Wednesday, May 11, 2005
Five
Five is the number of times I've been here, trying to write, with so much to say, only to be interrupted or bored. Or lured away by the wife or Star Wars.
Five is the number of times I need the phone to ring so that I can find it and answer it before it goes to the machine. It only rings four times; and sometimes, inexplicably, three.
Five is the number of people fired by my employer within the last couple days. They've got this policy in which they don't tell anybody that someone else is gone. So it's a little spooky. But mostly, it's sad-- that you didn't get to at least say goodbye to the lady who gave everyone free mints at her desk and always had something kind to say.
Five is the number of times I've listened to Eel's new double-album, Blinking Lights and Other Revelations. I've been really into pop lately. I've read a couple reviews that call it a masterpiece. And, damnit, it's so good I have to agree. It's the most visual album I've listened to of late, written with so much imagery one would expect it to be written for a soundtrack. But it's also full of the catchiest, easiest hooks to bob to. And the songs are all so short, they leave one wanting more, even after 33 songs.
Five is the number of chapters left to write in my book, and as many that are finished. Slow train comin'.
Five is the number of times I've turned on talk radio and still heard people complaining about Marquette University naming themselves the "Gold". As an alumnus of the "Blugolds", I must admit: I liked being a "Blugold". It was a unique, meaningless name that seemed to fit the Division III world we all lived so hard in. But alas! Such nihilism is not so appropriate for a big-name, big-conference, serious, Division I school with high aspirations and dire need for alumni donations. "Fuckin' Goldbrickers" would have been a better name.
Five is the number of days I wish we'd spent at the cabin in Shawano this past weekend. It's also the number of times we drove back and forth between Shawano and Green Bay. But we only had two and a half days. It was fun, anyway, fishing off the pier, eating brats at 1:30 in the morning, and walking around the junk at the local flea market.
Five is the number of times I've tried to get this little festival my friends and I celebrate every year off the ground this year. Everyone seems to have an opinion as to what we should not do, but no one wants to take any responsibility to plan it. Folks who check their e-mails twice a day all the sudden clam up when pressed for effort. Then the kicker: this weekend, when speaking with the festival's namesake, I find out that he has a wedding on the date we've committed to. Nice. And guess who's the guy who's gonna have to break that news?
Five is the number of times too many that the fuckin' BoDeans have headlined Summerfest. I like the BoDeans. I'm actually listening to them right now. But they missed the boat. They were a non-band for so many years . . . then they headlined Summerfest last year (for the umpteenth time) with a new album under their belt. What did they do? Played all the classics. Fuckin' nostalgia-fest. I'm sorry, boys, but you're a side act now. Miller Oasis was built for you. For as long as these guys continue to be billed as a Marcus Amphitheater headliner, the festival will be small potatoes. In my eyes, anyway.
Five is the number of bass notes to start Cannonball, which will take me to sleep . . . .
Five is the number of times I need the phone to ring so that I can find it and answer it before it goes to the machine. It only rings four times; and sometimes, inexplicably, three.
Five is the number of people fired by my employer within the last couple days. They've got this policy in which they don't tell anybody that someone else is gone. So it's a little spooky. But mostly, it's sad-- that you didn't get to at least say goodbye to the lady who gave everyone free mints at her desk and always had something kind to say.
Five is the number of times I've listened to Eel's new double-album, Blinking Lights and Other Revelations. I've been really into pop lately. I've read a couple reviews that call it a masterpiece. And, damnit, it's so good I have to agree. It's the most visual album I've listened to of late, written with so much imagery one would expect it to be written for a soundtrack. But it's also full of the catchiest, easiest hooks to bob to. And the songs are all so short, they leave one wanting more, even after 33 songs.
Five is the number of chapters left to write in my book, and as many that are finished. Slow train comin'.
Five is the number of times I've turned on talk radio and still heard people complaining about Marquette University naming themselves the "Gold". As an alumnus of the "Blugolds", I must admit: I liked being a "Blugold". It was a unique, meaningless name that seemed to fit the Division III world we all lived so hard in. But alas! Such nihilism is not so appropriate for a big-name, big-conference, serious, Division I school with high aspirations and dire need for alumni donations. "Fuckin' Goldbrickers" would have been a better name.
Five is the number of days I wish we'd spent at the cabin in Shawano this past weekend. It's also the number of times we drove back and forth between Shawano and Green Bay. But we only had two and a half days. It was fun, anyway, fishing off the pier, eating brats at 1:30 in the morning, and walking around the junk at the local flea market.
Five is the number of times I've tried to get this little festival my friends and I celebrate every year off the ground this year. Everyone seems to have an opinion as to what we should not do, but no one wants to take any responsibility to plan it. Folks who check their e-mails twice a day all the sudden clam up when pressed for effort. Then the kicker: this weekend, when speaking with the festival's namesake, I find out that he has a wedding on the date we've committed to. Nice. And guess who's the guy who's gonna have to break that news?
Five is the number of times too many that the fuckin' BoDeans have headlined Summerfest. I like the BoDeans. I'm actually listening to them right now. But they missed the boat. They were a non-band for so many years . . . then they headlined Summerfest last year (for the umpteenth time) with a new album under their belt. What did they do? Played all the classics. Fuckin' nostalgia-fest. I'm sorry, boys, but you're a side act now. Miller Oasis was built for you. For as long as these guys continue to be billed as a Marcus Amphitheater headliner, the festival will be small potatoes. In my eyes, anyway.
Five is the number of bass notes to start Cannonball, which will take me to sleep . . . .
