Best Albums of 2007

THE USUAL SUSPECTS

Let me start by saying that I've decided to never utter "This year was a disappointment," in regards to music, ever again. Not that this year (or any other year) was not rife with musical disappointments but, as I get older, that phrase just sounds whiny. Life might as well be a disappointment if I can no longer find things right in it. Since I choose not to see the world only as a grand failure (or at least the human part of it), I must simply accept the changes of middle age and move onward and upward.

This year had an interesting mix: some oldies put out solid but underwhelming products; some newbies rocked into heavy rotation. Casting a backward glance at past year end lists, I see patterns. Eric Bachmann (whether alone or as Crooked Fingers), The Decemberists, Tom Waits, and others have made my lists multiple years in a row. Hell, Crooked Fingers took top honors twice. And what about Ben Gibbard? He made the same list twice (Death Cab and Postal Service).

None of these artists are on this year's list. And while there are some repeat placers (Band of Horses, Wilco, Modest Mouse), top honors and big surprises go to new artists.

REITERATION OF THE PROCESS

This list is by no means a complete list—at least as true music critics and/or fanatics would have it. I cannot keep up with the sheer output of the world's artists. The best I can do is wait around for the usual suspects to put out new things, and lurk on Pitchfork, skimming reviews for highly rated albums and give some of them a try. In this respect, emusic.com needs to take some credit for my listening habits (and choices): If something new pops up on Pitchfork, and emusic has it, I will listen and download. Two of this year's top ten finishers came to me this way.

Other almost-rans (honorable mentions) might have made the top ten had they not gotten lost in the volume of downloads. Here again, my age shows. I can't get to it all—even the ones that I choose to download. I have my emusic subscription (65 downloads a month) and I can't keep up! Oh well.

So, with this in mind, I set forth the usual criteria: The albums on this list are ones that stuck. I either wore them out in the car, or I shuffled through them on the computer at work. All of the albums have tracks that made it to mixes.

And, like previous years, the albums that seemed to not only have kept my attention, but helped define the year as a whole, placed highest. In fact, if you were to chop all the other useless nonsense here (especially my long-winded prose), take the top three albums on my list and you've got an accurate summation of 2007.

Get on with it…

10. Interpol – Our Love To Admire

I'll admit, I don't particularly care for Interpol. I borrowed my good friend Brian Candler's copy of Turn On The Bright Lights and couldn't get into it. Yeah, it's good. But I don't own it—and probably never will. When Antics came out, I bought it. I listened to it. I kind of liked it. I think I even included it in my mentions (or did it make the top ten?! I can't remember!) for that year. And, like several of the other artists on this list, I caught them performing on Letterman. They were not good. I don't think I even made it through the entire performance before stopping the DVR.

When Our Love To Admire came out, I didn't rush to purchase it. In fact, when I did buy it, I did so because I just felt like buying something (o you American fool!). For all the "one-trick-ponyness" of this band, I really like this album. There is a quality on this one that I think the others lack: maturity.

As a happily married man, I have serious problems with the lyrics of "No I In Threesome." But it is my absolute favorite track on the album. And, interestingly enough, I find the best tracks on this album ("Pioneer To The Falls") are thematically reminiscent of the overall tone of Neon Bible. There's a sadness here…

9. Spoon – Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga

Why isn't this higher? Why am I just now listening to Spoon? When it comes to "discovering" new music, one has to either spend considerable energies tracking down everything all the time, or one simply accepts that some things will go unlistened, undiscovered.

Luckily, I caught Spoon on Letterman. They performed "Underdog" and I was immediately hooked. I went out the next day (well, maybe not) and bought the disc. The strength of Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga is found in "Don't Make Me a Target," "You Got Yr. Cherry Bomb," and "Underdog." It would be higher on the list, though, if for a few tracks that disrupt the overall package: "The Ghost of You Lingers" deflates the tense energy drummed up by "Don't Make Me a Target." The same could be said for "My Little Japanese Cigarette Case." There again, the album is buoyed back up when one considers the strength of all the lyrics. "Target" and "Underdog" are both in the running for best damn song of the year.

8. The Shins – Wincing The Night Away

Earlier this year, I woke up at two a.m. to the sound of knocking. Looking out of our second story windows, I saw a convertible Sebring crumpled up against my poor little Civic. This incident marks my relationship with Wincing The Night Away. I know this because I spent the weeks following the accident driving a brand new Dodge Charger (oh, how I loved that car… against my better judgment, of course!). The only cd that I had in the Charger for the two weeks I drove it was Wincing The Night Away.

Now, let me add that my "memory" (or recounting of it) is a bit fuzzy. I'd had the album for almost a month before the Charger entered the picture. I'd listened to it a few times and was less than enamored of it. It also didn't help that the cd wound up in my wife's car.

The result? Where I had, for the most part, moved on, dismissed it, Mandy had been slowly falling in love with it. When I realized this, I wanted it back. Enter the Charger. And so, Wincing The Night Away fits some of the crucial criteria: It represents a piece of 2007. It spent a good bit of time in heavy rotation. And it is, more or less, a solid album.

It doesn't, however, place higher on the list because it's not Oh, Inverted World. That sounds bad, especially since Chutes Too Narrow falls between the two. But I have to say, I love The Shins. I've seen them live twice and they did not disappoint. And yet… what is clearly good music has a habit of not sticking. That is, I would liken both Chutes and Wincing to a good sugar rush. In the moment, they're exactly what I crave but, a few hours later, I've forgotten about the rush and find myself snacking on something else.

"Sleeping Lessons," "Australia," and "Phantom Limb" are, regardless of my not-so-kind words most excellent songs. Yeah, it's a good album.

7. Andrew Bird – Armchair Apocrypha

Okay, this one's higher on the list than maybe it deserves (based on my criteria). I usually include one like it every year: A great album that I didn't really listen to as much as some of the others. What can I say? Despite the failings of old standby's (Wilco and The Shins), I listened to them more than I did this little gem.

"Fiery Crash" made it on to almost every mix I made this year. "Scythian Empires" is a morsel of orchestrated beauty. And, come on, the last track merits mentioning by title alone: "Yawn at the Apocalypse." All in all, this is a solid, cohesive album. And, I have to admit that Armchair makes the top ten because of my egregious overlooking of Micah P. Hinson's Micah P. Hinson and the Opera Circuit last year.

6. Iron & Wine – The Shepherd's Dog

Brian has been (not so) subtly pushing Iron & Wine on me for years. I downloaded the Woman King – Ep because of Brian. I purchased the Calexico and Iron & Wine Ep, In The Reins, because of Brian. I downloaded "The Trapeze Artist" at Brian's urging.

