Bands need to not try so damn hard to be great.

I try to stay ignorant of most modern mainstream rock (MMR) music. This has been true for about a decade or so; we had some signs of hope in the early-to-mid 2000s there, with your White Stripes and your Strokes and your whatnots. But, alas, bands like that have faded back into indie-like obscurity (or just called it quits and moved on), and it's back to crate-digging for your ol' pal J.

Something that irks me about MMR is how hard bands look like they're trying, when they're up there striking their rawk poses, hammering-away on the three chords they know, singing lyrics about heartbreak so earnestly (and in a manner that suggests their leg is caught in a bear trap), all the while hoping their mascara isn't running.

"We're trying as HARRRRRRD as we CAAAAAAAANNNNN!!!!"

It's irritating.

Knock it off.

Relax. If you've got talent, we'll see it.

Case in point: the early work of Dire Straits.

It's been a while since I saw this clip; I still love the song, of course. And, naturally, the Straits' stock-in-trade at that point in their career was laid-back pub rock, a genre I definitely enjoy.

The thing that strikes me most obviously is that they don't even look like they're trying that hard. Naturally, of course they're trying -- they're on stage, they know they're being filmed, and there's an audience they're trying to please -- but it looks like they're just chilling out and jamming, for the most part, and coming up with a fantastic song.

That takes talent, folks... something in short supply these days, that's for sure.

Song review: "Legend" by Drake.

Local singer Aubrey Graham, from Forest Hill, has released a new album called If You're Reading This It's Too Late. Graham, who was an actor as a child and has now started making music of the hip-hop variety, goes by his middle name, Drake, and has apparently eschewed using his surname.

A curious practice, indeed.

At any rate, the first selection from the album is entitled "Legend". Is Mr. Graham singing about the legends of Arthurian days, with knights and round tables and whatnot? Or is this song about a more-contemporary heroic figure -- perhaps someone along the lines of a Nelson Mandela, a "Sully" Sullenberger, or maybe even Ava DuVernay, the director of the powerful film Selma? We shall see.

The lyrics follow.

[chorus]

When I pull up on a nigga tell that nigga back, back
I'm too good with these words, watch a nigga backtrack

Oh my. Graham goes right for the self-aggrandizement, straight from the top. Gotta hand it to someone who knows his own talents.

If I die, all I know is I'm a mothafuckin' legend
It's too late for my city, I'm the youngest nigga reppin

Graham clearly wades into the Scarborough subway debate, coming down on the side of the LRT; it's "too late" to go back to the original plan approved by Council. Also, apparently he's a legend. And, also, he has a fondness for the n-word.

Oh my God, oh my God
If I die, I'm a legend
Oh my God, oh my God
If I die, I'm a legend

Embracing his spiritual side, I see. Does he see himself as a possible martyr to a cause, should he meet a premature end? He apparently opens the door to this possibility here.

[verse]

I'm up first, I'm on tour, got a girl, she from the South
Used to work, used to dance in Texas, now she clean the house

Traditional family values ring through clearly in Graham's lyrics: his wife, a former ballet dancer, stays at home and takes care of the house.

Everyday, I was strugglin' to learn what life's about
On my way, money taught me Spanish, make it andale

Perhaps his high school didn't offer language courses beyond French; this is somewhat common. But, for a modest fee, a course like Rosetta Stone can help you learn any language you like.

Way up north, packed in Honda cars
They 'on't know who we are
Fuck 'em all, they only pussy niggas shootin' at the star

As their ads suggest, the Honda Civic is the best-selling car in Canada for the past several decades.

Right or wrong, I'mma write my wrongs
They can't live this long

Graham feels it necessary to get his thoughts down on paper, especially when it concerns his misdeeds; powerful stuff.

You don't know where you're gonna go
I got this shit mapped out strong

I'd have taken him for a fan of GPS, but apparently he is a strong proponent of mapping things out beforehand. I'm curious if he uses Google Maps, or if he sticks to the classic paper map.

[chorus]

[verse]

I'm the one, one
Why do I feel like the only one?
Why do I feel like you owe me one?
6 G-O-D, I'm the holy one

Again, his spiritual side shines through. Perhaps a bit of a messiah complex here, however, and a strange attachment to the number six.

Yeaaah, you know wassup
They been off for a minute now
You know they all sentimental now
You know they all actin' different now

Separation from one's friends can highlight the subtle and gradual changes one experiences in one's lifetime. But, upon reunion, these changes are quite noticeable -- including an embracing of sentimentality, which often comes with age.

And I, I just can't pretend
Seen too much, it's so hard for me to let new people in

Similarly, as one ages, one's social circle tends to solidify, making it difficult to acquire new friends. Perhaps Mr. Graham could join a club of some sort, or take up a new hobby in order to meet people.

