My Maudlin Career

ATTENTION READERS: BUY THIS ALBUM

I've been a fan of Camera Obscura for a long time. I've heard about them through my favorite band Belle & Sebastian; the 

lead singer for B&S 

produced the Camera 

Obscura album Let's Get Out of This Country. 

Anyone who thinks that "twee" is a derogatory term has never listened to Camera Obscura. The violins they seem so found of make a sweet sonic background for the lead guitar, who whimsically noodles around with the melodies that singer Tracy-Anne Campbell weaves. You will hear no diva-esque belting out of weepy ballads here. Tracy-Anne doesn't scream when she's sad, she sits by the window quietly and sings to herself in a light, airy voice. Luckily, she lets us listen in every now and again.

Since most of you have probably never heard of Camera Obscura, I'm gonna suggest some songs that will get you immediately hooked, and demand that you buy them sight unseen and listen to them obsessively until you want to hug somebody in the rain. In fact, if you're still reading this, just go right now and buy all four of their fantastic albums. Go on, this blog'll be here when you get back.

From My Maudlin Career

1. Honey in the Sun

Really the only song where saxophonist Nigel Baillie gets to shine, probably because he had to leave the band soon after the album's release due to a new baby. Lively, fun, with lyrics that display emotional depth unheard of in anything on the radio in the last ten years. The saxophone manages to lift the listener's spirit up and down like a ragdoll, just like the singer's.

2. French Navy

Oh, Tracy. How many times do we have to say it, "Stop having flings with deep, enigmatic strangers." And a sailor? C'mon, you know he's gonna have to leave you, no matter how much he loves you. Again, lyrics like the best novel you've ever read, and violin work that makes you wanna dance. I would've bought this album on the strength of this one song alone.

3. My Maudlin Career

It's strange to hear Camera Obscura using electric guitars to make the ambience usually made with violins, but as usual, they pull it off very well. Delicate, tinkling pianos and unusually blunt lyrics remind the listener that this band still has a lot of innovation left in them after four albums. When Tracy-Anne says, "This maudlin career has come to an end," we can only hope that she's talking about her sadness, and not about the band.

From Biggest Bluest Hi-Fi

1. Happy New Year

One of the happy ones, obviously. No violins, but Tracy-Anne makes up for it with a livelier-than-normal tune and an excellent duet with pianist Carey Lander.

2.Eighties Fan

I would call this an anthem for disaffected teenage girls, but it's missing something. Even when it shows sympathy

 for the girl in song, it also gently reminds her that she is just a teenager, and she's not gonna make everyone love her, no matter what she does.

3. Houseboat

Another great duet with Tracy-Anne and Carey, and the perfect love song for couples.

From Let's Get Out of This Country

1. Lloyd, I'm Ready To Be Heartbroken

One of the more rock-oriented Camera Obscura songs, with a fantastic video that makes 50's TV romance look as creepy as it should've looked in the 50's.

2. Tears For Affairs

Remember when I said that Tracy-Anne 

cries by the window when she's sad? Well, after that, she gently mocks herself for getting too caught up in a fling. Until the next guy comes along, of course.

3. If Looks Could Kill

Another lively twee-rock masterpiece. Tracy threatens to kill her favorite guy if he doesn't cheer up.

From Underachievers Please Try Harder

1. Suspended From Class

Lovely horns frame this relaxing duet about breaking people's hearts and feeling naughty for doing it.

2. Before You Cry

One of the few songs where Carey Lander is the lead singer, this song about a tempestuous relationship has a pleasant country tone to it, including a devastatingly emotional harmonica solo that communicates hopeful heartbreak better than anything else could.

3. Let Me Go Home

Camera Obscura's foray into the realm of dance music is an addictive little ditty that manages to maintain its twee tone even when the singer talks about his records getting crushed because everyone rushed over to the liquor.

I picked three songs from each of their albums, as you can see. Still, even though they can be a bit mellow at times, Camera Obscura's worst song is still miles ahead of anything that you'll hear in mainstream pop today. Too often, when an artist is described as emotional, it means that they scream  and cry into their microphones and rail at the unfair world that they're forced to inhabit. I'm not bashing those bands; I'm a huge My Chemical Romance fan. Camera Obscura achieves an astonishing level of emotion in their music with nothing but thoughtful lyrics, catchy tunes and fantastic lyrical talent. Who would've thought that would be enough?

