The Chip Power Rankings

I’m organizing my group of friends’ annual Turkey Bowl football game this year, where we rouse ourselves from our tryptophan-induced coma to cause ourselves devastating injury and exhaustion in order to catch about 25 percent of the passes thrown that day.

I sent my friends a reminder message on Facebook, adding that, “Personally, I’m down to two king size bags of Fritos and three cans of Dr. Pepper a day, so you guys are in trouble.” This is meant to be a self-deprecating reference to my diet and my fitness for football, otherwise known as “humor,” a concept I’d heard reference to in storybooks and songs that I thought I’d try.

Later, my esteemed colleague here at “We’re Awesome Because We Write” claimed in a message to me that Doritos were better than Fritos. (Presumably, this is why she didn’t think my joke was funny, not because…well, it wasn’t funny.)

This is a long, unnecessary buildup to the crux of my post. Rebecca is an intelligent, creative individual with a keen mind for most subjects. I respect her opinion on a number of subjects. Rebecca also happens to be dead wrong about this. Oh, so very wrong.

Our exchange over the merits of Fritos vs. Doritos escalated to a level even Ron Burgundy would be stunned by. This was Rebecca’s closing statement (aside from some bizarre remark about being the best chip-eating sailor mouth this side of the Monongahela):

“Fritos are not superior by any means. They are the jagoff chip that doesn’t bathe and dresses poorly and acts like a dick. The other chips would rather hang out with horseradish flavored kettle chips.”

"Whoa."

This is the level we’re working at. This is certainly the most worked-up any two people have ever been over chips since *insert your own “Chip’s Challenge” joke here* I have an incomprehensible number of ideas for this blog in terms of writing topics, but they’re going on hold for this debate.

In college, I lived with a group of gentlemen for three years who bathed in bacon grease, brushed their teeth with Keystone Light and snorted lines of Tang to get amped up for finals. If there’s a man more experienced than I in junk food and chips, I’d like to meet him before he suffers cardiac arrest within the next five hours.

Before we get to the official Chip Power Rankings, though, a few honorable mentions to non-chip snacks, which are delicious in their own right, but cannot be graded on the same scale. It would be like comparing apples and oranges, except not at all similar.

 White Cheddar Cheese Popcorn / Kettle Corn

They’re two different products, yes, but the same result bears out: whether you’re looking for the sharp flavor of white cheddar or the sweetness of kettle corn, you’re sure to end up with a floor covered in kernels and fingers smelling like earwax. These are small sacrifices in the grand scheme of things, though, for the flavor within those “family-size” bags as tall as a monster truck wheel.

Peanut Butter-Filled Pretzels

Don’t let the obnoxious price tag at some supermarkets dissuade you from trying these – swallow your pride and buy the generic brand; Herr’s doesn’t know much better than CVS how to make a good peanut butter-filled pretzel. The combined saltiness of the fake peanut butter coated by the pretzel nugget should theoretically be enough to turn your tongue into a pink piece of hardtack, but instead, it delights your pallet, encouraging you to down handfuls when you’re best suited to enjoy them one at a time.

Honey Roasted Whole Cashews

Okay, so, let me level with you here.

Cashews: Pretty delicious.

Honey-roasted peanuts: Pretty f***ing delicious.

Honey-roasted whole cashew pieces: F***ING GENIUS.

They're sweet, they're salty, they're crunchy, and yet you're STILL reading this and not going out to buy some. WHAT ELSE DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU?

Anyway...*ahem*...on to the chip rankings. With some of the more specific types of chip, I've chosen to go with big-name brands, because I don't need to hear how Benny's Tavern in Horse Head, Virginia has, like, the BEST kettle chips in the world, and anyone who says otherwise just hasn't TRIED them yet, man. Here are my official ranks, plus a description of who you are if this is your favorite chip.

3,928th: Lays Classic

You've given up. You're out of ideas. All your looking for is something that makes something resembling a "crunch" noise when you bite into it that also happens to include a truckload of pool salt in each bag.

This is an insult to your friends who bring exotic dips they've painstakingly crafted for hours over to your party, only to see you've supplied them with the chip they give out for free with those crappy box lunches at college orientation. It's like pairing Pete Sampras with a dead hamster for doubles tennis; it's really not fair to Pete nor the hamster.

3,927th: Ruffles (and similar chips with ripples)

You've given up and you're out of ideas, but you've given up with PIZZAZZ. You also need your chip bag to come with a caption explicitly detailing what the picture on the front of the bag is.

Skip a few, aaaaaand....

8. Barbecue chips

You're the guy who insists on trying to appease everyone when they order pizza for a group of friends. Everyone would probably be happy with a standard plain pizza, but in the event SOMEONE refuses to eat dough lathered in marinara and coated with mozzarella unless it ALSO has spicy meat on top, you get half of it with pepperoni on top. Likewise, the barbecue chips seem like a good idea for diversity's sake, even though everyone would've been perfectly fine with some plain old regular chips.

