The Moving Rocks (The World's Second Greatest Rock and Roll Band)

I have decided that my new fictitious band name will be The Moving Rocks (The World's Second Greatest Rock and Roll Band), because the origin of this name is so incredibly cute that groupies will be throwing themselves at me when they hear the story.

The Moving Rocks also adheres to Principal Skinner's rule of thumb for a band name: something that sounds "witty at first, but seems less funny each time you hear it." You might remember Apu's perfect suggestion for Homer's band: "The Be Sharps." REO Speedwagon was also a big fan of this heuristic (You Can Tune a Piano, But You Can't Tuna Fish). Same with The The.

The Moving Rocks newest song is definitely inspired by this theme, and not only have The Talking Heads had an influence on the lyrics, but also the recording method. I made this recording after reading David Byrnes' book How Music Works, and used the classic Talking Heads method to create the track: I started by making beats and keyboard loops and interlocking them in various patterns until I got something I liked. Then I started writing lyrics and adding guitars over the beats and loops. It's the reverse of how I usually record, and it was a lot of fun.




Many Lives

You are living one of many lives, yes, you are giving flowers to your wife . . .
You are sipping glasses of champagne, you are selling watches in the rain.

You are living one of many lives, you are giving flowers to your wife . . .
You are tricking in a squalid room, you are shifting shuttles on a loom.
And you are dancing in a discotheque, you are diving deep beneath a wreck.
You are living in another time, you are thinking of another rhyme.

And the dogs they know and the cats they know,
and the bats they know and the rats they know . . .
what you don't know.

That you are living one of many lives, you are shaving whiskers with a knife;
keeping under wraps in Vietnam, singing lyrics to a foreign song.
You are stranded on a tropic beach, words and phrases just beyond your reach,
you are standing in ancient sea, your reflection staring back at me.

All the while you are sinking down, digging deeper into sacred ground,
ants are marching through your ragged bones, beetles feeding on your rotten clothes.

Yes, you are living one of many lives and the dogs they know . . .

Now you're winking at a pretty girl, on a cruiser circling the world.
You are drinking coffee with the pope, you are jabbing in the rope-a-dope.
Cargo sails from a  foreign port, a man in Denmark scratches at his wart.
Mirror mirror hanging on the wall, how come I've got no invite to the ball?

And the dogs know and the cats know and the bats know and the rats know
and the wind knows and the tides know and the moon knows and the flies know . . .
What you don't know.

This Song Might Be Slightly Better Than Dana Perino's Rap

Lately, I have been negligent in the writing department here at G:TB. To be honest, I've been struggling to keep ahead of the curve over at Sentence of Dave, and this is partially because my life has reached some absurdly American post-modern and perfectly normal level of busyness which everyone my age and economic status seems to endure. Enough with the bitching -- I'm glad that my family has the wherewithal and the energy to participate in so many fruitful activities . . . and the alternative is much worse.

But the OTHER reason I haven't been writing much is because I have been busy recording a bunch of loosely connected songs . . . loosely connected songs that sort of fit together . . . loosely connected songs that sort of fit together and might be sonically and thematically connected to a limited extent. A long time ago we called this an album. If it was a Yes album, then it had really cool cover art, but the music never lived up to the packaging.

While the bad news is my album will have no fancy cover art, the good news is that I will release it exclusively at G:TB (probably over the next sixteen years . . . I'd like to outdo Chinese Democracy). I will eschew the big labels.

I also have the grand desire to try to put a legitimate band together -- and if I keep injuring myself playing adult league sports, then I might have the spare time to make my dream come true. I am trying to write songs that can be played by a band, and I'd love to perform them with a real drummer and a real singer. Until then, these tracks are nothing but Dave . . . but I have replaced the monologues with guitar solos, and I am trying to keep the songs to a reasonable length. I was inspired by David Byrnes' book How Music Works, and instead of trying to throw the kitchen sink into every song, I'm just trying to record music that is entertaining to listen to. I hope there will be more songs to come soon.

Also, I am trying to think of a new fictitious band name for my music, since I love creating fictitious band names. I am sick of Greasetruck but I haven't been able to think of anything better. The Oozing Pustules and The Moving Rocks are the only contenders. Any suggestions are appreciated.


Cutter (The Sublimation Song)

She's a cutter -- she cuts herself,
instead of taking it out on someone else.
She's so quiet, with her headphones on,
nobody would notice if she were gone.

You punch the wall instead of your wife,
kick the dog, it's better than thirty to life.
Drink some beers and mow the lawn,
wonder how things might have gone.

He's a runner, he runs away,
instead of facing his problems each day.
And he's a loser, he's on his knees,
searching the floor for his keys.

They walk on by, she won't even meet his eye.
It's too bad, they could have got along --
happy ending for the song.

Guitar Solo!  NOT a monologue . . .

Now she's a loner, she lives all alone.
Calls up her mom on the phone.
And she's a worker, she likes to work,
get her hands dirty and covered in earth.

They walk on by, she looks him right in the eye.
Doesn't matter what she does, doesn't matter who she loves.
She'll be alright, she'll get along --
good enough for the song.

She was a cutter, he was a runner,
now she's a loner and he's a loser,
she was a cutter, she was a cutter . . .

Secret Lyrics!

The Moving Rocks Roll On

For quite a while now, my fans have been requesting a song about community college. And not community college like on the show Community. Real community college. So I took them up on the offer, and though I don't like to brag (actually, I do like to brag . . . but it's because I have self-esteem issues, so it's okay) but I think this may be the most rocking song about community college ever written. It may also be the only rock song with the word "registrar" in it. It is definitely the only rock song with the word "bacteriophage" in it.