Spring Break 2009

This was the first Spring Break I've had in a long time where I didn't spend the entire time in my room, snapping at everyone because I was bored out of my mind. I brought my two roommates with me to Miami, where much fun was had by all. Here's the day-by-day breakdown:

Day 1: We got in at midnight, stayed up till 3 eating pizza and watching King of the Hill. There's a show that's just funny enough to stay on the air, and not funny enough to get censored by the FCC. We wake up at 6PM, and marvel at how quickly our sleep cycle changes in one direction but not the other. Day 1 was a punt day.

Day 2: Wake up at noon, eat a lazy breakfast/lunch. Lay by the pool. Go back upstairs and play video games. Tomorrow, my grandfather is coming down to gamble, and he's got us a hotel room at a casino so fancy, the smallest steak they serve is 38oz. We go down to Miami Beach for the night. I take my roommates to a Cuban place called David's, a place I was only vaguely sure even existed until I managed to smack right into it. If only the people of Cuba knew that their food cost 60 dollars for three people in Miami, there would be a second Mariel Boatlift. There's a bowling alley here where the waitresses wear short skirts and high heeled boots. The lanes are half as long as normal, which is why I break 100 for the first time since I was twelve. After ogling/bowling, we stop by a music bar can Base. There's an enthusiastic indie girl behind the counter, the first black hipster I've seen besides Kele Okereke. Just kidding, I forgot about TV on the Radio. There are walkmen superglued to the bar. You ask the bartender for a CD and obliges you for as long as you need. I buy the new Franz Ferdinand album out of obligation, and the new Morrissey album because he's fucking brilliant. My roommates buy techno for the ride home. I'm in a new car, a bright orange Hummer with chrome wheels. I get pulled over for speeding on the way home.

Day3: I got lost on the way to the hotel. Fucking Mapquest. The stupid thing is, I saw the hotel, or what I thought was the hotel. I thought it was the hotel because it was the only nice building we had seen in the entire Indian reservation that we had driven through. It struck me that I had driven straight across the Seminole nation in about ten minutes. How many dead indians do you need to buy an acre of land in Florida? Anyway, I drive by this gigantic white behemoth in the middle of a lush sea of palm trees and limousines. I drive by it and assume that I must be looking for the OTHER billion dollar resort. Their is a cigarette store near the hotel, made of adobe clay and painted such a bright red that I tapped the brakes when I saw it.

My grandparents are happy to see me, the feeling is mutual. My grandpa traded in his walker for Bono shades. Good for him, as long as he doesn't go off and try to solve the AIDS crisis. That guy only used the walker to lull his enemies into a false sense of security. I got my badass genes from him. My roommates and I go to our rooms and change for the pool. There's a water slide here, with a clearly posted weight limit of 200 pounds. 2/3 of our group chose to ignore that rule, and get fun was had by all. Poolside bars charge 9 dollars for a strawberry daiquiri, 6 for a virgin one. They also don't card. 

That night, we eat dinner at the most expensive steak house in the universe. The three of us order the prime rib king cut. Its a 42 oz. steak, with a side of Yorkshire Pudding. Yorkshire pudding is dough, mixed with all the juices of a cooking steak, and baked. A beef muffin, if you will.

My grandma gives us each a hundred bucks, tells us to knock ourselves out. As a scientist, I will rarely be able to do something like that. I need to invent a virus that eats garbage and poops Reality TV, then I'll be rich. It was 9, so nothing was open yet. That was kinda funny to me, actually. We waste some time in the room and then go to a Billiards bar. The sign outside the door clearly says, " MUST BE OVER 21 TO ENTER." I am twenty, but cocky. I hand over my ID, which has not been modified in anyway, and get in without a bit of trouble. The lady must've looked at the year I was born, figured I was a few months from 21 and she could say she misread my ID.  She needed the tips anyway. We play pool and dance to hip-hop videos. I don't listen to hip-hop unless its playing over a PA in a club. I decide to be Cocky McCockerson and order a Guiness. The waittress gives me a look, but brings me one anyway. Plausible deniability.

We decide that the evening is not complete if we don't go dancing. Going dancing on a monday night is like trying to go scuba diving on Christmas; people look at you funny, and you end up having a less than stellar time. The resort we were at has 3 night clubs, but none of them were open, so we went to an Irish pub that I knew had a band. My roommates and I are the only ones dancing in the entire place. Everyone else is staring at their table with a drink in hand and a cigarette in their mouth. Fun. This was the only band I've ever seen in my life where the drummer was morbidly obese. I thought that by nature of the job, all drummers would be at least somewhat fit. You learn something new every day.