7. Bugles

You're going to your girlfriend's family's house for Thanksgiving for the first time, and you know they have an intense football game every year. You decided to gear up at Dick's on your way over, and you're ready for some FOOBAW...except instead of receiver's gloves, you bought thick 'ol snow gloves. Sure, the intent was there, and in some respects, they still work the same, but you aren't hauling in any touchdowns like that.

6. Sun Chips

You goddamn hipster.

5. Blue corn chips

You're a hipster who makes fun of hipsters enough to convince yourself you're not a hipster too. But look in the mirror, pal.

4. Tostitos / Tortilla chips

You didn't feel like putting a ton of effort into choosing a chip, so you went with an old favorite. Like swinging by your favorite local pizza joint for the medium special after work, you'll never be dissatisfied by choosing it, particularly if you pick the right toppings (dip) to go with it. But you'll never learn the other wonders of the chip world if you don't branch out.

3. Doritos

There are more flavors of Doritos than there are housewife-based reality TV shows, so for the sake of simplicity, we'll focus on the two flagship Dorito flavors: Nacho Cheese and Cooler Ranch. (Seriously, though, remember Doritos 3Ds? Good lord)

You're the guy who watches the Daily Show almost every night nine months out of the year. It's funny, creative and you feel like a better person after watching it, even though you probably got pleasure out of a few things that ate away at your soul. Once election time rolls around, though, you turn off the TV. There're only so many Fox News jokes you can take a night, after all.

2. Pringles

They're the new guy at the office everyone loves. He works hard, he thinks out of the box, is considerate to everyone and has a unique sense of style everyone seems to get a kick out of. You're not sure there's anything wrong with the guy, though you suspect his family might have some ties to the mafia.

1. Fritos

Most likely, you're going to be the first person canonized while they're still alive, so congratulations.

Grunge vs. Oldies

I'm still claiming that this is not a music blog, even though 2/3 of my infrequent posts are music-related. Oh well.

I still make these.

I've been thinking about music a lot lately in a different way, because I have kind of a theory: people prefer the music that they were teenagers with. That's always "the best," and even if there are more modern tunes that make the top played list on the iPod, the music from the teenage years is nonetheless regarded with a fondness reserved for other odd, nostalgic memories of things like old school uniforms, your high school boyfriend and that mix he made you, your first car, your first kiss, and whatever atrocious trend that was passed off as acceptable for five minutes.

Try and say JT is cuter. I dare you.

I graduated high school in 2007 and even though the music that was out then was pop generic enough to make my ears bleed and dirty rap (read: CRAP), I expanded from The Beatles, my first true love from around age 7, to the music that had been popular around my preteen years-- that '90s and early '00s grunge. Stone Temple Pilots, Pearl Jam, Dishwalla, Nirvana, Godsmack-- I listened to it all and loved it all. They had the songs I would hear on the radio as a kid and sing along to but not know what they were called (I didn't have the internet (or a computer, really)) until I was older. By the time I caught that train, most of them had disbanded. Typical.

Simultaneously, I raised myself on my mum's old 45s and my favorite station, 3WS ("All oldies, all the time!" to which my mum would say, "I don't want to listen to oldies. I'm not old!" and switch the channel) until it got lame and started playing '80s music. So where girls my age were all into NSYNC and drooling over Justin Timberlake or Nick What's-His-Bucket from BSB, I had a Beatles poster and daydreamed about Paul McCartney showing up at my house and proposing to me. Knowing all the words to "Sugar Pie, Honey Bunch" didn't score me any points with my peers though. Nowadays, having spent the last 15 or so years hearing "Genie in a Bottle" or "Tearin' Up My Heart," I'll chime in and even think fondly of those awkward days-- the bangs, the being 5'1" in 5th grade and then never growing an inch after that, the shyness at parties because I didn't know that new Britney Spears song-- all that gets overshadowed by what are, essentially, really catchy pop songs.

What a babe.

I was at work the other day talking to The Pizza God while we were doing dough and discussing music. First of all, he doesn't listen to much music since he's always at work. I said, "Top Five Songs" and he listed "Journey" as number 3, referring to the band. *rolls eyes* Sixteen years his junior, I can appreciate the music of his youth (his favorites include Poison (oh boy), Guns 'n Roses (I approve), and Journey (they made my top 5 too). However, when he said Pearl Jam and the grunge era never really did anything for him, I almost threw flour at him. But to him, the music that was a big deal when he was in high school is what wins-- the hot girls of the day were Pat Benatar and Heart, not Beyonce and Gwen Stefani. He got young Bruce Springsteen though, so who really wins here?

Quality tune.

The worst moment of all came when a guy that works there-- he's 19-- interjected "What's pearl jam?" I think I almost fell into the dough bowl at that one. I mean, I know he's like...5 years younger than me, but let's be real here. Who doesn't know "Jeremy" or "Yellow Ledbetter"??!?! Well, people who listen to dubstep and electronica (the music of the day, the music of HIS teenage years). 

