and quite frankly, it's not as if anyone reading this really gives a damn. Besides, as the proud holder of the most incongruously Irish name in mixed-race heritage history, I feel I have the right to not really give a shit about this distinction. End footnote.

(5 of 111)

Top One Blog Posts This Week By Either Me Or My Robot-Loving Nemesis

1. This one!

That's right, this one. By default, really, because Eric, no doubt cowed by my superior 111 Top 1 Lists idea, has crawled into his aluminum-lined hidey hole to solder his wounds. What else could explain his absence? "Graduate school?" Pshaw! A retreat for society-fearing layabouts*, and nothing more!

And the beauty of it is, of course, that this post is meaningless! It contains almost no content. Its words are empty, its pauses barren, its punctuation unnecessary and often wrongly used? And yet, it is by far the better of the posts posted this week on either mine or Eric's blog, because Eric has failed his loyal readers once again.

Readers. Pfft. I scoff at such quaint notions as "readers." The beauty of no readership, dear sir Walkingshaw, is the perfection of silence. No caterwauls greet my disappearances and disappointments. Like the mythical tree falling in the proverbial forest, I am the sound of one hand clapping.

And so this post ends, as pointlessly as it began. So. Victory is mine!



*Not true, of course, and I look forward to the day when all people with advanced degrees will bestow upon me the currency of their hard-earned dough, because I will very likely be homeless.

Top 1 Nutz

Deez Nutz:



(3 of 111)

A Programming Note

No, not that kind of programming note. I mean the kind where you're informed ahead of time about changes to your regularly scheduled programming. Like this:

The Colbert Report	Mon - Thurs 11:30pm / 10:30c
Sign Off - Richard Dawkins Will Be Here Tomorrow
www.colbertnation.com
Colbert Report Full Episodes Political Humor & Satire Blog March to Keep Fear Alive

See, with Eric embarking and, to my mild annoyance, seemingly intent on completing his marathon 333 Top 3 Lists, my stated aim of responding in kind to each of his posts with daring feats of textual mockery is in danger of being overwhelmed by the likes of "Top 3 Ways a Robot Can Remove the Brain From a Living, Breathing Human Baby," or "Top 3 Risk Games Eric Walkingshaw Has Played, In Order of Smugness of Victory." And while my wholly original (and in no way a shameless rip-off) compilation of 111 Top 1 lists may stem this tide somewhat, it appears I may have been too clever for my own good, seeing as how long after I've completed that list of lists, Eric will still be only one-third of the way towards Ultimate Victory.

This I cannot allow to pass.

So I am given a choice: change course and post my own marathon list of Top 3s, in order to match Eric at every turn; dive deep into the murky waters of my creativity and counter each list with a post of such awe-inspiring wit that Eric will wail to his robot masters in protest; or simply change the parameters of victory and thus ensure that I will have to muster no extra effort at all.

I am sure that my choice is obvious.

So from this moment on, I will not be trying to match Eric list for list; I will complete my 111 Top 1 lists, as I am a man of my word, but in-between, in order to not Hare my way to defeat against Eric's lumbering Tortoise of lists, I will pepper this blog with non-listy items with which to battle Eric's web-based hubris. Many of these will probably contain mangled metaphors based on old children's fables, but that is the price one pays in such a taxing mind-battle. The end result will justify such illiterate means, I can assure you.

So let me commence this slight change in course by simply pointing out this old video game, wherein you control a cyborg who literally kicks lumps out of rebellious robots (and, as pointed out in the below video, that is literally all you have to do):





Also, I'd like to counter Eric's boyhood fascination with Venus with this documentary footage chronicling my own visit to said planet, long before it was anything but a glittering gem in Eric's mind's sky (no, I don't know what that metaphor means, either). Try to ignore those wisecracking schlubs down front; they certainly didn't make our mission any easier.

Top 1 Gifts I Received This Christmas, In Order of Usefulness Against Possible Undercover Robot Eric Walkingshaw

1. The Evil Robot Memory Eraser, via Bitchin' Brad McLaughlin (I hereby nominate "Bitchin'" as Brad's official nickname, a la Savage Steve Holland).



