Mister Faded Glory | misterfadedglory.com

My mind’s like a blank lately. Which, I know, is especially weird for me. (cynical sarcasm alert!)

The hurricane’s partly responsible — I simply feel great empathy, or sympathy, rather, for the families, people, and souls who have to somehow put their lives back together within the next couple of months, amid still-formidable conditions.

But, regardless — I’m transfixed by the market, rising petrol prices, and dubious forecasts for gas use in the future. And just maybe, maybe, maybe maybe — someday the powers that be will realize that, you know, if a natural disaster can cause the price of the commodity we built our entire society upon to fluctuate wildly as it is now — perhaps it’s time to rethink that entire energy policy. (Banging head on desk.)

Anyway, let’s go through the ipod — which isn’t a cell phone yet, but could be someday.

And, finally — it’s of great relief to me to sort through all sorts of grunge songs from yesteryear after watching MTV’s Video Music Awards on Sunday. I’m no racist, but yeesh. I never felt so white in my life.

1. Red Hot Chili Peppers, Can’t Stop.
Without disclosing this song’s role in the early relationship between Ms. Faded Glory and me, let’s just say I have a lot of good memories. I will say it’s probably the best song on, IMHO, RHCP’s BA. But then, I think John Frusciante is the most integral part of this band. Some would say Flea. Some would say Kiedis. Some would say the drummer, Chad something. Let’s move on.

2. The White Stripes, There’s No Home For You Here.
I’ve been on kind of a Stripes kick lately. They’re admittedly the critical darling of 2003, rivaling 2005′s Kanye West, 1996′s Beck, and 1998′s Radiohead. But the problem I’ve got with the Stripes is that I have to be in the mood to listen to them. I can’t put myself in that mood, it just happens. And when it does, I just don’t know what to do with myself.
By the way, after my sojourn to Denver, I neglected to point out that Ms. Faded Glory met Jack White in a restaurant. Her most recent brush with greatness.

3. Tool, Eulogy.
If I was an asshole to any of you, anyone anywhere, between 1996-2000, it was because of this song. Seriously. And, I’m sorry.

4. Goo Goo Dolls, I Don’t Want to Know.
Reason Numero Uno that all Fleetwood Mac songs are actually only good when done by other bands.

Or this week’s slice. I know, I know, I’ve been neglecting you all. Such is life.

1. Soundgarden, Outshined.
I’m too much of a Soundgarden snob to really admit this as one of my favorite tracks — but it came on as I was driving to work the other day, just a drone in corporate America, struggling to pound through another menial day — and suddenly I was reminded of a profound sense of urgency, a blast of adrenaline akin to lifting serious weights, running onto a football field, or driving really fast — sensations that always accompanied this blistering staple of early 1990s alternative hard rock metal whatever. The riff is great, still one of the best wake-me-up songs around.

2. Tesla, Little Suzi.
Poor Tesla. Eternally a misfit between 1970s rock, hair metal, and the rise of alterna-rock. A band that’s surprisingly listenable — anthemic, yet earthy — gets lumped in with the likes of Poison, Dio, and Quiet Riot. Little Suzi is a cheerful ditty in which the band rocks out a little — probably their best fast song. What You Give, Signs, and Paradise are all quality power ballads, though. If you like that sort of thing, which, admittedly, you probably don’t.

3. Alice In Chains, Don’t Follow.

Forgot my woman, lost my friends. Things I’ve done and where I’ve been. Sleep in sweat, the mirror’s cold. See my face, it’s growing old. Scared to death, no reason why. Do whatever to get me by. Think about the things I’ve said, read the page, it’s cold and dead, and take me home.

The perfect song for play after (a) Breaking up with someone, (b) Getting broken up with, (c) Going to college, (d) Quitting school, (e) Graduating high school, or (f) Moving away.
Or is that just me?
(But by the way — the Jerry/Layne dual-vocalist concept doesn’t work any better than on this song.)

4. Sponge, Plowed.
Let me explain something. My formative music years (1990-2000), spanning my time in junior high through college graduation, began at the height of alternative rock. A time in which one could flip on the radio and hear a short, catchy guitar-heavy anthem featuring a throaty, choppy lead singer at any hour of the day.

I used to pride myself on only spending my hard-earned pizza chef money on the highest-quality CDs of this era — compact discs by bands who could put together a viable, full-length album, holding up not only in the era but over time, as well. This is proof I wasn’t infallible.

