Mister Faded Glory | misterfadedglory.com

Today should have been campus day here in the Midwest. The mercury hit 84 on the thermostat, which made it increasingly hard to slave away, making rich people richer. Rather, I longed for the ancient small college custom of calling off classes on the first mild day of early spring — in which the do-gooders raked leaves for the college town while the rest of us, um, how do I put this, drank ourselves silly.

No such luck today, as Tuesday has become Take One For the Team Night (Lest you think I’m clever, no, I didn’t coin the phrase, all credit goes to Bill Simmons. Still, the phrase is prescient enough to incorporate. Much respect). Even though one of my favorite TV shows (a nouveau-classique? Non?) returned after a (snnnoorrrre) Olympics hiatus, I happily settled in for a long night of compromising TV shows. (By the way, do I need to cover the four-year sitcom window? Sitcoms have four-year primes. Period. Scrubs is, sadly, no different.) Anyway, the reality/take-your-medicine line-up was:

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That’s right, dear readers and loyal follower(s). In commemoration of my legendary pilgrimage to Seattle, I’ve decided, in the next 25 weeks, to count down the Top 25 Grunge Songs of All Time and Infinity, presented to you once weekly, with much pomp and circumstance. Yes, you’re right, I’ve TOTALLY reverted back to eleventh grade.

Anyway, rankings are somewhat arbitrary, but do factor into account popular opinion, lasting power, and song quality as well as some sort of critical, mainstream, even cultic success. (This is so much less lame than numerous Songs of the Weak features, which no one likely ever read, anyway.) Off we go.

25.

Alice In Chains

It Ain’t Like That

AIC’s debut album Facelift is admittedly their least-complete and most-metal effort. Filled with blistering power chords and only beginning to probe the deep-deep-deep depths of heroin addiction, there are still a few standout cuts.

More than anything, this live anthem (It’s tragic it wasn’t included on Live, but I do have it, after paying 35 pounds for a bootleg AIC record at Camden Market in 2000) signals AIC’s arrival. It’s certainly possible to argue the album best encapsulates the grunge era — thundering guitar riffs, screeching solos, and furious lyrics. This song isn’t one of Chains’ best known, but it signals their most aggressive fuck-you to the song’s audience, not replicated the same way in any of their more introspective works, which are still to come.

It was always about him. Was it?

Bennett Miller’s Capote is a stirring character study of an eccentric yet talented writer, wondering just to what extent his dedication and absorption into his seminal novel actually scarred him as a person – and finished him as a writer.

Note: I’m not sure this film lends itself to spoilers, but it may, so you know. Read on after the jump.

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What keeps me up at night?

I’ve had insomnia for the better part of 20 years or so, reappearing in fits — often when spring approaches.

I could perhaps make a circumstantial case blaming it on the weather. However, the best bet is simply my outlook as I drift off to sleep.

I hate going to sleep — I cannot relax when confronted with the thought that I’m moving further and further away from times I cannot get back. I hate the thought of another day passed, chances wasted, risks untaken, promise or potential unfulfilled. What’s more, I always wake up older than I was before I went to sleep — the mere thought instills me with stir craze.

It’s your favorite game. Quick, easy, painless.

Who uttered the following quote sometime this week?

You can’t believe a report unless it comes from us .
. . . If it doesn’t come from us, it doesn’t count.

Was it …

A. Cubs manager Dusty Baker ?

B. Vice President of Face-Shooting Dick Cheney ?

C. President George W. Bush ?

D. Please, all of the above, go away forever.

Enjoy!

Some have Mecca. Others have Jerusalem. Others have the Vatican.

I, on the other hand, have Seattle.

Yes, that’s right, this summer’s Official Vacation of Mister Faded Glory is a weeklong journey to none other than Seattle, Washington, in the prime of the Pacific Northwest’s mid-August summer.

You may know Seattle as the home of coffee, monopolies, and fish markets, as well as the setting for legendary film comedy (and porn ‘stache) Stakeout, but it also holds a place near and dear to my heart — as the home of grunge rock-and-roll.

