8 posts tagged “self-pity”

I was going to get to this song eventually, and today is as good a day as any.  I've been a fan of Will Oldham since the very first notes of the very first song of his that I heard.  That was back in '95, mere days before leaving college behind forever.  The Bonnie Prince recorded the best album released in 1999 and the following year, my hero Johnny Cash covered the title track for his third "American" record.  His cover of Nine Inch Nails' "Hurt" - from "American IV" - gets all the press, but this song - both cover and original - is way better.  The original Bonnie Prince backs up the Man in Black on the chorus.  Lucky!

Sorry about the obnoxious home-made video.  It was either this or a static shot of the album cover, and though the album cover is a touch more interesting, the sound was a little better in this clip.

Once upon a time I served coffee for a living.  I liked that job, and I kind of thought of my space behind the counter as a stage.  It was mostly me back there, but I also said and did things I might not have had there not been a counter separating me from my customers.  It was kind of like this blog, actually.  Anyway, that mindset skewed somewhat my perception of reality, to the point where I once told a co-worker: "I am a closed book."  "Oh, please," he responded as he rolled his eyes.  "Who are you trying to fool?"

Art Alexakis is not your average grunge rocker.  He was already thirty when Everclear formed, which made him forty-four years old when they last released an album.  And forty-four is awfully old to still be singing about your parents' separation.  But then, odd subject matter never seemed to bother Art.  Everclear's last single was sung from the point of view of a teenage slut who later became a conservative Republican.  Now that Everclear seems to have runs its course, I hope Art has gotten the help that he needs to sort out his daddy issues.  But I kinda respect that he was willing to wear his heart on his sleeve - just like I do - for so long.  I can think of few more simply profound sentiments in all of pop/rock music than "Some days I hate everything.  Please don't tell me everything is wonderful now."

I am doing better, by the way, for yinz that are keeping score at home.  My work-related stress - which had been my major issue - has mostly lifted as of this morning.  Now I just have those crushing personal issues to resolve.  In other words, things are sorta back to normal.

In case yinz couldn't tell from my Crunch-style crypto-blogging a couple of days ago, I've been a little down.  I've had a lot of shit going on lately.  I've long known I am an anxious person, but I never considered myself easily "stressed."  I realize that distinction is probably splitting hairs, but I guess I still might have to re-evaluate my situation after the past few weeks.

Anyway, most normal people like to listen to uplifting music when they are feeling low.  Not me.  I want to wallow in that self-pity.  I need it.  And I have found that depressing music actually helps me turn my mood around a little faster.  Happy music just reminds me that the singer is experiencing an emotion that I - currently - am not.  Depressing music, on the other hand, mostly reminds me that my life is actually pretty good.  Better than the singer's, at least.  And if I can't be happy all the time (which seems to be the case), I am willing to settle for being happier than some multi-millionaire pretends to be.  It's the little things.

So I guess yinz could consider this to be the anti-Rocktober - a few of the songs that are heavy in the rotation when things are looking especially bleak.  And don't worry - it won't last a month.  I sure as shit hope not, at least.  I'm thinking this will take about a week or so.  Hopefully I won't alienate too many people.

And yes, I recognize that this song is not from Radiohead's 'beeps and blips' period, but I find "The Bends" to be their most dismal record.  The other song I considered is at least up-tempo and has some cool-ass horns.

I've got some soul-searching to do over the next twelve months.  I've been out of the running before, but never for two consecutive years and never with performances so terrible.  And if you'd told me Saturday that my rendition of "Gloria" would be worse than Sarah McLachlan's wretched dirge, I'd have laughed in your face.  But, sadly, that very scenario turned out to be true.

In any of the first four years of Karaoke to the Death, my ear-splitting version of Laura Branigan's "mindless disco death rattle" would have been enough to get my name etched in marker on the Cup.  But the new breed of KttD contestants have me seriously wondering if I will ever again be able to bask in the glory of a championship.  Aussie Bob took home the hardware, but it could as easily and justifiably been Emma or Peter or Matyas.  Unlike last year, I don't feel like I could have sung any worse.  It's deeply troubling.