Have I said this before?

I am embattled Chicago Cubs centerfielder Corey Patterson‘s biggest fan. I do not make excuses for his failures this season and last — namely, a struggle to adjust his swing and penchant to strike out. I do not deny that he has a nasty habit of swinging at the first pitch.

However, I think it’s absolutely ludicrous to pin the failures of this season upon Corey. He has had a lost year, true. He has seemingly regressed, lost confidence in himself and his abilities, and perhaps lost whatever promise remains in his career.

But he is not — repeat — NOT the scapegoat for this lost Cubs season.

Patterson has his faults as a baseball player. He has failed to curb these faults this season. Some accountability rests with him. However, to hear Cub nation tell it — he refused to listen to Don Baylor, he refused to listen to Gene Clines, he refused to listen to Gary Matthews, and he refused to listen to Dusty Baker. He refused to adjust, to change.

This attitude is bullshit. Absolute fucking bullshit. Who are the fans — the writers — anyone — to claim an attitude problem where one doesn’t exist?

There is a lot — a lot — wrong with the Cubs. First and foremost, this organization’s hitting philosophy, up and down the organization (I do give AA hitting coach Von Joshua a pass — and I would like to see him in charge of the big club’s hitting) is the worst in the major leagues.

The Cubs are unwilling to adapt any sort of patient approach at the plate. Set Moneyball aside, basic major league common sense dictates that the hitter faces better odds when he is selective early in the count. Even better odds when he is coached, taught, and prodded throughout his career with video, supporting a patient, researched, yet quick-thinking approach.

Hitters are set up to fail when they are taught to swing early. It is ludicrous to think otherwise.

I’m not going to say there’s never a time to swing at a first pitch — in fact, out of the bullpen, sometimes it is a nifty idea — I am going to say, that it is completely arrogant, shortsighted, and backward to implement a free-swinging, faux-aggressive philosophy throughout the major league team. It goes against common sense, reeks of hubris, and why do I feel as though I’ve typed this about Dusty F. N. Baker before?

Players often suffer a decline in offensive stats when batting under Baker, notably with the Cubs. Todd Walker? Looks lost at times. Todd Hollandsworth? Fell down a well this season. Sammy Sosa. Moises Alou. Alex Gonzalez. Nomar Garciaparra. Jeromy Burnitz. Jason Dubois. Corey Patterson.

And Cub prospects, too. Ronny Cedeno. Bobby Hill. Hee Seop Choi. Patterson. Dubois. David Kelton.

All the aforementioned players suffer — suffer mightily – from an approach that lets them swing away. In fact, the only major leaguers that benefit minimally from this approach — “Dusty guys” Shawon Dunston, Ramon Martinez, and even Jose Macias — succeed (not very often, but perhaps more than they would normally) because they hack at first-pitch meat-of-the-plate fastballs, because the opposing pitcher knows he can’t get burned too badly.

It is an awful approach. This season, last season, and the season before. It is this that kills the Cubs. It killed them when Ricky Gutierrez, Matt Stairs, and Gary Matthews Jr. were whiffing around an MVP-caliber Sosa, and it kills them now. It desperately has wounded Patterson. And he won’t — will not — be the last.

Secondly, Patterson alone is singled out by his manager, called out to the media. Dusty supported Chris Speier’s ludicrous decision on Aug. 22 in the eighth inning of a tie game to send Mike Barrett from second on a two-out line drive base-hit to right, when Corey was on deck, because “Corey hasn’t been going too good lately.” Barrett was out at the dish by 20 feet.

Dusty, you’re the fucking manager. If Corey’s so goddam bad, then pinch hit for him in the eighth. Hello. You PLAY TO WIN THE GAME. You do not play “not-to-lose.” Unless, of course, you are arrogant, self-absorbed, and out for yourself.

Tell him, tell the team, he was 0-for-3, and you liked Hairston’s chances to get on. Don’t harp on the media, don’t call him out. This is disrespect at its finest, but also Dusty building in an excuse for when he fails as a manager. And I’m scarcely the only person who realizes Dusty is adequate only at creating excuses for his players and himself.

Thirdly, Patterson’s recall did him no good, nor the Cubs. Pat Burrell and even Alou have had “lost seasons” recently. It’s somewhat normal, occurring with several players. Alou in 2002, Burrell in 2004. Perhaps it’s the same with Patterson this season. Regardless, the same team that “fired” Patterson in 2005, sending him to Iowa, also recalled him too quickly.