This song-- like the one I recorded a few months ago (Cutter) -- is definitely inspired by Hanna Rosin's book The End of Men and the Rise of Women.  I am starting to think that Team Male is in serious trouble. Read the book to learn why, but all I can say is: we've had our turn, and we really fucked things up good, so maybe the women will do a better job. Maybe things will end up like Charlotte Perkins Gilman imagined. Boring, but peaceful. In the interim, things will be like this:




Brittany's Going Back to School

Brittany got pregnant at her high school prom,
raised up the baby with some help from her mom.
Twelve years later and the kid is getting old,
wants her own phone and a closet full of clothes

She was making ends meet, working at the bar,
but working at the bar won't get you too far.

She's got to take a trip to the registrar.

Brittany's going back to school.
Community college never looked so cool.
No drunken parties on the lawn.
She's got to commute home, to relieve her mom.

And she just wants to pass.
She caught her Calc teacher checking out her ass.
All these kids seem half her age.
She needs to define bacteriophage.

And if you're wondering where the dad went,
I'll give you a hint.
He's playing Call of Duty in Tim Kerr's basement.
That's where he went.

He really wants to lend a helping hand, be a good man.
But he's trying to so hard to make it in his punk rock band.
At least that's the plan . . .

And Brittany's going back to school.
Community college never looked so cool.
No drunken parties on the lawn.
She's got to commute home, to relieve her mom.

Bacteriophage: a type of virus that infects bacteria

You've Got to Have Money (To Have a Midlife Crisis)

A friend of mine recently bought a triathlon bike that cost over three thousand dollars. I was impressed by the expenditure, but relatively speaking, it's pretty cheap for a midlife purchase. In fact, his wife had absolutely no problem with the amount he spent (though she did claim that "nothing on earth has less purpose than a forty year old man.") Sarcasm aside, triathlons will keep you in shape, and they are far safer than motocross. As far as midlife crises go, buying a nice bicycle is pretty tame.

Now a cigarette boat or a high-performance car is going to run quite a bit more than a high-end bicycle, and there's more inherent danger. None of my middle-aged friends have made a purchase this bold. And it's not that I don't think they're capable of it, I just don't think they have the money. Sadly, the archetypal male midlife purchase is going the way of the dinosaur. Why? You could blame it on the weak economy and the collapse of the housing market. Or you could attribute it to changing gender roles. Women are often the main breadwinners of the family, or at least pulling in equal pay. And women don't covet cigarette boats. Perhaps people aren't as ostentatious about their materialism these days. And, of course, there's the rising cost of college. It's hard to buy a dune-buggy when you've only saved .1% of your children's tuition. These are rough times for expensive impulse buys that demonstrate machismo.

There are still wonderful stories of midlife excess from people who have money to burn.  James Hetfield took a  vodka-clouded bear hunting trip to Siberia. He missed his son's first birthday party. Whoops! But most of the guys I know buy a Bose bluetooth speaker or some high-end tequila and call it a day.

And then there's the final level, which is really expensive. I'm talking mistress level midlife crisis. Very few folks in my crowd have the balls and wherewithal of Roger Sterling. I don't know a single dude who puts up a "gumad" in a city apartment, so she's always at his disposal. Where have all the good times gone?

I labor over any purchase, so this is purely hypothetical . . . but if I were to do it, I think I would go with something fairly cliche. A motorcycle, chopper style. This is not going to happen, of course, since I live in central New Jersey, and riding a motorcycle on the roads I travel is akin to suicide, but if I lived out West and a rich aunt left me some money, I imagine I'd spend it on something like this:

I doubt I could handle the motorcycle and I certainly couldn't handle the accessory, but a man has to dream.

I learned something vaguely related to this theme recently from some colleagues. It seems -- and this is a total generalization based on anecdotal evidence -- that people around my age (43) don't have college debt. People a few years younger do. These people with college debt are from middle class families -- just like mine-- but they missed the cut-off (just as many of us missed the cut-off for good pensions, cheap land, strong unions, collective bargaining and early retirement). This cohort is definitely not going to make any crazy purchases when they hit middle age, because when they finally get out of debt, they'll need the money for a house, a new car, or home improvements. This is the new middle class. Doesn't seem fair, but, course, there's more than two billion people living on two dollars a day, so it's hard to complain that you can't get that jet-pack you've always wanted.

All this depressing stuff may sound like ridiculous fodder for a song, but The Moving Rocks are always up for a challenge. Enough introduction, it's time for some music:




You've Got to Have Money (To Have A Midlife Crisis)

You wake up most mornings, feeling lost.
You cannot lose those stubborn thoughts.

But you woke up this morning, feeling found.
You could not wait to get your feet on the ground.

You woke up this morning, with an idea.
Buy a motorcycle and ride out of here.
Buy a motorcycle and ride on out of here.

But it's not that kind of song.
If you think so, then you're so fucking wrong.

Because you've got to have money to have
a midlife crisis. Yes, you've got to have money to have
a midlife crisis.

You've got to have some cash to burn,
the only way a grown man learns.

Wake up most mornings, you feel like dirt.
Put on your pants and go to work.

Maybe someday you'll pay off your loans,
until then you're stuck at home . . .

Because you've got to have money to have
a midlife crisis. Yes, you've got to have money to have
a midlife crisis.

The Twelve Days of Gheorghemas: Day 11

On the 11th Day of Gheorghemas, Big Gheorghe gave to me . . .
 