My mum is the only anomaly in this whole thing. She likes music from today more than what she grew up with, and I love oldies and classic rock almost as much as (if not more than) grunge and indie. But I always say I'm an old soul. I was totally born in the wrong era. Overall, though, it seems that people I've talked to mostly like what they associate with their youth and glory days.

The Neverending Story of Coheed and Cambria

One of the wonderful things about being your own editor is that establishing your credibility as a writer is below “ability to wrestle alligators” on your list of priorities, unless you plan on actually being successful with your blog – or, unless you blog about wrestling alligators.

Fortunately, I’m interested in neither at this time, which is a good thing because I went to see a Coheed and Cambria concert on Saturday, and objectivity can go right to hell; they’re an unbelievable band.

Admittedly, I despised Coheed when “A Favor House Atlantic” hit the MTV2 circuit about eight years ago (and yes, there was a time when not only did MTV2 broadcast music videos, but new videos actually “hit the circuit”). “The singer looks weird and sings like he’s a girl, I can’t understand the words, why aren’t they singing about breakups or eternal angst, which one of those guys is Coheed and which one is Cambria, and who are the other two guys then, I’m not listening to this, I'm going to Azerbaijan."

Avenged Sevenfold happened to be one of my favorite bands at the time, and about two years later, they began touring for their new CD with special guests…Coheed and Cambria. Yeah. The band that made videos about mermaids and centaurs and wrote songs about total nonsense was touring with a quintet of muscled metalheads.

I watched a promotional video for the tour that started by showing A7X live, followed by “featuring COHEED AND CAMBRIA.” I was probably a split second from X’ing out of the video..

HOLY HELL WHAT WAS THAT?

The superb opening riff of “Welcome Home” hooked me. They write, like, rock songs? Hard rock songs? I dove into their back catalog and have purchased every record since.

A few years later, I saw them live for the first time at the House of Blues in Atlantic City. My friends and I like to play the “What’re they gonna open with?” game before any show we attend, and we debated for a solid ten minutes before that concert. Surely, they’d leave Welcome Home for the end and open with another smaller hit, like Favor House, In Keeping Secrets or Time Consumer.

Nope. They started the damn show with “Welcome Home,” whipped the whole place into a frenzy, and proceeded with one of the best concert experiences I’ve ever had.

I’m sure none of you are asking, “Why, Matt? Why does this bizarre rock band deserve your virtually unconditional love and praise?” Well, nobody, I’m glad you asked, because the answer is simple: they do just about everything, and do it excellently.

Even experienced retroactively, listening to the band’s progression from emo-punk to 80’s hair metal to gray, fuzzy hard rock to whatever the hell their upcoming double album turns out to be is fascinating. Musically, the band proved they’re as technically sound as the best bands in each of the aforementioned genres, and lyrically, lead singer/guitarist/songwriter/head honcho Claudio Sanchez has learned to package his poetry and storytelling into pleasant phrasing and even (gasp) traditional rhyme schemes.

Oh yes, storytelling…I should mention that. So, while each individual song deals with ordinary human elements and themes like love, death, betrayal, war, family, coming of age, and the like (but with a special emphasis on that “love and death” bit), most average humans don’t do daily dealings with people or things known as Prises, Newo Ikken, or IRO-bots, unless you’re one of the one-percent.

The entirety of C&C’s musical catalog fits into an extended story set in Heaven’s Fence, a galaxy of planets held together by beams of energy, forming a shape known as the Keywork (it looks like this, or this). The actual concept follows the family of Coheed and Cambria, who are actually robots created to destroy the evil sorcerer Wilhelm Ryan (or Supreme Tri-Mage) determined to defy his fellow mages and rule Heaven’s Fence. Ultimately, destiny falls into the lap of Coheed and Cambria’s son (robo son!) Claudio (hm), who must take his place in history and save Heaven’s Fence and the Keywork from Ryan and his army.

Yeah…I know.

Here’s the thing, though…until about a year or two ago, I had virtually no understanding of the storyline. I knew there was a science fiction saga behind the albums, but WHO CARES GUITAR SOLOS.

Hundreds of bands write concept records, including several in theunderground rock-punk scene that spawned Coheed and Cambria. Even considering the scope of Sanchez’s alternate universe, however, it may never have been less crucial to comprehend the storyline of a concept record in order to enjoy the music. There’s enough variety in the 75+ songs they’ve written about the Amory Wars (the official name of the storyline) to not give a shite about what a Hound of Blood and Rank is, or why the story’s narrator is talking to a bicycle. For those who do want to dive into the story, though, the band obliges, pumping out comics, novels and even a potential live-action feature with MAHKY MAHK.

Listeners will certainly hear familiar ingredients in the C&C stew, but never familiar enough to seem derivative. Yes, Sanchez owes a lot to Rush, both in the extended concept and his high-pitched “Geddy Lee with an accent” vocals. (Rebecca told me that her mom once  heard a Coheed song and asked where they were from, expecting an answer like Iceland or Antarctica or Saturn. They’re from New York/north Jersey). Yes, a million crappier bands exhibit atmospheric elements of Coheed’s earlier work (albiet with far less creativity - open strings and slight reverb alone do not an emo verse make, as I believe Nietzche once said). Yes, Eddie Van Halen heard “Feathers” and wants his guitar tone back. Yes, some serious bands write pop songs as well, and some bands can seamlessly convert their electric epics into stirring acoustic showcases.