Not only that, with Jerry Hairston installed in Patterson’s place, the big club ran off a respectable streak. Hairston isn’t a worldbeater (In fact, the swing-early philosophy is killing his career as well) but he was doing better than Patterson, and the team was winning more often. However, Patterson was recalled because Jerry went to the DL. Jerry is now back. He is not starting in center field. Patterson is. I know, huh?

I, for one, think it’s admirable that Corey Patterson doesn’t suffer too badly in the field because of his hitting. His defense is still very, very good — but I don’t agree that alone should have vaulted him over Hairston.

The Cubs played well with Hairston at the top. Ergo, Hairston should have been re-installed. Dusty’s backward thinking doesn’t permit this, however. He realizes that “Matt Lawton” is supposedly now his “leadoff batter,” and now that he’s in the lineup, Corey can be included just for his defense. On a team that couldn’t score at a Hooters convention, you can’t gloss over any offensive lineup spots. Corey shines in an inadequate outfield, but his defense doesn’t make up for his lineup spot that this run-starved team needs.

(Aside: No one player suffers more from the swing-first approach than Matt Lawton. Talk about looking completely lost as a Cub. Go figure.)

Finally, Corey is quiet, trying to improve, perhaps a little concerned with his individual skills. This doesn’t sit well with the fan base. Who knows what they want, besides winning, but they transplant all sorts of emotions onto him.He’s a head case. He’s arrogant. He has a me-first, No. 1 draft pick mentality. He’s resistant to change. He’s stubborn. [ Ed's note: Previous link added Aug. 25. ]

Are you kidding? These suppositions all are bandied about just because he is quiet?

Unlike Todd Walker, who gets a free pass for atrocious defense and GIDP after GIDP?

Unlike Neifi Perez, who hacks at everything he sees, and is an offensive liability?

Unlike Todd Hollandsworth, who has seen more one-pitch pinch-hit ABs than Lenny Harris in his entire career? (Besides when Harris was a Cub, and predictably swung at everything and was run off.)

Unlike Matt Lawton, who has shown up and not produced?

Unlike the bullpen — of whom Ryan Dempster and Will Ohman have only managed to avoid repeated failure?

Ridiculous. And Corey compounded the problem this week, when after a tough weekend in Colorado (Note: I was at the damn games. He lined out 3 times; and three times was a victim to great defense. He swung at some early pitches, grounding out. He struck out twice. And he looked no worse than the rest of a poorly-managed, lackluster team. Sosa had worse weekends than this. Christ, eternally worthless Cubfan-boy Mark Grace had worse weekends than this.) Anyway, after the game, Corey voiced the opinion, frustrated, that “it was only a game.”

This, predictably, sends fan-site posters and writers into a tizzy, because the world of the Cubs is more important to them, than it is to the players. (Always true in all sports.)

Corey said that, of course, to try and bolster himself. To try and relieve the enormous pressure he (not to mention a rabid fan base) puts upon himself.

To try and put the game into some perspective, to keep his eyes in front of him, and not on a lengthy struggle through the year.

And perhaps, to put it in perspective with the fans and media who continually call for his head.

But can you blame him? He doesn’t want to be here anymore. How could he?

He’s got a manager that not only doesn’t believe in him, but doesn’t believe in teaching him, doesn’t believe in helping him, but believes in making an excuse out of him.

He’s got hitting coaches who haven’t developed a legitimate prospect in years. Never their fault, right?

He’s got a fan base that pins it all on him. But really, the fans are the least of his problems.

And you may say good riddance. You may say he deserves this. You may say I’m an apologist. (They’re a .500 team. The problem is the organization). But, regardless, similarly to everyone else, I believe, for all of us, Corey has to go. For his own good. His own sanity. For the good of his career.

And I wish him the best. He’s 26, not a spring chicken, but still with baseball to be played. For all the naysayers who claim his first 2000 ABs in his early career speak to his true caliber, I don’t think you can so easily reconcile 6 bad months (Sept. 2004-now) with 1000 ABs (Aug. 2002-Aug. 2004) that rival Carlos Beltran‘s and Andruw Jones‘, at their respective same ages.

