If You Don't Know By Now

Then I'm not going to tell you.

Beat This... Please

AC Green walked past my cube today. Why? Well, why not? Seriously. AC Green. Former NBA star. Noted advocate of abstinence. See the visual proof. He's sitting right in front of my big boss. The one with the flowing Italian locks.

Anyway. That's all. We did our best to hold back the 40-year-old virgin jokes. We acted busy. I said I wouldn't beg a co-worker to fork over the pictures we were required to capture. I promised (myself, anyway) not to blog about work. This (along with string of stinging and inflammatory emails I seem to send on a daily basis) could get me fired.

All that said... who came to your work today, hunh? Who?

That's what I thought.

I'm Not Here. This Isn't Happening.

You know the ones. The dreams that aren't dreams. The ones that leave you scared for days. It goes down quick — I wake with a start and wonder if I'm really as much of a mess as I just was. Does Beyoncé really have a crush on me? Would she really reunite Destiny's Child to serenade a terribly unhip minivan-driver who owns a grand total of two hip-hop records (both composed by the same pale-white Brit). Or, on another night, am I really the type of fella who would enrage a co-worker to the point where she would yell, "YOU ARE A MORON! YOU WILL NEVER BE AS IMPORTANT AS I AM!" Wait, don't answer that.

So what does it matter? Enh. Nothing. Right? Right? So why am I dodging the coworker? Why am I working on my best Jay-Z impersonation? Why do I think this is worthy of a blog post? Why am I following the same bedtime ritual every night, hoping to recreate the best of the too-real non-realities — the one that ends in smiles and giggles, the one that keeps me grinning for days?

What I Learned UPDATE

It appears that (aside from not making everything better) picking up the breakfast tab will also NOT result in any residual feelings of goodwill and/or gratitude and probably WILL result in a minor argument with the household bookkeeper.

Just thought you'd like to know in case you're currently reaching for your VISA Platinum as you finish off the last bite of French toast.

ALSO... D found it his duty to correct my appraisal of the "best breakfast joint in town." Apparently this place is the rightful title holder.

What I Learned Today

Picking up the breakfast tab (even if it is at the best breakfast joint in town and even if it does involve my plowing through a chicken-fried-steak-and-three-egg monster platter) won't make everything better.

The Candy Man Can

Suddenly, Willy Wonka doesn't seem like such a nut. Seriously. Toured the Sweet's Candy factory (located in the industrial netherlands on the west side of SLC) tonight with some friends and comrades, along with my own personal entourage—Amy, the Wilson bros., Nate the Great, his newly impregnated wife and their li'l punk rock riot grrl, etc...

So here's the scoop. Candy makes people giddy. Did it to me. Did it to everyone in the group. I'm telling you, fresh chocolate-coated almonds, still-warm egg nog taffy, cinnamon bars, orange sticks... I couldn't stop sampling. And giggling. Who cares about diabetes? Obesity? Bring it on.

Rick Sweet (a fourth-generation candy genius) was a gracious host and a cooler-than-cool tour guide. I salute this family-run business. I applaud the 5.5 million pounds of sugar they have contracted for next year's candy production. And I certainly embrace the fact that they considered my scraggly soul patch worthy of a beard guard.

Things Fall Apart

It's depressing. It's maddening. It's frightening. It's discouraging. It happens too frequently. All the time, really. I ought to fight it. I ought to be better than this. Really. I'm 30. I have a mortgage (two, actually). I commute. I'm making my way up a corporate ladder of sorts. I purchased a minivan. This is the problem. This is the center that will not hold.

It's been nearly 350 days since my last post.

This will not reoccur. This cannot continue. I will write. I will take a deep breath. I will push on. I will say no to the second half of my Philly cheesesteak. I will choose water. I will rise early. I will be someone different. Less judgmental. More friendly. Fitter. Happier. More productive.

I will try.

Call me Mike…TeeVee

Once I can determine which shows will stick in my rotation, I'm sure the viewing time will drop dramatically, but right now I feel like a junkie. Or I guess, just a typical American. Don't we watch an average of 4 hours a day? If I don't watch out, I'll be right on track.

Anyway, this week's thoughts:

Prison Break - I'm giving it one more week. There's no hook and no excitement. Not to mention that the whole thing is beyond contrived. Anyway, this week's episode came in at a solid C+, par for the course.

