Soundtrack to your life.

We all know the story. Certain songs mean something to you because it mimics a piece of life: something felt before, something felt but not necessarily put into words, and something that is now tangible (in the audible sense.)

For me, I am linked to a song because of a beat I can't escape. Its that feeling that I have to move, have to leave the world around me for a second or two to become part of the world that the song creates. It could be in another language, it could be talking about something I don't even relate to, it doesn't really matter. But there is some kind of connection in the way a voice and a beat can in a way become one and just take control of the body. Make me feel like no one is watching and for once, even if they are, I won't really care.




There are those songs that inspire simply by a voice -- the kind of voice that strikes you like its the first time in your life that you've heard a person sing. A voice you wish you could own for yourself -- take it out of your back pocket once in awhile to show off to friends and admirers. And just because you are listening to that voice, you feel like your day becomes epic. You can bask in the glory of that human power that isn't necessarily yours but, for the moment, you can have it. Take it out on loan. Share it with others.

But music in general, man. Wish it could follow me everywhere. I don't really need the silence. Thank God for the iPod. With those little white earbuds in, taking dishes out of the dishwasher has romance to it. Standing in the checkout line, eating an apple, taking the dog on a walk - it all seems so poetic when you have the soundtrack of your life to back you up.

I recently read some lyrics that I probably wouldn't have related to or even taken notice of if I hadn't seen them first in written format. I was taken aback as to how relatable I found them. Its amazing to me when a song isn't just about love or loss, isn't trying to be overly emotional, deep, esoteric. Just admitting that we are all just a little jaded, a little lost, a little apathetic -- its refreshing to hear (at least to me) and more inspiring than just another song about the art in life, in death, the scorn of relationships gone wrong.

So here it is. A song to eat potato chips and watch Sportscenter by. A song of a generation. A song that I can relate to as I try to make sense of it all -- try, with all earnesty, to make something of life -- but just end up blogging about it instead.


A Song for Clay -- Bloc Party

A sample of lyrics I speak of:

I am trying to be heroic,
In an age of modernity.
I am trying to be heroic,
because all around me history sings.

So I enjoy and I devour
flesh and wine and luxury.
But in my heart,
I am lukewarm;
nothing ever really touches me.

Small Pleasures = Great Joy

Life is good. February is Cold. Superbowl Sunday is Funday. Go Colts.

Here's what makes me happy and what hopefully will help get me through the post-holiday cold days (winter without the charm) till the months are finally warmer.



Extra foam in my morning latte at Belly General Store. My girl takes pride in having the best foam around. Its passionate coffee making. Don't judge. After letting her know her status as the best latte maker this side of 285, she went so far in her gratitude as to draw an "L" with chocolate over the massive amounts of foam. Overpriced coffee doesn't sting the pockets so much when you go where everyone knows your name -- And takes the time to drizzle it out in sweet dark goodness.

Cookie dough ice cream. Straight out of the carton. A shared spoon.

Climbing on the roof just to take in the scenes of an early February afternoon. The things you missed doing when you were young CAN and SHOULD be made up at some point in your life. Even at 24. And even at 40 degrees farenheit.

Making the last cup shot at beer pong; basking in the glorious look of defeat your opponent takes on when chugging that last warm cup of bad beer. Being as unhumble as possible when they do so.

The 700 Club Christian News of the World. Unbiased coverage at its finest.

My Memory Foam mattress topper. Pure Beech silken t-shirt sheets. Feeling like you could sleep for days and knowing that you wouldn't miss all that much.

Ostrich burgers. Medium rare. Seriously -- you'll never wish for fatty beef again. Rare. Well done.

Good champagne on a Saturday afternoon for no reason other than SEC basketball on T.V. and the need for something to wash down supreme pizza and breadsticks.

The Blotter in Creative Loafing. Feeling better about my life compared to the man in tan shorts lying across Peachtree Street, drinking Mr. Bostons, and telling the officer, "I'll kick yo ass. 'Cause I'm from Macon, man." Suddenly, my life path doesn't seem so twisted and the days don't seem so cold.

Television smashing with a pink hammer in a darkened parking lot. Who knew the explosion that could happen from just a little crack to the screen? My God! As I stood there in my hooded gangster sweatshirt, next to the dumpster, holding that girly hammer over my head, I felt the exciting rush that must make vandalism the sport that it is.

Music with soul to it. Rhythm. Blues. A bass line. Black, white, red, and yellow soul. No discrimination. Case in point: Amy Winehouse -- White, British, and more soul than James Brown's loafer collection.

A crackling fire and rearranging the living room so as to sit as close as possible to said fire and the television at the same time. Perfection.

The list goes on.




I really haven't missed living in Los Angeles till most recently. I forgot that winter doesn't just mean a 10 degree drop in temperature, causing you to wear long sleeves to the beach and sweaters at night. In some places, winter means ice picks to the car windshield and numbness to the extremities. Yes, I realize that this is Atlanta. Not Nova Scotia. But Whatever. Im over this season already. Wake me up when it's April.