I hope that he winds up with Oakland or Boston — hope that by their preaching of patience, and by using his defense — and with a manager who believes in him, I hope he becomes a solid player. I don’t think he will ever be a star, but I could see him hitting seventh for Boston, playing great defense, driving in a few runs off the Monster (once he’s told to look the other way, which is the key to his success. See Spring 2003 and July 2004).

In fact, perhaps if successful in Beantown, he could help win a World Series. But no recent former Cubs ever helped with that, right?

Couple of things to clear up — First “Trouble Me” by 10,000 Maniacs exists on my ipod to make my wife happy. Even though she’s got her own ipod, my car only has one stereo — so I’ve got to throw in a bone here and there between Helmet’s Pure and Corrosion of Conformity’s Clean My Wounds. (A song I’m actually purchasing off itunes today even though I know I possess the CD — it’s just buried in my shed under a mountain of junk.)

Also, since Mother Love Bone’s magnum opus – Chloe Dancer/Crown of Thorns – is on nearly every playlist I have, and exists in four different incarnations, by two different artists on my iPod, her hatred of that song is mitigated when it’s followed up by a 10,000 Maniacs song. Who I actually like, anyway, making this whole paragraph (whole blog?) rather pointless. But, ha! You read it!

(Sider: I know many of you are shaking your heads, wondering how I married a woman who despises MLB’s Crown of Thorns.

This dubious wonder is no doubt based on lengthy diatribes I used to offer on random Thirsty Thursdays, after I played the entire Singles soundtrack on the jukebox at the Sports Club, and specifically said I would marry the first woman who liked the song Crown of Thorns, and that it was a dealbreaker if my prospective wife couldn’t tolerate that song. Remember, it was $5 all you can drink. Let’s just move on.)

Anyway, sweet vindication exists here, after my soliloquy the other day. This is admittedly more succint and better worded than mine, but, you know, he gets paid for that. Good piece, though.

Off to Denver — will I learn any new Things to Do in Denver When You’re Dead? Check with me Friday night about 3 a.m.

Back to inanity and faux-seriousness today. And not a moment too soon. Tomorrow I’m taking the final mini-vacation of the summer. And, for those of you also ensconced in corporate life, you know that small vacations interspersed throughout the year — well, they don’t quite cut it. I need a looong vacation.

But this will have to do, for now, a trip to Colorado to watch the Cubs swing furiously for home runs at altitude as they almost certainly drop two of three to the lowly Rox. Book it.

The four songs of the week …

Trouble Me, 10,000 Maniacs
Yesterdays, Guns N’ Roses
4th of July, Soundgarden
Bee Girl, Pearl Jam.

Feel free to discuss. It’s been a long week (what is it, Wednesday?) and I’ll check back in next Monday.

Your slice of PCW will have to wait until tomorrow, sorry for the inconvenience.

I’m posting below a letter response to an infuriating editorial in today’s Salina Journal.

[ Update. The Salina Journal's web site isn't advanced enough to allow for permanent links or op-ed archive links. Here is most of the editorial's copy. ]

A high cost for our lost generation

Who knows what scientists, artists and other contributors to society have been lost to abortion

We hear lots about Generation X and Generation Y. These twentysomethings and teens are some of the most studied people in history.

Marketers are hungry for their dollars. They research the generations’ music and reading habits, analyze what they watch on television and where they go on the Internet. Video games, movies and menus are tailored to their tastes.

These generations are coveted for their buying power. Billions of dollars will go to those who attract even a small piece of that business.

But we don’t hear much about Generation S. This is the Silent Generation, some 42 million who never saw the light of day after the U.S. Supreme Court legalized abortions on demand in 1973.

The affect of this generation on American society and our economy may be greater than any other.

No one ever bought them clothes or toys or built them classrooms. They never held summer jobs, bought cars, went to college, built homes, nor entered the work force. They will never pay Social Security or income taxes. They will never open savings accounts or buy stocks and bonds for retirement.

They will never have children of their own to feed, house and educate.

By one estimate the first wave of this generation would have contributed $1.7 billion to Medicare and $7.4 billion to Social Security in their first year of employment.

However, abortion supporters say this generation would have entered the world unwanted. They would have put economic burdens on families, prevented women from entering the work force and tested the limits of state and federal social services.

That is true. In some cases families are better off financially; parents have good jobs and fewer expenses.

But when we weigh the final costs of abortion, let’s remember the generation that will never be. Gone are teachers, scientists, artists and chefs; mothers, fathers, brothers and sisters.