Eleven Months of Awesome
Nothing. Not a Single Thing.
Nine Gifts for Friends 
?????????????????????  
Seven Books for Reading
Six cocktails  
Five gooooals / things  
Four legal mic drops  
Three critters and an otter  
Two names for naming  
And a fat guy in a jer-sey

Before we get to the giving of the big fella's gifts, a celebration is in order. Technically, it was in order seven weeks ago, but as is the way with so many things in this organization we were far too drunk/lazy/apathetic/dumb to realize it. On November 7, 2013, we (should've) celebrated the 10th Anniversary of this corner of the blogosphere. I'm alternately stunned and pleased that we've managed to not only survive ten years, but in many measures (not the least of which is a camaraderie that I really, no shit, enjoy daily) thrive (have we mentioned that we interviewed LeBron James and the radio voice of VCU Basketball, and that we're thisclose to interviewing T.J. Quinn?).

So where were you the day Gheorghe: The Blog was born? Hell if I can remember that long ago, but I do know where we were exactly ten years later. We were reading one of the year's best posts, zman's epic recollection of both his high school hoopty and the first time he heard Wu-Tang. I would've guessed that the 10th Anniversary post would've been a lot dumber.

Here are the other things we read this year that made us laugh, think, and cry (I don't actually think anything we wrote this year made anyone cry, other than our high school English teachers, but I don't miss a chance to quote Jimmy V):

January

We kicked the year off in rousing style, dropping 32 posts, the most of any month this year. With a few noteworthy exceptions (including TR's hard, no-signal turn towards the deviant), we also brought some seriously high-quality content.

Our first post of the year was a Wrenball post, the first of five during the month, celebrating a close loss. If that don't tell a story...

New poster Danimal wasted no time posting dubious filler. He fit right in.

Of course, in his second post, Danimal picked Notre Dame to beat Alabama. He might not be all that bright.

Bob Dorough brought the Schoolhouse Rock.

Zman foreshadowed his year of jurisprudence chronicles with an overview of Ricky Williams' legal entanglements with his tattoo artist.

Our other new staff member weighed in as well, when Marls reprised Rerun's gambling strategy.

Marls!

Dave broke new Gheorghemas ground (and invented a reason for us to not feel bad if we don't finish the 12 Days by 12/31) by adding a 13th Day and extending the season into mid-January.

Clarence took the mic from Mark and Z temporarily, dropping a list of his formative hip-hop jams.

Largely outside the confines of this virtual space, January also saw the Teej head abroad and Whitney enter into the bonds of Holy Matrimony. We alluded to both in a limited bloggy fashion, but you really had to be there in person to catch the sartorial splendor that accompanied each event.

We also caught sight of the largest structure ever observed. It was not, contrary to popular belief, Clarence's liver.

Finally, we saw the future, and it looked like a rugby ball. Well, it featured a rugby ball, to the detriment of a football. It looked sorta like the guy in the picture above. Which is to say, awesome.

February

We kept up the pace in the year's second month, posting at a greater than one-per-day clip. Our quality control editor, however, may have taken the first part of the month off. Groove was in our hearts, though, as fully

Mark finally righted the ship with a solid review of National Signing Day, football version.

Danimal!

TR and Zman went back-to-back with musical life lessons.

Just a pair of guys out on the town, with gay ice cream and unicorns.

Marls broke news about breaking wind.

We said goodbye to Williamsburg legend Bob Sheeran. Woop Woop.

It's hard not to read a headline that includes the words, 'Two Great Smut Heists'. I bet you click the link.

We closed the month with a celebration of our democracy, in which I found Antonin Scalia likeable. For a prick.

March

Like February, it took us a while to get up to speed in winter's final month. There was some Wu-Tang art filler, and a Danimal story about peeing on a ferry, but we didn't get moving until we extended a gastronomic challenge.

On consecutive days, we said goodbye to Elena Delle Donne (college version) and the asshole-free 2012-13 Wrens (who didn't make the NCAA Tournament, in case you were still in suspense).

This video of a dancing mountain man/park ranger was one of my favorites of this or any year.



Teej celebrated the papal election. Of course he did.

In which Zman compared himself to Jesus. Automotively, anyway.

Teej!

I recounted one of the great achievements in sports spectating. And filth.

Marls accepted the aforementioned challenge, cementing his credentials for induction into the Mensch Hall of Fame.

The always popular Music Mondays with Shlara returned with a P!NK feature, which was followed by Clarence's review of an Old 97s show that was followed by a feat of amazing drunken dexterity by Dave.

Mark offered the other side of buzzer-beating bedlam.

Gheorghe: The Art Gallery hosted a joint show featuring works by George W. Bush and...me.

We managed to shoehorn gay marriage and World Cup qualifying into a single, unified post. We're breaking ground every day here, folks.

And we finished the month in inimitable style:

April

I guess I lied about not making anyone cry this year. I miss my Grandma.

Squirrel Week proceeded apace, always one of the year's highlights.

A new FOGTB went barefoot for kids. To benefit kids, really - she didn't actually want to have kids.

Dana Perino engaged Jay Z in a rap battle. Amazingly, this was only 317th on the list of preposterously stupid things that happened in American politics in 2013.

Zman, FOGTB Clarence, FOGTB, Half-Dave, FOGTB, Marls!

The Moving Rocks announced the release of their first album. Ish.

We had a personal connection to the Boston Marathon bombing. His reaction and that of the entire Boston community said volumes about our resilience and strength as a society.

Teejay and I interviewed VCU basketball's new radio color analyst, further insinuating ourselves into the fabric of American sports. We're kinda the Cousin Eddie of collegiate athletics.

Full. Frontal. Nudity. (Of the male variety.)

Zman broke down the Bills draft history. No, really.

We celebrated DC's best gay sports bar. No big deal.

May

Abe! Maple!

The fourth and fifth months of the year were notable for both the low volume of posts and high concentration of musical filler. 48 posts over two months, sheesh. At least our on-base percentage was high.

In addition to our undeniable influence on the world of sports (really, at this point Grantland should be paying us royalties), we found evidence of our growing reputation as scientific tastemakers.