But…

No one can dispute the artistry of Sam Beam's music. Like Sufjan Stevens, he's carefully crafted a unique sound and he's dogmatically stuck by it. It might be that devotion that's kept Iron & Wine out of my top ten (until now).

There. Do you hear it? There's an armchair critic shouting from the bleachers "It all sounds the same!" And it does. But is that a bad thing? There is no doubt in my mind that an Iron & Wine song should be included on any and all mixes.

But can that sound be sustained for an entire album without straining one's patience? The answer for me now is, yes. The Shepherd's Dog is brilliant. On this album, if one listens closely, one can hear a multitude of subtle textures and finally realize, no, it does not all sound the same. Beam's voice and the hushed mixing of his songs disguise—for the initiate—a wealth of beauty beneath.

In the face of this estimation, why isn't this album higher on the list? Well, here again, like Sufjan, one can only take so much. Driving back from D.C. several weeks ago, I was starting to fade. I couldn't find the right thing to listen to to keep me awake. I popped Shepherd's Dog into the player, but after one song, I had to move to something else (that something else wound up being my number one pick for this year…). In this way, I will liken Shepherd's Dog to a Jim Jarmusch film. You've got to be fully awake and fully attentive to really appreciate it.

5. Wilco – Sky Blue Sky

In my head note, I mentioned the idea that most of my lists for the past five years have been collections of the same artists, their positions only slightly shuffled. There's something to be said about a band (or artist) that can consistently produce worthwhile music. One hit wonders are fine for blips and bops; give me a band that I can grow old with. Wilco is one of those. I will buy anything they put out. As such, everything they put out is good. Music critics (and even a significant portion of Wilco fans) will be quick to point out that Yankee Hotel Foxtrot represents the pinnacle, that everything since has been consistent but not necessarily genius. Take this excerpt from Rob Mitchum's review of Sky Blue Sky, for instance, "An album of unapologetic straightforwardness, Sky Blue Sky nakedly exposes the dad-rock gene Wilco has always carried but courageously attempted to disguise. Never has the band sounded more passive, from the direct and domestic nature of Tweedy's lyrics, to the soft-rock-plus-solos format (already hinted at on Ghost's "At Least That's What You Said" and "Hell Is Chrome") that most of its songs adhere to."

But… in a year where some of the best music was not so straightforward, the "dad-rock" of Sky Blue Sky was comforting. Yeah, many of the tracks descend into guitar masturbation, but masturbation isn't always a bad thing… I guess I'm at "dad" age and so I like this album. I will add that I liked it immediately (even as I noted its flaws) and, as such, stepped away from it pretty quickly. Coming back to it (even before I started thinking about my list), I remembered how instantly likable it is. This is not to say that it gets better with age (theme of the list this year: age), but that it is something worth coming back to.

4. Modest Mouse – We Were Dead Before The Ship Even Sank

Like Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga, this album would be higher on the list if not for its flaws. Unlike Spoon, though, those "flaws" could be with me and not the album. Bottom line: I’m an old fart who can't sustain—er, for the entire album. The sequencing is spot on. It comes on strong. The first track is reminiscent of the carnivalesque that so intrigued me on Good News. The lead in energy of "March Into The Sea" is ramped up with "Dashboard." Think of a car approaching the red line—when that pedal goes down even further, you cross over the line. Scary and exhilarating.

One cannot sustain that kind of energy for long, so "Fire It Up" pulls us back down. Then we're back up again. Then down again. And then… the best song of the year: "Missed the Boat." Where Neon Bible stretches the collective mood of the world over an entire album (more on that further up the list), this song brilliantly sums up the current state of the union. There's even that subtle push of James Mercer singing backup on the chorus. There are several classic Isaac Brock moments ("that good God dam"; "shake shake shake") and in the end we feel better, even though we've "truly missed the boat."

And then… What can I say? At track six I've gotten everything out of the album I need. The strengths of the best tracks on this album strangle out the others.

Or I'm just too damn old to keep listening…

THE TOP THREE

In many respects, the top three albums on my list have nothing in common. The lullaby gone wrong darkness of Neon Bible is the antithesis of the sweet ditties that populate Cease To Begin. The southern-tinged rock of Cease to Begin is geographically removed from the almost (and I use this reference sparingly) eighties pop gloss of The Boxer.

3. Band of Horses – Cease To Begin

When "Is There A Ghost" showed up on Band of Horses's Myspace page, I added it to my profile. Yeah, it's good. And, echoing back to Wilco, Band of Horses is good for what ails this old man.

That's a substantial part of what this album means to me: For all the other music and mayhem in my life, Band of Horses is a solid bit of nostalgia. Their tunes are reminiscent of the good, honest rock and roll of my youth. Where Wilco's masturbatory guitar work is pleasing to my ears, Band of Horses reminds me of why the electric guitar is quite possibly the greatest of all human inventions.

Band of Horses strips all irony from the phrase, "Rock on, dude."

And that's not all. There's a sweetness to Cease To Begin that's missing from the two other albums in my top three. "No One's Gonna Love You" is an honest love song that manages to transcend indie rock irony to a place of pure authenticity.

My only real complaint is one of gentle passing: I would have liked a few more rockers. The crescendo of "Is There A Ghost" starts the album off nicely, and that build pays off in "Ode to LRC," my absolute favorite track from the album. In fact, the line "The world is such a wonderful place," when delivered, is the one of the most authentic affirmations of existence I've heard in a good long while. It's an interesting counterpoint to the gloom of Neon Bible (more on that below).

"No One's Gonna Love You" turns it down nicely. From there, though, the album only really turns back up for "Islands On The Coast." "The General Specific" has a nice rollicking gate, but it doesn't rock. "Cigarettes, Wedding Bands" rocks, but lacks the energy of "Ode to LRC" and "Is There A Ghost."

In the end, though, Cease To Begin clearly belongs in the top three.

2. Arcade Fire – Neon Bible

When this album came out earlier this year, I had immediate mixed feelings. I was excited and looking forward to its release. There was a cloud of mystery and intrigue. Websites were put up. Myspace pages had leaked songs under fake band names. Arcade Fire tested the waters, using a Web 2.0 strategy to shape and mould its newest release.

New release? Funeral was released in 2004. Neon Bible, then, was three years in gestating, or at least there was a pause, a build up, maybe even a strategy.

Then it was here. I ordered it through Amazon.com and got the limited edition with all the extra junk. (At present, because the cd itself is in a non-descript plastic sleeve, I can't find it.)

I popped the disc in and… disco.

No, wait a minute.