Gilmore Girls - only caught a few minutes of the premiere but I've got it taped. From what I saw, Rori continues her slide into utter unlikability and Luke and Lorelai argue pointlessly a lot. I've got high hopes, but then again, I'm (apparently) a 14-year-old girl. More thoughts after I catch the whole thing.

Other than that, I did manage to see bits and pieces of Encino Man over the weekend. I think they were running it continuously on TNT (surprise, surprise). Anyway, my pal Speed and I probably watched that movie 75 times in high school and I still love it. I've gotta say that Brendan Fraser bottomed out once he started accepting roles that includes more than five lines (with words exceeding 2 syllables). He's fantastic as the hotshot caveman who wins over the school and saves the day. And Samwise Gamgee gets the girl. You know you're dealing with a classic when the final PROM scene involves a caveman-inspired line dance. Wow.

And so it begins…

You could say that the Fall TV season unofficially officially began last night. While a couple shows have already started their run (Prison Break), the season premiere of the OC pretty much signals that it's time to start weeding through the garbage and pick a winner or two.

Here's my breakdown, quick-like.

New Shows I'm Excited About:

Uhmmmm…nothing really. Prison Break has been fairly mediocre and last night's premiere of Reunion was downright pitiful. If you're going to set an episode in 1986, your main characters shouldn't be sporting hairdos from 2005. Honestly. One fella even had a faux-hawk. And no one used the word "rad." A complete swing and miss.


Returning Shows I Wish Started Tonight:

LOST - duh.

The Office - as a massive fan of the British version, I never thought I'd accept the NBC attempt. But I caught some episodes over the summer and who knew…? They were hilarious. Newsflash! Steve Carell is funny! This show's gonna be a hit!

24 - but not 'til January.

the OC - yeah, so it was last night, but there's always something charming about this semi-guilty pleasure. Blah blah blah. If you really want to read about the OC, check this out. A startling, day-long back-and-forth between ESPN.com's Bill Simmons and Josh Schwartz (creator/writer/producer of the OC).

Gilmore Girls - I can't believe I actually just typed that. I'd better not say any more.

ALIAS - mainly so that I can make my final decision to shut the show down. Word is a couple younger agents will be taking over for Miss Bristow and that J-Garn's pregnancy will be written into the show. Ugh. Yuk. Gross. How did this happen? And Ben Affleck is the father? Really? I will now remove my fingernails and plunge my hands into a vat of lemon juice.

Arrested Development - no kidding?


Anyway.

Grades on last night's shows:

the OC = solid B

Reunion = D+

Maybe I'll do something like this every week. Maybe. I mean it's only been like 6 weeks since my last post. Yikes.

Upon Further Review…

It's been nearly two weeks since Sufjan Stevens braved the sweat shop currently known as Lo-Fi Cafe in SLC (more on that later), and I think I'm finally ready to discuss the performance.

Usually, an introduction like that is cause for apprehension. In the case of Sufjan and his band of Illinoisemakers, however, it's simply an indication of their brilliance. For 12 days, I've been thinking through the show. Replaying it backward and forward in my memory. Waiting hopelessly for bootlegged tracks to appear on scattered blogs. Downloading the entire next-day show in Denver (welcometothem!dwest). Rewatching video footage from a show in San Francisco (youaintnopicasso). And, obviously, wishing I had tickets to any number of Sufjan's soldout shows--five of 'em!--in NYC later this month.

The truth is, I think Sufjan's live show has cured me of the obsession so well chronicled on this very blog (and by hundreds of other fanboys/girls on their respective webspots). Obsession has been replace with pure admiration. Sufjan Stevens is an artist. And that's the best I can probably do to review his act. So while I ramble on for a couple thousand words, just remember this: To call him a songwriter or a musician or a historian or a storyteller just doesn't cut it; Sufjan is an artist, period.

With the day-time, outdoor highs near 100°F, the crowd was already glistening by the time the doors opened an hour late. And when the smoke-and-shadows voiced Liz Janes hit the stage, the Lo-Fi Cafe was practically packed and humidity was climbing by the second. Lo-Fi is a dump. An out-and-out pig sty. It's small. It's shabby. And it lacks any form of ventilation. Two lonely ceiling fans fight the impossible multiplication of body heat and three-digit temps. Let's leave it at this: by the time Ms. Janes finished her five song set, she was soaked. And so was I. And not in a slightly-sexy, misted with a kiss of rain sort of way. We're talking just plain old sweaty. Somehow, Liz Janes delivered and soothed, closing with a mindboggling, ukulele-crushing version of "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot."