I can't change, this shit set in stone
They can't live this long
You don't know where you're gonna go
I got this shit mapped out strong

Graham generalizes here to the inability to change other parts of his persona. However, recent research has shown that, if people continue to learn new things throughout their lives, it decreases the decline in brain function due to aging. Thus, Graham does not have to set things in stone.

[chorus]

[outro]

* * * * *

Who am I kidding? These lyrics are idiotic, and his voice sounds like a robot taking a dump. There isn't an instrument within fifty yards, and thus no real "song" to speak of. Holy fuck, this is terrible.

The Tiger bullpen.

Spring Training has started, and there isn't anyone more excited about it than yours-truly.

The focus today will be on the bullpen. Generally it's been a mess, but GM "Dashing" Dave Dombrowski has taken an interesting approach. I call it the Shotgun Method: sign as many 100-to-1 chances as you can and, shit, one of 'em has to pan-out, right?

Tom "Gorzo" Gorzelanny
Can start and relieve; might be useful for a doubleheader, without having to resort to calling up a kid from Toledo (or, as Buck Farmer showed, much lower down than that). Lots of MLB experience; should be a lock for the 'pen.

Joel "Joey-Han" Hanrahan
Still a bit of a reclamation project; injured all last year, and apparently wasn't feeling 100% in a workout yesterday. If he can stay healthy, he can contribute. We'll see.

Josh "Big Z" Zeid
He's coming off surgery which fixed the same broken bone in each foot. How the hell do you break the same bone in each foot?! You couldn't do that if you tried. Anyway, you need your feet for baseball, so hopefully he regains his form.

Alex "Mr." Wilson
Came over in the Cespedes trade, and has been lights-out at times with Boston. Could be a sleeper-success this year, or could fuck up his arm tomorrow and be done with the game forever.

Omar "Duran" Duran
He's kicked around the low minors for a while; 24 years old and has 11 appearances above high-A. But if DD thinks there's something there, there's likely something there... even though, after staring at his stats for a good long while, I can't imagine what the hell he sees.

These are, of course, all new signees -- and this list is far from complete. In addition, you have guys who were in the system last year who may be able to contribute, too: Farmer (who is now going to be a reliever for the time being), Luke Putkonen, the return of Bruce Rondon, Chad Smith (who also drums for the Red Hot Chili Peppers, if I'm not mistaken), Kyle Ryan, and maybe one last crack at it for Ian Krol.

OH GOD WHEN DOES BASEBALL SEASON START?!?!?!

And now, an imaginary conversation with God.

...assuming God exists. Which I'm not sure s/he / it does. So this may all be a work of fiction.

* * * * *

God: Hey, J, do you know who I am?

J: Um... are you the Dalai Lama?

G: Warm. But not quite.

J: The ghost of Venus Williams?

G: Warmer.

J: Natalie Wood. Definitely Natalie Wood.

G: Colder.

J: Are you... y'know... God?

G: Jesus, finally! Yes, I'm God.

G: ...did you catch how I used my own name in vain there?

J: Oh, so you're an ironic deity.

G: Yeah, a lot of people didn't pick up on that in the Bible. I thought it was pretty obvious, but everyone's all "stoning this" and "parable that." Pillars of salt? Come on!

J: Everyone likes a good wife-shaped salt-lick.

G: Exactly! Sheesh, it's like you've gotta beat people over the head with it.

J: So tell me... duck-billed platypuses. What the hell, man?

G: Well, you know when you're putting together a piece of Ikea furniture and you have a baggie of assorted extras they give you in case you're a numbskull and lose things? I figured I'd do something with the baggie.

J: That makes sense. I mean, we're all getting a pretty good laugh out of the fuzzy eggs, but did you have to give it a venomous claw?

G: What can I say? Leftovers are leftovers.

J: I hear ya. So... suffering, famine, childhood cancers. If you're so omnipotent, why do all these shitty things happen?

G: Look, I have a whole universe to look after; I can't be saving everyone all the time. Someone's gotta keep an eye on Kepler 424b; they're having their Super Bowl today, and in the postgame interviews I always get thanked. Can't miss those.

J: Ours is tomorrow. Gonna watch?

G: Have to. I'll probably skip Katy Perry at halftime, though. I mean, she might have a Jacksonesque nip-slip, but I can see all of that anyway. Kinda ruins the experience, if I may be frank.

J: It's like seeing tits at a nudist resort. Once you've seen about three dozen pairs, you really don't need to see any more, do ya?

G: Nahhh... who am I kidding, tits are great. S'why I made 'em.