No good can come from that loss.

It is good to see that more of us are waking up to that fact. Anti-abortion sentiment is growing. Recent surveys show that Americans are evenly split on whether abortion is morally wrong or right.

Eventually this sad era will be behind us. But not before millions more join Generation S.

I try and remain above inflamed passions of the pro-life and pro-choice argument, but as you’ll see, I am greatly insulted when journalism — even at such a low level as in mid-size cities — makes leaps, stretches, and bounds such as this one.

In any case, my response to the editorial of Tuesday, August 16 is below. It may also be in the Wed. or Sun. edition of the SJ — but don’t hold your breath.

I agree, golf isn’t necessarily a sport. It’s tedious to watch, can be aggravating to play, and I would prefer it classified along the same lines as billiards, darts, and bowling — a game, rather than an athletic contest.

However, yesterday I was drawn to the TV to watch golf — the PGA Championship, to be exact.

I’ve long been a fan of golf’s major championships — if only for the human drama that exists as players compete first and foremost with themselves, and secondly with a golf course in order to reach their goals. And, with my favorite golfer secure in the lead to begin the final round, it seemed like a relaxing way to spend my Sunday afternoon.

As Phil Mickelson, among other supposed golfers, seemed to wilt under the pressures of the major championship, I wondered, why, again, I’m rooting for a team, a player, a person that inexplicably makes their journey excruciatingly difficult before they reach their respective precipices — or even before they get agonizingly close.

Indeed, Phil has a large following of fans, some say he’s amiable, or happy-go-lucky, or whatever. Those that root against Phil claim he has too many demons, he wilts under pressure, and his self-confidence wavers at the most inopportune moments.

And you know what? They’re all right. Sure, Phil isn’t the machine that Tiger Woods is, he probably doesn’t have as many fans as Tiger does — but he’s relatable. He’s all of us. He’s everyman.

He struggles day-to-day, sometimes biting off too much, sometimes (somehow) finding himself in extraordinary messes. Phil is alternately an episode of The Real World or a baffling sitcom.

But that’s life, isn’t it? Don’t we all bite off too much from time to time? Don’t we all cut corners, looking for the easy, lengthy drive, rather than precisely moving from station to station? Don’t we all, on occasion, hope that our bold strokes pay off with a simple victory — when often, hard work, thought, or practice is the actual key to success?

Sure we do. And sometimes we do win, finish first, but most of the time — we don’t. Often we finish an excruciating second or third, a perpetual reminder that someone may be around the corner who knows just a little more, is just a little younger, or has a little bit more talent. Undaunted — we have to be — we move on, dust ourselves off, and begin our lives again.

Before this turns too much into a five-minute climax on Night Court (read: sappy), that, in a nutshell, is Phil. He struggles and struggles, and just when you think he’s gonna catch a break, he misplays his good hand. And when the course was beating him down at the end of the day on Sunday, you wondered if he’d lose yet another moment, which seemed only minutes prior to be well within his grasp.

But, the next day arose — a fresh start — and he didn’t succumb. With a shot usually reserved for his closest, unbeknownst competitor, Phil calmly dispatched of this year’s PGA.

Life is good, for Phil. For us. And surely, with all of Phil’s oh-so-close finishes, each victory tastes even more sweet. And that goes for his fans, his spectators, as well.

Phil’s performance also shed some light on my own fandom in general — after the PGA was suspended because of rain, I flipped over to the Cubs game on ESPN, in order to watch my beloved baby bears dispatch their hopelessly Satanic rivals, the Cardinals. And it’s always pleasing to beat up on Matt “Total f**king piece of sh*t” Morris. In fact, it was a remarkably efficient and aesthetically pleasing game. The 2005 Cubs finally operating at their supposed peak, but wouldn’t you know it, it’s a little too late, after a disastrous two weeks prior. I know. Now, they show us. Maddening.

[ed. - True to form, the Cubs' bullpen and starter brought their gas cans and torches tonight, dropping an ugly one to the Astros - 12-4. With like a billion walks. Seriously, what pitchers would you bring back next year for the 'pen? Dempster? Ohman? End of list.]

And you know, the Cubs are a lot like Phil. More frustrating than expected, more difficult than possible, more boneheaded than most. More trouble than they’re worth, often — but when they are right, when they do win, when seasons roll into epics — it’s unbelievable.