"Black Mirror" opens the album and sets an ominous tone. The mix is a kind of sonic storm cloud swirl. Win Butler's voice slips in with lyrics to reflect the tone: "I walked down to the ocean / after waking from a nightmare / no moon no pale reflection…" The song builds ever so slightly to the first chorus, ever swirling, ever winding up until shots ring out—in French—and then cue strings.

Then we cut to "Keep the Car Running," an up-tempo, guitar and mandolin fronted swing. The tone is carried forward by the lyrics, but the airy arrangement contrasts in a compelling way. Much like other songs mentioned on this list, this one has made many mixes—especially the ones I've designed for running (har)!

With these first two tracks, the album's overall effect is established. Good songs that you might find on pop radio (if not for their biting lyrics) mixed with tonal oddities and darker instrumentation.

Earlier, I mentioned being disappointed by Interpol's performance on Letterman. Well, I was fortunate to catch (in high definition, no less) Arcade Fire's Austin City Limits performance. Every shaking bit of that performance is a revelation. What these guys (and girls) are doing is not only unique but enlightening. Hard working evangelists. Every bit of that Austin City Limits performance smacks of church revival. This poor soul has been saved.

Highlights from the album: The organ driven "Intervention." The heartbreaking gallop of "(Antichrist Television Blues)."

In the end, it may not be the best album of the year, but it resonates with (or actually sets) the tone of the year. We are on the cusp of apocalypse and the Arcade Fire will march us right into it, hurdy-gurdy and all…

1. The National – The Boxer

Okay, to steal a phrase from Pitchfork, this one's a "grower." I'd read about it. I'd listened to bits on emusic and decided to give it a try. And, at first, it looked like this album was going to go the way of so many of my other emusic downloads.

Then something magical happened. I found myself running bits of "Fake Empire" over and over again in my head. I went back to the album and fell in love. Of all the albums on my list this year, this one probably got the most play. It was there for me as I navigated the wedding season ("Apartment Story"'s "I getting tied / I'm forgetting why" a connecting line). It was there for me when I was driving back from Asheville with a horrible hangover after seeing The Smashing Pumpkins (thanks, Brian).

In many ways, The Boxer filled the Eric Bachmann void for me this year. Not sure that connection holds water (lyrics and vocals), but when I needed something that was not satisfied by the darkness of Neon Bible, or the honesty of Cease To Begin, I turned to The Boxer.

The rhythm section is out front, driving most of the tracks with an urgency ("Brainy"). I mentioned earlier that the album has an "eighties" quality. This could be a result of the fact that the album doesn't rely on guitar (what was I just saying about guitar?!), but on a kind of polished, almost synth-flecked tone. Don't mistake me. Rather, I might suggest that The Boxer encapsulates all the best qualities of eighties music and repackages them with a new-millennium sensibility. In the cracks, I hear the best qualities of The Cure and U2.

Anyway, where many of the albums on this list have a stellar track or two, this album rarely hits a sour note. At the top, though, are "Fake Empire," "Squalor Victoria," "Slow Show," and "Apartment Story."

Yeah, this is number one for the year.

Honorable Mentions and Other Awards

The "Mandy Gets Credit For This One" Award

Glen Hansard & Marketa Irglova – Once (Music from the Motion Picture)

Okay, let me fess up about this one. I had it in my top ten. Number six, to be exact. However, in chiseling down my list, I was one album over the even ten. The more I thought about it, the more I figured I could pull this one out of the top ten and give it its own category, its own mention. The wife may still kill me for not putting it in the top ten…

Hands down, this is a great album.

It's a complete package (a little sweetness, a little bitterness, a little house party acoustic jam, a little electronica), and it has that "albumness" that is so hard to find in this our single-download-driven ipodia.

But it is, afterall, a soundtrack. Its existence is tied to the film. It also contains songs that were previously released (in slightly different versions) on last year's The Swell Season. In the end, if you question my sincerity (and reasoning), then check out my review of the show Mandy and I saw in D.C. (A Swell Show: The Swell Season at the Lincoln Theatre).

Honorable Mentions

Steve Earle – Washington Square Serenade

Check out "City of Immigrants" and "Oxycontin Blues."

Ted Leo & The Pharmicists – Living With The Living

Hardest working man in rock? "Sons of Cain" and "Who Do You Love?" are highlights for me.

That Great Song I didn't Write Award

Feist – "1234"

Man, I saw her perform this song on Letterman and it was great. There in the background, too, was a "who's who" of indie rock (the guys from The National, Mates of State, some of The New Pornographers, to name a few). Went out and bought the album. Eh. Then I come to find out that the catchy tune that brought me to the album was written by someone else. Aw, nuts.

Good But Not Great

Bruce Springsteen – Magic

Bright Eyes - Cassadaga

They Might Be Giants – The Else

Ryan Adams – Easy Tiger

Beirut – The Flying Club Cup

New Pornographers - Challengers

Just Couldn't Get There

Clap Your Hands Say Yeah – Some Loud Thunder

I really did try to like this one. But there was something that turned me off. Not sure what it was. Maybe it was the production?

emusic Overlooks

White Rabbits – Fort Nightly

The Broken West – I Can't Go On I'll Go On

Works of Heartbreaking Disappointment

matt pond PA – Last Light

This one really hurt. Pond writes some great tunes, but this one…

Bloc Party – A Weekend In The City

Okay, so maybe I wasn't heartbroken, but I have no idea where this one was coming from. Maybe you have to be British… Or like Brett Easton Ellis…

The Fiery Furnaces Award

Of Montreal – Hissing Fauna, Are You The Destroyer?

It never fails. Damn you Pitchfork!

Missed The Boat Completely

Rogue Wave – Asleep At Heaven's Gate

I haven't read all of Brian's comments yet, but I did a quick once-over of his list—just to make sure I didn't forget anything. Lo and behold! I completely missed this one! I remember seeing on the upcoming releases, but… damn, I need to get this one.

Saving for 2008 even though it's downloadable now

Radiohead – In Rainbows

I was going to start this whole thing by saying something like "This should be number one, but I’m going to wait for an 'official' release." I haven't listened to it yet, and as much as I've succumbed to the download, I want this one to be a hard copy purchase. So, look for its appearance next year.

Until then…

A Swell Show: The Swell Season at the Lincoln Theatre

First, let me apologize: I've been meaning to post for quite some time, but haven't.

The wife and I drove up to D.C. a few weeks ago to see The Swell Season. Months prior, we went with some friends to see Waitress (see my blog here: My Name Is Not Earl) and caught the trailer for Once. That small bit was so addictive that Mandy bought the soundtrack and put it into heavy rotation. We vowed to see the film if/when it came anywhere near us. Sure enough, long after it opened other places, it came to Greensboro. We went. I think we were the only ones in the theatre.

