Dyslexic Heart

I made it through Band on the Run and just cannot bring myself to continue my latest project. I guess I achieved my goal of determining the precise point when Paul McCartney’s career became an embarrassment. It was April 1970, when he released his first solo album. Sure, he had some decent songs here and there, but most of his post-Beatles material is a steaming pile. 

Going into this thing, I figured the career turn occurred in the mid-1980s. When I was only 13, Spies Like Us and his cameo in that Tracy Ullman video left a long-lasting impression on me: Macca was a shameless dork. Knowing how great The Beatles were, I assumed the evolution from great to crap took a while. Not so much. 

It’s the middle of November in Minneapolis. We are entering the time of year when I ask myself and anyone who will listen why the fuck we live in this frozen wasteland. Fortunately, several nights each year, I am reminded. Tonight was such a night.

I live here because I got to see Prince play nearly every Friday and Saturday during the summer of 1995.

I live here because The Gear Daddies helped me survive being surrounded by a bunch of asshats in college.

I live here because I got to see the final Trip Shakespeare shows at The Cabooze and most of the early Pleasure/Semisonic shows at 7th Street Entry, The 400 Bar and First Avenue. 

I live here because I get to see Dan Wilson play several times every year.

I live here because I get to see The New Standards’ annual holiday show, when John, Steve and Chan get together with other talented Minneapolis musicians, like Jeremy Messersmith, Dan Wilson and Matt Wilson, for the most spirited show of the year.

I live here because Haley Bonar has the voice of an angel. 

I live here because there’s always a chance Paul Westerberg might show up.

I live here because I know the skyway don’t move at all like a subway.

I live here because Soul Asylum is still the best bar band in America, and the bars they still play are within 10 minutes of my house.

I live here because I drive by at least one Craig Finn reference every single day.

I live here because—like so many songs by these great musicians—Minneapolis is scratched into my soul. 

I may have to abandon my Paul McCartney project. I’ve listened to McCartney, Ram and part of Wild Life. Three albums in, and I’m trying to decide whether pills would be easier than taking a nap in the garage with the Buick idling. For every great song, there are at least eight that are either complete garbage or mediocre. I figured Macca’s career slide occurred sometime in the mid-80s. I’m starting to think it happened in April 1970 with the release of his first solo album. 

I’m on a mission to figure out the precise point at which Paul McCartney’s music started to suck. In the coming weeks, I’ll be working my way through his post-Beatles catalog with the goal of determining the album that was the turning point between mostly great and completely embarrassing. I shall report my findings when I return from this important mission. Wish me luck.

A few weeks ago, I got an e-mail from my high school alumni office requesting permission to give my contact information to a classmate. This triggered a chain of events that has pushed me into full-on reminiscing mode like you wouldn’t believe. Suddenly, for the first time in 15+ years, I’m in contact with several people with whom I spent the better part of four years. I’ve exchanged e-mails and Facebook posts with all of them and even had dinner with one. In just three weeks, the whole crew is getting together for drinks and dinner.

As a result of all of these voices from the past, I’ve found myself revisiting The Box, a collection of items I can never bring myself to toss—photos, notebooks containing bad poetry and other mementos. The most insightful glimpse into my past has come from a shoebox full of notes. As I comb through these gems I’m realizing my memory of high school is way different from the reality I was dealing with at the time.

Overall, I look back at high school fondly. I remember having some of the best friends a guy could ask for and enjoying the experience. Maybe it’s all relative. I have mostly bad memories of grade school, and although college started off OK, the last two years were a nightmare. So compared to the 13 years that made up kindergarten through eighth grade plus college, my four years of high school were a pleasant stroll through a field of daisies.

Don’t get me wrong. I wouldn’t want to relive my high school years, and I’ve never referred to them as the best years of my life. I’m not that guy. But I’m also not one to dismiss high school as a tragic, painful time. Maybe I’ve been kidding myself.

As I’ve been pulling random notes out of the shoebox, I’m finding that my friends and I were absolutely miserable. Many of the notes paint a picture of tortured boyfriend/girlfriend relationships (or lack of, in my case), petty disagreements with other friends and the agony of every tiny aspect of our lives. Holy shit! We were typical, overdramatic teenagers. 

Despite all of this drama and misery, I still remember the high school experience positively. I think it’s because for the first time my friendships were based on emotional connections. We weren’t friends because we lived near each other, liked the same baseball team or needed someone to play catch with. We were friends because we understood each other. We cared about each other. We would have done anything for each other. My relationships with my best friends were built on endless hours on the telephone late at night, therapy via notes written in purple ink, and a shoulder to cry on whenever one of us needed one. I had never felt loved like that and had never cared so deeply for anyone before. 