And, this season, as I watch a .500 team attempt to deal with their expectations, idiocy, limitations, bad luck, injuries, whatever, another season likely lost, I realize, that all my sports teams are the underdogs. The everymen. The battlers. The mopes.

The ones most like me, or us, (or you???) — but the most human. I don’t root for role models or supermen — I root for people. Maybe that’s the former journalist in me, maybe that’s a pessimist, but that’s the way it is.

I can claim only one champion favorite team (Syracuse 2003), but I can claim many heartbreaks. The Bartman/Gonzo fiasco, the UNLV comeback (Iowa), an ineptitude against the Patriots (Colts), the ridiculous ability to play up to the best competition — yet always being felled by the worst. (Hello, Cincinnati Reds, University of Vermont, and Miami Dolphins.)

Yep, it’s true. I follow the teams that appear to struggle with even the most simple of tasks, and triumph in the end (if at all) — not over the longest odds, but over their own personal demons or mistakes. And, as expected, that makes the wins more satisfying. (I know, I know, Yankee, Brave, Laker, Cowboy fans scoff at me. Cardinal fans try, but they just mask the fact that they’re currently surpassing their own feat of last year — worst 100-win team of all time. Who woulda thought?)

But guess what — as badly as I want a championship team to call my own, and as difficult as it is to wait — it’s still more satisfying to be a fan, of all my teams. (Yes, somehow I root for both Syracuse U. and U. of Iowa. Yes, it’s possible. I lived in Iowa City, worked for the school, attended school there, and took pride once I moved away from my home state — in following one of their institutions — the best one.

I can trace my tough-love with Syracuse when they were beaten last-second in the 1987 NCAA Finals by the damn Indiana Hoosiers, (that must have been a rough season for me) my earliest attempt to bandwagon onto a good team, after Iowa lost.

I picked ‘Cuse because none of my classmates liked them, I liked their uniforms, and I was confident of my ability to glom onto a successful team, riding their success well into my adult life. I was in third grade, the Richmond Spiders and Navy Midshipmen and Lawrence Moten’s timeout game not yet a gleam in my eye.)

And when the teams finally triumph? Finally win? Well, it’s sweet. It’s great. It proves to be why I follow sports at all — and makes life, just the least bit more bearable. And when the Cubs and Colts finally win, then, well, it will be the best of all.

Not quite enough to turn me into an annoying, pompous, braggart, but, rest assured, it’s worth the wait.

You’ll be disappointed when you find out there really is no correct answer to yesterday’s burning quick question.

Most of you, quite logically (and I realize logically is a loaded word within this network of philosophers — please, take it with a grain of salt and try not to unleash a tirade on my poor soul) … quite logically deduced that the man she was talking to was either her sister’s husband or boyfriend or fiance or something of that ilk.

This question plays a small role in psychiatry — it’s an armchair test for schizophrenia, that a psychiatrist may pose to a suspected case. We all turned up sane. But surprisingly, most cases of schizophrenia offer a strikingly similar response —

“Well, she obviously wanted to talk to the man again, so she needed to go to another funeral.”

Oddly intriguing, I know. And yes, I retrieved it from the Klosterman book I just read. You’ll never hear about that again, I promise.

Have good weekends, all. Back Monday.

Please respond in the comments below after reading. First impulse, please.

A man and a woman are married for 10 years, whereupon the husband suddenly dies. At his funeral, the widow meets another man, talks to him, and deeply enjoys their conversation. They talk for two hours, and it’s exciting and reassuring.

The following week, the same widow murdered her own sister.

Why would she commit this act of violence?

As I’ve noted, as recently as Monday, your favorite blog author has finally leaped into the technical age. (Info superhighway? Blogosphere? Trendy term X?) In doing so, I’ve incorporated an iPod into my lifestyle.

So, in a completely unoriginal, self-aggrandizing move, I’m adding a new feature to this blog — a weekly random slice of my ipod. (Yes, I christened my iPod Perfect Cane Weather. No, that doesn’t make any sense.) In addition to highlighting four songs that play, in a row, at the beginning of each Tuesday, I’ll also relate my personal experience with the song. You might want to ease back from the edge of your seat, now, it’s not that earth-shattering.