Clarence rescued us from another in the seemingly endless series of posts highlighting the asshattery of South Carolina's political elites with a travelogue detailing Brevard, North Carolina's White Squirrel Festival.

Just your everyday classical/doom-thrash violinist.

FOGTB Work Jerry von Dumbarton's wife is a badass. Also, fuck cancer with a brick.

We dropped the first of many (!) posts on W&M baseball, as the Tribe Nine had the best season in school history. Pantsless and Stirrupless Griffins, ride!

June

More Tribe baseball! Less pants!

long underwear man looks suspiciously like rob!

The Teej got us on the NSA's shit list. Along with everyone else.

TR posted a picture of a ballsack. Because, TR.

He made up for it by introducing us to a new game.

We had a music-based guestie from someone named Whitney. Never heard of her.

Summer Dave returned with an opus on deception and chicanery in sports, which gave him an excuse to post several pictures of alluring, semi-clad (and in once case, overclad) ladies.

Mark offered his annual NBA Draft preview. Tons of upside.

Love wins.

And the winner of the year's worst-formatted post is: Summer Dave's exposition on the 8 types of RISK players.

July

Some dumbass posted a video clip in July that automatically launched when G:TB opened. This was annoying enough at the time, but imagine your displeasure if you had to repeatedly return to July's entries for the sake of compiling a 'best of' post (and it was a really terrific month for the Gheorghies). So forgive me if I forgot one of your faves from the first full month of summer.

Robert Littell kicked off the month with advice for young men. Of greatest importance to us, this admonition: "American social habits being what they are, there is one indoor skill which seems to me not only far more important than bridge or dancing, but actually compulsory — drinking."

We were willing to overlook an unfortunate admission regarding sodomy and a bowling ball because we otherwise enjoyed Summer Dave's discussion of the relative merits of regular and candlepin bowling so much.

Zman's preview of the Wimbledon Gentleman's Final touched on topics as diverse as fashion, Irvine Welsh, MNDR, Austin Powers. It was none the worse for entirely whiffing on the outcome.

Bull flatulence and Bernie Madoff.

We had a measured take on Adidas' new Springblade line of running shoes. To wit, "The shoe will immediately serve to identify poseurs who have both way too much disposable income and a substantial need to have people make fun of them behind their backs."

Summer Dave inadvertently hit upon the essence of America's worsening income inequality crisis. And the universal appeal of a babe on a motorcycle.

Ricky Gervais, productivity guru.

Zman's sneaker game: better than Adidas'.

Postulated: Jason Kidd should be better at driving drunk.

In a rare and must-read serious post, Zman talked about the links between the Trayvon Martin tragedy and his own life experience.

Which Dave subtly mocked in the best/stupidest Gheorghian manner.

Mark went back in time with Souls of Mischief.

Several of us took a field trip to catch some Kenner League hoops action.

July, you sweaty minx. Hard not to name you the G:TB Month of the Year.

August

This was a long way to go to tell us that you like Warren Sapp.

Bilas loves Gheorghe.

(Okay, some really weird shit's gone down here. Nearly all of the videos we posted in August have been transposed into the wrong posts. The Large Hadron Collider's been shut down for months. You guys don't think...? It does make for some fun juxtapositions, though.)

Carnivorous Swedish fish are coming after your testicles, and all I can do is stare at the supermodel in this post.

We posted no pictures of Mark this year, so more Danimal!

And this man is a molder of young minds.

132-lb scrotum. Guess who posted this one?

We welcomed Fat Guy in a Speedo to our list of distinguished guest posters.

Fuck having a lawn. Fuck it right in the earhole.

On 8/26, Shlara celebrated 826. And gave us a picture of Zooey.

We published a very long overdue celebration of Tim Kurkjian. Timmy! (In researching this piece, I found that ESPN has compiled a full list of 'Scott Van Pelt Making Timmy Laugh' moments. And Deadspin put together a supercut that is guaranteed to make you laugh until you cry.)

We inaugurated the, um, inaugural edition of Danimal and Mark's 'To the Pain' college football picks. It should probably be Mark and Danimal's college football picks, actually.

September

Teejay/Gheorghe Does NASCAR.

Doug Fister coming to D.C. will ensure more of these.

We lose a lot of nukes. No big deal.

A two-part series, in which we learn way too much about Zman's penis (zpenis, as it were) and just enough about Dan Snyder's legal outlook with respect to his team's name.

Apparently Mark doesn't read much G:TB.

You can brew beer in your own belly, apparently.

October

Bills! Browns! Why?

Among the finest President's Cup previews anywhere in the blogosphere, courtesy of Wheelhouse Geoff.

Ragnar nearly killed me, so I went to Chvrch.

Bobby Valentine gave the Teej a buttpat. And we watched a movie.

Zman loves charts. About football.

We were forced to break out the 'bunch of fucking slackers' tag.

TR!

But the Red Sox won the World Series, and everything was awesome. Even the hangover.

November

I'm running out of steam here - you guys wrote a lot of words this year. But this little master is inspired by another, so we'll finish this thing out right.

Clarence gave us part one of a five-part series on punk rock. It was awesome. And likely the only part we'll ever see.

TR came thisclose to fingerblasting Aidy Bryant.

The Pope, he's Gheorghey.

So is George Dennehy.

I heard a great Harry Redknapp story, something we'll never, ever see again in big-time sports.

Quinn McDowell, D-League superstar. (Note: may not actually be a superstar, though he did go for 7 and 4 in a loss to Texas two weeks ago.)

339 posts all told in 2013, up 6.8% (I tried, really) from 2012. And as you can see, at least a few of them were more than just filler and dipshittery. Alright, were more than just filler. Here's to the next 10 years of Gheorgedom.