I guess having really close friends who meant the world to me supersedes all of the overdramatic teen angst because most of the bad stuff is confined to an old shoebox and has long since vanished from my mind.

I give you the video for the song that gave me the title for this blog, featuring some fine dancing by Jeremy Piven (with way less hair than he has 15 years later).

Last night, Michele and I got into a heated debate over the merits of candy corn. I proclaimed it one of the lowest forms of candy. Michele didn’t really disagree but defended it by insisting it can be mixed with peanuts and M&Ms to form a distant cousin of trail mix that tastes like a Salted Nut Roll. If you want something that tastes like a Salted Nut Roll, why not just buy a Salted Nut Roll? Candy corn be damned. 

Anyway, this got me thinking about the worst common Halloween giveaways from my youth. People who have ever given away any of the following “treats” on Halloween should be banished to hell forever.

• Candy corn: See above. 
• Pennies: If you’re one of those assholes who cleaned out his change jar every October by giving the neighborhood kids five pennies each, you’re a cheap motherfucker who deserved to have his house plastered with eggs. 
• Fruit: Your good intentions of supporting healthy habits were wasted, hippie. I guarantee none of your tasty apples ever made it home before being discarded. Even though they’re packaged, raisins fall under this category. Nature’s candy, my ass.
• Anything homemade: Handing out something you took the time and effort to prepare may have been a quaint practice in the 1960s, but by the early ’80s even bad parents recognized the harm in letting their kids eat your potentially tainted cookies.
• Peanut Butter Chews: If you think no candy can taste worse than candy corn, put one of these chewy shit nuggets in your mouth. You’ll never want to trick-or-treat again.

This has happened before. I start a blog, write for two weeks and then get bored. Fuck it. I’m just not a good blogger. I may still use this space when I feel the need to babble, but for now I can be found on Twitter.

Yesterday morning, we were treated to a rare viewing of “Lost in Your Eyes” on VH1 Classic. Michele suggested “Lost in Your Eyes” is Debbie Gibson’s best song. Although it is her most popular, I wasn’t so quick to accept this obvious choice. Instead, I retreated to my lab basement for a few hours of in-depth analysis. I decided to rank Debbie’s songs from best to worst. 

Ground rules: no covers, no b-sides, no imports—only U.S. album tracks from the albums between Out of the Blue and Deborah. I didn’t include M.Y.O.B. simply because I had quit paying attention by that time and never got around to buying it. 

With that, I give you the list (with comments for selected songs):