The Evil Robot Memory Eraser was a surprise gift from friend of P. and fellow anti-evil robot crusader Bitchin' Brad McLaughlin, who stopped by my home on what I can only assume was a rare Northern Excursion to battle the ever-increasing robotic hordes here in the Pacific Northwest. Purchased in his home turf of Greater Los Angeles, where undercover robots can be difficult to detect under layers of silicon, colagen, botox, and spray-on tans (you didn't think these were just anti-aging devices, did you?), the Evil Robot Memory Eraser is deceptively simple in design, but dreadfully effective. In fact, upon receipt of this gift I discovered that my own dear laptop computer, formerly thought to be an obedient and reliable mechanical slave, was actually an undercover Evil Robot Sleeper Agent! At least, this is what I assume, as my new Memory Eraser, as if propelled by some supernatural force, swiftly attached itself to the laptop and proceeded to purge its memory of all the surveillance data it had collected. I am forever thankful to Bitchin' Brad and his wonderful gift, as who knows what dastardly deeds my robot enemies could have perpetrated with their knowledge of my Netflix queue, copies of numerous failed novel and screenplay attempts, and video footage of me picking my nose while watching soccer highlights. I shudder to think.

If Eric Walkingshaw ever shows the cojones to travel up this way again, I can assure you, my devoted reader, that I will set upon him at once with this wonder device, and watch with glee as his bulbous face grows blank with the disappearance of all his binary knowledge, and he is rendered but a useless husk of synthetic flesh and simulated bone. Not too unlike my harem of provocatively-dressed love dolls, come to think of it. Thanks again, Evil Robot Memory Eraser, for preventing that embarrassing personal detail from becoming public knowledge!

That is...erm...oh. Uh oh.

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So Eric is embarking on what seems to be a marathon blog-making session, documenting 333 of his patented Top 3 lists (patent pending). He seems to think it some sort of challenge, a gauntlet thrown down, a slap across my face with some kind of wimpy, sequined glove. As if I'd ever be drawn into such a petty pissing match, a meeting of the minds worth no more than the skin off a leper's toes! 333 Top 3 lists? You'll get no such malarkey here!

Instead, may I offer you 111 of my patented Top 1 lists (patent pending)? More direct and to the point than Eric's 3-item diatribes, I think you'll find my 111 Top 1 lists (patent pending) a suitable and pleasantly brief diversion to your normal Internet-browsing schedule. Which is to say, you now have 66% more time for Facebook-stalking girls you had a crush on 15 years ago. I'll win you yet, Shelley McDougall!

Without further ado:

Top 1 Deadly Robots That I Just Thought Up While Remembering That One Time Shelley McDougall Might Have Looked At Me Across the Gym During an Assembly:



Johnny Five!

Yes, that's right. Oh, sure, he's cute and all, winning the heart of the foolish Ally Sheedy. But lest you forget, all that winning curiosity and childlike naivete hides the capabilities of a cold-blooded killer. This is a war robot, designed to kill its fleshy targets and render them into consumable foodstuffs. Okay, maybe not so much that last part, but it does have rockets on its back for Christ's sake. Why are you playing Pictionary with it!? Get away! Away!

I would elaborate more, but Shelley McDougall just posted some pics of her nephew's birthday party, and I have to scour the photos for a moment of quiet reflection where she might have been thinking about me. I bid you all good night.

In Which I Rebut Eric's Philosophical Rebuttal

While I can't fault the argument laid out by your cold, calculated, logical mind, I can offer some context for the philosophizing in question. Sure, this little piece of pithiness--

Happiness is a pause between 2 moments of suffering.

--might not be the greatest or most profound thing ever uttered by a human being (that would be this). However, I feel there is a little bit of context here that you are neglecting to consider; namely, the location of said philosophizing--the "2nd floor bathroom stall of the Kelley Engineering Center."

While I am unable to account for the personality or intelligence of your average restroom-occupant at the Kelley Engineering Center, based on the fact that one Eric Walkingshaw also seems to be at least a sporadic user of said facility, I can assume that they likely have a) an above-average intellect, b) a profound disregard or even open-armed acceptance of the threat robots pose to humankind, and c) possibly a large, wide-nostrilled nose. None of these things necessarily imply a lack of philosophical thoroughness, but they do point to a mindset that is probably focused more on numbers and data than the nuances of human suffering. Were this a bathroom on the 2nd floor of an English Department, on the other hand, you would hope to find a more accurate assessment of the state of sorrow, seeing as those miserable bastards quite honestly would have little reason to enjoy anything, or even live.

But even if we are to assume that the user of this stall and author of this sentiment happened to be a passing philosopher or lost and scared English student, the fact that it was written on a bathroom stall also leads us to conclude that more than likely this observation was made while said author was emptying their bowels, which as you may no doubt be aware is not the ideal state for profound thinking. Even the greatest minds and keenest truth-seekers can be forgiven for errors in thought as they take the train to Deucetown, so to speak. There is perhaps no philosopher who could be expected to make a sound observation on the travails of human existence in the midst of evacuating the citizens of Sphincterville. I would argue that there is perhaps no one in history whose best work and greatest ideas were accomplished while in the midst of an excremental excursion. Except maybe Arthur Schopenhauer.