A Half-Assed 2013 Wimbledon Men's Finals Preview Containing Several Botched References to Scotland and England

rob asked me for a Wimbledon men's finals preview and a preview he shall have, albeit a half-assed one. As you likely already know, Novak Djokovic and Andy Murray are set to square off for the Wimbledon title on Sunday. Djokovic has beaten Murray in 11 of their 18 meetings, including the last three in a row. The two have met in Grand Slam finals four times, with Djokovic winning three. But Murray has some odds in his favor. For example, won the only time they played on grass, the 2012 Olympics which were held at Wimbledon. And Wimbledon is in England, which is where Murray is from ... well, not really. Murray is Scottish, and an Englishwoman that I used to work with explained that Britons from England didn't consider Murray to be a true Briton until he won the Olympics, despite the fact that there's nary an animal alive that can outrun a greased Scotsman. After that they decided to acknowledge his Brittitude with the hope that he could be the first Brit to win Wimbledon since Fred Perry in 1936 blah blah blah. I'm not sure why the Brits are so enamored with Fred Perry, he seems to spend all his time designing clothes for emaciated sallow foreigners who look like they fell out of an Irvine Welsh novel:

Perry certainly lost his fastball from the 70's when he designed for mustachioed men with feathered hair and tube socks:

Speaking of clothing, Djokovic rocks UNIQLO gear, and Amanda Warner (half of MNDR) is a UNIQLO spokesperson. So don't front on what the Djoker's wearing on Sunday.

Sartorial asides aside, I expect Sunday's match to be a slugfest. Two of their last three Grand Slam matches went 5 sets, and the third was a 4-setter. More importantly, both play a similar defensive/counterpunching style, and by that I don't mean to suggest that their games lack offense. Both play consistent, relatively high percentage tennis by keeping the ball deep and high over the net, moving their opponent around, and crowding the baseline to the extent possible. Sure, they will take advantage of a short ball and put it away, but typically in a high percentage manner.

By contrast, Juan Marin del Potro is more of a gunslinger. He likes to rip backhands down the line, which is a lower percentage shot than crosscourt because the net is higher and you have a shorter distance in which to land the ball. He also likes to force his opponent to hit a short ball in the center of the ad side of the court so that he can unleash what is probably the nastiest inside-out forehand in the game. Check out the shot at 0:37.



Against Djokovic he went for a lot of insanely angled short inside-out forehands from the ad side and hit many. But he missed many too. I suspect that this shot was less painful to hit with his hyperextended knee than the backhand was, and that he wanted to end points as quickly as possible given his injury.

While we're doing short post-mortems on today's matches, GTB's favorite son Jerzy Jankowicz fell in love with the slice forehand/drop shot, of all the improbable shots to develop a crush on, during the third set of his match against Murray and it was his undoing. He should have stuck with what got him to the semis: big serve, big forehand, big Pole.

I once asserted that Andre Agassi would've been one of the greatest of all time if he worked hard and gave a shit. I think Djokovic's skill set is quite comparable to Agassi's and the Djoker certainly has more heart. He also has similarly bad musical taste; according to Wikipedia, "His favorite songs are Carl Orff - Carmina Burana,Vangelis - Chariots of Fire and Pulp Fiction Soundtrack - Opening Theme." Djokovic has the remarkable ability to produce offensive shots from defensive positions--even when he's forced to hit an out-of-position shot, he creates something that puts pressure on the opponent and get him out of position. Watch this sequence.



He plays smart tennis and his base game has no visible weaknesses ... and he really really gives a shit. Taken together, I think Djokovic could wind up a top-10 all time great, becoming what Agassi should have been. He'll probably beat Murray on Sunday in 4 sets.

Murray came back down 0-2 to Fernando Verdasco in the quarterfinals and at the time I felt like that would get him over the hump, along with the home crowd backing him while eating crumpets drenched in HP sauce and pounding pints of Samuel Smith's India Ale. Then I watched Djokovic beat del Potro and realized that Djokovic simply has better stuff right now. Every man, woman, and child in London could attend the match and cheer for Murray, but it won't be enough. Not even his Felicity Shagwell look-a-like girlfriend will be enough to derail Djokovic, not the way he's playing now. Murray's a damn fine counterpuncher, but unless he suddenly grows to be seven feet tall and learns how to shoot fireballs from his eyes, Djokovic has the potential to run him over on Sunday. Simply put, Murray cannot stop the Djoker.

That said, rooting for Murray is the right thing to do and I encourage you to do so. Just yesterday we celebrated our independence from Britain and the subsequent asswhooping we meted out upon them. Britain has been a steadfast ally ever since and their opportunity to fete a native son for vanquishing a foreign invader is long overdue. Freedom! And all that good stuff.

The Twelve Days of Gheorghe-mas, Day Twelve

On the twelfth day of Gheorghe-mas, Big Gheorghe gave to me:


Twelve Appreciations ♫
Eleven Drinks and Rambling
(Way More Than) Ten Highlights
Nine Clips You Tubing
Eight Men A Milking
Seven Balls A-Bouncin' (ngs)
Six Rules Worth Knowing
Five Golden Rings
Four-gone Conclusions
Three Saluki Tallies
Two Recurring Features
And a Doofus Dancing (hee, hee)

The Twelve Days of Gheorghemas, Volume II, has included a couple of posts that mirrored ones from last year’s G-mas. With 2009 on the heavy wane, I’ll add another – a new batch of the things I have appreciated and enjoyed over the past 365, as once again set to the backdrop of my favorite songs released this year.

[Last year I employed a cool, new website to enable you to hear the tunes with the click of a button. At least one of the bands I highlighted let it be known that doing so was a copyright violation, so to save G:TB’s legal counsel some trouble, I won’t do that again. Where available, I’ve linked the songs, but for most of them, if you want to hear them in toto, I’d go to blip.fm, enter them into the search bar, and listen. (Related true story: Toto’s “Rosanna” was written about Rosanna Arquette. Check it out.)]

