Chris Walker Versus

“How old are you?”
“Twenty-five.”
“Are you married?”
“No.”
“Oh. Just haven’t found the right girl yet?”

Conversations like the one above have become more and more frequent now that I’ve passed the quarter century mark, and I’m sure they’ll continue to increase as more time passes. I know I’m not the only one struggling through these exchanges, and I’m sure I’m not alone when I say they’re fucking ridiculous.

(Note: Aside from the ones I’ve made up, I’ve sought out no statistics for the coming statements however; I’m almost certain my presumptions are true. Refute them, if you must.)

Most parents of people my age came from the stern, working, middle class; their parents were middle class, they were middle class almost by default. Religion is huge in the middle class, so is settling into a steady job and starting a family. It is the “American Dream” after all, isn’t it? Husband and wife, a plot of land, 2.5 children, a cat and a dog, and church on Sunday. My generation didn’t buy into that version of the dream. And while most of us came from the middle class, the majority of us no longer belong to the middle class. Financially, perhaps, but not in ideology.

Generation X was the first generation to shun the “American Dream”. (No, of course they weren’t the first. I’m excluding generations from the 70s with all their free-love and hippie-dom because, well, fuck them. I’m speaking currently here.) Whether defiant in their slackerdom, or pursuing the dot com dream, Generation X were rebels because they were unwilling to settle into the roles of their parents before them. I guess you can attribute it to the fact Generation X was incredibly spoiled but, nevertheless, they shunned life in the suburbs; they wanted to live in the big city, working as freelance writers or graphic designers or be grunge musicians or what-the-fuck-ever. Social significance, personal wealth, and professional accomplishment became more important than starting a family and working a nine-to-five.

My generation, Generation Y (perhaps even more spoiled), promptly followed suit but, by the time we started thinking for ourselves, there was nothing to collectively rebel against. The dirt road had already been paved. With that lack of crisis or need for rebellion, and the glamorization of lifestyles once consider unrealistic or unattainable, we became confused about our futures. In turn, a lot of us have no idea what we want out of life. Having said that, we know what we don’t want: We don’t want to get married right away. We don’t want children. We don’t want to settle down. We didn’t even necessarily want to go to college, it just seemed like the right thing to do at the time.

Surprisingly, all of this is okay. (And, of course, my summation is a vague overview of a multifaceted subject with countless variables and exceptions. There are a lot of people my age who know exactly what they want out of life. I know people who’ve graduated, gotten married, and had children and are the pinnacle of happiness. But I also know a lot of guys who probably wished they would’ve worn a condom and are now reluctantly giving up their dreams for diapers, with the prospect of marrying someone who isn’t the supermodel they thought they’d one day meet because they now feel obligated to do so. And so on.)

Not “starting a family”, not having children by age twenty-five, and not even considering that combo anytime in the foreseeable future should not be considered failure, because it absolutely isn’t. It’s perfectly acceptable to still be single or consider career goals and personal satisfaction more important than creating life. It’s okay to desire more on a personal level than unthinking root down and do what is considered “normal”. It’s okay to be selfish. It’s okay to take your time when “figuring it all out”.

I remember this miserable, middle-aged socialite approached me at my sister’s wedding and snidely asked, “How does it feel to have your little sister get married before you?” I shrugged and said fine, I was happy for her, but what I really wanted to say was, “How does it feel to be married to a man you don’t even love anymore, and who probably doesn’t love you? How does it feel to have done nothing substantial, how does it feel to have no real interests or opinions on matters other than who’s husband is cheating on them with a younger woman or who gets kicked off Survivor? Isn’t it time for another tummy tuck or an eye lift to fill the void in your otherwise meaningless life?” And trust me, I wasn’t bitter because the woman struck a sensitive cord. My sister is a different breed: almost three years younger than me, she graduated college in three-and-a-half years, is already a year into her desired profession, and now happily married. She’s got it all figured out but what she wants out of life and what I want are two completely different things. No, I was angry because the bitch who asked the question wears too much makeup and having her face in such close proximity offended me. Not to mention, her antiquated version of the way young people should progress into adulthood is outdated and fucking absurd.