The next day, I win 90 dollars at the slots. That about pays for the drinks, ice cream, and food I splurged on during our little night out on the town.

That about covers Days 1-3. I'll write more on the topic if I feel it'll be interesting.

Boom De Yada Boom De Yada

You might all be wondering why I haven't written an entry in several weeks. I assure you, it's not from lack of interest or material, but from sheer physical exhaustion. I have been working as a camp counselor and teacher at a computer camp in Massachusetts since June 23rd. As much as I love my job, my joints and bones feel like their on fire, ALL THE TIME. Here's a little glimpse of my schedule for today:

• 6:30 AM: Get up, navigate to shower with my eyes still closed, try to sleep in shower.


• 7:15 AM: Walk to breakfast, eat powdered eggs and stale bagels.


• 7:40 AM: Trudge up the "Stairs of Doom," a set of 106 steep stairs that leads to the computer labs. Yes, I counted.


• 7:45 AM: Sit in a computer lab, wait for day campers to arrive. Nobody comes to my lab for some reason.


• 8:40 AM: Climb more stairs, go to "morning meeting." Feel like an old fogey because my knees hurt and I can barely keep up with the kids' conversations.


• 9:00 AM: First period class is RC Cars. The easiest part of my day is teaching. Spend an hour and a half screwing in screws and pleading with kids to clean up after class.


• 10:30 AM: Second period class is Retro Games. Playing outside is considered "retro" now. Spend ninety minutes pleading with kids to play soccer and ignore the wool blanket of humidity that is smothering us all.


• 12:00 PM: Lunch. Just like breakfast but fried and louder.


• 1:00 PM: Third period class is RPG game design. I spent a month learning a special programming language to teach this class. Turns out, I don't need it. Half of my class knows more about the game than I do.


• 2:30 PM: Fourth period class is RC Cars again. Half of my class knows more about the cars than I do.


• 4:00 PM: Two hours of freedom, spent playing World Of Warcraft in my boxers. My laptop overheats right when I'm about to kill a mutated tree monster.


• 5:30 PM: Go to dinner. Still technically my break time, and I deflect any comments or questions by kids with those three magic words: "I'm Off Duty."


• 6:00 PM: Half the kids go to the computer labs to play. The other half goes to the field and asks me when they get to go to the computers. The only popular games are those that involve standing around in a circle, or significant risk of injury.


• 7:15 PM: The two groups switch places. Nothing changes.


• 8:30 PM: Back to the dorm. Making sure the kids don't swallow the laundry detergent, fall down the stairs, or destroy the bathroom.


• 11:00 PM: Bed. Unless we have a staff meeting, in which case I get to be more exhausted tomorrow.

So yeah, that's my day, in pretty gory detail.

Happy Happy Birthday, Happy Birthday Cake!

My birthday's coming up in a few days. I didn't surround that statement in blink tags because I stopped being really excited for my birthday when I turned 14. I don't know why, but after my bar mitzvah, turning another year older just never seemed a huge deal any more. Even the prospect of presents arouses only slight excitement from me. Actually, I really dread the inevitable pre-birthday question:

What do you want for your birthday?

First of all, since when did we start telling people what they're getting for their birthday? What about the joy of anticipation, the excitement of tearing wrapping paper away from the unknown? Now, opening presents is like a formality, a useless chore we do for tradition's sake, like daylight savings time. It gets even worse when someone gives you a gift card. To me, a gift card says, "I like you, but not enough to carry your present out to the car." By the way, if you're going to give a gift card, PLEASE give more than 15 dollars. There's nothing quite like going into a Barnes and Noble and being confined to the little books of inspirational sayings near the cashier.

And please stop telling me that you can't believe how old I've gotten. I swear to God, arthritis is a communicable disease; its spread by morons who tell you that you're old on your birthday. I'm going to be twenty, which means that I'm still indestructible for a few more years.

Birthdays do make you look back, though. For me, they make me remember all of my accomplishments, and al of the aliases I've had over the years. Here is a partial list of my accomplishments; the full list can be found by going to wikipedia.com and clicking "Random Article."

My Accomplishments:

• Created the first vaccine for polio. FDR gave me the Invisible Medal of Honor for this one.
• Ran the 100 yard dash in 9.4, making Hitler look like a damn fool.
• Accidentally droppeda VCR on the Radio Star's head, killing him instantly. Sorry.
• Grew a beard, sold Oxi-Clean on TV.
• Invented the interwebs, which is an information superexpressway.
• Started a fist fight in the Taiwanese parliament by sneezing the wrong way.

