When the man’s got you down

Sometimes there’s no point in getting up

Running Track: A Study in Masochism

In track, the best masochist wins. That is to say, rather, the most versatile masochist wins.

I am an expert on this because I just joined track, which means that I know all things about it.

Here are the two kinds of pain a person must embrace in order to win at track:
1) Sustained, throbbing, lifestyle pain. In addition to the nasty slogs of endless training runs, you must not forget that homeless, hungry ache of lactic acid in well-worked muscles. This is the pain that haunts you to classes and makes you wince when you walk down hills. It reminds you not to smoke cigarettes or drink carbonated beverages. It’s delicious for its reality, a comfort and a blight, like a beloved stuffed porcupine (cute!) with real quills.
2) Vivid, intestine-rending race pain. This is where classical masochists differentiate themselves from the pack. In the interest of comparative language, this basically feels like bullfrogging, except that it is self-induced, sans alcohol, with perfectly earnest intention.

And that, I think, is a fair summary of track. So why do it? Well…
1) It introduces great chemicals to your body/brain. Free.
2) Group showers.
3) Maybe you won’t be so fat anymore.
4) You’re a masochist.

As any logical person can see, the pro to con ratio here is 2:1. Which means that surfing the internet is rationally the wrong thing for you to be doing right now.

Dude, go.

Summer in Seattle

I want to live in Seattle.

I’ve always wanted to live in Seattle.

But what if I go to Seattle, and it’s no good. What do I look forward to in my life? Portland? If we could please just recall my virginal post about perfection, we’d know that perfection is stupid. Is Seattle stupid?

Okay, so it can’t be as stupid as NASCAR.

I think I’ll go.

The fates and my Zune

Yes, Zune. Yes, I am less anti-social than you. No, I am not more practical than you.

In a somewhat frightening move, I put my Zune on shuffle while I watched Davidson upset Georgetown in the NCAA tournament play. Like that surprise rotten Easter egg you’ll uncover in a couple weeks, this allowed me to discover some tracks that I used to think were great but stink now. The cool thing about this analogy is that it can also be expressed this way:

rotten Easter eggs : today’s tracks :: Kansas University : 2008 Men’s Basketball National Champs

That is because they are the same. Or rather, will be.

Anyway, this whole music experience was fairly upsetting, so I naturally responded by forming what is probably the most sustainable playlist ever. These are like plastic Easter eggs. Or maybe like oysters with their regenerating pearls or something. Oh. Like argyle sweaters obviously. This site is tedious already.

I promise I will still listen to this playlist in 10 years if I am not dead.

1. Wraith Pinned to the Mist and Other Games -Of Montreal
2. King of Carrot Flowers Part 1 -Neutral Milk Hotel
3. The Needle Has Landed -Neko Case
4. Reservations -Wilco
5. Shasta Heavy -Foot Foot
6. Metal Heart -Cat Power
7. Slow Show -The National
8. Don’t Call Me Whitney, Bobby -The Islands
9. Carolina -M. Ward
10. It Wasn’t Me -Jenny Lewis and the Watson Twins
11. Freeze the Saints – Stephen Malkmus
12. Stuck Between Stations -The Hold Steady
13. Indian Summer -Pedro the Lion
14. Knife -Grizzly Bear
15. Rebellion (Lies) -The Arcade Fire
16. Jerusalem -Mirah

Perfection

One of my extremely famous friends has recently decided to adjourn on the path to perfection.
Besides for this being a stupid idea, it brings up a very boring question that everybody always talks about. Still, this is not the fanny pack page, it is the argyle page, so it is thematically defensible to explore threadbare but strangely enticing subjects.
So, what is perfection?
For a while I figured it was just an American spelling of Obama, but recently I’ve been having second thoughts. I don’t like rich white people either, but they do wear a lot of cool sweaters, which is a point any rational person would consider.
At one point it seemed like perfection was Michael Jordan, but his stint with the Wizards made him look about as magic as Shaq.
I’m pretty sure, ultimately, that perfection does not exist in any form more pure than The National’s most recent album Boxer. Paste Magazine calls it the best of 2007, but the biggest trick of perfection is longevity. The National’s layered instrumentals and deep, resonant vocals get better with every listen, so allow me to mystically predict that it will also be the best album of 2008. Which doesn’t make sense, until you admit to yourself that the listening experience is practically reinvented with every listen. It’s not lyric-driven, but the words are every bit as poignant as The Mountain Goats… just with a far more ambiguous application.
The music sounds at times like an orchestral waterfall, crashing into the undercurrent of singer Matt Berninger’s rumbling vocals. Listen to it during thunderstorms, on too-bright mornings, on gross muggy nights, or on glorious walks through meadows of dainty, effervescent (?) wildflowers… you won’t find any weather or mood that can’t be considered in conjunction with this sound.
Excuse the previous poetry. It is idyllic because I am sullying The National by calling them Perfect.
Don’t worry about it. They will rise above my groveling words.
Maybe my famous friend’s next viral video will sound a little more like this