Going back to the conversation I started with, being twenty-five and not being married does not equal haven’t found the right girl yet. To believe that is the only reasonable answer is ridiculous. Maybe I have found the right girl and I’m just not in a hurry. I mean, I could sit there and tell complete strangers, “Well, I was engaged but it didn’t work out so now I would rather take my time so I don’t fuck it up again,” but sometimes those complete strangers are moral Christians and they’re offended by the word fuck. Besides, I was relieved when my engagement fell through. I didn’t really want to get married in the first place.

I don’t know, maybe I’ve written this whole thing to validate myself and my life choices, to make my selfishness seem more acceptable. Probably not, though. I don’t need validation. There’s nothing wrong with being selfish, I know this when people my age with screaming babies tell me how lucky I am. I’m not lucky, I’m just smart. I’m happy with a girlfriend and a condo, traveling the globe and calling it work, and making a reasonable income which I get to spend all on myself. I’m still striving towards greater goals and bigger dreams - even if I’m not 100% sure what those goals and dreams are - and I’m not compromising them by starting a family. I’m certainly not alone in this mindset; I’ve got an entire generation, whether knowingly or unknowingly, doing the exact same thing.

Elko, Nevada. Quite the anomaly. While it seems like a great place to go and die, it’s filled with children. Hundreds of them. Most belonging to redneck families. But it’s also jam-packed with some of the oldest, on the verge of death, people I’ve ever seen. I couldn’t wrap my head around it, and in a moment of drunken clarity I wondered, “Is Elko where all life begins and ends?”

My good friend Brian Johnson spent many of his formative years in Elko. He’s also a lover of Basque food, culture, and women. Because of these factors, every Fourth of July weekend Brian makes the trek to Elko for their annual Basque Festival. I opted to go with him this year, after promises of drunken debauchery and Basque-tinged mayhem.

There was mayhem, all right. And debauchery. And extreme (x-treme!) drunkenness. There were also chorizo, Basque games (including: tug-of-war, metal object lifting and wood-chopping), fireworks, chorizo, Basque songs (my favorite: “Lili bat ikhusi dut (MSTRKRFT Remix)”), deep-fried chorizo (read: the highlight of the trip), and a parade. Well, as you can see in the pictures above, I wouldn’t call it a parade as much as a stream of miscellaneous vehicles, a lot of them fire engines, blaring loud horrible noises. Especially for those of us with hangovers. (And yes, you saw correctly, the “parade” ends with a sweeper truck kicking up dirt at all onlookers.)

Perhaps in the coming days I’ll type up all the random notes we drunkenly scribbled down while in Elko, including a list of places we can never return to (read: most of Elko). On egin!

I hate Billy Corgan. With a passion. Billy Corgan, founder of the Smashing Pumpkins, is perhaps the most insufferable douche on the planet. Hearing his name sends me into frenzy; I fantasize about gunning down defenseless panda bears and kicking newborn infants through goal posts. If Billy Corgan was a small country I would bomb it and enslave anyone who survived.

I used to think Corgan was a genius. Despite the fact he sounds like a dying cat and looks like Willem Dafoe in Shadow of the Vampire, Corgan was a great song writer. The Pumpkins’ 1993 album, Siamese Dream, is an undisputed classic. The band’s follow-up, Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness, is arguably the most epic album to come out of the nineties. But by the time Pumpkins bassist D’arcy Wretzky and guitarist James Iha left for less-douchy pastures, it was apparent to everyone: Corgan had been consumed by his ego. I mean, who puts a full-page ad in the Chicago Tribune, claiming he wants his old band back, just to end up with the same drummer he’s been with since his band broke up?

As narcissistic and stupid as Billy Corgan is, you know who is even more stupid? A woman who take a promise ring seriously.

A promise ring, if you’ve never heard of it, is often considered a precursor to an engagement ring. It’s supposed to signify monogamy or great commitment. It doesn’t. What a promise ring is, is actually a way to get a nagging, bitch girlfriend to shut the fuck up about “taking things to the next level” without spending three-months salary.

