The Blood Brothers - Rats and Rats and Rats For Children
Pretty sure general opinion is that Burn Piano Island Burn is the best Blood Brothers record, and while I agree that it’s amazing, I just, well, there’s something about Crimes that just does it for me. I love it. It’s my favorite. I remembered that today while driving down the freeway. Coincidentally, I drove really fast.
When it comes time to write new songs and I inevitably begin freaking out, convinced that I can’t write songs anymore and have absolutely no good ideas (if I ever had any to begin with), and I start listening to other bands’ records in an attempt to borrow (read: steal) some ideas, I’m reaching for Crimes first.
For the past couple days at work I’ve been asking my co-workers unsolicited would you rather questions. Today’s question was:
Would you rather…?
Only be allowed to speak in mixed football metaphors…
"That dinner was an 80 yard touchdown run right into my stomach!"
"I thought I was going to get off early today but then my boss intercepted my plans and sacked me for a safety with a last minute report to do by tomorrow’s coin toss."
"Honey, I’ve been in love with you ever since our first touchdown when we scored that two point conversion by the beach, would you take this super bowl ring and do me the honor of being my go to wide receiver till death do us part?"
Every single purchase you make for the rest of your life, no matter how big or how small, must be paid for in full with unwrapped and unsorted American nickles. Keep in mind rent, car purchases, going out to the bar, traveling abroad.
“We desire passionately that there should be another life in which we would be similar to what we are here below. But we do not reflect that, even without waiting for that other life, but in this one, after a few years we are unfaithful to what we have been, to what we have wanted to remain immortally…We dream a great deal of paradise, or, rather, of numerous successive paradises, but they are all, long before we die, paradises lost, in which we would feel lost.”—
Marcel Proust, Sodom and Gomorrah
And since we’re quoting Proust here, thought I’d throw in one of my favorites. It made its way into a couple lines of a song I wrote.
Sometimes sadness feels happy / Sometimes sadness keeps my head / Sometimes it helps me to get by /Maybe I don’t make much sense.
Listening to this song on the drive home from work last night, I realized that Greg from the Bouncing Souls is in quite good company with this sentiment.
As for happiness, that is really useful to us in the one way only, by making unhappiness possible. It is necessary for us to form in happiness ties of confidence and attachment that are both sweet and strong in order that their rupture may cause us the heart-rending but so valuable agony which is called unhappiness. Had we not been happy, if only in hope, the unhappiness that befall us would be without cruelty and therefore without fruit.
-Marcel Proust, Time Regained
Ay, in the very temple of Delight
Veil’d Melancholy has her sovran shrine,
Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue
Yesterday I made chili based from a really good recipe, except that I used brisket instead of chuck (local, grass fed, expensive as shit, and worth it). It’s amazing chili on it’s own and I highly recommend cooking up a batch. My particular batch was for a specific cause: pizza. Last week my friend Bill texted me, half joking, suggesting that I make chili pizza. I didn’t get the joke part at all. Instead I immediately embraced the idea and then suggested that the best dough for said chili pizza would be corn bread dough. So yesterday, not only did I make chili, simmering the meat for 5 hours until it was absurdly tender, but I also replaced one third of the bread flour from my normal pizza dough recipe with corn meal. Today I made chili pizza. It looked like a less blurry version of this:
It tasted incredible. Chili is now one of my new favorite pizza toppings.
Next time I will try a more corn flavored dough, altering a cornbread recipe for pizza, instead of a pizza recipe for cornbread.
Earlier tonight I was riding my bike home from a local double A baseball game (we lost) and I heard screams coming a well lit alley. I looked down the alley when I rode by and saw a woman lying on her back with a person crouched above her, grabbing her (the screaming woman) by the neck. Now there are a lot of bars in this area and they’re kinda douchey bars to boot, so my first thought was that what I saw in the alley was some sort of absurd joking around between a frat/sorority couple. I entertained that thought for a split second, but the screams didn’t sound fake, and nothing about the scene I saw seemed funny. Something had to be wrong here. I immediately stopped my bike and turned back to the alley (I was forty feet down the road by this point). At the alley I jumped off, leaving my back in the middle of the street, just in time to run into a disheveled woman running from the alley. I stopped her and was immediately joined by man, another passerby suspicious of what was happening, and he helped keep this woman from running. We didn’t really have any idea what was going on. It was all a blur. The woman we stopped from the alley was holding a nice white leather purse, and so I grabbed that purse. She gave it up instantly, much to my surprise really, and while we (the crowd around me now had swelled to 4) were all still unsure what was happening (it had been about 30 seconds of action at this point, action we were all just thrown into without seeing it from the start) the woman I took the purse from ran away. I thought to stop her, but still didn’t know if she was the actual mugger, and well, I’m not about to just tackle some random woman in the street. So the mugger got away before we all realized she was a mugger at all. The good news is that I had the purse. I had successfully mugged the mugger. Holding the purse, I walked back down the alley as the mugged woman—petite, middle aged, dressed nicely—was getting up and dusting herself off. I confirmed that the purse I was holding was indeed hers. It wasn’t until this point that I began to realize what all had happened. I double checked to make sure the mugged woman was ok and gave her her purse back. She thanked me, explaining that she had mase in her purse but couldn’t get to it in time to stave off the attack. At that point it occurred to me that there was a criminal on the loose in the vicinity, and so I hopped on my bike in the hopes to find the mugger. I rode around a few blocks but didn’t see anyone. A few minutes later I returned to the scene of the crime to find that the mugged woman had left. I talked to a few witnesses still gathered there, and we exchanged stories, still loaded with adrenaline and in disbelief at what just happened in the last few minutes. Someone told me that the mugger had ditched the orange sweatshirt she had been wearing, so none of us had any way to identify her. I’m not even sure if at any point anyone there called the cops. Realizing that there was nothing left to do, I got back on my bike and rode home happy that everyone was safe, but a little upset that no one would be caught.