Suffice to say, the film is excellent. Thematically, it doesn't stray too far into the wild—it's a classic story. Two people meet, kind of fall in love, and then go their separate ways—much like Before Sunrise. What makes Once so damn engaging, though, is the music. The music is so integral to the story that I would make the case that it is the true protagonist of the film. We root as much for the music as we do for Glen and Marketa (not actually named in the film). The music has to find an audience—and it does, through the help of honest lovers (and I don't just mean Glen and Marketa; everyone who hears the music becomes an agent of its creation).

But that's the movie. As it turns out, Glen Hansard (front man for the Frames) and Marketa Irglova made an album prior to making Once. That album, titled The Swell Season, inspired the film (a blend of fact and fiction) and many of the tracks from the original album made it to the film. Through the wonders of Myspace, Mandy connected to The Swell Season's site—and found out that Glen and Marketa were touring. Unfortunately (or fortunately), the closest they were going to come to Greensboro was D.C. Having spent our anniversary in D.C. last May, we both thought it best to try for the D.C. show.

I got tickets and reserved a room at the AppHouse (benefits of being an alumnus!).

It's not an exaggeration to say that the show is in my current top five best shows.

Let me back up and give a few details:

1. The AppHouse is a $1.35 Metro ride from the Lincoln Theatre.
2. Having spent the previous night out late (well, late for us) with my Aunt Bebe, we decided to sleep in. By the time we had lunch it was about 1pm.
3. Late lunch and residual sickness (I was afraid we wouldn't even make it to the show because Mandy had been sick all week) led to a nap before the show.
4. The idea was to make the trip down to the theatre a couple hours before the show, find some place to eat, and then go to the show.
5. We found out (internet) that there is an Ethiopian restaurant across the street from the theatre. That was going to be our destination.
6. We emerged from the Metro at about 6pm.
7. There was already a line outside the theatre.
8. The reason a line mattered: Tickets were general admission. And unlike some other general admission shows, the theatre has seats. Those at the front of the line had first pick (free for all, actually).
9. Luckily (or unluckily), there was a Quizno's by the station.
10. I horked down a meatball sub in less than five minutes (during which we lost probably about ten spots in the line), and we bolted across the street.
11. It was cold.
12. They opened the doors right at 7pm.
13. Our waiting paid off.
14. And now I'll stop with the numbering…

While we didn't get front row center, we got front row to the right side of the stage (stage left). Unless we had gotten to the theatre before six, there's no way we could have gotten any better seats.

The semi-bad news: We weren't sure if there would be an opening act. Since we were dependent upon the Metro, we kind of hoped there wouldn't be an opening act.

There was an opening act: Martha Wainwright.

She wasn't bad, but… Opening acts are always a question mark. My friend Brian Candler and I have had long conversations about the function of the opening act. Does the opening act intentionally suck in order to prime the audience for the main act? Does the promoter pick like-minded artists to better package the experience? Does the club shuffle in local bands to fill the void? Does the main act pick the opener in an effort to get some friends heard? More often than not, many openers fall short of being really good. Granted, I have gone just to see opening acts (I went to see Eric Bachmann, not the Delgados), and I've been turned on to a few of them (Mates of State, The Standard), but for the most part…

Martha Wainwright falls into (I think) the like-minded category. She was a one woman show. Acoustic guitar and soft/loud arrangements. I will say two things (positives): she can play a mean guitar and she is definitely intense. Beyond that? I often have this thought while listening to opening acts: "I think I really like this… no, wait. I think I’m being taken advantage of. This isn't as good as I think it is…" With Martha, I kept swinging back and forth between really liking her and hoping she would just finish. I think she was just a little too intense for her own good. Intensity without honesty? Was she simply trying too hard? Or was I missing something? Mandy admitted (the next day in the car on the way home) that she decided she didn't like her. I'm still on the fence.

Okay, so off went Martha (she would later come out during the encore to join Glen and Marketa). There was the usual waiting period between the two acts. And then…

What confusion I had about Martha's sincerity cleared out of me with the first chord struck on Glen's worn out Takamine. We really couldn't have asked for better seats. The sound mix was excellent, and the cloud of incense smoke rising from behind the musicians was intoxicating. I read review elsewhere that said there was more than incense in the air up in the balcony…

Highlights from the show: Glen's haunting and full, open, bleeding heart on "Leave"; Glen's growl and swagger through Van Morrison's "Astral Weeks"; everything that put Marketa upfront; the sweet "Star, Star"; the rollicking cover of "You Ain't Goin' Nowhere."

Let me say a bit about those Glen moments. One of the things that he's clearly good at is the crescendo—from soft and plaintive to full-on, guitar shredding and scream-singing. This was best felt on his solo rendition of "Leave." Glen clearly knows the pain of lost love—the agony of still loving someone who no longer loves you. I don't think I've ever heard a song that so captures that mixture of borderline despair and hopeless yearning.

Interestingly enough, what further endeared me to Glen was his stage banter. As I get older, I become increasingly attracted to the storytelling inherent in music. I long to hear, too, that the people whose music I so respect can back it up with solid, honest wit and wisdom. It was listening to 70's Tom Waits bootlegs that really got me hooked on stage patter. Waits was a storyteller, and his stage banter was never just "Thank you" and "This is off my first album." He carefully rehearsed his bits like a comedian. From bootleg to bootleg you can hear subtle variations and additions—a honing of the storytelling craft.

While I don't think Glen rehearses his bits, he is obviously comfortable on stage, and has something to say. In D.C., he waxed philosophic about beer at one point, coming close to my ruminations in Belly Up, Pint Down. Mandy turned to me at that point, shook her head and half rolled her eyes. But here again, Glen's banter (and by extension, Marketa's) illustrated that key point: What makes the music so good is honest storytelling.

A good summation of this point comes with "Star, Star." You can listen to a performance of "Star, Star" on NPR's World Café Next (Click here). It's a sweet Frames number but, in the middle, it veers into "Pure Imagination" from Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. Glen recites a phrase from the movie ("It's all yours Charlie. The whole chocolate factory. I'm giving it to you. You've won.") and everything falls into place. This sentiment encapsulates the transcendence that comes at the end of a really good story. Having made the journey (sat and watched/listened) you've grown with the artist. The argument of Willy Wonka is that the audience is Charlie. We've won. Otherwise, we're down in the bowels of the factory getting the blueberry juice squeezed out of us…

With "Star, Star," Glen brought the audience to that point and gave us the chocolate factory.