I forgot promise rings existed. The band The Promise Ring broke up in 2002, and I haven’t been in junior high for a long time so, how was I supposed to remember? When I heard they were still around my face made that scrunched up, confused look, as if someone had taken a shit in the room and the putrid vapors had finally hit my nostrils. Then I put it on my list of things I no longer acknowledge yet still exist, right below Bloods and Crips and Women’s Studies Majors.

The promise ring is good idea for men, though, especially those who aren’t ready for life-long commitment. This way, a guy can make his girlfriend feel validated - validation being what the majority of women want out of a relationship (that, and totalitarian control) - without putting anything at risk. An engagement ring tells a woman: I want to spend forever with you, you can start planning our wedding now (or, in my case it means: ruin my life for a year and then I’ll break up with you). A promise ring says nothing, you can’t plan a wedding after you’ve received one. Unless you’re planning it in your head. All you really get to do is wait that much longer for the real deal. Or, perhaps indefinitely.

I had a girlfriend that kept hassling me about new ways to show our commitment to the world, something the world never really asked for. After months of incessant badgering I finally caved in and bought her a promise ring. She was elated. In fact, she was so thrilled she threw a party with her girlfriends to celebrate the momentous occasion. Midway through the festivities I called her and let her know I was breaking up with her, I just couldn’t imagine spending my life with someone so stupid. Sure, she cried then but, ultimately, I think I taught her a valuable lesson: not to take stock in ridiculous trinkets that don’t mean anything, and to not bug the shit out of future boyfriends who obviously aren’t ready to settle down for the rest of their lives.

I also sent her a Smashing Pumpkins CD, she used it as a beer coaster.

UPDATE 06.27.08: VALIDATION AND THE ILLUSION OF COMMITMENT…IN THE MEDIA

Know who Katy Perry is? You will. Her “I Kissed A Girl” song is EVERYWHERE.

It’s clever enough, and it’s about girl-on-girl action so I’m certainly not against it. Pockets, a long-time Perry fan, wasn’t really feeling the song. “Judging from your silence you must disagree,” she said, a couple moments after telling me. “No,” I replied. “It’s just not a song I feel very passionately about. Sure, I like it but I’m not going to go to bat for it.” And therein lies the joy of mainstream pop singles: they’re fun for about a month and then they’re replaced by something else. You don’t have to take them seriously. At all. Unless they’re “Since U Been Gone.” Then they’re a juggernaut to be reckoned with.

Anyway, word has it Perry’s boyfriend, Tattooed Guy From That One Band That Had A Hit One Time, recently gave Perry a promise ring and I think it’s a great example of just how fucking ridiculous the promise ring really is. TGFTOBTHAHOT has been dating Perry for years, Perry was even in That One Band That Had A Hit One Time’s music video. He never felt the need to publicly profess his love for Perry before, but now his girlfriend is a hot commodity; she has a hit single, and she’s probably garnering a lot of attention from male celebrities who’d love to see her naked.

Homeboy feels threatened. And understandably so. But by getting Perry a promise ring now, all it is is an indication of his immense insecurity as Perry’s celebrity status rises. It’s a major pussy move, sad and pathetic. To show my disapproval I promise never to buy a Gym Class Heroes album again. Not that I ever did in the first place. Furthermore, I hope Perry does the right thing and fucks John Mayer. I love that guy.

“The FDA has consistently shown that it is more interested in protecting the interests of the agriculture industry than the health of American consumers.”
- Barry Estabrook

Barry Estabrook, who published the quote above today, is someone I deeply admire. Aside from being a Contributing Editor for Gourmet, he writes a fantastic column entitled “Politics of the Plate.” Estabrook and I share similar interests - he articulates them much better than I do - and I’m sure he and I could have one hell of a conversation over a couple beers.

Today, Estabrook posed the question I’m sure all of us have wanted to ask: “How in the hell does salmonella get inside a tomato?” I thought about tackling this baffling issue myself however; Estabrook does such a great job that, well, I don’t need to open my mouth about it.

READ: POLITICS OF THE PLATE: ROTTEN TOMATOES, by Barry Estabrook.

UPDATE 06.23.08: The number of tomato-related sicknesses has risen to 552 since early April. The last reported case was in early June. The Food and Drug Administration (FDA) still hasn’t determined the source or cause of the outbreak.

