In Defense of the Offensive, Part I

B-B-B-Bertie

Before Tom Hooper, Colin Firth or David Seidler’s Academy Awards had time to accumulate even a modicum of dust, I was firing up the ol’ Egg of Hip Hop (my 1999 off-white Ford Expedition) to go watch The King’s Speech. Going in, I certainly had my doubts about the film, mostly centered around a suspected inability to empathize with the plight of the King of England. I just can’t see myself throwing a slack arm around George VI and saying I hear what you’re cluckin’, big chicken, I hear ya. But I’ve got some Scottish blood in me, which was influential in not only the figurative setting of the film, but also the literal setting of the cheap theater on Ogden.

On some level I could relate to Firth’s character of George VI, because of my own trepidation with the slightest public speaking requirement. It wasn’t until I was well into high school that I felt comfortable ordering food at restaurants, and even now, it is not a given, depending on the fluttery-ness of the waitress's eyelashes. And I still usually go with a I’ll have the same thing, to avoid any additional baring questions like what kind of sides I would like, or how I’d like my meat cooked. I mean, call me old-fashioned, but how I like my meat is a subject I don’t commonly broach with strangers.

So while it might have unearthed some deeply suppressed memories of Mr. Klemm’s Argumentation class in high school, the movie- in my opinion- lived up to it’s best-picture billing, mostly due to the magnetic charm of George VI's (or Bertie) speech therapist, Lionel Logue, played by Geoffrey Rush. However, it is a scene totally void of Rush that contains far and away my favorite moment of the movie. Returning from some kind of social engagement, Bertie and his wife Elizabeth (Helena Bonham Carter) are attempting to ready their two adorable daughters for bed. In a uncharacteristic showing of comic unruliness, the daughters demand of their father a story before they go to bed, and the ruler of all the United Kingdom is powerless to refuse. While phonetically garbled- it takes place prior to any of Firth’s drastic linguistic improvement- the tale and it’s telling absolutely melted my heart. Unfortunately, I couldn’t find the specific clip, but below is the script of the particular instance.

Bertie: There were once two princesses whose Papa had been turned into a penguin by the local witch. This was inconvenient because he loved to hold his princesses in his arms and you can’t do that if you’re a penguin, you have wings like herrings.

Margaret Rose: Herrings don’t have wings.

Bertie: His wings were the shape of herrings. To make matters worse she send him to the South Pole which is an awfully long walk if you can’t fly.

Lilibet: You can’t walk from the South Pole!

Elizabeth: Shh!

Bertie: Exactly. When he reached the water and dived in he found he could fly. Fly through the depths. So fast, in fact, that he was in Southampton Waters by lunchtime. From there he caught the 2.30 to Weybridge, changed at Clapham Junction and asked a passing Mallard the way to Buckingham Palace. He swam up the Thames and came out of a plughole, giving Mama, the cook and Mrs. Whittaker quite a shock. The Princess heard the commotion and hurried to the kitchen where they gave the penguin a good scrub, a mackerel and a kiss. And as they kissed him, guess what he turned into?

Lilibet and Margaret Rose: A handsome prince!

Bertie: A short-tailed Albatross. With wings big enough to wrap around both his precious girls. (He hugs them both together)

         A few days later, I was talking with my mother about the movie, and she informed me of the studio’s plans to edit the film, the extent of which was merely removing one particular scene. The removal of this scene (below) would enable The King’s Speech to shed its “R” rating and merit a “PG-13” rating, opening it’s availability to a much larger audience. The scene in question takes place during one of the therapy sessions, where Lionel is prodding Bertie to speak more emphatically, eventually inciting him into a sailor-esque string of curses and swears directed at an imaginary audience. In the passion of profanity, Bertie is truly unencumbered by his stutter, and it is one of his first true moments of triumph over his linguistic shortcomings.

         The scene is funny and moving, sure, but as I mentioned before, not nearly my favorite moment in the movie. Yet, when I heard of its potential elimination, an anger welled up in me to the point of spewing a similar assemblage of lyrical aberration. It certainly didn’t help that my mom was portraying this as a moral milestone in Hollywood history. TWC's President of Theatrical Distribution and Home Entertainment Eric Lomis, who is mostly responsible for this travesty, rationalizes this decision by saying it “enables those to whom it speaks most directly - young people who are troubled by stuttering, bullying and similar trials -- to see it." Bullshit. Bullshit shit shit. I understand how vulgar language would give parents pause about bringing their young one’s to the theater, but I feel it entirely unnecessary to pander to this insignificant demographic.

The King Speech is the culmination of countless hours of labor from producers, actors, and directors at the most elite level, and out of every single other movie made this year, was considered by the experts, to be the single best film. There are very, very few people under eighteen who are truly going to be able to understand or appreciate this without wistfully daydreaming of being a theater over, engrossed in the heroic antics of Buzz Lightyear, or, for the adolescent crowd, the incredible buoyancy of Meghan Fox’s breasts (more of Woody fans, I suppose). You wouldn’t go to Charlie Trotter’s, order filet mignon for your little kid, and ask the waiter to cut off all the fat and gristle, would you? If your answer was yes, I want you to look around, pick up the densest object within in reach, and immediately bludgeon yourself to death. I mean, come on.

         Producer Harvey Weinstein reaction is a little more honest. He told the LA Times, “the British numbers are huge because the rating lets families see the movie together. Tom and I are trying to find a unique way to do this that keeps his vision of the movie”. At least he admits that the numbers are the primary factor, and that tinkering with Hooper and Seidler’s masterpiece potentially compromises the movies integrity. I’m not sure I buy the sentimental motivation of keeping families together at the box office, but at least he doesn’t shy away from connecting it with ticket sales.

        

         But I certainly find myself agreeing most with Firth, when he responded agitatedly about the change to the Hollywood Reporter, “the film has its integrity as it stands. I don’t support it. [The scene] serves a purpose. ” I love the honesty from Firth, and I totally understand his frustration. I’m irate over the editing, and my investment in the film was a modest three dollars and a couple hours in a dingy theater. I could not imagine making such a powerful and emotionally raw story, only to have someone pare it down to a mainstream-friendly version out of greed. This perversion of the original film was released on April 1^st, and it has replaced the original in the vast majority (if not all) of theaters, and I implore you to not see it. A similarly-edited version of The Passion of the Christ totally bombed several years back, and hopefully another box-office flop will discourage future producers and companies from fucking (ha!) with the hard work of others for a quick dollar.