Then there's the honest musicianship. Until Glen said he was going to play a Van Morrison song, I hadn't really pondered the connection. Best Irish songwriter, Glen said, and I thought, "Perfect." Then he launched, on his own, into "Astral Weeks." Oh man, was it good. A few bars into the song, he down-tuned without missing a beat and I could feel the tune sink deeper into my gut. Anyone who can do that, well…

That was the point in the show where I crossed over. "Astral Weeks" brought me through to the other side.

Years ago, I came to a realization about skiing: All the trouble that went into getting to the mountain. All the time spent putting on gear and riding ski lifts. All the money, effort, and time expended always outweighed the actual time spent skiing. But it was all worth it for that one run. That one perfect run where everything came together and clicked. Nothing else mattered before or after that one run. That's how I felt about Glen's version of "Astral Weeks."

On to Marketa…

There's something quite mesmerizing about a tiny woman with a big, beat up guitar, performing beautiful tunes like an old pro. When she sat down for one number (one of the best of the evening), the stage manager (who joined in on electric guitar for the Bob Dylan cover) came out to re-adjust the mic stand with little success. She kept playing and singing un-phased—and yeah, great stuff.

The best performance from Marketa was her rendition of "All The Way Down," a song that Glen sings on the Once soundtrack. It was far more haunting to hear Marketa sing "You have broken me all the way down." What would have otherwise fallen in line with Glen's "Leave" thematically, took on overtones of domestic abuse. Haunting, indeed, and sublime.

Wait. Don't mistake that. I've often been transfixed amidst the connotations of "sublime." Terrible beauty. Beauty in the face of horror. Tragedy best at its worst. I am certainly not condoning domestic abuse—but the warmth that Marketa's voice brought to the song doubled the tragedy—and deepened the song for me. While Glen brought me through to the other side with "Astral Weeks," Marketa took me to another place—one no less moving (is there a contradiction here? o well).

And that's where I'm headed with this. Ultimately, what made this show so damn good was that it had a little bit of everything. From whimsy (a song about a dog), to heartbreak ("Leave"), to the sublime ("All the way down"), to glimmers of hope ("Falling Slowly"), to musical revelation ("Astral Weeks"), to good old swingin' ditties (Michelle Shocked's "Fog Town" and Dylan's ""You Ain't Goin' Nowhere"). We got the complete package. I can think of few other better ways to spend an evening.

Bob Dylan's "You Ain't Goin' Nowhere" was the show capper. And it was a perfect end note. I've downloaded the track from the I’m Not There soundtrack, and while it doesn't have the same immediacy of the live performance, it's a good indicator of the show's energy.

Anyway, that's about all I have to say about that…

Belly Up, Pint Down

"Warm beer and cold women, I just don't fit in
every joint I stumbled into tonight
that's just how it's been"
--Tom Waits, "Warm Beer and Cold Women" from Nighthawks at the Diner

drinking at the bar: an activity involving pints of beer and conversation.

There's a great bar in downtown Greensboro called McCoul's Irish Pub. It's on the opposite side of Elm Street from Natty Greene's, the brewery that anchors nightlife in Greensboro's fabled Hamburger Square. The mood at McCoul's is just right for a pub (or for what passes as one here in good old North Carolina). It's dark and cool. The décor consists of lots of lacquered wood and green, and there's lots of good beer on tap. What I especially like is that they serve beer in real pint glasses—not those American pint glasses that hold 16 oz. (or less) of beer, but the English 20 oz. pint. They also serve more than one beer on nitrous. Guinness. Boddingtons. Mmm…

Do not mistake me. This blog is not about chicks. It's not about live music, or watching the game, whatever game that might be. This isn't about high drama low tolerance booty clubbing. And this certainly is not about getting drunk on cheap beer.

This is about the magically mundane experience of sitting at a bar, drinking pints of beer, and shooting the shit.

Good beer. Good conversation.

Beer is good.

Interestingly enough, my journey to beer lover and beer maker started badly.

My first beer ever was can of Busch Lite. This first tasting was followed later by a can of Bud Dry, prompting a remark, "This isn't as bad!" O my misspent youth!

I did not drink alcohol prior to college, and I didn’t really develop a knack for drinking until I was out of college. Sure I did the rounds, and bespattered many a porcelain throne, but there was no love there. That came later. Early on, though, I realized that a) beer is an acquired taste and b) I needed to acquire taste.

This last point is one that, interestingly enough, my wife and I were discussing the other night. Taste. Taste is not something that can be manufactured for you. You cannot simply buy "Taste for Idiots" and hope for immediate connoisseurship. There is no Costco Crash Course for taste.

Taste is something that has to grow with experience and exposure. Had I taken a slug of Guinness instead of Bush Lite that first time, I would likely have had the same reaction: Ugh. It wasn't until I had made an effort to taste lots of different beers that I began to like them. And, even after I became a beer lover, I still didn't truly appreciate its complexity until I started brewing it. Standing over a pot of wort, smelling the grains, the malt, and the hops, I understood where all those flavors in good beer come from.

Back to the beginning: I knew I didn't like it, so I thought, "If I'm going to have to acquire a taste for beer, then I might as well try everything I can get my hands on!" This led to my roommate buying me a different brand six pack each beer run. Blackened Voodoo was my first dark beer. I distinctly remember pouring it into a glass, holding it up to the light, and marveling at the fact that I couldn't see through it. That's the kind of beer I need to drink, I thought. From that point on, I only drank dark beer. Heineken Dark. Beck's Dark. Negra Modelo. I was still too scared of Guinness…

It should come as no surprise, then, that I still lean toward the dark end of the beer spectrum (Sierra Nevada Porter is one of my all time favorites. As is Anchor Steam Porter. My all-time favorite homebrew: Snow Day Porter. Someday soon, I hope to repeat it…).

All of this early tasting didn't lead to love, though. I developed my drinking chops, but I would have still preferred a can of Coca-Cola to a bottle of beer.

And then it happened. I graduated from college, moved up to Connecticut, and became a bartender. I worked for a couple of years in a fine dining restaurant and began to live the life of a barfly. I worked nights and slept until noon. What else was there to do but go to the bar after work? And that's where I fell in love.

I don’t remember the specific night that it happened, but I do remember taking a sip of ice cold Bass in a frosty pint glass and melting right there on the spot. All the tension and exhaustion from work oozed out of me (Eric Clapton blaring from the juke).

I asked that pint of beer to marry me.

Seriously, though, it was there in Connecticut that I became a professional beer drinker. Yeah, later, in graduate school, I developed a taste for scotch (and discovered that brown liquor makes me mean), and spent more time bar hopping than reading Dickens and Thackary. But there was a mania in my grad school drinking that didn't mirror my Connecticut beer enthusiasm.