This is why I get depressed on my birthday. I've accomplished so much! What is there left to do?

I guess I could work out a bit...

Dream On

Everyone has a dream, some goal that they aspire too and work towards. Some people want to dig ditches for a living. Others are happy to fetch files and coffee in a law office until they are discarded like a threadbare dishrag. As for myself, I have a bold, inspiring dream, one which will come true within the next ten years. I guarantee it.

Knee a mugger in the face.
Here's the scenario, daddio: A defenseless elderly woman is walking down the street, minding her own business and generally looking as harmless as possible. Unfortunately, not everyone is as nice as I am. Out of an alley springs what can only be described as a "punk"; that is, a skinny, angry boy with a Black Flag t-shirt from Hot Topic and bad hair. The miserable bastard grabs her purse and tears down the sidewalk towards me. Luckily, I have seen these troubling events, and I am in total control of the situation. I dart across the street to get to the mugger, causing a car to swerve into a fire hydrant. I then let loose my best battle cry, which sounds something like, "RRRRRAAAAAUUUUGGGHHHHH." The mugger sees me coming, and starts to turn back to run away. That's when he sees that he has most definitely mugged the wrong old lady. She takes off her jacket to reveal that she is in fact Stephen Hawking, and not a very short old lady on wheels. Hawking drives his wheelchair at full speed into his attacker's legs, forcing him to his knees. Right at that moment, I jump up, fly through the air anime-style, and knee that sucker in the face with a satisfying "Ker-thunk." Then, Hawking blasts him with Hawking radiation, which he keeps in a tank underneath his chair. The mugger gets everything cancer, and Stephen Hawking and I go to a bar. He later beats me in darts, but lets me use his voice machine to pick up chicks.

¡Fantastico! Stories from the life of an American Madman

I am somewhat of a mysterious figure to many of you, as my frequent ranting affords me little time to talk about myself. I feel badly about this, as you are all my friends and therefore ought to know what you're getting yourselves into. Too late to turn back now, but at least you're not going into it blind, right? Here's a little story that I like to tell. I changed all the names, but otherwise, everything in this story is true, and as free from exaggeration as possible. My life doesn't need exaggeration.

When I was 16, I got an internship in a Senator's Office in Washington D.C. I won't bore you with details of the job itself, we're here to talk about the weekends.

My friend Alex and I went to a house party one night, where we met two people who worked in the same building as us. Julie was a good-looking girl who offered us beer and laughed when I told her I was 20. I managed to get her number with all the charm that a 16-year-old could muster. Her friend Gabriel was a dumpy Panamanian with sweat stains on his shirt and a beard that I could have grown in 3 days. I specify his nationality because when I told him that my mother was Venezuelan, he insisted on calling me "Venezuela" for the rest of the night. Guess who I wanted to hang out with.


Alex, Gabriel, Julie and I talk for about an hour. The three of them are fairly buzzed by now, and Alex suggests we go to the kitchen for some snacks. I grab a box of Cheez-Its. They grab a quarter-full jug of vodka. Shot after shot reduce the three to one large, tipsy animal, trying to balance on six uneven legs. When the bottle drains, I fill it with water; only Alex notices the change in taste, though he merely winks at me and stays silent. The group gets drunk off its own drunkenness, and makes enough noise that the residents kick us out of the house.


I should mention here that I was completely sober, and in fact did not drink until I got to college, 2 and a half years later.


With difficulty, I herd them in the direction of Alex's apartment, and make some decent progress until Julie breaks from the group and starts to cry. To a 16-year-old boy, this is a new and troubling experience, comforting a spontaneously hysterical drunk girl on the street at 1 AM while my best friend accidentally headbutts a tree. I sit her down on a stoop, and she pours out a semi-coherent sob story, which after 10 minutes basically translates to, "People only want to hang out with me because of my uncle." Sitting down on the sidewalk next to her, I could think of a few more reasons, but I didn't say so. I asked her who her uncle was. "Pete Domenici," she says. Not a name you would recognize, probably, unless you live in New Mexico and know who your senator is.


So here I am, an employee of a United States Senator, carrying the drunken niece of another senator on one shoulder and my friend on the other. No way I was touching Gabriel. We get to Alex's apartment, which appears at first to be mercifully empty. The group collapses on the couch, and I take a much needed break from my job as shepherd. All good things come to an end, of course; Alex's roommate, John, wakes up from the noise and stumbles out of bed to find three drunk people and a confused teenager in his living room. John asked me, "Taylor, are you drunk?" I replied that I was not. John looked me straight in the eye here, and said, "Then I need you to get these people out of here. Now." There is a bond that happens when one man kicks another man out of his apartment, a strong and unbreakable connection. To this day, I think John is one of the coolest people I have ever met.