Following some mandatory gear shifts and some pleasant costume changes--you may or may not know that Sufjan and his crew sport blazing Illinois cheerleader outfits, men in tees and orange sweatpants, women in tees, orange skirts and navy leggings--astute fans could catch Sufjan and crew in the back corner of the venue, huddled and cheering. Sufjan Stevens and the Illinoisemakers were working themselves into a frenzy, bouncing and shaking their pompoms (yes, pompoms). In seconds, they stormed the stage and launched into the thematic "Fifty States Song" (you can hear a snippet at www.sufjan.com).

This all sounds too gimmicky, too press-hungry. But the thrill of Sufjan is his earnestness, his realism. Sufjan Stevens has not undertaken the fifty albums for fifty states as some sort of trick, but as a celebration of each piece of the Union. All you need is to hear Sufjan sing the beautifully harrowing "John Wayne Gacy, Jr." and you know that this is serious stuff. Recounting the horror of serial killings, Sufjan employs a falsetto that simply cannot be described. His final declaration, "and on my best behavior/I am really just like him" had me proclaiming that it was sweat rolling down my cheekÂ…and hoping that standers-by would believe it.

And did I mention the intermittent cheers? Raising pompoms and sporting well-choreographed hand signals, the Illinoisemakers spouted literate shout-outs in relation to a number of songs. The prize-winner: Metropolis, in which Sufjan managed to include references to Balki Bartokomous (Bronson Pinchot's character from "Perfect Strangers") and Webster Papadapolis (Emmanuel Lewis's character from "Webster"). Outstanding.

So when Suf and the eight-strong symphonic players launched into Come on Feel the Illinoise (the album's title track), I could hardly contain my awe. Sufjan explored the piano--nearly matching the Stevie-Wonder-esque chops he showcased on "They Are Night Zombies!!"--while others contributed by trumpet, guitars, percussion, banjo, and vibraphone. Vocally, all but the redheaded drummer chimed in, delivering harmonies Brian Wilson would certify. By the time the song hit the Cure-inspired midpoint, jaws were dropping. Even in the 110-degree/95%-humidity conditions, there was no stopping the Illini gala. Sufjan whisper-sang of Carl Sandburg's ghost and the musicians abated, isolating their frontman with their absence. With just slight backing from the drum kit and the occasional flourish elsewhere, Sufjan delivered and repeated Sandburg's pointed, dreamy supplication: "Are you writing from the heart?"

It's a question Sufjan doesn't take lightly. Every word is considered, re-considered and ultimately placed for maximum impact. Stevens' training as a fiction writer is both apparent and appreciated. In interviews, he has proclaimed his un-rockstar-like affinity for the workshop process. This is a man who recognizes the necessity of revision, and his songs are a reflection of his devotion.

Following the closing bars of "Come onÂ…", I just couldn't help it. At the quietest (and sweatiest) moment, I spoke everything I could muster. I uttered the words that wouldn't leave my head. As Sufjan moved from keyboard to guitar, I stared him down and said "WOW!" And I said it loud. And everyone agreed. This was music. This was art. This was performance. In response, one of the female Illinoisemakers looked up toward me and yelled back "And I'm doing this in leggings!" And she couldn't have been more correct. Not ironic leggings. Not funny leggings. But real live, honest-to-goodness cheerleader leggings. No one sweats like that for a laugh.

For some, Sufjan's appearance may have been little more than a sweaty ode to Illinois, but for those who cared to listen between the ting of the triangle and the pluck of the banjo, there was more at stake. While Sufjan Stevens exposes and extolls the treasures of statehood, while he revels in history and coincidence, he becomes the very thing he celebratesÂ…the pure essence of identity, the defining moments of a landscape. It sounds hyperbolic, but Sufjan Stevens is America. And in Salt Lake City, he was everything we could ask for. Even a brief savior from an unrelenting heat.

Defeat on the Heels of Victory

I actually invited Sufjan Stevens to lunch. Here's my exact request to the folks at his record label (asthmatic kitty) in Wyoming (Wyoming?! People record and distribute music in Wyoming?!):

So this may sound strange… oh well.