43 feat B-Legit-  E-40

I've been a forty water fan and hyphy movement affiliate before I could even drive; my boy Sody and I were going dumb and shaking our imaginary dreads in the back of the Navigator, all the time bickering with Justin's mom over the car radio volume. Once I did get my license,  the Egg couldn't quite get it's gas, brake, dip on, but I feel like the rust spots and dents give it a from-the-block feel. You may not have heard of E-40, born Earl Stevens from Vallejo, California, but you have experienced his impact on society if you have ever watched T.V., listened to the radio, or been in an urban setting.

An immense percentage of modern-day slang has documented origins in his prolific musical output, consisting of 14 studio albums since 1990. His influence is described perhaps most elegantly by Earl himself in an interview with Vice Magazine: "You know, it don’t stop. 75% of the words [slang] I made up. Even before this rap game my ear’s always been to the street. I’ve been making up slang words since the first grade, you smell me? I stay coming with something to keep the game interesting. I tell ’em the rap game without 40 is like old folks without bingo." Here are just a few phrases that E-40 claims he created or made famous: "fo' shizzle", "you feel me?" "playboy" "pimpin'" "pop ya colla" and most incredibly "it's all good".

Obviously, this guy is probably a narcissist/ compulsive liar, but if I cared about that, I'd have never experienced MBDTF, and where would I be then? "43" is off E-40 Revenue Retrievin': Graveyard Shift, part of a dual release that included Revenue Retrievin': Overtime Shift, released off Heavy on the Grind Entertainment on March 29, 2011. The song is a bit atypical of forty's style- a slow bass pluck tip-toeing along the background with a slow bass kick, horns and synths weaving slyly in to give the song "a noir-ish atmosphere", as David Drake of Pitchfork puts it. I don't have the slightest clue what half of the references in the song mean, and I find the chorus "I zip-lock, and flip-flop, 43" utterly indecipherable. But this is indeed classic "E-40-Fonzarigggerdale the ballatician up outta Vallejo Califoolya", and I can only laugh when the he elaborates in a later verse, "What are you, a C.I.? A Confidential Informant?". Yeah, because "zip-lock and flip-flop, 43" is clearly self-evident, but, C.I.? Clearly too tough a nut to crack on my own, thanks forty.

download here

Coinkydink

Minutes after my last blog post came one of those moments that makes the world seem so small you could drop it in your pocket. I have a special place in my heart for these semi-remarkable happenstances and coincidences, and I think it's because it reminds me of literature and television. These rare moments makes the world seem so uncharacteristically comprehensible and palatable that they must be scripted, artificially produced somehow. In the grand scheme of things, these events transpire unnoticed, but they feel to me like a delightfully kitschy souvenir. It's the powers of the universe coming together incongruously like those Brookfield zoo plastic molds, steaming and shaking for a few moments before spewing out a matte turquoise figurine of that person sitting next to me on the plane who happens to be the brother of the professor of my introductory philosophy class (No way!). And I, mesmerized from behind the bubble-top, nearly opaque from finger smears, waste little time in reaching in the grimy slot to claim my prize. And how fucking dope were those things? Kids in my kindergarten class wanted to grow up to be firefighters and actresses, but I wanted (past tense?) to be a Mold-A-Rama machine. 

Anyways, I had just caught my buddy Kyle's latest blog post (great stuff, check that ish out here) ten minutes after he posted it, and he was writing about how he met this really cute girl at Muldoon's, and went over and started talking to her. Now, you're probably thinking, how in the could this possibly relate to me, and, granted, the whole talking-to-a-cute-girl thing is not necessarily my forte- or even the being-in-close-proximity-to-a-cute-girl thing for that matter. But, in talking to Chin more about this girl- he referred to her comically as "Mousey", because of her delicate physiognomy- I started thinking that this girl sounds familiar. Cautiously, I started asking more about where Mousey is from and what she looks like, each question escalating with giddiness as I realized, I totally know Mousey! This girl was, in fact, my friend's ex-girlfriend. It was a bit of a moral quandary at first, because I'm close with my friend, and he's one of my all-time favorite people. But being that the breakup was- from what I hear- mutual and in the past, and, just as importantly, that Kyle's a stand-up guy, I felt like it was a safe move to try to do somethin!. 

So Chin and I met up on Friday to talk strategy. This threw me off a little bit because I was already at the library, tucked away reclusively in the record player section, plodding through Infinite Jest and listening to obscure Louisiana folk records (I usually search through the vinyl covers for the most senescent Cajun man, preferably sitting on a porch or rocking chair, with a similarly decrepit companion with a harmonica. Then I know I've got a winner.) But, with the cancelation of Wheaton North's meet the next morning, I decided to roll with it.  I walked over to Muldoon's from the 'brary and caught up with Mike and Chin, right as Fabian was heading out. As I was saying what up to Fabian, I noticed an advertisement for the 3$ Green Line special for that night, and I quickly realized the direction this night would be inevitably heading. 

After a few brews and thanks to some sage-like advice from Drabik, we decided that I would initiate a casual text to Mousey and get the ball rolling, digging deep in the arsenal of nonchalance with a statement like maybe we could all meet up next time you guys happen to be at Muldoon's. Notice the ambiguity: words like maybe, and next time make it a totally non-binding agreement, and who exactly is we and you guys? The uncertainty gives the whole thing a slight air of aloofness and apathy, which is the definition of cool. I feel it necessary here to add, once again, that I do not think I am cool; merely, my sober (I repeat, sober) texting skills I wield with tact and pride on my camera-less, tank of a cell phone. But, as apparent with my hesitance of leaving the library, in an actual social setting, I am rendered helplessly inept. 

An increase in the Green Line-intake, motivated in part by said ineptitude, soon made the night a little more interesting. The conversation was getting more and more abstract with each beer, and soon after Drabik left, Chin and I regressed to a Rudd/Segelian back-and-forth, full of bromantical bromides ("No, you're a great guy, Kyle"). Because of the significant consumption of brew, I was also making frequent trips to the bathroom, and on one of my more unsteady returns to the table, I was approached by a middle-aged woman, her arms flared outward, excitedly and expectantly. And, naturally, I responded in the worst possible manner: I froze, mid-stride, and looked over both shoulders, thinking I had oafishly wandered into the path of this woman and her friend. This notion was soon dispelled as the woman gave me an enthusiastic hug.

Fortunately, this woman's exuberance was matched in her level of intoxication. Not to say that she was by any means sloppy, but rather she had that delightful twinkle in her eye that comes with skillfully managing the fine line of drunk/not drunk. That same line which I myself had utterly annihilated earlier that night, and which also makes the Cross-Country mother-son dinner such an uproarious success each year, as there are some mothers, much to Andrew and Justin's chagrin, who have a charming disregard for that line altogether. But this mystery woman, in her state of contentment, cared little about my apparent ignorance. 

