Mix CD of the Every Other Month Club #1: The Top 20 Songs That Define My First 20 Years
A friend of mine, Sara Wuillermin, co-started a FB group that make mix CDs/Spotify playlists every other month. The first theme:
In an effort to get to know each other better (or at all, since many of you have never met!), the first theme is The Top 20 Songs That Define My First 20 Years. Basically, we’re taking the FB post that inspired this and extending it a bit. Basically, we’re looking for your Origin Story–the songs that would be included in the first half of your made-for-TV biopic. (HBO-style, not that shitty Lifetime stuff.)
The songs below are a mix of music/life milestones, songs tied to key events in my youth, or just great songs that stand out when I look back. They’re all captured in this Spotify playlist. Enjoy yourself.
Pumping Irony: A Brief Recap of My First Lifting Competition
However many months ago when registration opened for the 2016 MAXLift competition, I decided to do it purely as an exercise in why-the-fuck-not-question-mark. I’ve been doing lifting as part of Crossfit WODs consistently in the interim. And I completed a 4-week Wendler program focusing on the Shoulder and Push Presses to try and strengthen the fusilli attached to my shoulders I’ve dubbed “arms”. But unlike the vast majority of the amazing athletes participating, I had done no specific training targeting this competition.
And in the days/nights immediately before the competition, I spent a late night on the Upper West Side of Manhattan for a Jason Isbell show and and then an even later night in the Lower Left Side of the Bridgeport Rib House for an Open 16.1 after-after-party. I did not drink heavily at either function, but I may or may not have yelled out at one point, “I don’t think you’re taking this game of Erotic Photo Hunt seriously enough!”.
As I tweeted just before starting to lift, this felt like a test I had not studied for. Primarily because it would test my abilities. And I had not really studied.
Marah Oct. 17, 2015 @Underground Arts
This was going to be much longer. But instead, like an ex-girlfriend you think might still hate you, I am awkwardly embracing relative brevity.
"There are no second acts in American lives.”
— F. Scott Fitzgerald
I don’t know enough about contemporary American literature to debate what exactly Eff Scott meant with this quote. I just remember someone referencing it in the underrated Mamet classic, “State and Main”.
But as I stood hip-to-hip and tallboy-to-tallboy with friends old and new (mostly the former) in a sold-out Underground Arts Saturday night, eyes brimming with tears, heart filling with disbelieving joy, I decided that Mr. Fitzgerald was rather full of shit.
Keeping It One Hundred
I believe it was our permanent poet laureate who once said something to the effect of “Whoa oh, we are halfway there”.
If my goal of doing 200 WODs in 2015 were a KOP 400 meter run, I’d be turning around at the bridge. Or if it were a 15 foot rope climb, I’d just have finished straining to touch the fading paint mark. Or if it were Dave Nichols, it would be reaching for second shirt.
100 WODs in the can. 100 more to go.
Double Shot Of PR Love
CAUTION: Braggy Crossfit post ahead.
Avert your eyes now or abandon all right to complain about it.
2015 Festivus Games – I Came Here to Chew Gum and Do Some Crossfit… And Yes, I Do Have Some Extra Gum. Would You Like a Piece?
With apologies to King Blogger Dave Nichols, here’s my Festivus Recap. Also, apologies to anyone tired of people talking about Crossfit. If so, move on. Or heckle me, then move on. And since this mushroomed beyond a FB post, I’m resurrecting a blog I abandoned 4+ years ago. Coincidentally, the last post was my first and only Crossfit post after starting at KOP.
Crossfit Journal: Intro Sessions
In an attempt to get in the mode of working out regularly, I will regularly update this blog with brief blurbs about my progress.
Since no one really knows it exists, this is an even more masturbatory exercise than most of my masturbatory exercises.
But here goes.
Marah Karaoke – The Iota (9.11.06)
YouTube Videos:
http://www.youtube.com/view_play_list?p=0F95901567D5596D
One of these things is not like the others,
One of these things just doesn’t belong,
Can you tell which thing is not like the others
By the time I finish my song?