Very few bands do all of the above, though, and even fewer pack the feel of a theatrical, arena-ready performance into a bar or club the way Coheed has each time I’ve seen them in the past four years. (Fewer still can play every single song they've ever written live, either) Friday, my friend and I returned to the House of Blues where I’d seen Coheed play for the first time years ago as they began touring for the aforementioned new record. Yes, nearly 1,000 words later, I’ve gotten back to the concert itself. Sorry, guys.

Our tickets read “8:00,” so, unsure if that meant “showtime” or “doors,” we arrived at 7:45 to learn it meant “doors.” For the first time at a non-festival show, though, I saw a schedule of times for the opening acts and Coheed. This proved useful because, while I occasionally really enjoy the new bands, my impression of Coheed’s opening acts in the past has been poor to middling. To the Irish Pub we went. (If you ever need to find a bar to simply "chill" at in Atlantic City, the Irish Pub's your place. If you can't find it, look for the guy on the boardwalk wearing the enormous "IRISH PUB" sign around St. James Place).

At 10:45, we made it back to the House of Blues just in time for the band’s entrance. Opening with “No World for Tomorrow” and “Gravemakers and Gunslingers,” a killer one-two punch of 80s rock dramatics and bravado, each member demonstrated a combination of nearly flawless musicianship and unbridled energy you rarely find in smaller venues. The newest addition to the crew, bassist Zach Cooper, fit in perfectly with Sanchez, guitarist Travis Stever and prodigal drummer Josh Eppard, contributing to vocals in a similar fashion to the band’s former bassist Mic Todd, who was kicked out for threatening to blowup a Walgreens unless the store pharmacist gave him drugs.

Since I spent this entire post kissing serious Coheed ass, I’ll give a couple quick highlights from the concert rather than detailing the show front-to-back.

·      My friend, a 5’6” or so-tall girl, and I stood on the back periphery of the mosh pit that opened up in the front third of the venue. While I typically enjoy jumping into the pit for a few songs, my job Saturday was to ensure no nut jobs or enormous dudes knocked us around or blocked our view while we rocked out and sang.
This was generally pretty easy, since Coheed fans are generally more of an “energetic dancing/moving” crowd than a “speed metal moshing” one. But during the band’s power ballad “Mother Superior,” two guys continued to body-check people like they were listening to Slayer for the first time (or as if there weren’t a dozen better songs during the set to lose your mind to). As fans waved smuggled lighters and cell phones, a handful of security guards knifed through the crowd and threw the jackasses to the floor like a streaker at a football game. One of them fought tooth and nail, implying he was either hopped on something other than Jagermeister, or he is totally oblivious to his surroundings.
After the song, Sanchez addressed the crowd: “I don’t know what it is, there’ve already been like, what, five fights tonight? It seems like the older we get, the more violent our crowds get.” The whole crowd screamed in approval. AMERICA.

·      Despite the above story, I want my children in as many moshpits as possible when they’re growing up. Not crazy Wall of Death shite necessarily, but a good ‘ol fashioned circle pit. Running full speed into other people for hours is a great way to expend energy and burn up some pent-up aggression. Plus, particularly if they don’t end up playing football or hockey, the pits will toughen them up.

However, you’ll never find a more considerate bunch of people than concert-goers in a pit who either a. See someone fall, or b. See someone lose something. Hit the turf in a pit and 95 people will surround you to help you up and keep others from trampling you before returning to their barbaric activity. Drop a phone or lose a shoe, and they’ll converge to help you look for said item. Mosh pits are the best.

·      As a gift to the man helping Sanchez sell his home, who happened to be in the audience that night, the band played a strong cover of the Dio-era Black Sabbath song “Heaven and Hell.”

·      The only song played from the group’s most recent CD, “Year of the Black Rainbow,” was the lesser-known “Made Out of Nothing.” Considering Eppard is less technical (read: good) than the hyper-progressive Chris Pennie, the drummer for “Black Rainbow,” many songs on that record might be phased out of live performances in the future. What Eppard lacks in chops, though, he makes up for in pure enthusiasm and singing ability, as he leant backup vocals to “Mother Superior” and “The Suffering.”

·      Few moments in life beat singing along to your favorite band’s anthem with thousands of others. I’m not talking about going to a Bon Jovi concert and screeching the chorus of “Livin’ On a Prayer” like you have at every party or dance since 6^th grade. The most rewarding sing-along of your life will come when you hear a more obscure band’s ardent fans shout the chorus or bridge of their best tune like a million kindergarteners belting out their only line in a school play they’ve been rehearsing for months for.
With Coheed, nearly every song is like that, but none more than the conclusion of “In Keeping Secrets.” After the song’s thundering first half dips into a softer, multi-part, two-minute bridge, the band builds back up to a grand finish with a electrifying melody of “whoas.” No words to remember, just shout along. After the band linked the bridge and the outtro with an improvised sound collage of a breakdown during the House of Blues show…well, it’s better if you just watch/listen (at 9:10).