In the infancy of our small talk, I managed to pare down the possible identities of this woman to a handful of my friends' moms.  And then, the gods threw me a bone, as the woman mentioned how she was at the track meet I was working a couple days prior. It then finally dawned on me that she was my friend Jackie's mom, a great lady who I've met on several occasions (it was not so much that I didn't remember her, but more the potent combination of the occurrence being so out of place, and after so many drinks). The conversation really flowed from there, and the only hiccup being when I mentioned former Iowa standout Rachel Marchand getting busted for EPO by the NCAA, and how that must've been weird for Jackie being on her team. I just meant how odd that would be, but Jackie's mom seemed to think I was insinuating that Jackie was doping, which is just a laughable allegation. The situation was cleared up, though.

After that, Chin took care of the tab (what a guy!) and we started walking back home. Sure, our paths were by no means linear, but all-in-all we were fine, certainly not disruptive (keep this in mind). Yet, after I chucked up a deuce to Chin and headed down Madison, my night became full-on Shamalanian with another unexpected turn. I'm close enough to my house that I'm visualizing crashing face-first on my bed, but then, not one, but two police cars, with sirens, pulled me over (Is it still being pulled over if you're walking?). Having only recently turned twenty-one, I still find myself irrationally nervous after a night at the bar, so I had a moment of panic before I realized I wasn't doing anything wrong. I immediately walked over to the cop and handed him my i.d., and told him that I had been drinking, and that I was on my way home, pointing to my house, which was literally thirty feet away. He was pretty cool about it, he said that somebody had called the cops saying someone was being loud and disruptive (again I emphasize, nothing about my walk back could've been possibly construed as disruptive), and that he didn't have any problems as long as I was heading home. The worst of it was definitely seeing my roommate watching the whole thing transpiring from the window of our living room, a look of judgement and incredulity so intense on his face I thought he'd never be able to pick his jaw off of the ground. And then when I went to the front door, he wouldn't unlock it! What an asshole.

More later....

Gangsta by tUnE-yArDs

One day after giving NPR an exclusive stream of her full album, Merrill released W h o k i l l of 4 AD records on tuesday in the U.S., and it is almost as cool as Garbus herself. Haven't had time for it to all really sink in yet, but most importantly she didn't lose any of her, to say the least, unique style from BiRd-BrAiNs, adding a refined and fuller sound to her wild-things-when-they're-bound howls and delicate coos. It's a nice balance of growing as an artist, but also sticking to one's roots. The song that has been absolutely irresistible to me (even more, dare i say, than when her first single Bizness caught my eye) has been "Gangsta". Seriously, when she says "What's a boy to do if he'll never be a gangsta? Fire in his heart, but he'll never be a gangsta", she has managed to sum up in two sentence the distress that has robbed me of countless hours of sleep. But then again, I did just get pulled over by two cops just strolling down the street....

I was tempted to put the whole album up for download, but I just can't do that to Merrill. I sure as hell didn't buy it, but if you want it, I'll at least make you work for it like I did. She deserves at least that.

Edit: download link is broken, I'll try and fix it and repost

Double Edit: download here

 

Century marks for pigeons

Just wanted to take a moment to say thanks again to any readers in light of Lymph Node's eclipsing the century mark in page views! Wow, just saying that makes me feel like a huge Bill O'Reilly asshole. See what I did, there? A little politics to spice things up? Shit just got real here on the inter-web. Anyways, I really appreciate whoever it is that takes the time of of their day to read my 2300-word, esoteric nonsense. I mean, really? 2300 words? Who the hell has the time or interest to read (much less type) 2300 words? But, hey, if you get through all of it alive, I'll mail you a sticker or something. Not scratch-and-sniff, though, I'm a simple man.

This week has been really crazy, so I apologize for the time in between posts. Monday, my friend Katie gave me the heads up that she'd be playing an hour-long acoustic set at Moody, and she was all like, It's really short notice, yada yada yada, but all I had on my schedule was moving a refrigerator with the overbearing bossman (my pops), so her little brother Stevie (sub 53-sec quarter miler as of saturday, mad props) and I booked it on over, and saw our little oriental wonder slay the set. It was really nice to be able to support Katie after she was such a great support* to my team in high school. And great coaching on my part, keeping our stud 400m runner out until 11 o'clock the night before a meet. In my defense, the kid goes to bed at 1 everyday, according to Katie, so it's gonna happen. I started talking with a hilarious friend of Katie's at Moody who had grown up in central Illinois, and his first question on hearing that I lived in Wheaton was, "Oh, so what church do you attend?" Valid question, but when I answered that I don't attend church, his look of incredulity had me planning my exit strategy.

With Tuesdays physical therapy appointment came some horrendous news. My therapist/ masseuse/ coach/ friend, of whose opinion I have deep respect, has strongly advised that I implement power walking as I start back up with my running. So there you have it: three years ago I was running 100mpw, and now you can find me getting up at the ass-crack of dawn (to avoid anybody seeing me), throwing on some Jane Eyre audiobook on my shuffle, and getting down and dirty with my best attempt to look like these champs. Did I mention it's in spandex, too? I've officially become that guy. I used to jokingly call running an addiction, but when I get my hips a-shimmyin' down the block in the morning now, I'm starting to feel like I'm on Bob Saget's level.

Also on Tuesday, Wheaton North had a track meet at West Aurora. Pretty standard stuff; West Aurora's varsity crew ran really well, and we had our freshman and sophomores run really well. Zach Johnson had a 4 sec personal best in the 800m, so he is proving he's not a one-hit-wonder. Other notables were Aaron Hewitt's p.r. in the 400m, a nice 2:15 800m from Jonny Soderlund, and drops for Sam Beasley and Chris Stopka in the 3200m. Joseph Emmanuel is still struggling a little bit, but you wouldn't know it by his ever-present grin. That kid is a pleasure to coach. I'm sure he'll turn it around here soon.

Wednesday, I worked all damn day. Clocked in at Shanes at 8:30, and that day was pretty standard. Business is picking up big time at the shop, and it's pretty much a hustle from open to close. At 2, I chucked a deuce to Shane, Pancho, Chavo, and Esse and split to go help with the Wheaton Twilight meet at Wheaton College. The meet was supposed to take place on Saturday night, but with snow flurries (not a typo) scheduled for then, Coach Bradley tried to pull off the switch to Wednesday.