Perhaps good Mr. Walkingshaw, given this context, should do what the author of the debated philosophy was clearly having trouble doing themselves, and simply give this one a pass.

In Which Eric Tries to Sneak Under My Radar

And fails. Fails!

Did you think I would not notice, Walkingshaw? Did you think that your long hibernation would lull me into a sense of security and--dare I say--victory? Well you were wrong. Wrong! Unluckily for you, I cannot ever accept victory or success for myself. It is just one of many undesirable character traits that will keep me forever vigilant in my quest to let no Internet-based forum for your self-expression go un-countered. It may be dirty, unglamorous work, but the sheer unnecessariness of it ensures my undying devotion. It is a determination which is, ironically, un-prefixable.

So you awaken from your slumber and end your hiatus with two seemingly innocuous posts, about a month apart, like the clever little robot-monger you are. "Victory by degrees," you likely thought to yourself, and then you also likely thought, "That would be a good slogan for a brand of roll-on deodorant." Yes, Eric, I am in your head. And the accommodations are disappointing, I must say.

Santa Fe? Santa Fe? Santa Fe has been on your "to-visit list" for "years?" Santa Fe? Not Albuquerque. Not Carlsbad Caverns. Not even Roswell. Santa Goddamn Fe. What was it about the capital of New Mexico that so attracted you? The Georgia O'Keeffe museum, and its prized collection of vaginal-themed paintings? Were you simply stopping by on your way to Los Alamos to continue your side career in funneling secrets to Chinese robots? Or maybe just to gawp in wonderment at the awe-inspiring beauty of the Palace of Governors, which in no way resembles a 16th-century adobe strip mall? Whatever reasons you may have had, there are few words that can describe the type of person who would be so desirous to visit such a humble little burgh. "Lame" springs instantly to mind.

But the food! The food! As it warranted your first blog post in a year-and-a-half, it must have been something else, that authentic Santa Fe cuisine. Something exotic and far-fetched, that inquiring Internet passersby would no doubt be flabbergasted by its very existence. Something like...enchiladas, beer, and soup. Color me intrigued by these fascinatingly unique dishes!

Well, you're not the only one enjoying the fine dishes of some exotic locale. Just this evening I myself had quite the ravishing meal, traveling as far as the gas station down the road to acquire it. I don't have a fancy camera of the picture-taking variety to document it, but I do have the Internet and a search engine, so here is a close approximation of my Elegant Wonder Meal:









And don't think I didn't notice your toki pona cards, neither. Nena suli, Walkingshaw. Nena suli.

Schadenfreude

I have nothing to say. This says it all.

In Which I Am Dragged Kicking and Screaming From the Womb of Inactivity

So, at last, Eric makes his return, only to waste the world's time with sports-talk. Here we are in the midst of a global financial crisis, with barely-stable nuclear regimes threatening to collapse and bring down all of society with them, and Eric decides to respond to all this fear and uncertainty by making a definitive list of how much he likes the respective members of the Portland Trailblazers. And as if that were not enough, he goes on to present his predictions for how the upcoming base-ball season will pan out, although the voices clamoring for such input amounted to pretty much just one: his own.

But I will grant him this foray into idle speculation, if only because as I have mentioned before, the blog is indeed a tool of self-aggrandizement. Eric himself has even copped to this. Who am I, a Blog-Master myself, to pass judgment on he?

A hypocrite, that's who, and judgment I shall pass. You, sir, are a self-obsessed fool.

Ah, that felt good. It has been many months since I have been presented with material to mock and deride, and it thrills me to no end. At this very moment strange stirrings are being felt in my nether-regions which I will have to attend to shortly. But first, there is one small matter to deal with, and that is my own version of self-aggrandizement, which is inextricably linked to the peg-taking-down of one Eric Walkingshaw.

Eric's post on baseball got me thinking: it has been some time now that I have been under the spell of that grand game called football in most parts of the world, and soccer here in the good old U.S. of A. For the last seven years or so I have become completely seduced by it, seeking it out in whatever form I can find and reading about it in as much detail as I possibly can. With the arrival (or re-birth, some might say) of the local Seattle Sounders, I have become irretrievably entangled in its web, and it can easily be said that in many ways, there simply is no other game for me.

Even as the new baseball season opens with all its pomp and circumstance, I have been too busy following the Sounders and indeed the whole of the recently-opened MLS season; I have, after many a year of fruitless efforts, finally fully embraced its hard-tackling, mistake-ridden ways. Couple the Sounders' surprising successes with Liverpool's sudden resurgence across the pond, and I simply have no time nor inclination to pay any heed to the Mariners and their haphazard ways, awesome Japanese superstars or no. And, over the weekend, as I spent hour upon hour watching various soccer matches and their attendant highlights on the Internet, I had a eureka moment that I never previously thought possible: in many ways, the average baseball game, in comparison to the average football match, is, quite honestly, boring.