Now, as a responsible adult (I've only been one of those for a few years…), I enjoy beer. I don't drink it because it's cheap, or because I'm a "dude." Yeah, I get sloppy now and then, but I always start with the thought, "I love beer." There is something deeply satisfying about a good, cold beer. And, though I consider myself to be an intermediate oenophile, I always default to beer. I can sip scotch, appreciate it, even enjoy it, but beer is my passion.

And brewing really has amplified my taste. The last batch of beer I brewed (named Gaius Pale Ale after Gaius Baltar from Battlestar Galactica— I wanted to make a beer that was pretty but evil, light and very, very bitter), I invited a friend (Gerald from Virtual Bourgeois) to join me in the brewing process. I love to brew and, extrapolating on the fine art of home brewing (propane turkey cooker boiling five gallons of wort on a tilting cement patio) while consuming the last of my previous batch, I hoped that Gerald would see why I loved it. He did. I also hoped he might enjoy brewing, too. He didn't.

I believe his words were, "I now have a deeper appreciation for beer."

When asked if he would start brewing, too: "Nope."

It's a labor of love.

And I guess that's part of my overall love for beer: My acquiring of the taste was like a hero's journey. I set out on my quest in search of drunkenness but found so much more. I'd also say that my beer journey is symbolic of my coming of age. It is an integral part of my adult life (both the creation of it and the consuming of it).

My wife reminded me of the sagely words of Ben Franklin:

"Beer is living proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy."

Bar is good.

Okay, so I briefly mentioned my grad school binging. My dear friend and grad school compatriot, Jon, refers to the summer between our first and second years as "The Summer That Time Forgot." When we weren't in class, or performing meager research assistantship tasks, we were drinking. Darts, pinball, and booze held court with Flannery O'Connor and Robert Frost. We drank through every cent of our research assistantship money. Hell, we probably drank more than that. This summer long tribute to Bukowski had its moments, but it was, more or less, an exercise in self destruction. It wasn't about the beer. It was about the drunk.

I mention this because my love of the bar springs, too, from the time I spent in Connecticut drinking after work. The goal there was to wind down, have a good time with my colleagues, shoot a little pool, and kill time until our next shift.

This is the love of the bar.

It's hard to explain that love, especially to someone who hasn't really saddled up to one and committed to the experience. I go back to my opening comments: Going to the bar isn't like going to the club. It isn't a pretense. It isn't about socializing with strangers, or the anxiety of hooking up (for me, hooking up was always precluded by anxiety).

Don't get me wrong, I spent many a night wishing I had the chops to chat up the chicks, but I didn't do that—and what resulted instead was an ongoing conversation about humanity. In the end (and happily married to a woman I did not meet at a bar), I am thankful for my lack of hook ups because it allowed me to spend time, with my beverage of choice, doing something I love: shooting the shit.

Shooting the shit. Let's unpack that phrase. In my career (responsible man), I've often thought of writing a piece for my students entitled, "The Fine Art of Bullshitting." For college freshmen learning to write decent essays that's what everything I assign them boils down to: B.S. That's what they think development is. To them, it's enough to say "I don't like it," "I don't know," and "I don't care." Beyond these simple "don’ts" is a space reserved for bullshit. Explanation, details, developed and well-thought out opinions? Naw, bullshit.

But in the heart of that shit is communication. It's like the swimmer practicing his strokes. It may seem tedious and like a waste of time to outside observers, but with each lap, something happens, however miniscule, to improve the stroke. Conversation breeds deeper conversation.

And so, for me, conversation is the cornerstone of life.

Shooting the shit brings me closer to god.

Sure, some might argue that it's better to live life than talk about it, but to me this is counter-intuitive. One can shoot forward into experience without contemplation, haphazardly dashing into life like a witless Labrador retriever. And yes, biting down on that soggy stick, like tasting the fruit of eternity, and swimming back to the shore with it might seem life's sweet reward.

But I've never liked labs…

William Wordsworth wrote, “poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility.” This phrase is often misread—primarily because we want to believe that our instincts, ungirded by reason and reflection, are true and right.

Thoughts spontaneously flowing onto the page are always the best!

But that colon changes everything: poetry "takes its origin" from recollection "in tranquility." Spontaneity, then, cannot exist without "emotion recollected in tranquility."

I am, of course, making the observation that, yes, life is poetry, and we have to reflect upon it in order to open ourselves up to the power of experience. Otherwise experience has no meaning. It simply satiates the pleasure principle.

What does any of this have to do with drinking at the bar?

Let me give some simple equations:

Going to the Booty Club = Exercising the pleasure principle

Drinking at the Bar = Emotion recollected in tranquility

Okay, so I'm full of shit. We know that. But my point is that conversation guides experience, and without it, we might as well be animals. And, frankly, many of us are. But we must not mistake the experience of drinking beer from a pint glass at a bar for something detrimental to human progress. It is, rather, a meditative experience.

That's what the bar does for me: It allows me to connect to the bigger picture. It allows me to reflect, collectively with my partners in pints, upon the spaces between action and inaction. The bar is a pause. It's a slowing down of time (with the help of alcohol, of course). Here, in these moments, I can misstep, mistake, misbehave (in an intellectual sense), and come to a better understanding of the universe and my place in it.

Did I mention that I love beer?

Not Just A Drunk

That last bit reminds me of what many of us know: Most "great" writers were/are/will be drunks. Is there a connection here? Certainly. It harkens back to Wordsworth's comments.

Only, we must replace "reflected in tranquility" with "getting drunk."

I used to think that my inspiration for writing came from a combination of magical elements: cigar, black coffee, jazz, the hours between two and four a.m. What I later discovered (I can be a bit slow) was that none of these "magical" factors were really necessary in and of themselves. Rather, it was the quiet of those hours—the uninterrupted time (no phone, nothing good on TV, etc.).

This was my time of tranquility.

How do we get from tranquility to being drunk? Let's call it a loosening of the belt. And there's truth in this. The restrictions of civil society impinge upon creativity, upon the creative act (I started this blog more than a month ago…). This is why we move from teaching children to enjoy the creative act to scolding them for coloring outside the lines. And, as a people, we have developed a complicated system of checks and balances to keep us from careening off course (stay on target…).

As we grow up, those checks and balances become so automatic that we turn to social lubricants to help us slip out of our boot cut jeans.

Writers (artists) rely on the energies outside the lines (call it channeling radio signals from outer space; we sneak out at night to catch the faeries, then pin them to the page), and must suffer the consequences of too many out-of-body experiences. I might argue that writing is too reliant on a pre/post-linguistic state—ever seeking to capture thoughts that strive to break through the limitations of language, only to be lost again. Writers go mad in the blurring of lines.

