My Most Awkward Years: Musically Distilled

This is a mash-up of a bunch of songs from the 90s brought to my attention by a fellow wild child of those halcyon days—days that are just as bleak even veiled by nostalgia.


Nineties FTW (Wick-it's 90's Rock Nostalgia Overdose Mashup) by Wick-it the Instigator

If somebody with ProTools was able to similarly condense my existence spanning the years this music was made, the resulting song would entail a machine-gun staccato of crying, masturbating and taking Accutane for my acne. It would sound akin to a Joanna Newsom live album.

This summer went by quickly. I know that sentence makes me sound like a schoolteacher lamenting the return to the classroom, but I am not a schoolteacher because: a) what if anyone found this treasure trove of closet skeletons? and b) I do not like children. All of a sudden it's fall in New York and the sun is setting earlier and I am getting crankier but also reorienting myself with some direction. The blurry summer passed, a shot of methadone focus is definitely in order. Primarily, I am resolving to eliminate negativity (and sources of negativity) and only fight for and with that which fulfills me. My first thought after writing that sentence is to sell all my belongings, quit working and eat cheeseburgers and fried pickles every day until my heart explodes with joy and hypertension. Although that's one path to a greasy form of enlightenment, and Buddha is always depicted as a chubby fellah, it isn't really what I meant. I aim to seek out good people who appreciate my talents, encouraging and inspiring me, and not waste any time with or for those who do not.

Two quotes from one story by the incomparable Southern writer Barry Hannah struck a chord today:

Wretched hesitation ... is what embalms our lives, and that was what age demanded of you more and more, to get less and less life.

I've seen peers accept "less and less life" for the past ten years and it's a been a terrible thing to witness. People who used to seem so full of life are both aging toward boredom and personifying it. Their unnatural progression makes me want to quit Facebook. Ten years ago we flung ourselves toward excitement both haphazardly and erroneously without care or regard for the consequences, only a yearning for escape from suburban drudgery. I only assumed that my partners in crime would just grow older and choose wiser ways to get our fun, our "adult" kicks; instead of sneaking past our parents with a flask of whiskey we'd be vaulting past the rubes trading years of fluorescent office imprisonment for a chance at eventual freedom—retirement at 65, provided they live that long—with a freewheeling jaunt toward success without boundaries. And it hasn't happened. And as much as I'd like to think that they're the only ones who've given up, I must admit to my own struggles with "wretched hesitation."

Another:

I was desperate and would have been throbbing in shame but I was still drunk enough to ignore it and was majoring on the theme Whim of Fortune, and I believe trying to attach myself to a woman of such low estate that the two of us would destroy ourselves in spontaneous combustion at an impossible diving speed.

Now this quote is not quite as introspective as its predecessor, but knowing Hannah's life I think it's more than semi-autobiographical. He's at the pulse of a feeling I've had once or twice or ten times in the past, and evoked with the dexterity of a F-15 fighter pilot, fingers flying Mach-1 over the keyboard. As a young writer, Hunter S. Thompson typed the novels of F. Scott Fitzgerald to get the flow of his hero's writing. To get his rhythm. I only hope that typing Hannah's words can move me in similar ways.

So was that mash-up above the soundtrack to my most awkward years, or have the songs to that time in my life even been written yet? I don't know. But after surviving my first earthquake (yes, in Brooklyn) and a hurricane that shut down all public transportation in the city and called for evacuations in the same week, I biked down to Greenwood Cemetery for a few hours of wandering mental clarity.

And then I grilled cheeseburgers. Everyone deals with mortality differently.

The Hits Just Keep On Coming: Casey Casem Quote About Whitney Houston? (And Gremlins T-Shirt Design)

My fourth grade girlfriend played "I Will Always Love You" to me over the phone. You think she meant that? We broke up like two weeks later.

No, I am not writing about domestic violence between '80s power couples/disasters. It's a terrible thing that crack made Bobby whack Whitney. (One of "the unseen dangers of crack cocaine") Bobby was never a great musician, and adding crackhead and wife-beater to his resume did not improve his status, but I felt that this Osama Bin Laden comparison from bestweekever.tv was a little over the top. And for the record, there are few things bleaker than searching "beat up celebrities" on Google Images. Look at this screenshot, for example:

How did Elmo escape this poll? (Miley is winning.)

And how did they know I wanted to get dinner at Chili's tonight? Anyway, here's my big (crackpipe) hit of the day:

About a week ago I promised Gremlins T-shirts, and now I sit here before you (sweatpants on, wrapped in a Snuggie, bunny hiding under bed, life in shambles, trail mix crumbs likely stuck in beard) with a completed design. Behold, the Gremlins Care Label T-shirt (great name, huh?)...

Would you wear this? In public? I would/will/am. I don't know how much I am going to sell them for because I haven't decided on a printer yet. This could be because there are probably 13,000 screenprinters within a mile of me in Brooklyn. Also, I am trying to figure out how many to get printed for a "first-run", so either comment on this post or tell me on facebook (where lately, by the way, I have been "losing" "friends", hopefully because people have been disgusted by this blog, which was created to alienate everyone I know and permanently ruin my chances of corporate employment) or email me at chris [dot] f [dot] barry [at] gmail.com.

Speaking of corporate employment, this is a nice little motto:

Buy this here

I try not to burn bridges but I do believe this is a good perspective, in that there's something about it that shows forward movement and productivity. That being said, I once sent a long, convoluted e-mail to a boss that basically said, "Pay me more or I quit." At the time I had nothing to lose, because I was truly only interested in two scenarios: about 20-percent more money or 100-percent less work. Either way I was going to get what I wanted. My boss flew into town the next day to explain that although it was a well-written letter, the message it contained was one that a 22-year-old kid could not be allowed to give the chief operations officer of a large company. The next afternoon I was playing golf, jobless and happy. My friend from work kept the e-mail and I keep begging him to send it to me, but so far he hasn't. I want to read it so bad.

Anyway, back to my immature endeavors: Tell me if you would like to BUY MY SHIRT, BUY MY SHIRT, BUY MY SHIRT! (Any fans of The Critic out there/alive/not living in your parents' house at 32 years old?)