This is only a big deal in my mind because one of the key arguments of football (see how readily I slip into the more sensible nomenclature?) detractors is that it's so slow, and boring, and nothing happens, and blah blah blah whine moan piddle. Yet these same people will extol the virtues of baseball, that timeless pastime, with its...three-hour snoozefests replete with constant stoppages in the action and pauses for increasingly annoying commercial breaks.

Don't get me wrong; I still much enjoy the sport of baseball itself, but as a spectator? I much prefer the constant ebb and flow of a football match, punctuated by the scoring of a goal, and interrupted only by half-time and the occasional on-field injury. I still watch and will still watch the odd baseball game, but only in bits and pieces; even at the stadium my attention is diverted by conversation or food-gathering. But for football I will park myself in my seat and watch intently, with no inclination to do otherwise.

In all honesty, I know Eric to be "soccer" fan as well, and so this may not in any way offend him or push his buttons. But it has been a long time and perhaps this gap between mind-duels has softened my edges. Perhaps it is not annihilation and domination I seek but simply a victory on my own terms, a common realization of differing ideals and opinions. There is even the slight possibility that my previous incarceration by his robot-loving hands has defeated my spirit. Whatever the case, in this instance, there will be no gauntlet-throwing, no wild accusations or fist-shaking declarations of anger. There will only be my semi-dismissal of his chosen sport, an off-hand crack about robots (stupid heartless machines), and most importantly, a few paragraphs where I get talk about myself for once and not His Large-Nosed Majesty.

And by-the-by, Travis Outlaw? Fears and distrusts robots with every slam-dunking fiber of his body. Also, if I recall correctly, loves chalupas.

In Which I Am Given Precious Little to Work With

Don't call it a hibernation.

Or do. I don't care. It is true that I have been away for some time, and by "been away," I mean "right here, doing nothing."

In my defense, however, I must say that Sir Walkingshaw has not taken full advantage of this opportunity. A full three months or so of consequence-free blog-posting? It's like the Summer of Love, and poor old Eric is stuck inside learning how to play the flute.

It has indeed been awhile; my double-entendres have gotten rusty.

I would go into detail to explain/justify my absence, but I find there is no need. Beyond UN-style non-binding resolutions and something called a "Wordle," it seems Eric has also spent some time alone in his own lair, doing God only knows what (assumption: training attack robots to focus their laser-beam eyes on a crude effigy of yours truly). I would return triumphantly with an incisive, witty take-down of Eric's recent postings, but alas, what could even the greatest of wordsmiths do with a "Wordle?" It is, in its own inimitable way, beyond reproach. And far be it from me to discourage Eric from his promises to occupy his time with activities other than plotting the downfall of mankind.

And yet, I cannot proclaim victory (actually, yes I can--victory is Mine!). No, no, it is hollow, meaningless, a husk. I have won nothing. Our mutual disappearances are, at best, the blog-battle equivalent of a 0-0 draw, minus the excitement. I have a heavy suspicion that Eric's time away from this blood-stained, metal-strewn battleground has been far more productive than my own, that he shall emerge, whenever he chooses to do so, a much wiser and stronger man than myself. And this fills me with a bitter rage that burns hotter than the glowing embers of a dying robot's energy core.

But what am I to do? Without my foil, I am at a loss. I am a balloon untethered, adrift from the finger of its owner. Where, and at whom, shall I direct all this dangerous energy?

The short answer is myself. The long answer is also myself, I just say it really slowly.

This is a blog, after all, and while I fought the good fight valiantly, I cannot tame this beast much longer. A blog yearns to be narcissistic and introspective. A blog's natural state is one of navel-gazing and self-aggrandizement. While I have ridden the coattails of Eric's blog rather successfully, his recent scorched-Earth policy has left me with no choice but to resort to cannibalism. That is a pretty sketchy metaphor, but in this blog's new era, that will be par for the course. There is no room for petard-hoisting in the Theater of the Self.

There is a shred of decency left in me, however, that resists the urge to head down this ugly path. It wants instead to grasp onto something--hope, is it called?--and await our nemesis' return. And since I am such a weak-willed (and weak-armed) man, I relent, to a degree. What shall follow in the days and weeks to come will be about me, as it must be, but it will be about me as I stand in relation to that dark, devious being down Oregon way; how I came to be the way I am, in such stark opposition to him and all he stands for (except baseball, which we are both rather fond of).

It goes without saying that robots will have much to do with it all, as they do with so much else.