It was a superb year in music, at least according to this guy. Seemed to start slowly, but by year’s end, I had a lot of trouble paring the list of my ’09 favorites down to fit on one CD. As always, please continue to share your own recommendations for new music in the comments of Gheorghe.

On a personal note, it was not such a superb year in my life. Without delving into too much Dear Diary detail, a good woman and I parted ways last winter, and nothing’s quite been the same in my life, for better or for worse. As more than one of you can attest to, such life-changing events leave a scar. As the parents among the G:TB family can attest to, preserving the peace in little ones’ lives is a daily battle. Put those elements together, and the quest for the elusive grail that’s known as “happiness” can be of Arthurian proportions. Fortunately, I have a mantra that appears before me on regular visits: “life would be better if we all took ourselves a little less seriously.” And I do. As such, it’s been easier to appreciate the good things in 2009 than ever before.

And away we go…

Madness, “That Close”

Cracker, “Sunrise in the Land of Milk and Honey”

I love the Washington Redskins. I love the New York Mets. Both franchises seem to enjoy punishing me for such sentiments lately. Though the ‘Skins have been yanked off local TV (see the comments from the last post), I’ll find a way to give their ’09 campaign the Viking funeral it deserves. Bleakness abound in both of my favorite teams’ camps. But out of nowhere, the College of William & Mary in Virginia’s athletic programs have proven an unlikely salve to my ocular agony. First, the Tribe football team comes “that close” to moving to the I-AA championship, winning a lot of good ballgames along the way. Second, the men’s hoops program has risen from the asses and . . . well, I won’t count any chickens, but we’ve garnered more entertainment out of 11 games this season than in that many seasons during the late 80’s and early 90’s. It’s the land of milk and honey when all was getting pretty sour in my world.

Similarly, just when I was lamenting the early-year dearth of top-shelf musical releases, out of absolutely nowhere came my two favorite albums of 2009. Cracker’s been one of my top bands for 15 years, and I’ve always dug what Madness did in the 80’s, but I have to say I didn’t see either of these coming. Start to finish great records, what little press both bands are getting for them has been high praise. Of note is that neither has an obvious single to point to as the best song, and the songs I selected, while my favorites, aren’t highlighted in any review I’ve read. Cracker is kick-ass guitar rock, Madness is hooky Brit-ska-pop. Just like you remember.

Gordon Gano & the Ryans, “Hired Gun”

We also got introduced to some new music by G:TB’s latest hired gun, the Z-man. Zoltron Zoltan, Esquire, joined the force this year and brought a deeper shade of soul to our airwaves. If nothing else, he helped us rewrite the Gheorghe record books for posts in one year. We also got some excellent commentary out of Dan, who stopped lurking and came out to play, Timmy Marls, the Wheelies, and a slew of other readers. To say we appreciate everyone playing along with our inanity is an understatement.

Grizzly Bear, “Two Weeks”

Two weeks is roughly what Rob and I ballparked for the shelf-life of first little blog concept, a baseball-themed endeavor called Misery Loves Company. After seven years, Rob is writing MLC’s obit today, as we ran our course and then some over there. It was a good run while it lasted, and more pertinently, our ability to actually see it through paved the way for Gheorghe: The Blog to get out of Rob’s head and into the ’sphere. RIP, MLC.

Elvis Perkins In Dearland, “Shampoo”

Here’s to technology bettering my listening pleasure. Yep, there are dozens of salutes to the decade’s electronic advances in your local ragsheets this week, but for me personally, it can be summed up succinctly by this song. I went to eMusic, where I have a monthly membership. The site recommended this artist based on my previous downloads. I snagged a few tunes based on reader reviews and ratings. I threw the iPod on shuffle, and out of 24,000, this one came up along the way. Played it again, and then again. One of my most listened tunes of the year, and no way does it reach me without Gates, Jobs, and their ilk working a lot harder than I do. Thanks.

The Avett Brothers, “Kick Drum Heart”

Wilco, “I'll Fight”

Conor Oberst and the Mystic Valley Band, “Nikorette”

Ryan Bingham, “Tell My Mother I Miss Her So”

U2, “No Line On The Horizon”

I mentioned this one last year, and I’m glad to reiterate it: live music makes me happy. Seeing Wilco always brings it, but seeing them with Rob and other friends at Wolf Trap and having them unearth my favorite tune of theirs on a drunken Wednesday night? Yeah. Seeing the unheralded Ryan Bingham in a tiny bar? Seeing the Avett Brothers in a small local opera house?? Seeing U2 for the first time, and having general admission field passes? Seeing Devo?? It was all great. Social Distortion, Band of Horses, Drive-By Truckers, Indecision, Cracker, and everyone we saw at JazzFest. I don’t think I have anything on the docket yet for 2010, but in due time . . .

Levon Helm, “Growin' Trade”

It's my thought that Levon is telling us what ever became of Virgil Caine with this track off his fantastic new record. The song tells the story of a farmer who’s had to adjust to these tough times by growing the Teej Tobacco. I heartily endorse Levon Helm’s new stuff, and I heartily enjoy the other stuff, and whatever you do to get you through these days and nights and put a smile on your face.

Neko Case, “Red Tide”

M. Ward, “Never Had Nobody Like You”

Ladies, we still greatly appreciate your presence here. Official G:TB Sweetheart Shlara, KQ, Sammy, guys posing as their girlfriends/wives, and any other female who invades our Zeke Mowatt locker room here. (Especially you lurking ladies afraid to make your presence felt . . . and you know who you are.) Stick around, won’t you?