I found some interesting quotes in a recent MNSBC news article which I thought were worth sharing:

“It might be impossible to trace the ultimate source of the tainted tomatoes, the Food and Drug Administration’s food safety chief warned Wednesday.”

“[T]omatoes are among the hardest foods to trace in an outbreak, because … they’re sold without tags to help trace their suppliers.”

“[T]he FDA has asked Mexican health authorities to check whether they have any cases of this exact strain of salmonella Saintpaul, the subtype involved.”

The FDA: working hard to keep you safe…after you get sick. While the hunt to find the outbreak is appreciated, it still doesn’t answer Estabrook’s question, and your question, and my question: how did Salmonella get inside the tomato? A friend speculated it could be a result of workers shitting in fields, their feces present in the soil as the tomatoes begin to grow. That would certainly lead to an interesting investigation on working conditions, wouldn’t it? Hopefully the FDA will do the right thing and figure out what caused the outbreak, and hopefully we, as American consumers, won’t let them off the hook until they do.

I’ve asked you to grate your own cheese. I’ve shunned vodka. I’ve berated fat people with rare diseases.

Some might think my observations - or rants on consumerism and the condition of the common man - are mean-spirited, vulgar displays of an asshole with a superiority complex. Some might even think they come from a dark, angry place. They’re really only half-right. Sure, it may take every ounce of will-power not to run over the idiots I see whenever I drive through a parking lot near a Wal-Mart however; my plea to stop eating microwavable, pre-bunned hot-dogs, my desire for people to get back into their kitchens and eat organic, comes from a genuine place. I want to save you, America. America, I care.

When I say buy free-range meat (read: meat from cows that aren’t kept in feed-lots, instead in their natural habitat, eating a natural diet) it’s not because it’s “haute cuisine,” or “foodie-approved,” or any other equally ridiculous reason. No, I say that because I don’t want you to bite into a hamburger that came off the assembly line at a place like Topps Meat Co. Topps Meat Co., one of biggest frozen meat processors in the United States, was shut down in late 2007 after their meat caused an outbreak of E. coli that spread across eight states. There’s a long list of things Topps did wrong - from shoddy equipment to inadequate testing - but perhaps Topps’ worst transgression: they were combining day old meat with fresh meat, a practice called “re-working.” Aside from being gross and frowned upon, re-working significantly increases the risk of contamination.

While the Topps shutdown is old news, it’s important to be reminded of it since it was one of the largest meat recalls in history, immediately followed by the largest meat recall in history: the Westland/Hallmark Meat Co. recall, which I recently wrote about. They’re both prime examples of why it’s important to be picky about your meat. Aside from the risk of E. coli (which is more prevalent in large meat companies than I am comfortable with) there are other negative factors; mass-meat producers like Topps and Westland/Hallmark slaughter cows that have been fed an unnatural diet, including a number of antibiotics, antibiotics that get into their meat, and then get into you when you eat it. We don’t know the long-term effects of these antibiotics but I’ve got a hunch: antibiotic resistance and (drum roll, please) cancer.

It doesn’t stop with steaks. For the past year Tyson Foods, Inc., the second largest chicken producer in the US, has been trying to sell you “antibiotic-free” chickens that actually contain antibiotics. When called on it, Tyson said they were using ionophores that have never been used on humans. The United Stated Department of Agriculture (USDA) disagreed. Tyson was using gentamicin, an ionophore that has been used on humans for over 30 years. Tyson has been forced to stop labeling antibiotic-laden chickens as antibiotic-free, and to remove all labels by June 18. Even though it’s a victory for consumers now, it’s disheartening to think about how many well-intentioned people already bought those Tyson chickens under the impression they were making healthier choices.

You’ve got to consider that the USDA is an organization that fails the American public as much as it protects it, and no matter what regulations they make, no matter how many inspectors they put on a slaughterhouse or factory floor, large food organizations will continue to fuck up, continue to take risky shortcuts, and the USDA will only take action after the damage has already been done. That’s why your best bet is with organic meat, hormone-free, antibiotic-free, as mother nature intended meat. When considering your health’s sake, a couple dollars more for a steak doesn’t seem like so much.