And did he ever, thanks to a lot of helping hands (Kristian Rosenberger among them). I personally booked it over to the javelin spot, and shagged javelins for the better part of 3 hours. It was a lot harder than it sounds, having to sprint out, grab the jav, and sprint the 30-50m back, then sprint back for the next throw. The girl that was supposed to be alternating with me had some shin splints, so she didn't want to run. I was happy to assume full duty, since I was trying to spit game at that chick, anyway. Oh, and Dickum's girlfriend Paige was throwing, so I'm going to text him saying I was shagging his girlfriend's shaft, or something raunchy like that. You know, good, clean fun.

After the jav, I busted my ass over to the oval, and worked the hurdles and blocks cart. It was a total blast, a lot of people ran well, and most importantly, I didn't have to rake for the jump pits. I don't do well with that shit. I then closed off a successful meet by kicking it with former falcon and current NCC stud Randall, hitting on Laurel at the hospitality tent, and copping a meet T-shirt on the sly. You know, hood-rat things.

Special thanks to Anna for some compliments on the blog! Anna's always been a great friend, and I owe her big time for letting me sit in on one of her Torrey Classes during my Biola visit. I'm so pumped to start up the Torrey classes in August. For those of you that know me, when I say that I am pumped about something school-related, that really means something. I am, after all, the sole creator of Fuck-a-Bag Fridays, a great second-semester senior tradition. Anyways, I'm sure that Anna's main motivation for the compliment was to get a shout-out spot on the prestigious Lymph Node, so Anna, despite it being a shameless ploy to get a leg up in the blog world, here you are. Her blog's got a little something for everyone: literary analysis for all you book worms, spiritual insight for all you church-goers, and for all you masochists, her writing proficiency tends to make a person feel painfully inferior. Just a good read, overall, so check it out.

Last but not least, the Utah Pigeon Club celebrated their 100th anniversary by sponsoring the Grand National Pigeon Show. I think I speak for the vast majority of the population when I say that I thought there was only one kind of pigeon.  But ho-ly shit. Just look at these motherfuckers! But seriously, look at these motherfuckers! It's like, when God was taking a break from making the world, he left the first ever aviary unlocked, and some asshole angel, fresh off killing a spliff, wandered over and thought he'd give the whole creating thing the ol' college try. I guess he heard God coming back and peaced out medias reas, because this guy (above) seems to be missing something pretty imperative, like, I dunno, a face? It's not just this one though, 90% of these supposedly-award-winning pigeons would make godawful carriers. And how about this guy? Call me a conspirator, but I'm not so sure the owner of this "pigeon" didn't just crazy glue a feather duster to a potato.

Starfucker - Gucci Mane & Wampire - I'm da Shit(Bitch) vs. Orchards [STRFKR Mashup]

So gotta throw my favorite mentally-compromised rapper/ ice cream aficianado a bone, and also to Starfucker who just played at Lincoln Hall on Tuesday. Promoting their new album Reptilians, released in early March, Starfucker is comprised of Joshua Hodges (vocals, keyboards, guitar, drums), Ryan Biornstad (guitar, keyboard, vocals, turntables), Shawn Glassford (bass, keyboards, drums), and Keil Corcoran (drums, keyboards, vocals). I don't enjoy all their stuff, but this song's been on heavy rotation ever since I scooped it off Hype Machine, so enjoy!

Download here

*Probably to a fault, as she attended a time trial in which it was assumed no one would attend. Long story short, my teammates and I were donning nothing more than the netting to discarded running shorts as a joke, and Katie got an undesired eyeful.

All I wanna do is... *bang* *bang* *bang* *bang*... and *$* and coach 'em up

Long-time friend and wildman Jeff Potter

Zach Johnson’s 1600m run on Saturday at Wheaton North High School during the Falcon Best Four Invite is, simply put, the reason why I love the sport of running. I started writing this expecting to  complaining about my disappointments in athletics, motivated in part by Win Win and also my anticipation of starting up my running this week after a two week hiatus (my longest intentional break in 5 and a half years). Running has been far and away my most defining interest since starting as a freshman in high school (to stay in shape for football, believe it or not) but despite all the ways running has changed my life for the better it has always been more common for me to focus on the many negatives and the failures of my career.

Yet it was this painstakingly shy senior with a bowl cut reminiscent of my underclassmen years who shook me from my pity party. I’ve had the pleasure of being a teammate, spectator, and now, coach of Zach during his stint on the cross-country team. He is one of the hardest-working people I have known, and he takes every achievement with admirable humility, every disappointment with grace unmatched in his peers. The guy has overcome a severe knee injury in addition to overall physical limitations to be a varsity contributor on a talented squad. He is not the fastest or most popular, but Zach is the god-damn business if you ask this guy.

So when Zach came screaming out the gate on Saturday, I thought to myself, ok, a little uncharacteristic of Zach, but I dig it. He came cruising through the 400m mark, and was right on the heels of the leader, and he looked so good that I held back from yelling for him to stay controlled (coach-speak for slow the fuck down). I didn’t think he could keep the pace, but it would probably set him up for a modest personal best, when he would falter. But with his mop of hair flying behind him, he kept the pace, even making a move for the lead with 500m to go, on pace to absolutely crush his previous 4:49 marking.

It was getting late in the race, but any runner or spectator knows that one lap is plenty of time for something to go dreadfully wrong. I have seen plenty of hopefuls tear into the bell lap with a fury, only to stagger down the homestretch for what seems like eternity. And this was Zach MF Johnson, someone who had no business leading this race, much less looking effortless doing it. But good ol’ Z-Johns, utilizing every inch of his wiry, emaciated frame, kicked home with such ferocity that a shiver went through my entire body, and he crossed the finish line in first, with a clocking of 4:33, an unbelievable 16-second personal record.

Sprinting over to my wearied athlete and friend, I shook him, spewing incoherent exclamations, fricatives, and naturally a good amount of saliva. Once he grasped the magnitude of his accomplishment, he- returning to the Zach Johnson we know and love- managed only a sheepish grin. The moment was so pure, so perfect; for the moment every frustration I had ever had with running was forgotten, and I was able to share in the unadulterated ecstasy of the culmination of years of Zach's hard work.  

