You Are Your Playlist

"I can tell who you are from the music you listen to," she said with the confidence of a street palm reader.

"Really?"

"Absolutely...you mind?" as she took the iPod from my hands.

"Hmmmm...no. I guess not."

I was at the Apple store to have them fix yet another problem with my iPod. It seemed that my iPod would indiscriminately pause in the middle of whatever I was listening to. Pretty much all the time. What can I say? Apples and I just don't get along. It's like the iPod knows I use Microsoft Windows. And it's angry.

I sheepishly gave her the iPod, feeling a bit uncomfortable. I couldn't help but feel like she was taking something personal from me. Reading chapters from my journal. I found myself wanting to explain the music from Backstreet Boys and Avril...that I had downloaded it from a friend in bulk. But then again, I'd probably have to further explain that I kept the songs because they made good shower songs. You know, songs you'd sing at the top of your lungs in the shower when no one was listening. I mean NO ONE.

"Hmmmm...you're all about artists that aren't quite mainstream," she began, as she perusued my playlist. "You like finding artists. Ones that haven't hit it big yet. I bet you take pride in that. But you like pure tones. Harmony. Nothing too edgy. You don't really stray too far from the path. You've got a soulful side. You have creativity and imagination, but you don't live there. See? Your playlist. It's safe. You have the eye, but you are a bit restrained."

"Ummmm...thanks?" Pretty dead on as far as assessments go.

"See here? You've got Dashboard Confessional's old stuff, before they were on MTV. But you stop short of The Smiths. You have REM, but not The Connells or Uncle Tupelo." I tried to tell her that I had The Connells on there before my iPod was erased the first time, but she was on a roll. And I was intrigued.

"I'm not saying that you need to loosen up. But you should take more chances with your music. And lose the Avril."

I wasn't really sure what to say. She was right, but I didn't let her know it. Maybe it was because she was so presumptuous. She was an Apple support person, music buff and psychiatrist all in one. But in the end, she did the same thing they always do. Reformat my iPod. Erase all of my music, so that I can spend another hour or two transferring music from my hard drive to the iPod. Again. Crap. Oh well -- maybe it's a chance to start over. Good thing she didn't see my old Amy Grant albums or for that matter, Degarmo & Key's "Captain Sozo and the Charge of the Light Brigade". Who knows what she would have told me then...

On the old playlist:

1. "Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk" -- Rufus Wainwright, Poses
2. "Breathe" -- Tristan Prettyman, Twenty Three
3. "Closer" -- Joshua Radin, First Between 3rd & 4th
4. "I'm Yours" -- Jason Mraz, Wordplay -- EP
5. "Crank" -- Catherine Wheel, Chrome
6. "Worn Me Down" -- Rachael Yamagata, Happenstance
7. "The One I Love" -- David Gray, The One I Love
8. "Pour" -- Lori McKenna Bittertown
9. "Supernova" -- The Brindley Brothers, Playing With the Light
10. "Won't Give In" -- The Finn Brothers, Everyone Is Here

Summers are Better in Maine

This past weekend was a complete blur.

The weekend started early...I took Friday off and headed up to Maine to attend an old friend's wedding. Basically took the whole day to get there (thanks to ridiculous traffic near the bridge leading into South Island), and we arrived with only a few minutes to spare to the cookout. The couple had rented out the entire Inn where the reception was. It was like summer camp. Had a lobster or two (after all, it was Maine) and some great ice cream (flown in from where Marty and Grace had their first date) before eventually grabbing some shuteye.

Caught a 7:00am tee time here on Saturday morning with the groom's father and family. I shot pretty poorly, but the groom's father managed to shoot a 64. Granted he's been the U.S. Amateur champion in years past, and is the president of Columbia Country Club. But still, the only thing more frustrating than playing a bad round of golf is playing a bad round and watching someone play a phenomenal round. On the same course. In front of you. Kinda makes you feel like it's you. Which, of course, it is...

The wedding went well, although it was 90+ degrees in the church (apparently, there's no air conditioning in Maine). The reception was nice also, down by the water at Boothbay Harbor. Left early the next morning, drove back to Boston and got back home Sunday evening.

I did happen to catch some sort of summer cold (although I think it might have been from my roommate who caught something when he was over in Zambia last week). Oh well. I guess nothing's perfect. Although if you ask me, summers in Maine come pretty darn close.

The Cooler

I've met the Cooler and his name is Steve Johnson. Okay, maybe I should back up a little...

I had another interview in Baltimore on Friday morning, and I figured that since we were already pointing in that direction, we should keep going up I-95, take a right turn at the Atlantic City Expressway, and see where it takes us... So a bunch of guys came up with me. It was more than a posse. It was an entourage (which, incidentally, if you've never seen on HBO, you're missing out). After the interview, I took the elevator down to the ground floor, jumped back into Ken's Yukon, and headed straight for the Borgata. Missing the exit to the Borgata should've been our first clue that bad luck was a'coming.