1. No More Rhyme: The last Top 20 single for Debs, NMR beat out Lost in Your Eyes by a squeaker. Early in my analysis, it seemed as though the little-known Goodbye might rise to the top. However, it was not to be.
2. Lost In Your Eyes: Despite it’s No. 2 slot on the list, Lost in Your Eyes remains a classic. 
3. Goodbye: Without question, Debbie’s ballads have always been better than her other songs. The final track on the Body Mind Soul album, Goodbye nearly pulled an upset, but ultimately fell to No. 3 on the list.
4. Shake Your Love: Debbie’s poppiest song, Shake Your Love is also the best of her non-ballads. After hearing it, I just can’t shake the chorus—the sign of a great pop song.
5. Let’s Run Away: The 1995 Think With Your Heart album had several strong ballads but none as strong as this track. 
6. Ode To A Would Be Lover: The top-placing track from Deborah, Ode To A Would Be Lover charts high despite it’s lame title.
7. We Could Be Together: If I hadn’t excluded remixes from the competition, the Campfire Mix of this song would have likely cracked the Top 5. 
8. Between The Lines: Also the title of Debbie’s autobiography, Between the Lines also seemed like a stronger choice than Staying Together for the fifth single from the Out of the Blue album. Unfortunately, record labels are run by morons, so it remained an album track.
9. Only In My Dreams: Any Debbie Gibson Top 10 without this song would be a sham.
10. Out Of The Blue: Ditto.
11. Foolish Beat: This is a controversial placing for Debbie’s first No. 1 single. I find it a tad overwrought.
12. One Hand, One Heart: The No. 12-14 picks are the highest-placing songs from the Anything is Possible album. AIP suffered from being overproduced and far too long for its own good. Clocking in at nearly 80 minutes, the album was divided by two sides, NRG Up and Mood Swings. NRG Up pretty much sucks. Mood Swings contains all of the ballads and would have been a pretty solid album without the other eight tracks.
13. Sure
14. Try
15. How Can This Be?: Getting dumped = good song.
16. Dancin’ In My Mind: Have I mentioned that I really like the Think With Your Heart album? This ballad is another reason why.
17. You Don’t Have To See: Much like better-known Debbie ballads No More Rhyme and Foolish Beat and despite being recorded in the mid-’90s, this song features that dependable staple of the ’80s—the sax solo.
18. Who Loves Ya Baby?: The opening track from the Electric Youth album, Who Loves Ya Baby? is the highest ranking upbeat Debbie song never released as a single. 
19. Where I Wanna Be
20. Should’ve Been The One
21. Wake Up To Love
22. Cry Tonight
23. Helplessly In Love
24. Can’t Do It Alone
25. Didn’t Have The Heart
26. Think With Your Heart
27. Only Words
28. Deep Down
29. Staying Together
30. Where Have You Been?
31. Two Young Kids
32. I Will Let You Go
33. Just Wasn’t Love
34. Over The Wall
35. This So-Called Miracle: This song isn’t bad, but it’s more than seven minutes long. I guess this is Deb’s Freebird. 
36. Love in Disguise
37. Red Hot
38. Fallen Angel
39. Losin’ Myself
40. Shades of the Past
41. Mood Swings
42. Do You Have It In Your Heart?
43. Another Brick Falls
44. Naturally
45. For Better or Worse
46. Anything is Possible: Wondering which of Debbie’s songs has the worst production? With vocals alternating between channels early in the song, this one is the clear winner.
47. Silence Speaks (A Thousand Words): The opening flute solo is enough to ruin an otherwise decent ballad.
48. Tear Down These Walls
49. In His Mind
50. Free Me
51. Love Or Money
52. Kisses 4 One
53. Give Me Your Love
54. Electric Youth: This song was actually a hit. Wow.
55. It Must’ve Been My Boy
56. Play The Field
57. Nobody’s You
58. Dontcha Want Me Now?
59. Stand Your Ground
60. Negative Energy: The drum beat on this song sounds like it was produced on the Casio keyboard I had as a child.
61. One Step Ahead: This is one of the dreaded Anything is Possible songs featuring Debbie rapping. Not a good idea.
62. Lead Them Home My Dreams: Too much production for too little of a song.
63. When I Say No: Debbie takes on date rape and teaches a generation of girls how to fend off advances from the quarterback.
64. I Can’t: This song is just really dull.
65. Shock Your Mama: Debbie’s mama was her manager. She should have been shocked at how bad this song was and pulled it from the album. Somehow it ended up as a single. 
66. Reverse Psychology: Whoever encouraged Debbie to rap on the Anything is Possible album should be severely punished. 
67. Moonchild: The title alone is enough to place Moonchild in the bottom five.
68. Too Fancy: With sort of a cabaret vibe to it, this song is just too Broadway.
69. Butterflies Are Free: Horrible title and horrible lyrics. Barely edged out for worst song by Little Birdie.
70. Little Birdie: Despite a fairly decent chorus, every other part of this song is unlistenable. 

I’m usually pretty good at quickly figuring out people. When meeting a new coworker, I can tell whether he will be decent to work with, unable to play well with others or simply annoying almost immediately. My first impression is nearly always on target. Apparently this talent doesn’t translate to dogs.

When we began looking for a new boxer, the first dog we met was Zoe. She was sweet and affectionate, but I didn’t immediately see her as my dog. Maybe it was her rough exterior. She was recovering from neglect and mange that had left her skinny and spotted with bald patches. Maybe I wasn’t yet ready to commit to another dog just a couple months after Abby died. Whatever it was, I figured the hour or so we spent with Zoe would be the last time I saw her. 

We met several other adoptable boxers over the next few weeks. One needed way too much attention than we could give. Another had separation anxiety. And another was likely to pee in the house. None of them seemed quite right. Around the time we were becoming impatient, Zoe’s mange had subsided and was nearly ready to find a home. Michele convinced me to have another look. I’m so glad she did.

Zoe had put on weight—no longer scrawny. Her patchy coat had filled in and was shiny. And, most importantly, time had begun to heal my wounded heart.

A few days later, Zoe moved in. It turns out she’s the perfect dog for us. Every time she nudges my arm to request ear scratches or puts her head in my lap and sighs, I’m so glad my first impression was wrong.