For those of you who don’t know, I’ve been following a band from Philly called Marah (http://www.marah-usa.com) since 98. A rather unique opportunity presented itself to me yesterday. The band posted on their message board that their Iota Cafe (Arlington, VA) show would be a little different. For 3-4 songs, fans would have the chance to get up and sing with the band.
The thought process to decide on an impromptu road trip to the Iota went something like this:
1. I missed the Brooklyn show.
2. I can possibly share the stage with Marah.
3. Gas prices are down.
4. I can possibly share the stage with Marah.
5. Chuebner can help share the driving.
6. I can possibly share the stage with Marah.
I raced home from work, changed, and headed down to Chadds Ford to meet Chris Huebner. Traveling south on the Blue Route, I saw a pickup trip, fully engulfed in flames. An omen? On several levels and in several ways, yes.
CH piles in to the giant blue spaceship and we hit the road. I drop some Sleater Kinney science on him and he fills me in on some of the Brooklyn details. We have one disagreement about the directions. He thinks we should’ve gotten off at one exit and I thought he had both the road & exit # wrong. But I told him nicely.
We figure it out and get off of 295, thinking we’re almost there. Well, we would be almost there if DC would invest in 1 GODDAMN STREET SIGN!!!!. I’m not exaggerating to say we came to 5-10 intersections that had no signage whatsoever. We went around and around a couple of times. You couldn’t blink or else you end up in the wrong turn lane. It was like a video game where you have to make split-second decisions without any information. Eventually you just memorize Left-Left-Right-Triangle-Left-Start and you’re on to the next level.
We finally find our way and get to the Iota halfway through the Bloodline set. They sounded pretty good, but my priorities were to piss and get pissed. Having crossed off the first item on my list, I inhaled a couple of beers and a mini bottle of Jaeger that Janet provided, and signed up for Catfishermen. My goal was to try and find the right balance of inebriation and coherency. My liquid courage levels topped off, I’m (mostly) ready to go. I show CH how to work the camera, and also make sure that Scooby gets some shots as well.
As they make their way to the stage, Kirk says that my song will probably be about midway through the set. OK, I can do this. I’m Chris MOTHERF@CKING Cline, dammit. Even as I’m singing along to the first couple of songs, I’m constantly repeating the Catfishermen lyrics in my head. Mind you, once I decided to make the trip, I listened to a live version of Catfishermen on Repeat. Again, and again, and again. It did help hammer the lyrics (http://www.lyricshosting.com/artists/13/marah/the_catfisherman.html) into my head and get familiar with the timing of the verses.
One thing I wasn’t sure about was whether they’d bust into another song during the jam portion of the song. I was ready, if they pointed to me at that point to bust out into “Breakaway”, “Gimme 3 Steps”, or “Careless Whisper”.
So after 3-4 songs, Serge starts talking about the what and the why of the Karaoke portion and they call me up. I think they said something about me being a long-time fan, but they could have been talking about the French Connection in Portuguese for all I knew. I was ready, wasn’t I? Was the band ready? Was the crowd ready? The answers are irrelevant, because it was time. I ditched my sandals at the side of the stage (not wanting to trip over anything), and headed to my mike.
Kirk offered some helpful advice to sing right up on the mike, and I tried to do that as much as possible. I had a good one-liner about Kirk’s shirt being too fancy for a Monday night (it was, at minimum, a Thursday-caliber shirt), but I don’t think anyone would have heard me. Before the song started, I whipped off my outer shirt (I had a Sleater-Kinney one underneath) and threw it to the side. Very rock star. Kissed both biceps (i.e. the Albino Pythons), and it was go time.
So the drumroll kicks things into high gear. You’ll notice a bit of a false start as I’m not sure exactly when to start singing, but Dave helps me out with a nod, and we’re off to the races. I remember all the lyrics, even if I don’t sing them coherently. My motto for karaoke, since I cannot sing, is to find a song you know and yell it. Theatrically, if possible. That advice served me well. I had so much fun jumping around, bopping my head to the beat, and yelling my guts out. It was hard to enjoy the moment too much though, since I was concentrating so hard on not screwing anything up and nailing all the lyrics. It went by very quickly. If I ever get the chance to do something like that again, I’ll definitely be looser and more in the moment.