I am thankful that Alex is sobering up quickly, as he has no qualms about giving Gabriel a shoulder to lean on, and Julie wants nothing to do with Gabriel. Gabriel, on the other hand, very much wants to have something to do with Julie, and begins to grab her arm in an attempt to lead her home. He attempts to wave off my offers of assistance and merely succeeds in unbalancing himself, and Julie in the process. He insists that he knows where Julie lives and can take her home from there. He again grabs her arm, and resists weakly when Julie pulls away. I am now convinced that he is a rapist. Julie seems to realize that Gabriel's intentions are less than noble, as well. She giggles, yells "Taylor, run with me!", and shoots down the sidewalk with all the speed and grace that drunkenness allows. I am rather confused as I run after her, unsure if I was going to get laid or arrested. As it turns out, she leads me straight to her house, with Alex and Gabriel not far behind. She goes around to the back door of the house and lets herself in quietly, to my relief. A quick goodbye leaves Alex, Gabriel and me alone in Senator Domenici's driveway.


I though that my little Odyssey was over, that I had reached Ithaca and Penelope was already making me a sandwich. Not so, unfortunately. Gabriel decides that he is going to spend the night at Julie's house. Alex, who is nearly sober by now, tells him to go home, but Gabriel is too fast for us. He darts into the house and locks the door behind him, marking the first time that night that I was truly scared that something bad might happen. Strangely enough, calling the police never occurs to me. Instead, I call the number the Julie gave me, but it goes to voicemail and I suspect her phone is off. As Alex and I silently panic, two people approach us on the sidewalk. They're scruffy college kids, looking for a late night weed dealer. I recall that one of them had a "Jew-fro." We explain the situation to them quickly, and the one who asked for the marijuana looks me straight in the eye and tells me, "Dude, she's gonna get raped and it's your fault." I didn't feel the same connection with him that I had with John.


Finally, I am reduced to banging on the door of Senator Domenici's house, hoping to God that Secret Service doesn't arrest me. I imagine the conversation I might have with the senator, if he answered. "Hello sir, your niece is being molested by a smelly Panamanian." Unbeknownst to me, the Senate was in a special 2 AM session that night to vote on a gun bill. The purpose of the bill was to keep American homes safe. To my relief, after 5 minutes of banging, Julie comes to the front door and motions for me to go to the back of the house. I run there, ignoring the inquiries of Alex and the stoners.


Julie comes to the door and sweetly asks what's going on. The tears are gone and she has forgotten the paranoia of the hour before. I muster up all the authority that I can, and explain to her that for her own good, she needs to drink water, go to bed, and lock her door until morning. I told her that Gabriel was up to no good, and that he was in the house. She tells me not to worry, that she would do everything I said. She closes the screen and whispers, "You're the greatest, Taylor."


That Monday, I wanted to go see Julie in Senator Domenici's office, to ask her to lunch. Alex tells me not to, says I might seem too eager. I listen to him, and eventually forget about asking her out. I never see her again. I learn later, from various sources, that Alex wasn't giving me girl advice. My good friend Alex was shielding my young ego from an unpleasant truth.


Julie was completely unharmed, thank God, but she had no recollection of me or anything that happened that night.


I will conclude with a personal note to Alex: Life was always more interesting when you were involved. D.C. was fun because you were a true friend, and you dragged me out of the house when I was feeling lazy and you knew that I needed to get out and meet people. I can't thank you enough.

Ramblin, Gamblin Man

I suck at poker. I realized this at my grandfather's poker room today. I know this must be hard to believe, but a man as charismatic and witty as I can't bluff a hand to save his life. My problem is that I have faith in Gaussian statistics, so I naturally assumed that if I sat at a poker table with $100 in chips and waited for 4 hours, I would get a few good hands. Here's the conversation that I had with the universe today:

Me: Hey universe, how about dealing me ONE good hand, maybe?

Universe: How about a King-2, off suit?

Me: I don't want that.

Universe: How about FIVE of them?

This is why I want to be a physicist: The universe is a jerk, and the more we understand it, the sooner we can get revenge on it for pulling all this crap. I know the LHC isn't gonna destroy the universe, but how about giving it a little scare, you know?