·      The modern concert “encore” is contrived to the point of cliché. Coheed didn’t even bother pretending as if they wouldn’t be back after their final song, sending out three or four sound guys to check their instruments before they came out for four more songs, including new tune “Domino the Destitute,” old favorites “Favor House” and “Welcome Home” (with all the usual double-necked guitar shenanigans you'd expect) and concert closer “The Final Cut.”
While “The Final Cut” usually evolves into a 15-minute improv session, this evening’s edition ended with…mannequins. All night long, two mannequins in bowler hats sat atop the amps onstage, one black and one white. For the final number, a member of the stage crew took the white mannequin off-stage, and another person dressed in an all-white spandex suit ran onstage in its place, chasing Sanchez around the drumset during Stever’s talk-box solo.
Eventually, the spandex man stole an amp, rolled it to the far left side of the stage, and sat atop it. A third stage crew member gave it a push, and the spandex man rolled right by Sanchez, waiting with his guitar. The spandex man grabbed it and exited stage right just as the rest of the band finished the song and bid the crowd adieu. Like the old saying goes, it ain't over 'til you feel like you've been doing shrooms.

·      As we departed, my friend pointed out a small, yellow-ish doll sitting on top of one of the stacks on stage with red light-up eyes and dimples. Yes, folks, a light-up Pikachu doll presided over Saturday’s festivities. Now, I can die in peace.

My hope is that, with this post, I've expunged all the Coheed-love from my system and I won't have to gush about them again for at least...*checks watch*...30 minutes. We'll see how that works for me.

My Salsa Makes All the Pretty Girls Want to Dance

There. I did it. I used a D12 lyric as the title of this blog, but more importantly, that means I’ve done something more degrading than what I did last night. Last night, I danced the salsa.

I don’t mean this to demean the entire salsa-dancing population of the world. I only mean to highlight how comically poor I am at ballroom dancing. I have all the coordination and elegance of a giraffe hopped up on speed and bound by Saran wrap. (I have it on good scientific authority that giraffes are not good at salsa dancing, let alone those trapped by cling wrap and using hard drugs)

Thus, when a coworker I’ve been meaning to catch up with invited me to go salsa dancing with her and a friend yesterday, I was absolutely sure she was joking. I was wrong.

Some background: I am a 6’3”, 250-pound white dude. I played basketball in high school, but I’ve only recently started trying to get myself back into shape after encountering a few personal fitness speed bumps at college. My best dancing performance was beating this on medium difficulty my junior year of high school.

Yet about nine hours after her original invitation, there I was, in a car headed towards Philly, about to go salsa dancing. God help us all.

----------------

Brasil, a club in Old City, Philadelphia right near the Delaware River, has two levels. The ground floor has a traditional nightclub feel with a raised dance floor, bar, lounge chairs and all the flashing neon lights you could ask for. The upper level is, for all intents and purposes, a small dance studio with your grandfather’s mini bar attached to it. They offer $3 Coronas and margaritas at the bar on Wednesday lesson nights; because when you’re about to learn to do something you’ve had virtually no experience doing, why not try it after hitting the sauce?

$5 got us in for the lesson. After a round of drinks, Sonja, our dance instructor, called the 36 or so dancers in to begin, as another half dozen folks remained at Grandpa’s bar and preemptively began to chuckle at our impending misfortune.

The first aspect of dancing I remembered I hated were the mirrors. The mirrors in a dance studio obviously serve to show you how you’re moving in relation to the instructor and pinpoint where you’re going wrong. It also reminds me what I look like while trying to do anything gracefully. I could hear my own notoriously malicious subconscious ridiculing me: “Nice moves, milky! You learn that move playing with your Skip It last week? Hey, remember when your waist could fit into one of those legholes on your jeans? I think I saw a shop selling secondhand Spanx on the way over here. You should scope it out! I had sex with your wife last night!” (My subconscious doesn’t know I’m not married)

We started with “basic step.” Sonja did the step three times before moving on to the next step. The problem was, it usually took me until the third time to figure out what she was doing anyway. By the time I finally got around to trying it myself, she would shout, “Okay, now Suzy Q’s!” and I’d be left stumbling into the next move.

After going through eight or nine steps at what seemed to me like warp speed (naturally, everyone in my immediate area seemed to know exactly what they were doing), Sonja called out to her assistant Jamie to hit the music. Salsa music blared out the speakers of the studio as Sonja began shouting out the names of the next step to do, like I had a snowball’s chance in hell of remembering the actual steps, let alone their goddamn NAMES.