I was up a couple hundred before stopping off at my room about 11:00ish. Steve was already there complaining about his losses, and the other boys were no better off. He was talking about putting the rest of his money on the roulette table. Red. Definitely red. I felt bad, so I told him I'd double his bet, whatever he chose. That was the worst mistake I've ever made. Not only did I lose my $50 at the roulette table when the number came up black, I lost another $200+ on the craps table with Steve behind me. Yep. A bona fide cooler.



For those of you who don't know what a "cooler" is, you should see this movie. Essentially, a cooler is a person whose job it is to go around the casino and "cool off" tables. He is bad luck incarnate. And if you look hard enough, you can almost always pick him out. He's the guy with slouched shoulders, not playing but casually and quietly watching. A little too quiet. He won't make eye contact. And that noise? That's him sucking the mojo off the table.

The next morning, I went back to the craps table, but told Steve to stand 5 feet back from the table. So he sat by the slots, while I started winning. Lots. Now I'm not a superstitious guy, and I don't believe in luck. But it was amazing to watch...it got so good that I told him not to even look at my table.

Fifteen minutes later and up a few hundred or so, I decided to call it quits. He walked up as I was coloring in, and I kid you not, I spilled my coke. Yah, it was time to go. In the end, I guess it could have been worse. I actually pushed Steve up to the $100 craps table, and the guy rolling lost $5,000. I'm telling you, Steve could have been on the Borgata payroll.

Awesome time though, and I made it back in time for my engagement party (with an hour to spare). The party was awesome, thanks to the Seetins, who were great hosts. My guess is that it'll probably better than our wedding reception. Tons of great food with friends. It was a bit surreal. And Sunday was a lazy day watching the Tour de France and the British Open. It doesn't get better than that... Really.

Borf is Dead

Well, it finally happened. They captured Borf. They arrested him late last night. For those of you who have never heard of Borf, he is responsible for those strange spray-painted pictures that you've seen throughout D.C. on streetlamps, newspaper stands, electrical boxes and brick walls. There was even a huge picture over the Roosevelt Bridge. No message, really. Just a picture of a boy and the name "Borf". All over the city.




Soon thereafter, tags begin to pop up saying, "Borf writes letters to your children" and "Borf is good for your liver". People even started writing for him, saying "Borf hates NYPD" or "Borf hates God". For those of you interested, there's even a flickr collection devoted to Borf sightings. According to the Washington Post article, the name "Borf" was the nickname of a close friend of his who had committed suicide two years ago. Which, I suppose is appropriate, considering that it was his friend's picture spray painted across D.C. A sad homage wrapped in a spray-painted statement of youth and anarchy. It was everything that was wrong with the world, packaged in a simple act of stealthy defiance.

Personally, I'm sad to see it go. Yes, I understand that graffitti is costly to clean up and is often derogatory or rude. But there are times where personal expression is refreshing. While most tags in D.C. demarcate gang territory and boundaries, these pictures were statements -- statements against the staleness of government and the cynicism that comes with growing older. Strange? Definitely. But if you ask me, a person that passed them on the street every day on my way to work, they were harmless. As one of the pictures says, "Grown-ups are obsolete." I mean, he has a point.

It reminds me that differences of opinion do not create a world of addle-minded people. On the contrary, they add focus and color to doctrine and to dogma. Knowing what you don't believe or agree with is just as instructive as knowing what you do believe. It's two sides of the same coin. Besides, this world would be a lot more boring without color.

It's All in the Answer (which, by the way, is "50")

This is how I know I've crossed from the world of law into the crazy land of management consulting. This was an actual question from an interview I had last week:

"How many piano tuners are there in Chicago?"

After asking a bunch of questions, counting in my head and on my fingers, making assumptions and writing down all sorts of random numbers, I said "50". He shrugged and said, "Sounds good. I actually have no idea if you're right." And then he moved on to the next question. With questions like that, I better get this job GOT this job.

I suppose it could have been worse. I could have been the guy who was repeatedly asked to open a window in the interviewer's office when in reality, there was no way to open it (except by throwing a chair through it). Yikes...

A Good Night Spent

I have to say, the only thing better than going to the U2 concert was enjoying the concert from the Comcast box/club seats. Well...I suppose I could have met Bono. I'm sure I'd ask him all sorts of stupid questions. Like what was up with Edge and his skullcap? I mean, when's the last time he took it off? 2000? On second thought, maybe it was better I didn't meet him.

I did, however, get a copy of the setlist. And some shrimp and peanuts. All in all, a great night.