Big hugs from Serge & Kirk, a fist bump from Dave, and my moment on the stage had come to an end. With a big ol’ grin, exited Stage Right, grabbed my shoes and became part of the audience again. I guess I did OK because no one was shunning me or asking me politely to leave. I even had drinks bought for me. Life is good.
Other than a balky mike stand, things could not have gone better.
In a very minute way, I understand why these guys (and others) put up with the crappy vans, the long drives, the bad food, the long hours, the low pay, the grind of it all. It is, to put it mildly, a giant fun burger with fun bacon, fun pepper jack cheese, and plenty of fun sauce to dip your fun fries into. And don’t forget the fun vanilla coke and fun napkins.
If songs are truly songwriters’ children, then I cut myself a switch and beat the fear of God into those poor bastards.
And I’d do it again.
I have to thank Chuebner for joining the road trip with me and driving my drunk and tired ass home afterwards. And that was a nasty cheeseburger & fries we had at the rest stop, but it did the trick. Couldn’t have made the trip without ya. And great camera work, even if you did miss my booty-poppin’ 2 Live Crew butt shimmy.
But most of all, unbridled thanks and love to this band I love. I’m obviously not an aspiring musician, but to have a chance to be a rock star, even if only for a few minutes? Color me eternally grateful.
Now where the hell are those damn groupies?!?
Cline
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Some of these files are pretty large, especially the QuickTime ones, so be patient. I recommend right-clicking on the link and Saving the file to your hard drive before viewing.
Windows Media Player:
- Marah – Baba O’Reilly (MPG)
- Marah – Feather Boa (MPG)
- Marah – Love Train (MPG)
- Marah (f. John) – Can’t Hardly Wait Part 1 (MPG)
- Marah (f. John) – Can’t Hardly Wait Part 2 (MPG)
- Marah (f. Tom- Faraway You (MPG)
- Marah (f. Morris) – Boat (MPG)
- Marah (f. Cline) – The Catfishermen (MPG)
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QuickTime:
Delaware Beach Hizzle (7.7.06 – 7.10.06)
Dewey & Rehoboth, Delaware
Pics: http://picasaweb.google.com/agolinkoff/Beach2006
Friday:
Shane & Evan showed up for the car pooling and we were on the road. Evan told us about his recent trip to Peru, and Shane laughed. We (OK, I) panicked a bit when we thought we had passed the last Waffle House on Rt. 1, but luckily there was another glorious one in Smyrna. We “entertained” the waitress, Shane ate about a quarter-waffle, and I assimilated a plate of grease in the shape of a bacon cheeseburger wrap and hash browns Scattered, Smothered, Covered, Chunked, & Peppered. Ready to do some serious damage to *someone’s* plumbing, we hit the Beach Hizzle with drinking already in progress.
Some beer pong to get caught up, and then we headed to a Dewey bar that had too much perfectly good rug that needed cutting. I ordered some famous local drinks (Dewey Devils) for a couple of people, and decided to splurge on the extra $2 splash (i.e. shot) of rum on top. Those drinks did not screw around. They were not the local, they were the express. They were not the dump & swing, they were the full-field huck. They were not “I Wanna Hold Your Hand”, they were “Da Butt”. They were not they guy in the PG-13 movie everyone is rooting for. They were Double-Down Motherfucking Trent. You get the picture.
A little flip cups (nailed it on the first flip every time, thank you) and on to the sandy dance floor. I’m a fan of the sand. It’s like lubricant, except gritty and for your shoes. Evan busted out some of his moves (including a much-better-than-The-First-Robot Robot), and elicited looks from a group of neighboring femmes which was no less than a cocktail of awe, revulsion, & arousal.
We closed that shit down, which would be impressive if it weren’t fricking Delaware, whose bars close at 1.