Thao with the Get Down Stay Down, “Cool Yourself”

I appreciate that not every person who went to William & Mary is a total wiener. Thriller dances, he-she HC queen, and dweeby photos notwithstanding.

Greasetruck, “The Bear”

Ned Henry, “20”

Random Idiots, “Dear Ozzy (Thanks for Nothing)”

I'm really impressed by the continued creativity of my friends. Dave churned out his aural madness once again – topping out with “The Bear,” one of my favorite songs by anyone all year. My high school friend Ned put out a song based on last year’s 20-year reunion; it mentioned my receding hairline and my drinking problem, and I still really dig it. And the Idiots’ latest anthem . . . which, as I reflect, has the same characteristics as baseball and myself in the way Mark insulted us, but one which amuses me nonetheless. I have a picture in my dining room that Rob painted this year. And I have a blog to read every day where friends of mine contribute their time and effort voluntarily without any sort of compensation beyond mutual enjoyment. Pretty cool.

Dave Matthews Band, “Funny the Way It Is”

The Lord works in mysterious ways, so they say. Along the road of this somewhat trying year, whenever I even came close to feeling sorry for myself, I got steady doses of what real life pain really is – not mine, but my friends’. If the big picture ever clouded, if I ever dared to bemoan the pecuniary problems, living conditions, or missing my little ones that my actions had caused, within a very short time I’d hear about people I care about going through much more grueling stuff. Like fathers coming home from the doc with grave news, or parents passing in the night, or children with real problems. The stuff of adult tears. Lost jobs with no prospects. Moving out of residences, not by choice. Real life leaving a mark. And while I won’t dismiss my struggles lightly, I know them to be transitory in nature, and I have been steadily reminded what very good friends are around every corner (or in the corner bar). So I don't get to be bummed out for very long, ever. Funny the way it is.

Animal Collective, “My Girls”

Last year I referenced my two daughters, if only to mention how I wouldn’t discuss them in this forum. I’ll go contrary this year – but keep it uncharacteristically brief. I appreciate my two little angels in a way I don’t disclose often enough. There is nothing in this world that comes close to motivating me like they do, and I expect that will be the case for all my days. Here’s hoping you all have someone or something to bring the joy like that, and if you don’t yet, get on about finding it. Okay . . . enough sappiness, and back to your regularly scheduled dipshittery (one of my favorite new G:TB expressions; thank you, Rob).

[I also really, really love pints of Guinness, Tortuga’s Lie, Jameson on the rocks, old episodes of “Cheers,” baseball, 70’s Bush, old clips of Dr. J, Dale’s in the can, Sandra Bullock in the can, rampant juvenilia, a noontime buzz, and good rock ‘n’ roll. Those things may be more appropriate to appreciate here.]

Heartless Bastards, “The Mountain”

7 Worlds Collide, “Too Blue”

I very much appreciate – in advance – the Gheorghe: The Blog Summit of 2010. It’s on. I’ll be your cruise director, and I’ll be in touch. Get fired up. And once again let me give kudos and thanks to the merry band of assclowns that makes up the G:TB roster. 394 posts is nothing to sneeze at, however you populate them; the amusingly asinine ramblings that comprise our last 365 days, though, will keep us coming back for more. Keep it up, lads . . . using whatever pills you need to do so.

The National, “So Far Around the Bend”

White Rabbits, “Percussion Gun”

Bloodkin, “A Place to Crash”

Jason Isbell & the 400 Unit, “Sunstroke”

The xx, “Crystalised”

Tina Dico, “No Time to Sleep”

Pearl Jam, “Got Some”

These songs didn’t fit into my 12 appreciations, but they’re good. Enough said.

Favorite albums: Cracker (Sunrise in the Land of Milk & Honey), Madness (The Liberty of Norton Folgate), The Avett Brothers (I and Love and You – which was very good, but which I didn’t enjoy as much as Emotionalism, or as much as the mainstream critics praised it), Levon Helm (Electric Dirt), Neko Case (Middle Cyclone), Random Idiots (VH-1’s Behind the Music video), U2 (No Line on the Horizon), Nirvana (Live at Reading), the compilation Dark Was the Night.

Well, that finishes off 2009 for me. Here’s to a fantastic 2010 just a matter of hours away. Cheers, and to all a good night.

Dave Gets Physical With Physical Graffiti!

First of all, I respect and revere the LP.

I love the album format: it’s the perfect length for a listening session: 40 - 44 minutes.

It’s enough time for an artist to develop a theme, but the whole thing fits into the typical human attention span. I also like the idea of Side A and Side B and how producers and artists can curate the song order so there’s momentum at the beginning of each side of a record (or tape).

I almost exclusively listen to albums– I rarely put on a particular playlist or let that smooth-talking Spotify AI DJ control my audio experience. An album feels like a journey with an artist at a particular time and place; there's coherence and there's control.

Albums often have a definitive timbre– the murky, muddy sound of Exile on Main Street, the shimmering, fuzzy reverb-drenched wall of guitar on Loveless, the post-modern new-wave Americana of Damn the Torpedoes . . . I like enveloping myself in a particular tone and time, and I often get obsessed with a particular album for a month or so and listen to it daily.

Last year, I couldn’t stop listening to Pink Floyd’s Animals; this summer, I went through the Rush catalog and got obsessed with Fly By Night– which mainly sounds like AC/DC if they went prog-rock, with a couple of songs that are reminiscent of The Allman Brothers.

A weird Rush album.

Right now, I am mainly listening to Zamrock, specifically the W.I.T.C.H. album Lazy Bones!!

Highly recommended.

I am listening to Zamrock because of Zman. He introduced me to it on our road trip to Boston. And, moving forward, I am always listening to Zman . . . because of Zamrock!