UPDATE: If you needed another reason why you shouldn’t buy Tyson-branded chickens, the company just had to kill “15,000 hens from a flock that tested positive for exposure to strain of bird flu,” according to The Associated Press. Personally, I feel safer buying free-range chickens.

TOPPS MEAT CO. RELATED LINKS:
“21.7 million pounds of beef recalled”

“Beef Recall Forces Topps to Shut Down”

“USDA papers: Burger recall followed riskier procedures”

TYSON’S FOODS RELATED LINKS:
“U.S. Withdraws Approval for Tyson’s Antibiotic-Free Label”

“USDA: Tyson used 2 different antibiotics on chicken”

“Tyson finds chickens with mild bird flu strain”

OTHER LINKS:
Food And Drug Administration

United States Department of Agriculture

Ionophore

Gentamicin

Wii Fit: is it the best video-game ever?

I never thought I would pose that question. Unlike a good chunk of delusional Americans, I do not consider playing the Wii an alternative to conventional exercise. When you play Wii Tennis or Wii Boxing or Wii Anything you are not working out, even if you’re standing up. How do I know this? It’s simple: if I can comfortably drink a beer while doing it, it’s not exercise.

Now there’s Wii Fit. Wii Fit, the game that “combines fun and fitness in one product,” is “played” on a large, scale-looking device called the Wii Balance Board, which is essentially an updated Power Pad. Remember the Power Pad? I do. We used to play Nintendo Olympics, or whatever it was called, on the Power Pad. My friends and I would compete by jumping hurdles and running sprints. And afterward, we would get on our bikes and ride up the steep hills of South Reno, through creeks and fields, in parks and on streets. While riding our bikes was certainly a work out, not once did anyone - not myself or my friends or our parents - ever considered playing video games on the Power Pad a form of exercise.

So why do I think Wii Fit might be the best video-game ever? Why don’t I chastise people for thinking “yoga” on a white piece of plastic in their living room is an acceptable substitute for the real deal? Because this game will call your children fat.

According to an online article from the United Kingdom’s Daily Mail, Wii Fit told a 10-year-old girl she was fat after she was tested by the game’s Body Mass Index (BMI). “She is solidly built but not fat,” said the girl’s father. “She was devastated to be called fat and we had to work hard to convince her she isn’t.” Solidly built, I’ll have to remember that if my kid is fat. Isn’t that what most parents tell their fat kids? I remember, my mother told me I was just husky. Husky sure seemed a lot like fat to me, even then.

Leave it to the Japanese to develop something that calls it exactly how it is. Wii Fit will also tell your children they’re “overweight” and “obese,” which is awesome. Of course, not everyone is as excited about this as I am. Tam Fry of the National Obesity Forum (NOF) wants parents to ban the game from their fat kids saying, “I’m absolutely aghast that children are being told they are fat.” Well someone has to do it; don’t they, Tam? Fry also thinks the game should come with a warning label. Nintendo has politely told Fry to fuck himself. Nintendo = 1, Fat People = 0.

I was just wondering: should fat people be allowed in the NOF? I’m not saying Tam Fry is fat, I’ve never seen the guy, but wouldn’t having fat people involved in an obesity forum be like having crackheads in charge of the War on Drugs?

Anyhow, I think we have a verdict on Wii Fit: Best. Game. Ever.

LINK:
“Obesity experts condemn Nintendo’s Wii ‘Fit’ game after it tells 10-year-old girl she’s fat”

I’ve toned down my whole “buy organic (or free-range, or grass-fed, or whatever)” stance on food in the last couple months. What, with out-of-control gas prices, a slowly dying economy, and the middle-class sleeping in their cars, it seemed inappropriate for me to stand on a soapbox, yelling at everyone to make sure their vegetables come from sustainable farmers. Then I went to the local 7-Eleven to buy a gallon of water.

On my way into the store, I watched a massive young woman struggle to pull herself from a sub-compact vehicle, her tight t-shirt creeping up as she did, revealing a thick layer of fat that oozed out over her pants. Inside the store, I observed the woman picking out an assortment of “king-sized” candy bars, and at the register I saw another woman, just as large, buying virtually the same things: king-sized candy bars, an extra-large soda, and a pack of cigarettes. I was wrong to think now is a bad time to talk about America’s unhealthy relationship with food. If the rise in gas prices isn’t stopping behemoths from buying mass quantities of bullshit snack-foods, my plight is still a legitimate one.