Saturday:
There are few better ways to be woken up than that of the coquettish wisp of an aroma tip-toeing down the stairs, opening the door to the jungle room, lingering a second on the black lacquered & mirrored surfaces before plunging deep into my soul (via my nose). Said aroma? Why bacon, of course.
Some kind souls were cooking up copious amounts of bacon, eggs, & hash browns (not WH-caliber, but still pretty damn good). Bellies filled, we headed for the first beach run.
I lathered up with sun screen (not all of us can have the golden brown complexion of a McDonalds hot cake), and 30 minutes later was ready. The weather was warm and welcoming. The ocean? Not so much. It was good for a quick dip, but it felt like God had emptied his cooler full of ice leftover from tailgating at the Hendrix/Joplin/Buckley show. And to get to the sandy part of the water, there was about 10 feet just covered in rocks. Not too bad, except when you body surfed. I was pulling stones out of my trunks for hours.
We passed the time relaxing, reading (I greatly enjoyed David Sedaris’ “Dress Your Family in Corduroy & Denim”), and hitting the volleyball around in a circle to see how long we could keep it going. I think we topped out at ~120. It was no SpongeBob ball, but it was still a hoot.
There was talk of go-karts and miniature golf, the former of which piqued my interest. A bunch of us went, except that we unfortunately went to a place that only had miniature golf. I sank my first 3 practice putts, but once we started playing the holes for real, so too started the suck. By the 10th hole or so, I was so annoyed with my putter that I started using my foot for all shots. That embarrassment complete, it was back to the house, and more importantly, back to the hot tub.
I had decided it was going to be a vodka night, so the vodka tonics started. I made my first, and then called in favors for others to make me more so I wouldn’t have to leave the hot tub. I’ll tell you one thing, Kari Reese makes a mean vodka tonic.
We headed into Rehoboth for dinner. Some chose Mexican, but a smaller group (me, Dallas, Evan, Kristen, Emily, & Shane) chose seafood. And Shane of course decided to annoy the hostess. There was some confusion about whether we could be seated for 6 or 5, so I tried to hide, thinking that making us 5 would help our chances. Turns out they wanted all 6 of us, so I was actually hindering us. Whatever.
Dinner was quite excellent (crab bisque, crab cakes, vodka tonic), until we played credit card roulette. I didn’t have a good feeling when our waitress put her hand in the hat, and it turned out to be an accurate feeling as my brand new, crystal clear Delta Amex was pulled out. It was fitting, as I had hectored a couple of the people at the table into playing who were sweating being stuck with the $170 bill. At least I didn’t lose our bet as to the ethnicity of our waitress, even though Shane tried to cheat by asking the hostess. The hostess of course, exposed his chicanery by cluelessly stopping by to tell Shane that she thought our waitress was Polish. Turns out she was from Belarus… Belarus is what we were looking for… Belarus…
Another night, another dance club. This one much more crowded, but no less fun. I enjoyed freaking out a guy or 2 by dancing up on them after Katie Drake was done with them. Though there was an annoying circle of dried-up cuntrags (i.e. a bachelorette party). First, one of them comes up and dances with me and everything’s cool, until I drop to the ground and do a little floor humping/booty popping. She looks like I had crapped in her drink, so I laugh and move on. Later on, another cuntrag (CR2) makes a big deal of protecting CR1 from me, even though I have my back turned to them and am staying in my space. Amazingly, CR2, not 5 minutes later, tries to dance up on me. My inner Latifah gets all fired up and I slur a recap of what just happened and if she thinks she can dance up on Cline, she should get over herself. That’s right, no one better mess with a strong black woman such as myself.
We close this place too, and head back for a little more hot-tubbing. Katie gets into the tub all naked and whatnot, so I fling off my trunks too. Sadly, that’s where the naked hot-tubbing action came to a grinding halt. Yeah, that wasn’t awkward.
Sunday:
No bacon, but there were Krispy Kremes. A late-morning trip to the beach, followed immediately by a trip to a bar called Irish Eyes in Rehoboth for the World Cup Final, where legend had it, PBR drafts were only $1.