Anyway, this is a long way of saying that I love Whitney’s creative mission to pare down double and triple albums into the regular LP format. Double albums are too long for one listening session– they are a commitment– and I often pass on listening to them and choose something shorter. Honestly, I often forget how many great songs are on double and triple albums because I rarely listen to them– aside from Exile on Main Street and Blood, Sugar, Sex, Magic (which is just barely a double album).

I guess the moral here is something I am not great at. Sometimes you have to “kill your darlings” in the name of expedience and practicality– and so people enjoy and listen to your masterpiece. As Hamlet says to his mom, sometimes you have to “be cruel to be kind."

It’s a ruthless endeavor, paring down some bloated behemoth of an album into something that is more in line with the human attention span, and while Whitney might cause some controversy with his song selections, I want to say very explicitly that I truly admire his vision and I am fully on board with this project.

That being said, he fucked up his first attempt. Botched it.

He tackled George Harrison’s triple LP All Things Must Pass, and while he did a passable job paring down this extremely lengthy work, he left off my favorite song: “Beware of Darkness.”

Egregious.

You need the darkness to balance out the lightness! The yin, the yang, all that shit. If you’re going to have “My Sweet Lord” and “What is Life,” then you need a counterpoint to those songs. Mirth in funeral, dirge in marriage, equal scale delight and dole. All that.

No worries, though, I came up with an easy fix. I copied his playlist and added “Beware of Darkness.”

Good artists copy, great artists steal.

I also think the name of my playlist is much classier than his on-the-nose and rather clunky “All Things Must Pass as a Single LP.”

Not very catchy.

Here’s my (much improved) revision of his absolute travesty. With a much classier title.

I’ve talked the talk, and now I’m going to walk the walk.

You might be thinking: Dave’s an asshole, criticizing and stealing Whitney’s hard work, and then adding one song and claiming it as his own.

Or you might admire my moxy. You might be thinking: Dave’s a killer! Or perhaps you’re just thinking: Dave’s a mess! All of these are fair thoughts about Dave.

Obviously, to earn your respect back, I had to pare down a double album all by myself, without Whit's initial guidance. So I did just that. I took a crack at it, and now you can judge my artistic sensibility. I'm putting myself out there.

I wanted to do an album I love, but one I rarely listen to because of the length. I decided on Physical Graffiti.

I fucking love Led Zeppelin. Killer riffs, alternate tunings, mud shark mayhem, hotel room hijinks, wailing vocals, plenty of artistic theft, and the creation of a mystical dark subterranean musical universe that rivals no other band. Hammer of the Gods.

But my go-to album Zeppelin album is Houses of the Holy. I can’t explain how much I love entering the sun-drenched, swirling, and layered weirdness of that world. And it’s 41 minutes long.

Physical Graffiti is double this. 82 minutes for those of you who are math-averse (and for those of you who are math-rock averse, do NOT listen to Tera Melos).

So I gave Physical Graffiti a couple of listens and made some hard decisions. This thing needs to be cut down to size.

Here we go . . .

Custard Pie – carnal with a killer riff. Got to have it.

The Rover – alternating between funky and epic. Fantastic.

In My Time of Dying – psychedelic slide guitar, fucking sweet.

Houses of the Holy – catchy and wonderful. No brainer.

Trampled Under Foot – Zep does Stevie Wonder, most excellently.

Kashmir — NOPE! YUCK! A boring, bloated faux-Middle Eastern dirge. Repetitive, obnoxious, ponderous. This thing is more appropriate in the film Spinal Tap than on a Zeppelin album. The lyrics are mystical bullshit, promising nirvana but delivering nothing. And I truly hate how Robert Plant delivers them. This song is right out, the tribe has spoken . . . Kashmir, you are fired, voted off the island. No soup for you. Take a seat on the bench, you did NOT make the starting line-up. Even THINKING about this song annoys me. This song should be put in a supermax prison and only allowed to interact with Jethro Tull's "Aqualung." I wish I could use the "Eternal Sunshine" brain eraser to erase the so-called "melody" of this song from my brain. Droning, obsequious, bombastic, turgid, insipid . . . there are no words. Fuck this song.

In the Light – this is how you do an epic 8-minute song. Builds up to something magnificent. It’s in the movie!

Bron-Yr-Aur – lovely and intricate acoustic instrumental piece evoking the cottage where many of the songs were recorded. Short and perfect.

Down by the Seaside – serene and then surprising, catchy and hazy, sounds like it belongs on Houses of the Holy. Enough said.

Ten Years Gone – love this melancholy darkness. Ten years man!

Night Flight – this song rocks. Rescued from the Zeppelin IV sessions. Meet me in the middle of the night. Killer.

The Wanton Song –sinister and ferocious guitar, inscrutable wailing lyrics, spot-on drum fills, this song crushes it.

Boogie with Stu – a bit of a goofy throwaway number, but because it lightens the mood after the fury and ferocity of “The Wanton Song” and also because it features The Rolling Stones' piano player Ian “Stu” Stewart, this song is both sonically necessary and symbolic of the time period and must remain in this spot.

Black Country Woman – a great reminder of what Zeppelin is all about, a transcendental, otherworldly rendering of the blues, this song seems to channel some ancient emotions . . . and only Robert Plant could pull this off, without sounding like he was culturally appropriating black culture. Impressive and authentic.

Sick Again – a perfect ending to this debauchery. A gritty, sleazy rock tune about teenage groupies that also turns reflective and a bit woeful.

Whew. This was NOT easy. But I managed to pare Physical Graffiti down from 82 minutes to 76 minutes. It was hard work, and I may not be cut out for this.

Good luck, Whit. 

I’ll be offering encouragement . . . and plenty of criticism when you fuck up, as you continue on your mission for the rock gods.