I know he's fairly busy these days, but could you ask Sufjan if he's
got the time and/or inclination to have lunch on July 28th in SLC?
I'll pay for the sandwiches and kettle chips. And there's even some
legitimacy to my request:

My friend (and co-worker) Dainon is a bona-fide rock writer and, well,
he'd be happy to scribble a few notes on a napkin and turn the whole
lunch experience into real, live online documentation.

You could even come along as well. SLC's not far from Wyoming and I'll
spring for sammiches and chips for the whole gang.

Anyway. Thanks for at least entertaining the notion.

-matt.

The response (surprising unaccompanied by a restraining order):

Hi Matt,

Thank you very much for your request. As it is, Sufjan's schedule is
extremely tight - Boise, Salt Lake City and Denver on 3 consecutive days -
we are sorry to have to tell you that your proposal won't be realizeable.
Thank you for the invitation,

Best,

Karin

Anyway. I think that has ended my creepy obsession and now maybe I can rectify the punishment I have inflicted on all four of my readers. No more Sufjan blogs (except maybe one post-concert write-up) from here on out.

I working on something good. Resurrecting old emails from my days at the FRED that need further exploration. Things like "Who are the ugliest basketball players of the last 25 years?" or "Top 5 Songs that feature prominent whistling." Brace yourself. I think I'm in recovery.

I WIN! I WIN!

It's gonna be hard to believe, but I won. I have battled the mighty insurance monsters and escaped with a narrow victory. I am Brad Pitt in The Mexican. I have brutalized the brutes! Bruce from SelectQuote called last night and it's official: I AM A NON-SMOKER! I can't believe it either. Now I have to give up my pack-a-day habit? Seriously? I had gracefully accepted the smoker lifestyle. I'd started hanging out on the apartment porch and smoking while I tipped back Diet Pepsi's and talked endlessly on the phone. (I learned it all from the more-than-slightly overweight woman with an upstairs apartment near our parking space). I'd even entertained the idea of storing a month's worth of trash out on the balcony to keep me company. Sadly, I had drawn the line at letting our li'l one maintain a diaper-only wardrobe. I guess my commitment wasn't as deep as I'd liked it to be.

At any rate, I'm still in shock over the victory. This never happens. I am ERIN BROCKOVICH! (SOMEONE CORRECT MY SPELLING!) I CAN'T STOP USING CAPS LOCK! WHY AM I SHOUTING?

So now I begin the steady process of quitting. And have you seen the price of those NicoDerm patches? Seriously. At least I've got the low life insurance premiums to ease me through the withdrawals.

Liner Notes and Pronunciations…What Else?

Obviously, I've got a problem. "Come on, Feel the Illinoise" arrived on Thursday and I've been reading liner notes like a 12-year-old girl. Not that there's anything wrong with that…

Anyway, Sufjan's a genius and I have officially (I think) crossed the line between casual fandom and creepy obsession. I'm seriously planning out my email to his record label to ask if he'll have a sammich and some kettle chips with me on July 28th before his show at the Lo-Fi Cafe. I oughta just do everyone a favor and rename this blog "I [heart] Sufjan."

In other news, the pronunciation of his name is still up for debate. The latest (and most definitive) version is SOOF-yan. So that's the one I'm going with for now. At least until I read something else.

And by the way…the album's still fantastic and someone'd better pry it outta my cd player and delete it from my iTunes before it becomes absolutely hardwired into my brain.

Feel It! Feel It!

The official title of Sufjan Stevens' new album--"Come on Feel the Illinoise"--may be one of the best album titles in years. Anyway, I'll keep my crushing admiration for Sufjan short this morning, but you can listen to the new album here. It's beyond fantastic and I'm thinking about buying a copy for everyone I know. It's one of those albums. You wanna give and give and give some more. That's all. Listen online. Pre-order here. Feel the Illinoise.

Cheekie Monkeys

This post is a li'l late, since it's been nearly two weeks since the miraculous gathering of the Cheekies. If you're a casual reader--someone outside of my immediate circle--this probably means nothing to you. Feel free to move on to other pursuits. But seeing a rather large gathering of old college friends can be a wonderful and slightly bizarre thing. People are the same but different. Kids roam the grass. But the barbecued turkey (try it!) is still fantastic. The stories are unequaled. And I can't stop wishing I was 21, foolish, and undeservingly blessed with a tribe of like-minded comrades again. At any rate, it was too short and I can't shake the dreams of an FLS reunion tour.