I'll be frank: I didn't see the sing-along coming.  That caught me completely off-guard.  When the thought of singing the treacly ballad "Angel" first occurred to me, I mentioned it to a co-worker who would be a serious threat if she ever took the stage.  Her response was emphatic.  "You can't sing that song!  It means so much to me!  It got me through a really hard time."  That wasn't the reaction I was expecting, but the more I thought about it, the more it occurred to me that many, many people find Sarah McLachlan's rancid lament to be deeply meaningful.  And the ones that don't, hate it.  By my reasoning, I had an opportunity either to desecrate a beloved song or to inflict a funereal pablum upon an unsuspecting crowd.  It was the ultimate win-win situation.  But neither of those things are happening if the whole joint is singing along.  The game tape will show me shaking my head after the first verse.  I knew I wasn't getting there.  I had too much ground to make up and I was coming almost shamefully too close to matching Sarah's soaring vocals. I don't know where to go from here.  I really thought "Angel" would get me there.  And at one point during last year's competition, the eventual champion opined that "Gloria" would have been a bruiser if our go-tard DJ hadn't cheated us out of our second songs.  I'm not ready to admit that the game might have passed me by, but I certainly face an uphill battle.  I better get busy.  I have a lot of work to do.

It's clear I still want to be on vacation.  Almost as soon as I returned from South America, I got it into my head that I have enough frequent flyer miles for another trip out of the country.  Meanwhile, the most American of holidays - so much so that everyone gets two days off - is fast approaching.  And the last time I saw my family on that holiday was three years ago, when they came to me.  Before that, it's anybody's guess.  The point is, I have a long and established history of doing my own thing on Thanksgiving.  So I figured, why not do the most patriotic thing and spend it anywhere but the good ol' U.S. of A.?

But where to go?  I focused initially on Europe.  A process of trial and error (places I could reach with my allotted miles and minimal travel times) narrowed me down to five cities:  London, Paris, Dublin, Brussels, and Zürich.  I quickly ruled out London and Paris because I figured they were too much to see in three days.  My goal was to return to the States without feeling bored but still without wishing I had much more time at my disposal.  (Overly; the very fact that I am researching other trips so soon after returning from my biggest vacation in half a decade illustrates clearly how deep is my wanderlust.)  Also, London is really friggin' expensive.  After consultation with Vanna, it seemed Dublin might be better experienced as a stop on a larger trip.  So that left Brussels and Zürich.  And though I have wanted to visit Brussels ever since I learned long ago that Belgian beer is the best in the world, the prospect of visiting in the midst of absolutely miserable weather seemed somewhat less than wise.  But what's to do in Zürich?

So I did what anyone would.  I called my mom.  She's traveled extensively, if not recently, through all of Europe, and I happen to know Switzerland holds a particularly favorable place in her memory.  Also, she's the only person I know who has actually been to Zürich.  So I explained my dilemma, and her very first opinion was, paraphrased, "Well, of course Brussels will be miserable that time of year, but so could everywhere else be.  Why wouldn't you go to back to South or Central America?"  Well, that hadn't occurred to me.  Honestly, I figured anyplace warm wouldn't be eligible at the lowest tier in November.  But I guess I also didn't count on leaving the country on one of the most beloved of holidays.  Not only am I able to use miles, but I can get there using less miles.  And, I would actually gain a half-day or so because of the lack of time changes.  On the other hand, I really had my heart set on another trip to Europe.  So I don't know what to do.  I could go to Europe like I had been planning all week or I could go to Belize or Panama and save miles and time and be warmer too.  Oh, why do these decisions have to be so dang difficult?

Fffffffffffffffffffffuuuuuuuuuuuuuccccccccccccccccccccck.

I am never flying though Dallas again.  Never.  For those keeping score at home, I was supposed to return from the South American continent at approximately 12:30 PM EDT.  It is now significantly later than 12:30 PM EDT, and I have been home for a grand total of about half an hour.  The thing is, it seems they really like canceling flights in Dallas - and then delaying them, delaying them, delaying them....  And it was barely even raining.  The best part isn't even that I was re-routed through Baltimore Washington International, which is convenient for no one.  No.  The best part is  - wait for it....  that I arrived without my luggage.  Or, rather, my luggage arrived without me where I was supposed to be.  I hope.  I don't actually know where my luggage is.  Screw this shit.  I'm going to Hooters.