Suffice to say, I felt that posting my bellyaching over my running career was not an adequate tribute to a sport that can inspire such a satisfying moment. Yet, enjoyable as that moment was, it is understandably just as infrequent. It might be hard to imagine that some people are born to run in a circle better than others, but it is the one inescapable fact pertaining to running. Many coaches and athletes like to believe that it’s all about who works the hardest, who runs the most miles, and who is the toughest. In a vacuum, this is true; between two people of the same talent, barring injuries or illness, the one who runs more, harder, and who is tougher will win. That is hardly breaking news. But we do not live in a vacuum, and injuries and illness exist all to frequently. Instead, it is exceedingly rare that hardest-working, most-dedicated runner crosses the line first. This is especially in high school, where most races come down to God-given talent, and whether or not the coach was smart enough to get out of the kids way and keep them fresh and hungry.

Two prominent examples of talent prevailing are Micah Vandenend and Jeff Thode. Vandenend of Glenbard South High School suffered a stress fracture in his right fibula, missing all of the outdoor season until the sectional meet in 2001, yet unbelievably managed to qualify for the state meet, and went on to place 9^th, and garner All-State honors. The next year during cross-country, Vendenend re-aggravated the same injury, and missed the majority of the season. Coming back to run the necessary meets in the postseason, he proceeded to win both regionals and sectionals, and then shockingly, the 2001 Cross-Country State meet.

Even more surprising was the victor of the 2008 IHSA meet Conant High School’s Jeff Thode. Thode had suffered a collapsed lung midseason, and was assumed to be done for the year. However, he was cleared only two weeks before the state meet to compete. After running well at sectionals, Thode continued on to capture the state title and his win became one of the wildest spectacles ever to transpire on the magical soil of Peoria’s Detwieler Park.

Haters gon’ hate, though, and many would be quick to point out two recent examples that would refute my opinion. York Community High School, owners of 26 IHSA cross-country state champions, is a perennial powerhouse in distance running, and Coach Joe Newton has cemented their status as the most dominant prep program in the nation through good ol’ fashioned high mileage and break-neck intensity (however, during their track season, they are significantly more conservative). Reigning two-time IHSA cross-country champion and USA Junior Triathalon Champion Lukas Verzbikas, considered to be the one of the finest American running prodigies ever, may not run a crazy amount of miles, but he supplements his training with a significant amount of swimming and biking, the sum of which leaves little room for anything else.

I would argue that these two examples are the exceptions that prove the rule. According to Jim Halley of USA Today in a 2008 article, York “regularly carries more than 200 boys runners”, an unfathomable number for high school prep athletics. There are 3A (largest school division in Illinois) teams that struggle to bring the mandatory 5 runners to the line. When you have this many runners, a coach can implement a much more aggressive approach- running a majority of the team through a high-risk, high-reward plan knowing that it will eventually manufacture the necessary five to seven exceptional runners.

This running-the-gauntlet approach is no doubt why York has had the unparalleled prep success on the state and national level. But at what expense?  Kevin Moore, a former trainer for York during the late 90’s, told me that the number of runners that were too injured to compete was upwards of 60 high schoolers throughout the entire season. To put it in perspective, the Wheaton North team on average has between 40-50 runners total on their roster, and is considered a large team. While the varsity crew of runners is basking in their prolific gains, others who have worked just as hard or harder are left on the sidelines, licking their wounds.

Another issue that arises from this training is a lack of development after high school; just ask former York national-caliber runners, Eric and Matt Dettman twins (Oregon), Sean MacNamara (Michigan), Tom Achtien (Illinois) and Jordan Hebert (Illinois) all of who, have struggled to meet the sky-high expectations set by their accolades attained in high school. This particular argument always stirs up a whole lot of shit, so I’ll just leave it at this: some elite high schoolers, while young enough to initially respond to high-intensity training, are ultimately limited in their potential, as too much physical stress was put upon them during their impressionable years.

          And as far as young phenom, Lukas Verzbikas, his mother is a former Lithuanian record holder in the 1500m and 3000m distances, boasting jaw-dropping personal bests of 4:09 and 8:56, respectively. Need I say anymore? (A little perspective, my personal bests, embarrassingly enough, are 4:08 and 8:52) For those of you who still don’t grasp the magnitude of those times, I will just say that the genetics in that kid’s Lithuanian blood are the envy of about every other runner in the country. For this reason, I can’t help but scoff when Rasa Verzbickiene, Lukas’ mother, is quoted as saying “You know, an Olympic gold medal is 95 percent very hard work and 3 percent talent and 2 percent good luck”. I certainly don’t doubt that an unworldly amount of effort and perseverance that goes into achieving these marks, but she is kidding herself in placing talent at a measly 3 percent.

Yet it is these exceptions that become the model for success for the vast majority of programs and athletes, trying to emulate every aspect of these immense programs and talents without heeding their own lack of resources or biological constraints. And yes, this does produce a team here or there, the odd individual runner, but on the whole, it is a devastating approach for these misinformed athletes. Not only does this approach lead to injuries, fatigue, and as a result, athletic disappointment for these runners, but this group also attributes this disappointment to “choking”. Because they are following a get-fast-quick scheme, which they perceive as a training Bible, any failure that occurs is immediately chalked up to their own mental or motivational shortcomings, as they have, in their minds, done everything necessary from the physical perspective. Either that, or they think they must just have to run more and harder; you can see how this flawed strategy could snowball very quickly.

I feel a little silly typing this, because I am one of the worst offenders. I’ve fought tooth and nail with both my high school and college coaches to give me more mileage, to let me run faster workouts, and when they wouldn’t, I would proceed un-sanctioned. I ran 80- to 90-mile weeks my junior and senior years in high school, even 100-mile weeks during the summer prior to my freshman year at Wheaton. It was during these years I had the attitude that my close friend and former coach Jeff Potter (above) describes when asked about his scruffy appearance during his college years: “All I wanted to do was run.”

This may seem like nothing short of insanity for those of you outside the circle of madness that is the running culture, but this sums up the attitude that myself and many other harriers take up during the height of their training. I wanted nothing more than to run well. I didn’t care about my appearance, I didn’t care about socializing, and I certainly didn’t care about school. My desire to succeed transcended every aspect of my life. Every meal I ate was planned according to what was expended during the run before it, and what was required for the run after. I would avoid instances where I would have to be standing or outside for extended periods of time (church, social events, sporting events, the like) and refused to participate in any physical exertion that wasn’t in my explicit training plan.

After years of this attitude (admittedly there were lapses in my steadfastness), I was regressing in the basket in which I had placed all my eggs. I did have races at points during the season that were indicative of my training, but when I had to be at my best, I simply wasn’t. I fell pitifully short of goals and expectations, and even worse, let my teammates down on multiple occasions. And as I previously explained, my first reaction was to heap criticism on my mental preparation and the effort I was putting in. Being that I was so invested in the sport, I considered this “mental weakness” and “laziness” to be major personal flaws.  