Said more plainly: Drinking loosens us up enough to make connections otherwise imperceptible. Addiction (and destruction) is simply a matter of too much course. If you spend too much time searching for tranquility at the bottom of a pint glass, you move from a freer state of mind to an unraveling of the mind.

I liken it to any thing or act that is positive in moderation but destructive in superfluity. As Milton said, "knowledge is as food and needs no less her temperance over appetite." The search for tranquility ends, when sought too often, in perturbation.

But as long as one moderates the pints, the words flow.

The bullshit, too.

A Day With The Hatchers

I.

I'll start with this:

1. Almost ten years ago, I had surgery to remove my tonsils, adenoids, and deviated septum.
2. This was not the first time I was a patient at a hospital.
3. A dear friend of mine has now had three instances of cancer in three different parts of his body (eyes, leg, lung).
4. This dear friend had surgery last Thursday to remove a spot on his lung (instance number 3).
5. My father died a couple years ago of cancer, after having spent more than a month in the hospital.
6. Despite all of this, I do not fear, nor do I have great distaste, for hospitals.

When I was not quite a year old, I had a run in with a bathroom faucet. I've told this story so many times, even though I don't remember the events. Apparently, I decided to climb up into my parents' bathroom sink, plunk my feet—in footed pajamas—in the sink, and turn on the hot water faucet. The result was a month long stay in the hospital with both feet in casts. The skin graft scars on my feet are still clearly visible.

Then there was the lung infection. I spent two weeks in the hospital that time. I remember some of that one—the constant blood drawing, the I.V. in my wrist, the Jell-O, and the get well cards from my classmates.

Oh, then there's the ear operation. Can't forget about that one. Some yahoo of a doctor decided to put tubes in my ears because I was having ear and sinus problems. One of those tubes eventually fell out. The other one? Punctured my right ear drum. Several doctors and hospitals later, I had a new ear drum and fifteen percent hearing loss in that ear.

It's no wonder my mother has a deep distrust for doctors.

As for me, I recognize that, despite our hopes and delusions, medicine isn't an exact science. And its practitioners are, after all, fallible humans. There's something terribly frightening—and terribly beautiful—about the human body's capacity to surprise us. I'm probably not the first to suggest this, but I think it's likely that we have as good a chance of discovering the secret of the universe (that last equation to peg string theory?) right about the same time that we figure out exactly how to read every cause/effect of human physiology. Actually, that seems about right to me: the human body is, after all, the microcosm of the universe.

And so, a good doctor is simply a good problem solver. A human repository of medical knowledge with solid critical thinking skills and a touch of empathy. Interestingly enough, that's where House gets it right. But I'll say no more about that.

It's possible that my general ambivalence to hospitals is a result of my early exposure to them—in the way that being exposed to large bodies of water (pools and the ocean) at an early age resulted in respect instead of fear of water. It's also possible that I don't hate hospitals because I was a kid. It's almost humanly impossible to be mean to a sick kid. Jell-O and ice cream cups, watching t.v. in bed. A few nurses who were really good at drawing blood without hurting me. Yeah, I was in pain, but the hospital staff did their best to help. I was spared the adult drama of poor hospital care. Plus, I was oblivious to the fears and anxieties floating around me. It was kind of like a weird vacation.

I'll never forget the nausea of that anesthesia, though.

I remember coming out of it for that last surgery (in 1998) and being surprised that it didn't make me nauseous. That last time when I was a kid, I couldn't stop retching for hours…

Yeah. Hospitals.

II.

So last year, my friend went in for surgery on his leg. It was supposed to be a routine mole removal, but the mole turned out to be a sarcoma. They cut so much out of his leg (muscle tissue) that he was not only miserable from the pain, but he had trouble walking and had to wear a drain (little tube and bag to catch, well, drainage) for a while. As if that wasn’t enough, he had to go through weeks worth of harsh radiation treatment that resulted in some serious leg burns. He made it through all of this like a champ (never missed any work). He wasn't the only one who was happy when he got his first survival pin; he was the happiest, though.

All the stuff with the leg happened late last summer and stretched well into the fall. Last spring really was like a new awakening for him—for all of us.

It should come as no surprise, then, that I was a little less than jovial when I got the call from him a couple months ago saying they'd found a spot on his lung. That was a bad day.

So here we are.

A somewhat more extreme repeat of last fall's trials. We all knew this could (and likely would) happen, but that didn't make it any easier to handle.

It's interesting. When my father was in the hospital, it didn't make much sense. My father was a good man—the best of men. An outwardly healthy man. In those months of his illness and in the period around his death, countless friends of the family, friends of my father, remarked that they were so surprised because my father was always so healthy. Even now, my mother claims that my father never really got sick in all the time they were together (over forty years). He was a Polish work horse. How could this happen to such a healthy man?

But… I'm not going to say it was all a lie, because my father was one of the healthiest, strongest men I've ever known. And it really was shocking to discover that something fatal had been growing inside of him. But he wasn't impervious to illness. He had high blood pressure. He had one of the worst cases of eczema I've ever seen. Out of the shower, he looked like a white and red leopard. He also had the worst eyesight of anyone I've ever known. And, after a really good friend of his died of prostate cancer, he routinely had himself checked for prostate and colon cancer. Is it wrong of me to say, "Maybe they should have checked further up the line?"

Again, I'm not saying that he was a sickly man. Rather, I guess I'm trying to loosely tie this back to my earlier comments: The human body has an infinite capacity for surprise. And, no matter how vigilant we are, well, surprise!

All of this is made even more poignant for me given that I've spent the last few days homebound with acute bronchitis—the first semi-serious illness I've had in years. I've had the thought that my bronchitis is a psychosomatic response to my friend's surgery—a kind of sympathy sickness. Not likely, but…

III.

Last Thursday, my wife and I got up, grabbed some Starbucks, and headed to the hospital. We knew that Dana was told to be at the hospital by six a.m. and that he would go into surgery at seven. We got there at about eight. He didn't actually go into surgery until about a quarter after nine. The surgery lasted about an hour and was, by the surgeon's account, very successful. The surgeon informed us that he found the spot, removed it (cutting a wide swatch, much like the previous surgeon had done with Dana's leg), checked the rest of the lung for any other possible spots or tumors, found the rest of the lung to be free and clean, and stitched him back up. All of this was delivered in a cavalier manner that was not boastful but comforting.

This was very good news.

I would like to say that the post-op recovery has gone smoothly, but it hasn't. I'll get to that later. For now, I'd like to ruminate on the day long wait that ensued from what it took the surgeon (and his team) only an hour to do.