There doesn't seem to be anything else to do in this abyssmal hell-hole, so I may as well spend some more time on the internets....

I'm tired.  Still operating under the assumption that I'm going to step off an airplane into the sunny South Pacific in about thirty hours, I forced myself to get out of bed at the regular time.  Which is to say: before six o'clock.  This could backfire, and tremedously, but the thing is I have a private guide of the moai reserved for the afternoon of my arrival.  If I'm dragging ass half in the sack, it could be a long afternoon.  The potential backfire, however, is that I have real troubles sleeping on airplanes, and I'm on an overnight flight to Santiago.  Fortunately, I'm working with about three hours of sleep right now, so it just might work out.  See?  I'm so tired I even slipped briefly into borderline optimism.

And I had a brainstorm last night about my potential transfer disaster.  I started to get nervous - naturally - about my chances of collecting my baggage, going through customs, circling back around and checking in, and still making my flight.  I'm nervous again now just typing it.  But there may be a potential solution.  After the re-booking process, I am now on a LAN flight out of Miami, which also happens to be my carrier out to Rapa Nui.  And which also happens to be a partner airline of American Airlines.  So I'm going to try to get ticketed and get my baggage checked straight through to Easter Island.  I'll probably still have to go through customs, but at least I won't have to collect my bag and check in.  The upshot of all this is that I no longer have to figure out how to kill an afternoon in Raleigh; anticipating problems, I'm heading to the airport stupid early to get all this sorted out.  If I'm sitting for three hours at the airport, that's a good thing, because it will mean there was a minimum of hassle.

There are only three flights a week out to Easter Island.  If I miss my connection, I'm screwed and tattooed.  This had better work.  And now I'm heading next door to the aforementioned Waffle House for some pancakes.  I'd prefer an omelet, but I'd also prefer to continue feeling sorry for myself a little bit more.

Okay, everybody - put the kiddies to bed, 'cause this one sure as shit ain't gonna be Maggie-friendly....

 

Fuck Texas.  Fuck.  Texas.  And fuck North fucking Carolina too.  A few years back, on my way to China, the plane I was on out of JFK had some mechanical problems and they had to cancel the flight.  It was a hassle, but the people at the desk re-booked every single person and we went on our way.  Because people in New York know that they need to get shit done.  You don't find any of that laissez-faire "You can fly out tomorrow" shit-kicker attitude in New York.  People in North Carolina could stand to learn a few goddamn things from New Yorkers.

But I wouldn't be in this predicament in the first place if Texas wasn't a god-forsaken place where no one should live.  Apparently dump-trucks of rain fall on the place daily during the summer and Texans are too fucking stupid to realize: "Hey, maybe we shouldn't live here."  I'm not even kidding any more.  We need to give Texas back to Mexico.  It's what they want anyway.

Obviously, I'm not on my way yet to South America.  My connecting flight to Dallas was cancelled due to weather.  The plan as of now is to fly to Miami tomorrow afternoon and connect to Santiago to land at 6:30AM in time for my 8:30AM flight to Easter Island.  There's not a whole lot of room for error, though.  And I'd be lying if I said I was feeling overwhelmingly positive about this going off without a snag.  I suppose some might consider this karmic payback for my crack about "gloat[ing]" in my previous post.  But I, for one, feel I am to be commended; I toned the smugness down quite a bit.  I didn't even mention "the littles" like I did in my first draft.

For the immediate future, my options are limited.  And I'm not even thinking far enough ahead to consider how to kill the day tomorrow.  I've already checked with Emma and Daby, and apparently Raleigh is too far from the Outer Banks for them to come pick me up so I can hang with them for the evening.  Who knew?  I mean - they're both in the same goddamn state, right?  Seemed reasonable to me....  Anyway, my options for a glorious evening in bum-fuck North Carolina seem to be:

A/ Remain here in this too-small-for-two-people "business center" at the Days Inn with my new douchebag friend right next to me talking and laughing to himself and surf the internet on this slow-ass probably dial-up podunk bullshit connection.

B/ Hit the Waffle House next door and then watch some TV and hit the sack.

C/ Go get drunk at Hooters.

I wish I was joking.  I think I'm gonna go to Hooters.  Perfect.  I'm the best seventeen-year-old ever.