And this is all because I was to prideful to take the biological hint, even after each season ended worse than the previous. While I fully realized that I was better off at lower mileage, I refused to accept it because it meant accepting that I had a limited potential, admitting to myself that my ceiling was not that of most of my peers that I ran with in high school. I caused myself a lot of unnecessary injuries and poor races in striving to be the best, instead of being the best that I can be.

But this mentality, however flawed it may be, is still what produces the best runners, the best stories. It is impossible to know the limits of a runner until these limits are sufficiently tested, and that’s where coaching comes in. A coach can come in and look at a runner’s career unemotionally and with previous experience to draw on, and therefore he can formulate an unbiased, professional opinion. I would’ve done well to listen to coaches earlier in my career, but the silver lining is that I’ve learned a lesson that will serve me extremely well in pursuing a career as a coach.

So, thanks to Zach’s race prompting a closer look at my running career, I've gleaned this practical application to my coaching future. I can get all caught up in the sport’s prevalent injustices, but when it comes down to it, I could never be without running. As corny as it sounds, I love the sport for all that it is, and I always will based on this one truth: there is nothing sweeter than partaking in the fruits of labor with my athletes whose literal blood, sweat, and tears stain the track. 

Odds and Ends

So, it took me forever to crank out that last post because, believe it or not, I had a jam-packed week. Like smuckers-style, yo. Monday, I had the pleasure of kicking it with Seb Spivey for a bit, and we talked about our relationships with girls, the handling of our booze, our current, respective athletic shapes, and other aberrations. While at times it could've been construed as a pity-party, I tried to be of encouragement to my boy, and he sure was to me. If nothing else, it inspired a post about athletic disappointment that I hoping to spit tomorrow.

Tuesday, I met up with Erika for the concert, powered down a 40 that would've made my main man (above) proud, and got to catch up with the venerable Jordan Zeno, too. And also saw a turtle shell backpack that I'm definitely going to scoop. Wednesday was my own personal tribute to DFW; I'm talking a lot of hours lost in Infinite Jest. Running total right now is 12 hours, 60-odd pages read. So remember when I was contemplating the nature of my reading of Jest? I kind of immediately bypassed the "devouring" of it and kept going right through the "savoring" and now am somewhere between a "selfish hoarding" and "ineffective gumming". I couldn't care less, that book is the Merill Garbus bizness, yo.

Thursday and Friday were dedicated to Win Win, but I also snuck in a little 21st birthday celebration for Danny Vallo with Joel Peterson. 7th grade chill session, anyone? Wheaton Christian Grammar School, stand the fuck up! And tonight, the Wash-Mad house hosted a neat, little B-B-Q to welcome in the warm weather, where James Watertwin and I cemented our status as cornhole juggernauts, keeping our undefeated record alive and our celebratory swag all the way turnt up.

But most unbelievably, I attended a Super Smash Bros. tournament last night. Let me rephrase. Obviously it is not unbelievable that I attended said tournament (see 2008, 2009 tournament win), but rather, that my dead weight partner and I did not win. Or even make it out of the first round. I understand the incredulous stares warranted by the last statement, as, let's face it, I am the manifestation of every dream and hope of the creators of that game. The exact curvatures of that controller are modeled to nestle flawlessly in my very hands. I put the mother-fucking dough in Nintendo; do you hear what I'm clucking, big chicken?

Anyways, I was duped into attending by my partner telling me it started at 7:00 (My strict nocturnal regiment does not permit any post-10:30 antics; call me granny all you want, I don't give a shit). Let me just tell you, I was none too pleased by the time 10:25 ticked off my watch and we hadn't even begun our first match. Am I saying I purposely threw the match, just to escape the potential of spending a collegiately-viable saturday night? No.

I threw that goddam match because I was in the middle of a blog post. Ha. For those of you that know me, I needn't say anymore on how this is a drastic, even theological shift for myself. But for those of you that don't- three years ago I wouldn't have left a smash tournament for anything, biological urges included. I would've laid a steamy grammy in my drawers before I would forfeit a match. Obviously, I have a good amount of pride in my maturation over the recent years. So blog followers, all four of you, you should feel very honored.

Speaking of followers, I would like to sincerely thank anyone spending their time to read my pointlessly-meandering musings. As the saying goes, you could (and probably should) have been anywhere else in the world, but you're here with [me]. I feel like I'm definitely getting the better end of that deal.

Specific thanks are in order today to my friend Kim, author of excellent blog Grab the Shovel. As I've told her before, the girl's cornered the market on quaint, and a blog is the perfect media outlet for her and her expansive skill set in linguistics. I used to tell her how much she reminded me of Tina Fey's Liz Lemon, but that just doesn't do the girl justice. More appropriately, I now compare Fey to Kim, but after the abominable Date Night, I am paying those royalties to her less and less.

Thanks to Kim for the kind words and encouragement!

Paul Giamatti FTWW

Having spent a recent spring break in Cherry Hill, NJ, and being a dedicated follower and fanatical defender of MTV’s Jersey Shore, I would consider myself, relative to the general population, an expert on Jersey culture. The rawness to the sounds and sights, both geographically and sociologically, of the east coast fringe absolutely mesmerizes me. And also, a little bit of that Snooki’s booty, that’s pretty damn mesmerizing. So, a film starring Lymph Node fave Paul Giamatti, a little Garden State magic, and a shockingly accurate portrayal of high school athletics? Dirty, dirty Fox Searchlight Pictures, you know me far too well.

Being that Win Win was at the top of T. Sean’s and my list for a good while now, we made the trek Wednesday night to go see it. After putting poor T. Sean through 106 minutes of my stifled giggles (I tried restraining myself, but there was plenty of lol-ing on my part), I immediately knew that my dad would love it. Being a fellow coach at Wheaton North High School, I was sure he would be picturing some of the also-rans on our own team when laughably-inept Stemler (played by David Thompson) graces the silver screen with his wrestling prowess. So, being devoid of any kind of social life, I decided to go that very next night with my pops.

The only aspect of the repeat performance that I did not enjoy was having to fight the urge to quote along with the characters during their more memorable lines (And again, while the effort in the suppression of this desire was there, a few lines may have slipped out. I’m only human). Thankfully, my dad is an understandable man, especially when it comes to my- to put it nicely- idiosyncrasies. And to keep the Rationalizing Wheel of Positive Spin rolling, I also like to think of my behavior as a personal attempt to eradicate the stereotype of African-American moviegoers being obnoxious; I am extremely white, and far worse than even the most insufferable, Apple-Bottomed chatterbox. Solidarity, y’all! One injustice at a time.