This is a perfectly legitimate idea, and I assume that I’m only the 75, 483rd blog author to try it. Believe me, I’m totally independent! Original thought begins here! And away we go…

1. Bush, Cold Contagious.
During my junior and senior years of high school I told anyone who listened that Bush was not only the second coming of Nirvana, but was also the greatest current band in the stratosphere.

I must have wanted a band to call my own. After all, I was the first to hear Everything Zen, the first to run out and buy Sixteen Stone, and the first to buy a cool-M*A*S*H-inspired Bush T-shirt from the local used-disc store. Bush proceeded to prove me totally wrong with a second album that blew, save for this song, which I like way too much. Great to sing along to, completely enjoyable for me, even though the song’s structure or lyrics are neither advanced, profound, coherent, nor really anything special at all.

However, in my opinion, the only Bush songs that have held up in the least over time are their haunting power ballads — Glycerine, Alien, this song. The band’s name is also a clever double-entendre and foreshadowing of an ineffective president (And, by the way, our current leader’s surname means that my T-shirt stays in storage. Forever. Asshole.)

2. Weezer, In the Garage.
My appreciation for Weezer has grown over time, and I wouldn’t even be familiar with this song were it not for the incessant playlists of my former junior-year roommate on my 25-disc player (Remember those?). His CD collection was peppered with one-hit wonders (Harvey Danger) and flashes-in-the-pan(Eagle Eye Cherry). To my knowledge, Weezer blue may have been the only album he owned, in which more than one track was listenable. I constantly refuted arguments on the greatness of some of these bands,(Here’s another — The New Radicals!) all of them proving to be one-and-done. Although Fountains of Wayne certainly proved me wrong last year, re-entering the world with their hit, Stacy’s Mom, which followed in the footsteps, six years later, of their hit 1998 track … uh … shit, I can’t remember. Who cares. In the Garage is my personal favorite Weezer song, the plaintive cry of youth and simple guitar, and poignant geek-novelty lyrics.

3. Paul Westerberg, Dyslexic Heart.
If I haven’t mentioned it before, Singles is the greatest-effing-movie-soundtrack of all time. This song plays at the movie’s close, and it’s unbelievably cheery. (Especially for a movie about moody Seattle twentysomethings.) In fact, it pisses me off. But I like it.

4. Pearl Jam, Betterman/Save it for Later, Phila, Pa. 2000
To make it through four songs on my iPod before the first Pearl Jam track of the day is a minor miracle in itself. I’m often called a music elitist, and I suspect it’s because I tire of bands’ studio releases long before they leave the stream of consciousness. It’s true. My least favorite PJ song? Last Kiss. Nirvana? Teen Spirit. Poison? Nuthin’ But a Good Time.

Anyway, on the all-time mainstream chart of PJ success, Betterman may rank as high as number-two. And, true to form, I long ago grew tired of the version off Vitalogy.

However, the live versions are much more resonant and enjoyable — Vedder’s voice haunts each venue, and the echoes of fans singing along is stirring. For ten years or so, Pearl Jam has been tagging the end of this popular crowd-chant anthem with Save It for Later, a cover by some 1980s band, which I actually heard in its originality in an eclectic bar in Wichita somewhere, though I can’t remember who it was. originally done by. [ ed. -- It's English Beat, dumbass. Wow, that would have taken you about five seconds. ]

Anyway, the wailing of Save It usually lasts just a few bars, often done in improv, leading into an extended jam, and completely remaking the song. It morphs from pop-rock into a live chemistry show. And, in this version, Vedder, spurred on by McCready and Gossard absolutely fucking dominating their axes, sings the song more passionately and completely than in any other version. Hands-down the best-ever live cut of Betterman.

Side note: Not two scant weeks ago, I was somehow drunk enough to eschew my hatred of karaoke, and attempt to sing Betterman on stage, live, sold-out, in Herington, Kan., at a bar you will never go to.

I had visions before stepping on stage of somehow winning over the crowd with a scratchy, authentic version of Betterman replete with Save It for Later tag. However, my voice cracked and croaked and me and my songstress (an official friend of Ms. Faded Glory) stumbled through absolutely the worst-possible version of Betterman ever committed to airwaves.

I did do myself proud at the end, as the karaoke machine was spelling out, “Uhh Ah ah ohh ohh ho hohh,” I launched into Save It For Later, and the intent would have surely made Eddie proud, though the end result probably sounded like Say A Tomato, assuming you could even decipher that through the blistering microphone feedback. At least I know I rock.