It’s difficult to read with your eyes rolling, I know. You may not think grunge is still cool, your friends may not think grunge is cool, certainly no self-respecting rock fans think grunge remains cool, and indeed, even Seattle guidebooks offer the advice that grunge is most certainly NOT NOT NOT NOT NOT cool — but as I’m firmly entrenched in the past, I beg to differ.

And so this trip is a pilgrimage for me of sorts, as I attempt to re-create some sort of virtual (or even completely false) historical timeline of my favorite musical era. This includes the possible donning of a flannel shirt, black T, cargo shorts, grey socks, and Doc Marten boots, and also visits to two notable grave /memorial sites (Andy Wood and KDC) and trek through Seattle streets, seeking to recapture the glory of 1991-1995, when, unbeknownst to most all of you, rock music actually achieved actual perfection (Either with the release of Vitalogy, Jar of Flies, In Utero, or most likely, Superunknown. Oh, lay off.)

As such, and lest you think I’ve forgotten how to bore you with whimsical-yet-passe-and-narcissistic musical playlists, let me present you the Best of Grunge — nay, Best of Seattle – to commemorate my pilgrimage.

1. Mother Love Bone, This Is Shangri-La
2. Alice In Chains, We Die Young
3. Pearl Jam, State of Love and Trust
4. Soundgarden, Loud Love
5. Nirvana, Floyd the Barber
6. Green River, Swallow My Pride
7. Screaming Trees, Nearly Lost You
8. Alice In Chains featuring Chris Cornell and Ann Wilson, Right Turn
9. Queensryche, Empire
10. Mudhoney, No One Has
11. Mad Season, X-ray Mind
12. Pearl Jam, The Real Me/I Got Shit
13. Vendetta Red, Shatterday
14. Nirvana, Sappy
15. Jerry Cantrell, My Song
16. Soundgarden, Rusty Cage
17. Heart, Crazy On You
18. Jimi Hendrix Experience, Voodoo Chile
19. Alice In Chains, Hate to Feel
20. Mother Love Bone, Come Bite the Apple
21. Temple of the Dog, Wooden Jesus
22. Modest Mouse, Float On
23. Mad Season, Long Gone Day

You know, I wasn’t a fan of Million-Dollar-Baby. Just wasn’t. Last year’s best picture felt a little ham-handed to me. As much as I enjoy Morgan Freeman in his trademarked roles of beaten-down, quietly dignified everyman, I couldn’t subscribe to the level of exaltation that accompanied M$B all the way to its Best Picture triumph. (In short: First hour: good sports movie. Second hour: what in the hell was that?)

However, as ham-handed and manipulative as M$B was, and as one-dimensionally stereotyped as its characters — it in no way prepared me for the screenwriter’s next follow-up — the eternally inglorious debacle of Crash .
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When I recently posted about Sammy Sosa, upon his retirement last week, I was a little torn myself.

You see, I wrote that entire post last Monday at work, as I often do, in a word document while trying to gain enough courage to face another week of public relations miscellany. It was mainly in response to a simple discourse between Mike-and-Mike (not exactly baseball savants) on ESPN’s morning show. Both were discussing Sosa, and the possibility of his retirement and summarily, his Hall of Fame first-ballot worthiness.

Surprisingly, I found myself leaping to Sammy’s defense. However, within the post I commented that Sosa’s HOF status may be a question — some may decide he didn’t deserve enshrinement at all. Upon revision and when posting, I backed off of this, with my essay referencing a few radio shows’ (KC ones and M-A-M, above) basic questioning of his first-ballot worthiness. This was partially because I didn’t want to seem as though I was fighting a non-existent battle — that writers everywhere knew Sosa was a HOFer, just questioning his first-ballot worthiness. (Which, we all should hate, remember?)

Turns out now, however, I’m a little more prescient than I thought. Today, the Tribune ran a smattering of quotes from several writers, and many are somewhat undecided on Sosa — to even enter the Hall of Fame. Undecided? How can this be?

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No, not my heart. The mercury. It’s freezing here, and it’s at the end of winter, which never really felt like winter.

Far be it from me to complain (on end, no less), but, it’s almost spring now. I would have welcomed this three months ago. Ah, who cares?

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As noted nearly everywhere, and celebrated in some places, Sammy Sosa will likely retire from the game of baseball, rather than try and claim a roster spot during spring training with the Washington Nationals.

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