As much as I enjoyed the humorous depictions of prep athletes, I’m sure director Thomas McCarthy intentions for this movie were a little deeper under the surface. After reflecting on some of the core themes and aspects of the film, I definitely took away something much more profound than I had during my initial view. Through main protagonist Mike Flaherty’s struggles with the location and the community around him, and the resolution of these struggles, McCarthy shows us how the panacea for our manufactured problems and stress is nothing more than a little humility.

The fact that Win Win takes place during the winter months in “the Armpit of America”, seems evidence enough of the Flaherty’s (Giamatti’s character’s family) struggle versus their surrounding. Yet, McCarthy leaves a breadcrumb trail for us, using various ordinary mishaps to portray our fractured nature- a result of being at constant odds against the elements. In fact, the very opening scene is an example of this: Abby Flaherty, Mike Flaherty’s four-year-old daughter, wakes up to the crash of her stain-glass window ornament being blown to the ground by the frigid winter air. Bleary-eyed, she moseys on over to it, picks it up, and the dialogue is christened by the child’s sharp fricative,  

“Shit!”

It’s not long before we find our next example; as Mike heads out the door to work, his wife Jackie (Amy Ryan) reminds him, in her spot-on screech of a Jersey-Mom accent, that he needs to call someone to take care of the immense, looming Mercer Oak- or what’s left of it- in the front yard. The charred splinters at the top lead us to assume that this towering tree fell victim to a recent storm. Assuring his wife that he can handle it, Mike’s words seem just as hollow as his new wooden adversary.

Minutes later, we follow Mike to a weathered residence, home to his make-shift law firm with Vic (Jeffery Tambor). Going into the basement, he frets with Vic over the terminal state of their boiler, and the six stacks it will take to get a new one. While both of them try to downplay the dire need, the boiler clangs out with startling sonority, an iconoclastic mimicking of church bells.

“We better get the hell out of hear before this thing blows,” Vic suggest as the band-aid solution. As the movie progresses, we find even more problems with the crumbling building, as Mike’s secretary Shelly is quick to point on. The clogged toilet is unable to be unplugged by Mike pathetic attempts with the plunger. Just as crucial is the lack of a functioning copier, but it is Mike’s inability to correct the flawed electronic back-up system that brings him to the end of his figurative rope. These episodes of dilapidation exemplify our embattlement in day-to-day life, as well as firing up the forge in which our protagonist's mettle will be tested.

The dysfunctional undertones also transcends into Mike's interactions with others, and his surprising strong-headed nature is revealed. We see this kind of brashness in the archetypal rebellious teen (Kyle) and over-protective mother (Jackie), but it is much subtler in affable Mike Flaherty. Giamatti’s character (a far cry from the “I am not drinking any FUCKING merlot” Giamatti we saw in Sideways) clearly elicits the most empathy from the audience. We are subjected to his early-morning lumberings in sweat-drenched, ill-fitting sweats, as well as his single-cigarette satiations: he buys a pack at the local gas station, but throws the whole pack away after lighting the first.  Within these first twenty minutes of the film, McCarthy has struck a chord that resonates with the everyday man; he renders us unable to resist the charm of this loveable loser, the short, doughy un-athlete with whom we can all commiserate. 

But it is Mike’s stubbornness that is most humanizing, and as a result, contributes most to McCarthy theme of the necessity of humility. This is primarily visible through his insisting on trying to fix the aforementioned nuisances by himself. With the tree, he tells his wife they don’t need a professional. With Vic, he says they don’t need a new boiler. With Shelly he assures her that he can fix the toilet, and that they can make do with a busted copier. We all recognize this paternal, drive-off-a-cliff-before-asking-directions behavior that stems from a man’s primal role as provider.

However, it is this basic pride, initially harmless, that leads our endearing Papa bear to make the most egregious decision of the movie. Out of a financial desperation which he is keeping secret from his family, he deceives the judicial system, becoming his client's legal guardian, thus garnering a $1500 monthly stipend. Once the status of "guardian" is obtained, he ships his client Leo, against his will, off to Oak Hill Assisted Living, so that won’t have put any effort into caring for him. Further complicating matters, he spins a web of lies to keep the truth of this situation from Kyle, Jackie, Leo, and others.

Amidst swirling litigations, athletic disappointments, and uncertainty both familial and finacial, Mike now realizes that in trying to take control of what he cannot, he has risked losing everything that he cares about. Resolved to remedy the mess that he’s made, he spends the night on Leo's couch, planning to move Leo back home in the morning, and fight in court to keep him there.

The morality of this decision is clear, but the future of Mike and his family is facing unprecedented uncertainty, thanks to the external circumstances and complications brought on by his hubris. What was once a desperate attempt at salvaging his business and family, now threatens to destroy both. But Mike puts aside all concerns, and simply acts on his convictions. And his valiant humility is rewarded; thanks to the moral bankruptcy of his prosecution, he manages to keep his business and family intact. Yet as a consequence for his trickery, he now has to work two jobs and take care of Leo. Despite these hardships, we find Mike admitting at the movie’s close that he is truly content. And it is with this contentment we see that Mike has finally heeded the ring-side advice that he gave Kyle before Sectionals:

“Stay in this, ok? This is your place, this is your place, remember? You control this!”

Putting on the Ritz-y

Last night, Erika and I hit up the classiest venue I've ever been at, Lincoln Hall, to see The Joy Formidable. I feel like you can tell a lot about a venue by their bathrooms, and let me tell you, these were some immaculate bathrooms. You could eat off the floor in that place- a heavy abuse of that expression, I know, but you get my point: the place was ship-shape. My only complaint was that there were soooooo many dudes, which was really weird. I initially thought/hoped that, given the pop-ish type melodies of the band, there'd be a plethora of adorably-hip 20-somethings, but nope; just a bunch of hairy, old dudes. (Speaking of hairy, old dudes, tUnE-yArDs, a Lymph Node favorite, will be playing in May at Lincoln Hall. I'm totally pumped for that show, since Merrill Garbus is my homeboy homegirl.)