J: Thanks for that, by the way.

G: No problem, guy. So, you humans... you're a right bunch of pricks, you know that?

J: Well, some of 'em aren't. Tom Hanks seems pretty nice.

G: Yeah, which is why it's gonna be a surprise when he's dead by April. Vegas, horse tranquilizers and bourbon, balls-deep in a male prostitute. Bet you didn't see that comin'.

J: No foolin'?

G: Of course I'm foolin'. Fuck, you're dumb.

J: Well, you made this, so you've really got nobody to blame but yourself.

G: Ehh, true.

J: So, if you had a message to send out to all of humanity, what would it be?

G: Hmm... good question. I think I'd tell people to chill the hell out. Grab a tasty beverage, put on some good music, and stop murdering each other so much. Especially when you tell people that I'm on your side when you pull that trigger, because if person A is murdering person B, chances are I'm currently siding with B, not A.

J: That's a good point.

G: Damn straight. Alright, gotta split -- that Kepler 424b game is in overtime; they're gonna be prayin' up a storm, and I have to look like I give a shit.

J: Peace out, homey.

G: See you up here in heaven in six months, asshole!

Marriage and families and such.

It's no secret that the crop of thirtysomethings to which I belong are generally a bunch of selfish, spoiled-brat idiot-children. Obviously I consider myself amongst their ranks.

What am I, 37?

...yeah, I'm 37.

Shit, man.

Go back a generation. What had our parents done by their mid-to-late 30s? Probably had a few kids, bought a house, and maybe owned a Glen Campbell LP.*

The argument could be made, I suppose, that "things are different these days." More people than ever have post-secondary diplomas or degrees, and they're getting their careers underway (even broads!), and the nature of jobs in a post-union environment means less stability, yadda yadda. Add to it the price of houses in this city (!) and, well, let's just say I'm still renting.

Aside:
In conversation with someone recently, and jeez, I can't remember who, it came up that, since rents can only go up a small percentage each year, that gives you an incentive to stay in one spot and not bounce-around. I mean, hell, when I moved into my apartment in 2006, I thought the rent was a little pricey... but the dollar-value of it has stayed shockingly constant over the past almost-nine years while everything else has gone up, and this place is a god damn bargain now. It has two bedrooms, is way bigger than any sub-million-dollar condo around, huge west-facing windows with only trees across the road, and a charming horizontal crack about eight feet long about a foot below the crown moulding on the south wall of my living room. I'm genuinely curious as to why it's cracking, and how long it'll get. Stay tuned.

So, we end up pushing things back, and back, and back.

But, eventually, we're going to run into an inconvenient piece of biology: that is, the chicks, they can't have no babies no more when they're over about 40. And hey, it ain't no picnic for guys either; I don't want to be changing diapers at 50. Having kids is a young man's pursuit.

(Someone forgot to tell the late Tony Randall.)

Are we going to get a bunch of ultra-bummed-out women (and men too, let's face it) about a decade from now, all full of regret because they never settled down and started crapping-out some progeny? And, will today's teenagers learn from this possible-mistake and get busy earlier, or will they go down the same garden path?

Tough to say, really. But I have a feeling it's not going to be fun finding out.
______________________________________________
* I bought one at Kops on Bloor a couple of weeks ago for a quarter. Suck it, you old fogeys!

The news these days is such a fucking bummer.

Shit, I almost liked it better when car bombs in Iraq were dominating the headlines.

Consider:

• all those kids in a school in Pakistan getting shot-up
• ISIS doing its murder-y crazy stuff
• people getting gunned down by cops
• cops getting gunned down by people
• planes crashing into oceans
• the Toronto Maple Leafs

(Too soon? C'mon, Leaf Nation, it'll be alright one of these decades.)

Unfortunately, I don't have an antidote for this. I don't have a joke, other than the lousy one above.

Hmm...

. . .

. . .

uh...

. . .

hmm.

I have door-envy.

I am now the semi-proud owner of a four-door car, for the first time in my life; my previous three were coupes.

Four doors is just, well, too many doors. Think about it: you need a door to get in on the left side, and one to get in on the right side. Any more than two means you've got superfluous doors in there, buckaroo.

I'll be driving down the street thinking, "Jeez, I wonder what those doors are doing back there. Are they fully closed? Are the windows down a touch?" Unless I crank my head around and look at 'em, I'll never know. And that's irritating.

When I was in Florida last week -- hooray for work-related travel! -- I would check out two-door cars driving by and think, "Oooooh, hot damn, I wish I had one of them." It's like they were Kate Upton or something. Which is ridiculous, of course.

But, here we are. J owns a dorky, four-door car.

Damn.

Merry Fucking Christmas, assholes.