The fact that even Sonja’s bright voice couldn’t rise above the music made it nigh impossible for me to put forth anything greater than Garfield tap dancing on his fence as I tried to figure out what was going on. The only two sounds I could hear above the music were Sonja occasionally shouting “Wooooo!” to remind us she was having fun and God’s laughter as he watched me struggle. “Wow, I’ve created some crappy dancers in My day, but I must have let one of the interns work on you, buddy! If I’d known people could be this bad at dancing, I'd have banned it for good centuries ago! I had sex with your wife last night!" (God doesn't pay close attention either, I guess)

After our warmups, we got in a circle and began learning our actual dance for the night. Men lined up on the inside of the circle, women on the outside rotating every minute or so to change up our dance partners. I started with my friend from work, then her friend, then a long line of strangers. It was fun dancing with people of all sizes and experience levels – the more seasoned dancers would politely point out how I should stop taking steps as if I’m doing lunges and just make short, barely-noticeable steps.

About 10 minutes in, a blonde woman in her early to mid 30s rotated to me and we began setting up to dance when she shot a glance to someone to her right and hissed “What?” I ignored this until it happened three more times and I couldn’t help but peek over. A similarly aged man in a dress shirt and slacks is looking at her with an expression that could be best described as half appalled and half “Moooooom, when’s it gonna be myyyytuuuurrrrn?” Either this man was emotionally shattered at the mere prospect of his wife/girlfriend dancing with anyone other than him, or he was simply having the most miserable time I’ve ever seen anyone have doing anything ever.

At last, after about a minute of these grade school-level shenanigans, the woman took my hand, led me over to where her man was, and asked the woman he was currently paired with if they could swap. Sonja, sensing trouble, asked if there was a problem.

“He only wants to dance with me,” the blonde woman answered. “I know, I know,” she added, seeing Sonja’s puzzled look. For the rest of the night, the rest of the group rotated while Insecure Man and Humiliated Woman awkwardly shuffled along in the corner. The only possible scenario I could imagine where the man would get that visibly upset would be if:

a. He hated dancing/socializing, AND

b. His wife loved dancing, AND

c. His wife convinced him to go by promising she’d only dance with him

If that’s the case, however, it would have been far better for the gentleman to simply leave and engage in an activity better suited to his personality, like kicking the s*** out of a homeless guy.

As the night went on, I began getting the hang of things, relatively speaking. I even learned to “lead” my partner into our planned moves, which was good because Sonja specifically instructed the woman not to go along with the planned move unless her male partner “firmly” led them into it. There’s nothing worse than moving on to what you believe is the next step, only to see your partner stop moving because they’ve determined you’re not being forceful enough. (Or that you’re dead wrong about what the next step is and have no clue)

“Ba-sic step, ba-sic step, ba-sic LIFT, turn the girl…back and turn, one two three, ba-sic step, ba-sic shake…” Midway through, there are three sets where the man simply rocks back and forth while the woman alternates between “flashy” moves such as hip-shaking, body rolls or lunges.

The last move was the trickiest for the men, though, particularly enormous dudes like me. The move required holding my partner’s hands while I spun underneath our arms, holding on to her hands the whole time. Afterwards, we’d smoothly release our grips while doing the basic step and return to form. If I’m describing this terribly, it’s because I was also terrible at doing it.

Eventually, the music started and the rotations began again. With each new partner, I grew more relaxed and more comfortable with each new move (giggity). Finally, Sonja called “Last rotation!” This was my last chance to put everything together, including that tough new spin.

Problem was, no one rotated to me. The men to my left and right had a new partner; I didn’t. Somewhere along the line, the rotation chain got jumbled up.

“Five, six…” Sonja counted off to begin the dance. At “six,” a small middle-aged woman rushed up to me from the left and snatched my hand, glaring as if her showing up two seconds before we were supposed to start was my fault.

A more experienced dancer might have been able to go with the flow and make that work. I didn’t. I muffed up my steps six ways to Sunday. Thbbbbbbt.

My assumption is that all dance lessons eventually lead to this 

After the lesson came open dancing. I grabbed a beer and watched the rest of the group, my two friends included, dance with the other regulars for fun. Almost out of a high school movie, men swept by woman standing alone, asking for a dance and leading them to the floor, improvising the duration of their dance, the women following nearly to perfection. I’m not in that boat yet. It’s not for lack of confidence; I’m just not going to ruin a woman’s night by wooing her into a dance, then spending five minutes mangling her toes and sending her crashing into other dancers.

Did I learn anything from trying something out of my comfort zone? Sure. Vans are terrible shoes to dance in, and some nightclub bouncers are more eager to pat you down than others. (I think I saw the guard outside Brasil do a small fist-pump when he saw me, the first dude in about 3 minutes, walk up to the door).

I’ve always been a talker, though. My preferred method of communication with the fairer sex, or just my friends, is verbal, not physical. Dance halls or clubs pumping in heavy bass beats or even classic ballroom music don’t cater to my strengths. I’m out of my element. I need a bar or a café or a house with a little background music. That’s my Rafael Nadal on clay.