A little background on the band first: Ritzy Bryan (vocal, guitar), Rhydian Dafydd (bass, backing vocals), and Matt Thomas (drums) make up this North Wales crew. They've been around for a few years, but only recently have they truly been garnering notoriety. Making their second trip to Chicago, they are currently on tour promoting their debut album, The Big Roar, released this past January off Atlantic. Before the concert, I wouldn't have described their sound as terribly original, simply following safely on the poppier side of the rock spectrum. But all-in-all, an album that is in regular rotation on my iTunes. Oh and did I mention that she is approximately yay gorgeous? (shout out to Space Invaders on the pic below)

I went in semi-excited about the concert; I had listen to their whole album several times, so I felt familiar with the band. They definitely seemed to be more of a guilty pleasure for me than some great cause with which to align myself. But from the very first number, this concert sure changed my perception of these Welshian wonders.

They commenced the show with "The Everchanging Spectrum of a Lie", the opening track off Roar. It became immediately apparent that these musicians were not fucking around, aside from some impish pushing and shoving on stage between Dafydd and Ritzy (which made me and every other male embarrassingly jealous). I can only hope that they are cousins; but then again, I don't know how they roll over in Wales. Anyways, Thomas and Dayfdd starting pounding away from the get-go, and I was startled at this unexpected flexing of their face-melting, musical muscles.

The menacing ferocity with which they were cranking out these songs I had considered simple was juxtaposed against the known commodity of Ritzy's vocals. She ranged adroitly from delicately seductive to haunting, the coos of intertwined lovers to eerie, stone-well echoes, and the result was mesmerizing. I liken this combination to the visible killer instinct creeping, mid-race, onto the delicate countenance of elite female harriers, i.e. the unflappable Heather Dorniden. The intervals I would do with that girl... and, being the running nerd I am,  I mean that in the most non-venereal sense.

And the mates carried this energy throughout the entire set, setting high points at Roar standouts "Austere", "Cradle" and my personal favorite "Whirring", in which Ritzy's opening lines saying, "this much delight, fills columns to new heights" seem to perfectly capture the blissful nature of the show. After a brief respite from the musical onslaught, the band mates returned to the stage to close with "A Heavy Abacus", a slow-building snowball of a tune, that flowed seamlessly into the album's quintessential instance of Ritzy's vocal dichotomy: whispering verses preceded a mounting mantra that gains power with each utterance. "Abacus haunting me!" she belts, to which my only response is a sassy "girl, please!" Everyone is the audience knows that the only haunting being done is by the coquettish, straight-banged beauty with the mic.

Whirring by The Joy Formidable

Download here with "Austere" and "Cradle" as well. Just scroll down and click-and-drag the mp3 link right into your download window.

To Be Continued...

"When a person is lucky enough to live inside a story, to live inside an imaginary world, the pains of this world disappear. For as long as the story goes on, reality no longer exists." 

The Brooklyn Follies by Paul Auster

I found this quote earlier today and thought it would easily prompt a post. I then looked further into the context of the quote and saw that it was a maxim concluding a delightful anecdote about Austrian writer Franz Kafka. In the story, Kafka is consoling a young girl in the park who had just lost her doll. I will get more in-depth with this later, but anyways, he tells her a story about the doll to distract the girl from her loss. This description doesn't really justify the aforementioned delightful-ness , but I promise it will seem a lot more charming when I delve into it later. 

My first reaction after hearing this story in a work of fiction was to check on the accuracy of the story. It was in my search immediately after that I found the written account of Dora Diamant. Diamant was not only the last romantic interest of Kafka, but more importantly, a first-hand witness of this uncharacteristically tender moment  for Kafka. Reading through her portrayal of the event, it was nearly identical to Auster's interpretation in Follies; if anything, his version is just watered-down in terms of detail. My personal favorite is his line, "He immediately starts inventing a story to explain what happened" replacing Diamant's "At once he invented a sufficiently plausible story to explain the disappearance of the doll...". I mean, seriously? Don't bullshit a bullshitter, Paul, and especially not this poorly. That's the thing about plagiarism: if you're going to plagiarize effectively, it can be more work than just making you're own opinion. Below are the links, you can judge for yourself on the severity of Auster's crime. FYI, the copyright for Kafka's Last Love: The Mystery of Dora Diamant is 2003, while Auster's Follies is 2006.

The Brooklyn Follies- middle of page 138, starting at "All right. The story of the doll..."

Kafka's Last Love: The Mystery of Dora Diamant- middle of page 51, starting at "One day, as they were walking..."

So that put a hold on my post, and I also have to wait a couple days to get one of the Kafka biographies. The specific one I wanted was by the initial interviewer of Diamant, Marthe Robert, and neither the Wheaton College nor the Wheaton Public library had it in stock. But that library Inter-loan program is pretty badass; I'll get that book in a couple days. Honestly, this will  probably turn out to be more research than I did my two years at Wheaton combined. I'm just such a stubborn son of a bitch that when I am told I have to research, and of what I have to research about, I don't do it. Like at all. 

Really busy week at Shane's, but my hours will be back to normal this week. Unless, of course, Dustin gets that job at the Museum of Science and Industry, which I hope he does. Dustin's a sincerely good dude with that sense of moral reciprocity that makes him the ideal co-worker. He's old-school like that.

In other news, I started Infinite Jest by the inspiration for this particular blog's name, David Foster Wallace. I can already tell that I am going to love that book. However, it is so dense, literally and linguistically, that it's going to be more of a savoring than devouring, meaning that posts might be a tad fewer and far between. I know, I know, try to contain the wailing and gnashing of teeth, countless followers. Just understand that I am cheating on you with someone that really knows a thing or two about style. 

Sleigh Bells- Crown on the Ground

A truly epic cut by Brooklyn duo Sleigh Bells. The distorted guitars are unrelenting throughout the entire song, ranging shrilly enough to match the notes of vocalist Alexis Krauss. I like thinking of "set that crown on the ground" as Krauss calling out the prom queen of her high school, and it seems to make sense with the album art and the other lyrics. The opening lines, "you never doubted it, you're so proud of it, you straight shouted it, there's no doubt of it, you couldn't care less," specifically remind me of those high school cheerleaders- you know the type. I probably would call my prom queen out too if I could recollect who won the award. I was pretty busy trying to not embarrass myself by dancing, yet also to avoid any attention being drawn to the fact that I was avoiding dancing. Let's just say the that thin line between the two was the only thing I was incompetently straddling that night.

I absolutely love the pedigree of this band: Derek E. Miller, former shredder for Poison the Well, and Krauss, former teenybopper for short-lived Rubyblue, met while Miller waited on Krauss and her mother's table, and the rest is history. Have you seen these two? They are just too fucking adorable. Anyways, this is off their debut album, Treats, check the download below.

download here