The legends turned out to be true. The drafts were slightly smaller, but they were only a dollar, so we ordered round after round.
I was, of course, wearing a counterfeit Italian jersey (Del Pietro) that I bought from Bernardo (San Francisco character I met earlier this year). Was it the shirt of a man who Bernardo had killed or at the very least not obstructed the killing of? Possibly.
Even better, there was a big table of real French (or at least French Canadian) people with flags and everything. Every important play I yelled something nonsensical and barely Italian (TONYDANZA! GORGONZOLA! DOMDELOUISE!), and answered their real French songs with the only Italian ones I could think of (O Sole Mio, That’s Amore, & Volare). Oh, and when anyone asked, “Why yes, I am Italian. Northern Italian. Tuscany to be precise.” I was happy that the Italians won, but felt a little bad for the Frenchies, some of whom were crying when the game ended. Turns out they all work in a crepes restaurant. Irony can be so ironic sometimes.
So, full of beer, piss, & vinegar, we returned to the house. For some reason, imbibing lots of PBR, nachos, fish & chips makes you feel somewhat logy a couple of hours afterwards. We vegged for a while, cooked out on the grill, and then took the Jolly Trolley back into Rehoboth to meet up with those still around (a bunch of suckers had to work). Those that stayed were pretty gay, so naturally we met at the Frog Pond, Rehoboth’s best, and probably only lesbian bar for some karaoke.
Our deal was that all songs had to be by female or gay male artists. I did one of my standards (Dusty Springfield’s “Son of a Preacher Man”) and broke in a soon-to-be standard (Miss Kelly Clarkson’s “Breakaway”). But the stars of the night were clearly Cat & Evan who did Love Shack, & (I’ve Had) The Time of My Life to an enthusiastic and rather butch audience. Speaking of the audience, my favorites were the Gay Twins/Gay Proclaimers (depending on which part of the night I was naming them) and Gay John Malkovich who could do splits and kick his foot over his head. Oh, and he wore knee-high socks/hosiery. Only one foot. Awesome.
Allegedly a former Miss Oklahoma was also in attendance, and some annoying women who could sing a little did bad pop country songs. After one of Cat & Evan’s #s, I yelled out, “Try following THAT!”. The woman running karaoke, knowing who was up next, snidely responded “You wait and see who’s following that”. So, of course, a local bar band’s singer got up and literally raised Janis Joplin from the dead with “Another Piece of My Heart”. She was really good, so I bought her a Corona for her performance.
Of course, we closed this bar too with a little dance party after the karaoke was over, though the bitch wouldn’t play Since U Been Gone to close the night. Maybe they didn’t have enough insurance. Because that would have torn that place DOWN.
Rather than waiting for the Jolly Trolley, we decided to walk, which took FOREVER, and afforded Evan the opportunity to throw a dead fish at us.
Monday:
A final trip to the beach, and this time we actually used a net as part of our volleyball game. It was a lot of fun, though the sand was REAL hot and full of shells/rocks, despite my continued anal-retentive attempts to turn it into our own private Wildwood.
Evan & I also invented a game called Ass Rock, where we would toss rocks onto Katie Drake’s ass while she sunned herself. The rules were simple. 1 point for throwing a rock on her clothed buttocks, and having it stay there. Another point for knocking it off. Small rocks were good for the first part, big rocks better for the second. Katie, then Kristen were not fans of the big rocks.
Growing bored of rocks & asses, we went and did some go-karting & grabbed a seafood dinner. The highlight was the paper tablecloth and crayons. There was a competition to see who could draw Dallas the best. I made a starfish in the medium of hot sauce, and it was dubbed “Red Fish, Hot Fish” by Kristen. After that, Evan & I hit the road and made it home in 2 hours flat.
All in all, a great time at the beach. The weather was perfect, & the company tolerable. I stayed the perfect amount of time. Long enough to do a lot of stuff, but before I started getting sick of people.
The Cline's Travels & Travails 