It wouldn’t hurt to improve my dancing, though. As a way of letting loose and getting a little workout in, it could be great once I learn what the hell I’m doing. And after all, I’m still not too old to pursue my NFL career yet. Anything could help.

Plaid, Pencils, Post-Its, and Pantyhose

Perhaps a less vague title for this post would be "How I Spent Over $50 at Target on Frivolous Necessities," but I liked the poetic fun of the alliteration better than the apparent contradiction. I am baffled by how my seemingly minimal purchases brought me up to a grand $52.86-- so much so that I dug my receipt out of the wastebasket last night almost immediately after putting it there in order to add the prices and calculate the sales tax. How did this happen?! I'm not a cheapskate (although my sister frequently jokes that when I open my wallet moths fly out). I'm just practical. This is my justification for these apparently expensive items I deemed necessary.

Tartan Love

Plaid Scarf for $14.99: Okay, this was NOT a necessity. I have scarves. I own a few of the fancy ones women wear with cardigans or dresses (and occasionally with jeans), and I knit my own for the winter. This, however, was navy blue and hunter green plaid tartan, which is my absolute favorite plaid. It was sort of an impulse buy-- I wasn't looking for it, but there it was in all its loveliness. Oh well. It's not like I won't wear it.

Note the jet-packy thing.

Pencils for $2.29: In my defense, it was a two-pack. These are not any pencils. These are awesome Velocity mechanical pencils with a cushioned grip, the claim that the tip won't break off if you press too hard, and a little cap for the erasers. Plus they came with this nifty jet-pack looking container with spare erasers in one side and spare lead in the other. I borrowed one the other night and deemed them worthy of adding to my heart-printed mug of writing utensils. Not enough people appreciate the value of a good pen or pencil nowadays. Well, I do.

See? They stick ANYWHERE.

Post-Its for $6.09: Admittedly, this is a little steep for some paper. But! They come in a variety of neon colors with a BONUS! notepad, they're twice the size of regular lame old post-its, and they're lined. Try and say that isn't cool as far as paper products go. I'm a little bit of a nerd (I like school supplies, the smell of crayons, reading, and grammar (okay, a lot a bit of a nerd)) but these were necessary. I use them when I'm sending something to somebody's mailbox at school, to take notes on a chapter or scholarly journal as a reminder of what it's about, etc.

Fun tights!

Pantyhose for $28.90: Sounds ridiculous. How about if I say I got five pair? I still think it's absurd, but they were on CLEARANCE and the cheapest regular price I saw was $12.00 and the most expensive around $25 a pair. I feel like a 1950s housewife who washes and saves her pantyhose because they're just too expensive to wear once and throw out. I got some nice ones: cute design-y ones in grey and black, purple ones, navy ones, and hunter green ones (to match the scarf?). This happened because I don't wear dress pants when I get dressed up. If I'm teaching I can't be freezing to death in the middle of winter because I'm wearing a dress. However, they don't make pants for women who are 5'1". I always end up tripping over them because they're too long (I don't do heels either) or they're weird and short when I sit down so I give up and do strictly dresses. Hence the frivolous necessity of my tights-- why would I be cold if I don't have to?

Want!

So there it is. I saw a Crayola notebook with a pen that changes color on the page, but I draw the line at $5 for a tiny notepad-- no matter how intriguing that color-changing pen is.

In Defense of Listening To Video Game Music While Not Playing Video Games

This is not going to be a blog exclusively devoted to music, but a conversation I had with the co-writer of this blog earlier tonight inspired this post...

About two months before I started college, I received a Facebook message/friend request from someone that said, “Sup? I guess we’re roommates.” He’d apparently received his letter a day or two before me. Intrigued, I accepted and scoped out his profile like a good little high school kid headed to a college 300 miles away from home should.

Several aspects of his profile stood out. First was the white “pimp” suit he wore in one of his prom photos. The next was the motorcycle he rode in several other pictures. The third was his list of “likes and interests:” video games (awesome), anime (an obsession I’d fallen out of love with a year or two prior), hip-hop (an obsession I’d fallen out of pretty much upon my conception between the whitest pair of parents in mankind’s history) and trance music.

Admittedly, I had no clue what trance music was. At all. I imagined a tripped-out alternative to techno, a genre I loved around the age of 11, when I believed every single electronica song sounded like the stuff on ESPN Jock Jams. In short, 18-year old Matt considered trance music to be frightening and stayed away from it.

My roommate and I got along very well, though, and thoroughly enjoyed freshman year (perhaps a little too much). Sometime afterwards, after learning about my fondness for so-called old-school games such as Sonic the Hedgehog, Shining Force, Sonic the Hedgehog, Street Fighter, Sonic the Hedgehog and, of course, Sonic the Hedgehog, he pointed me to OCRemix.org, a site for those who worship at the twin alters of music composition and classic gaming to both produce and download remixes of video game music, ranging from the most well-known games of all time to "they only made a dozen copies of this game and six of them are sitting at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean" levels of obscurity.