Hospital observations:

1. Every hospital that I've been to has made absolutely no sense in regards to design. I'm sure this is a result of constant "updating" (Oh! How I long to blog about that word! Update indeed.). I remarked to Dana's brother that I felt like Spinal Tap trying to find the stage. (A tried and true joke, to be sure, but damn those hallways twist and turn!)
   
   
2. The surgery waiting room presented a new hospital environment to me. It was a large room with long, low but comfortable couches. Its windows looked out over the sprawling parking garage and the heliport for airlift emergencies. The room had a reception area, as well as another reference desk that handled incoming calls from surgery rooms and the outside world. Throughout our wait, those manning the phones would announce "Such and such family, please come to the desk for an outside call." They would then direct the families to a bank of numbered phones to receive their calls. It was an efficient system. It was also a bit shocking to think that so much was happening at the same time. So many families, so many surgeries. Statistically speaking, not all would go so well.
   
   
3. On a trip back to my car, I spied not one, but three individuals smoking in their cars. Say what you will about personal choices and responsibilities, but I still find it absolutely stupefying that anyone continues to smoke given what we all know as honest to God truth about the habit. I can understand anyone older than me who smokes. Not forgive, mind you, but understand. Anyone younger than me should know damn better.
   
   
4. Despite the general mythos of hospitals, you would think that their cafeterias would be more health conscious. Wake Forest's Baptist Hospital had a fried chicken and wing bar! Yeah, their cafeteria had all the usual suspects. True, they had a salad bar, but should a hospital offer so much processed food and beverage? Is this some kind of irresponsible insurance policy? Or is it simply comfort food? Ugh. No comfort in that.
   
   
5. The bathrooms were clean. Yeah, that's to be expected, but I will take this opportunity to praise again those most glorious of inventions: the automatic urinal, faucet, and paper towel dispenser.
   
   
6. When the surgeon came out to tell us about Dana, he still had on his hair/face mask. Dana's brother leaned in and said something about this that made me laugh. I found it comforting (and ironic) that this guy turned out to be Dana's surgeon! That made my day.
   
   
7. Despite the wealth (I mean wealth. This is, after all, one of the premier medical institutions in the state of North Carolina) of technology contained within that hospital, I couldn't use my debit card to pay for parking. Could this be another failing on the part of the U.S. health care system? I still owe Baptist four bucks…
   
   
8. The surgery took an hour. We waited for nine. Granted, three of those hours were spent waiting while Dana went through his initial recovery, but… Well, that's the way it is, I guess.
   
   

IV.

The Hatchers are good people. I've known them for years, but until this day spent waiting, I had not spent much time with Dana's older brother, nor had I spent any time with Dana's wife without his presence. I was not surprised by this quality time with the Hatchers, but it was definitely welcome on such a stressful day. I just hope my wife and I weren't an imposition. I don't think we were.

Dana's brother is an interesting individual, a college professor of journalism. I've heard a lot about him, but I had only met him on a couple of occasions. And while I was not surprised by his openness and sincerity, I was surprised by the fact that the waiting didn't drag on; good conversation kept boredom (and/or anxiety) at bay. The ability to strike up good conversation must run in the family.

We all spent about nine hours in the hospital and it did not seem like that long. True, by the end of it, we all felt drained by the experience (a physical reaction heightened by bad cafeteria food and over-exposure to florescent light), but it could have been much worse.

And then there's Marty. It's interesting. I've been friends with these people for years now, but there's nothing like hours of waiting—and the ensuing conversation, bits and pieces, random thoughts with brief glimpses of something deeper—to elevate a relationship. I've never doubted the solidity of the relationship between Dana and Marty. They're an odd couple that works instinctively.

The story of their relationship is a great one. Old acquaintances who went about their lives separately, to greater and lesser successes, only to end up happily together many years later. They've known each other for most of their lives but have only been married for seven or eight years. Dana is fond of saying that Marty told a friend of hers, "That's the man I'm going to marry someday." He, of course, was an oblivious (and slightly self-destructive) youth. But when he finally came around, it was for good.

They're both such terribly interesting people. An elementary school librarian and a community college instructor. He's an encyclopedia of television and movie trivia with a penchant for speaking his mind; she's a sharp witted Jimmy Buffet fan. In his office, Dana has a little statue of a big bear with its arms around a small cub. "It's me and Marty," he says.

A couple of years ago, when his favorite cat, Spooky, died, he called to tell me about it and I thought it was one of the saddest phone calls I've ever received. Mandy and I went in search of a sympathy card (only to find that they don't really make many "death of a pet" cards that aren't condescending). We were so honored to find that very card professionally framed and hanging in the hall of their home.

That's the kind people the Hatchers are.

And so, and anyway, over the years, I've known that Dana's relationship with Marty is the best kind there can be. But until this day spent waiting in the hospital with Marty (and Anthony), I wouldn't have said that I know her. And I still don't, really. But this day convinced me that she is the best kind of person. I know that.

Dana has repeatedly said (and I've echoed the sentiment about my wife as well) that he knows Marty is too good for him and he never forgets it—and, as such, he will do everything in his power to be as good as he can for her. (Or something like that).

About some things, we can be so incredibly lucky. For that we must be grateful.

As for the other shit (hospitals, cancer, human fallibility), well, that's for the universe to decide.

V.

Yeah, so that spot they cut out of the lung was a sarcoma. They got it. And Dana won't have to have radiation or chemo this time around. He will, however, have to have CAT scans every three months. And he's still staring down the barrel of a long recovery from having his ribs pried open and his lung dallied with. And if this first week is any indication of how that's going to go… Well, October is going to be a long month.

I have to circle back to the whole human physiology 'bag-o-surprises' thing. Microcosm of the universe. Being grateful for the lives that intersect ours and make those surprises easier to cope with. Easier, of course, being a relative term.

Words like grateful, deserving, and fair always pop up with discussions of cancer. Lord knows I've been batting those words around in my rotting melon for the last few years. I've been, on the surface anyway, the first to knock back any argument for fairness. "The universe doesn't work that way," I say. I think of a line from O Brother Where Art Thou? (one of my father's favorite movies, mind you): "The law is a human institution." By extension, fairness is a product of our human need for reasons and resolution.

We want it all to be fair.

And, to be fair (har, har), about some things—many of them actually—we can rightfully expect fairness.

What's happen(ed/ing) to the Hatchers is not, by anyone's (terrestrial or divine) definition, fair.

But what I became convinced of (again) last Thursday was that I am so thankful to have the Hatchers in my life.

They are a surprise of the good kind.

And despite that big bully of a universe (the macrocosm picking on its little brother) I will do everything in my power to fight for some of that fairness they deserve.

You and me, universe. Ten rounds.