The Shuffle Conversation- Be Your Own Pet- Bicycle Bicycle, You Are My Bicycle

I had cold feet, both literally and figuratively. Figuratively, because I was about to walk up and talk to the most beautiful girl I had ever seen and literally because while I was walking towards her, I stepped in a puddle. I've always had a thing for girls in bands. They have this seething confidence that I could only hope to have. Like its hard enough to get in front of people, it must be really hard to be a good looking girl and do it. It takes amazing guts. It makes what would be a somewhat okay looking girl into some sort of goddess that I lust over. I would lop off my own ear like Van Gough if it meant I got one night with Joan Jett. Not even Joan Jett 1985, Joan Jett right now.

I quickly pulled my canvas low top out of the puddle and ducked behind a nearby bush, hoping she didn't see me. I spread apart bits of the foliage and stared at her from what I hoped was a safe distance. She had on purple tights and a white v-neck t-shirt stained with her own blood. Some of that blood stained her bleach blond hair as well, making her look like a pixie Ric Flair, circa 1983 Starrcade. I knew it was her blood, because while she was onstage, she punched herself in the face and appeared to break her own already bloodied nose (I'm not sure how it was already bloody, I arrived a little late.) Punk rock lead singers tend to do shit like that, and I have no idea why. In this day and age any person with any real sense comes to these shows to listen to the music, not to rebel against the British Proletariat or the cess pool that is 1978 New York City by destroying themselves and their audience, like how punk music was first established. Now, most people who act like Johnny Rotten or Richard Hell, kind of just look like posers. But for her, I dunno, she just seemed to overcome that, like she knew she was being a tool by punching herself in the face. Like "look at me, I'm being a stereotype!" Because if anything punk music shouldn't be about stereotypes, but about making fun of them.

I pulled my shoulder length hair back and smoothed it out a little bit. I tried to swoop it to one side, which I hoped made me look a little less like a doofus, hard rocker, but I think, in reality, looked like when I was in junior high and the guidance counselor made me comb my hair before picture day. I tugged out some of the wrinkles in my black t-shirt, which was also bloodstained, only with someone else's blood. I unfortunately got too close to the mosh pit, and got some investment banker's plasma splashed across my chest. I'm not sure what caused the blood to spray as far as it did, but I was sure he was some white collar scum bag because those were the only types who went into mosh pits in 2009. The type that have to rebel against what they've become and want to show that, see they still know how to throw down, they aren't at all adult sell-outs now. They still know how to party. They were the only people in the mosh pit. That and drunk guys with too much aggression. I knew she was different than most because she made fun of the guys in the mosh pit, while she was onstage punching herself in the face.

I stood up and cleared my throat and checked my breath. I thought it smelled fine, but it probably smelled like cigarettes and Guinness. I wasn't too worried, though, because well, I think that's a smell a girl in a punk band would be used to, and maybe gravitate towards. I walked up to her as she leaned against the wall. She finished her cigarette just as I walked up to her.

"Hi," I said, somewhat unconvincingly. She looked at me and cocked her eyebrow slightly.

"You got a smoke I can bum?" she asked.

"Didn't you just finish one?"

"Who are you, C. Everett Koop? I can smoke as many cigarettes as I want."

I reached into my pocket and pulled out my Camels. I handed her the pack and she pulled out two, she lit them both in her mouth and then handed one of them to me. Then she pulled back the waist band of her tights and stuck my pack against her skin and let the spandex snap them against her body, almost like a fanny pack without the pack.

"Excuse me, I think those are mine."

"Nope, I think you're wrong. Look can I help you with something?" she said. She let her lip curl up like Billy Idol and I giggled.

"Look you don't have to do the act anymore. I get it."

"What act?"

"You know, punk rock mistress. I get it, it sways the rubes, but I get it. You can just be a normal person now. I'm cool"

"Fuck being normal." Then she spit in my face. It hit me on the forehead and then slowly moved down my nose. I crossed my eyes following it to the dirt below. Then she put her cigarette out on my arm. I screamed in pain and ran away as she laughed at me, then she lit another cigarette from the pack she just stole from me, with my lighter. Fuck punk rock chicks.

Let's Try a New Gimmick- The Shuffle Conversation- Foo Fighters Everlong

Since the well isn't exactly overflowing with fresh ideas (the well of course being my brain. I am so void I cant even write a solid metaphor) I have decided to try a new gimmick to help me. I am going to put my ipod on shuffle and use the first song that pops up as a springboard. I may write about the song, I may write about the band, I may use the idea of the song to write some fiction, I may write more about my love affair with Tim Tebow. But regardless, I'm going to write dammit. I will try this daily until I stop doing it daily. These have the potential to be even more terrible than my usual offerings, just be forewarned. Today's song is: Foo Fighters-Everlong. Oh boy, this should get interesting.



I speak frequently in hyperbole. I am constantly overrating things. It's just something I do. When I'm drunk, I do it in a way that makes it seem like what I'm saying is the most important thing I've ever said, and then defend it until my throat is sore or until I think of something else even more earth-shattering. In this case, though, I think I can defend my hyperbole sober. And its going to be some hyperbole, boy howdy.

Everlong is the greatest song ever.

Hang on let me try that again.

Everlong is the greatest song ever.

It sounds wrong to say that. I look at that sentence, and if someone else wrote it, it would seem painfully awkward. I think I would question it blindly and dismiss the author with a wave a my hand and move on to something else. The more I think about it, though, the more correct it seems. Please don't dismiss me with a wave of the hand.

Lets get the facts out of the way. It contains one of the best riffs of the 90's, the drumming is absolutely insane, and the lyrics, with its subtle ambiguity, are some of the most touching and interesting ever written. But the actual technical merits of the song aren't what makes this song so important.

Everlong is the greatest song ever because while it means so much to so many people, it doesnt mean more to anyone than it means to Dave Grohl. I refuse to believe that there is a more open and personal song than this one. It feels like sitting in a psychiatrists office as Dave Grohl bares his soul, his pain and his triumph all in one four minute session.

I once had a conversation with a singer/songwriter in a metal band who said he refuses to write lyrics based on personal situations because those are his situations, and his band is something greater than himself. I think that's bullshit. A singer, a frontman, whatever, shouldnt be an actor, playing out scenarios and pretending like these are his thoughts. I want passion, I want depth, I want to know that person, and there isn't a single song that you feel a person more than Everlong. You feel every emotion through every word, every note and every tempo change. Even the part where Dave is muttering nonsense, you understand it.

And to me, that's what makes this song so amazing. It's not a song written about somebody else or telling a story about somebody else (which can be fun). It's not a song where they try too hard to show they're an emotional person (like every Staind song ever). And it's not a song where they pretend like they are speaking to the world around them (which can be done well, like Green Day, or can be done poorly, like every country song about America). Its simply a four minute show of personal emotion. You don't have to decide whether you agree with it, you don't have to decide if he wrote it to make a quick buck, you don't have to try and guess what he was trying to say. You just have to feel it. And this song makes you feel.