It started innocently enough. A few techno Sonic remixes here, a heavy metal Mega Man tune there, and my fix would be satisfied. But soon after I graduated college, for whatever reason, I became insatiable. Instead of cranking my usual selection of dude rock, my mornings of cleaning/running errands would be backed by a soundtrack of Metroid and Legend of Legaia (a game that I have still not played to this day – but the background music from the Village of Jeremi is so good!). I’d stagger to work some days after downloading .zip files of menu music until the wee hours of the morning. 

Rock remixes, pulsating trance remixes, piano ballad rewrites; it didn’t matter. It even turned me onto electronica and trance music as a whole - I downloaded a ton of free trance music online and threw it on the video game mix because it sounded similar, and I played the bridge from Enter Shikari's "Gap in the Fence" on repeat enough to drive the average human insane, simply because it reminded me of a racing game I used to play.

I’d purchased licensed music I’d heard on video games before (my first “real” CD was Andrew W.K.’s “I Get Wet,” which I’d heard first on a Madden game), but this was a whole ‘nother animal. I wasn’t proud of what I was turning into. I’d try to hide my obsession – nay, addiction – from my friends and family. Occasionally, my roommate (not the one above, but my roommate after college) would come home and ask, “Is that Legend of Zelda music playing on your laptop?” to which I’d respond, “NO NOT AT ALL LOOK AT HOW CLEAN THESE DISHES ARE THAT I’VE WASHED AND NOT MY COMPUTER.”

It was too difficult for me to stop. You know how it is. Sometimes, you’re at a party with a few friends, you’re enjoying a few drinks when someone takes you up to the coat room upstairs where everyone’s…you know…listening to video game music.

"That f***ing horse is gonna come NOW." (pic from this site)

Now, while I have a number of idiosyncrasies like anyone else, I consider myself to be a relatively normal guy. I enjoy watching/playing sports, cracking open a cold beer, sinking my teeth into well-made burger, good-looking women, and hanging out with friends. Why, then, am I drawn to the bleeps and bloops of OCRemix and other sites like Greek ships to the sirens? (HISTORY)

Two reasons:

•  They give you space to think. Because most of the remixes are derived from what essentially amounts to background music, seldom do they include singing that goes beyond choral overtones or “sha ba doo wops,” and even more infrequently are there lyrics (because when video game nerds try to write original lyrics, they often turn into stuff like this and this). I love turning on my video game playlist when I’m working or have a lot on my mind because it provides…well, background music; but souped-up, super geeky background music. It doesn't encourage me to sing along like most of my favorite songs, so I can relax, and even if the remix is experimental or alternative in nature, the melody itself is familiar and doesn’t knock your train of thought off the rails.
• Speaking of familiarity, that brings me to my next reason: nostalgia. My mother hated the idea of video games in the house, but once a year when I was young (around 5-8 years old), my brother and I were allowed to rent a video game system and a couple games for a week to play at home. It was like teasing us with one single M&M, but then never sniffing another one for months. So when my uncle gave us his Sega Genesis as a gift after he’d purchased a magical mind-melting machine called a “PlayStation,” it was like backing a Brinks truck of M&M’s up the driveway of Chez Kasznel. We played and played until we burned ourselves out on video games. It wasn’t that we were unhealthily addicted to the games – we still did the usual kid stuff like play basketball and let wild animals in the house – but we couldn’t believe we finally had video games for ourselves! (A few years later, I earned us a Nintendo 64 as a Christmas gift by teaching my brother to read a book. INCENTIVES)

The video game remixes remind me of days when my brother and I would both have off from school, but pouring rain kept us inside. We’d take all the blankets from our bedrooms and take them downstairs, pour ourselves a bowl of Cap’n Crunch or two, and alternate between playing derivatives of “Fort” (rules: throw stuffed animals at each other from across the room to wreck the other’s “fort.” No one ever wins and no one ever stops playing because why in the world would you want to???) and advancing as far as we could in Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, the Power Rangers game, or Sonic the Hedgehog 2.

Video game music doesn’t just remind me of strictly video games, though. It reminds me of the den at Township Line Road, the house I lived in for nearly 16 years, where we’d play those games, or have sleepovers and watch home movies. It reminds me of a trip I took to Ocean City, MD with my friend and his family, where I brought a CD with some songs from a computer game I enjoyed to listen to. (My friend countered with his new Limp Bizkit CD, but hey, we all make mistakes). It reminds me of afternoons at an old friend’s house when I was around 10, where we’d spend the whole day in his pool, dry off, and watch movies and play Nintendo 64 on his (at the time) enormous television.

That combination of mind-emptying comfort and wistfulness gets me to flip the radio off from time to time and listen to remixes on car rides to work, while writing/reading or simply mulling over a tough problem or an emotional moment. Some folks are comforted by a meal Mom used to make, a record they danced to at their senior prom, or simply a drive through their old neighborhood. For me, a couple Sonic the Hedgehog tracks by way of artists I know only by names such as GaMeBoX or The Cynic Project will do the trick. And for those of you who put items like this on your wish list, it might work for you, too.