It goes beyond making fun of fatties and denouncing fast-food, though.

There’s a billboard in Reno that reads: “Still Reno’s Only 100% USDA Prime Steakhouse (sorry, Charlie).” The billboard is a jab at chef and restaurateur Charlie Palmer, who recently extended his empire into the Reno market with his name-sake steakhouse. While the advertisement may persuade some, it actually makes me want to dine at the local steakhouse it promotes even less.

You might remember the Westland/Hallmark Meat Co. debacle from earlier this year. Workers at Westland/Hallmark Meat Co. were forcing downer cows, or cows too sick to walk, to slaughter, and their meat was being used in school lunch programs, among other places (notably: fast-food chains). Downer cows are dangerous because they’re usually sick and their meat could contain lethal diseases like E. Coli, which can be passed on to you when you eat it. What happened at the Westland/Hallmark Meat Co. lead to the largest meat recall in history. It also happened while under the watchful eye of United States Department of Agriculture (USDA). It proved that the horrors documented in Slaughterhouse: The Shocking Story of Greed, Neglect, and Inhumane Treatment Inside the U.S. Meat Industry by Gail A. Eisnitz in 1997 were still occurring in early 2008. Chances are, they’re still occurring now.

Perhaps the most troubling part about the Westland/Hallmark Meat Co. situation is it wasn’t discovered by the USDA. Undercover footage of workers kicking and prodding downer cows was released by the Humane Society of the United States (HSUS), and that footage forced the USDA to take action. How did USDA workers, people on the slaughterhouse floor on a daily basis, not know anything was wrong yet outsiders had the inclination to sneak in with cameras? It leads one to believe the USDA doesn’t do what it’s supposed to do, turning the other way at just the right moment, willfully endangering millions of lives for the sake of profits. I’m sure I’m not alone when I say “100% USDA Prime” or “USDA Certified” does not equal “safe, quality product.” If anything, the words “USDA Certified” frighten me.

Now, since they’ve done such a bang up job with our meat supplies, the USDA has turned their focus on our fruits and vegetables. This year the USDA will stop pesticide reporting, meaning no more data will be collected to determine how many chemicals are in our agriculture. That should be appalling until you realize in 2007 “data collection was reduced to just three crops - cotton, apples, and organic apples,” according to the Pesticide Action Network North America (PANNA). Then that becomes more appalling. You can thank the Bush Administration, the same group that doesn’t give a shit about global warming.

If you’d like to sign a Coalition letter to the USDA go HERE. If 80,000 petitions can make Burger King pay their tomato pickers an extra penny-per-pound, maybe this can do some good as well. Doubtful, but you never know.

WORTHWHILE LINKS:
Sustainable Farms

Pesticide Action Network North America

Fuel Economy

“Largest Recall of Ground Beef Is Ordered”

“Mom forced to live in car with dogs”

Several months ago I separated the music blog-styled posts from the Versus and it was a good decision. There are always exceptions, though, and today is one of them. One of my favorite artists, Shara Worden, perhaps better known as My Brightest Diamond, is releasing a new album next month: the brilliant A Thousand Shark’s Teeth. Shara was nice enough to talk with me about the forthcoming album, the plight of an artist in today’s musical climate, and what the future holds for My Brightest Diamond.

Chris Walker Versus: So, it’s been a while. A Thousand Shark’s Teeth is finally here, or it will be on June 17. Would it be accurate to say this album is much darker than Bring Me The Workhorse?

Shara Worden: Dark is such a relative thing…I always feel like a fluff cake next to Tool or Portishead or [Nine Inch Nails] or Jesus and Mary Chain. I think I might be a pansy or a pink fairy. As for Shark’s Teeth, I do think the colors of the marimbas, bassoons and bass clarinets are darker sounds, but the lyrics feel much lighter and more playful to me than Workhorse.

CWV: Maybe ‘intimate’ is a better word to use.

S. Worden: Yeah for me, it is generally more intimate. The nighttime atmosphere is a good one. Interesting creatures come out at night. It’s good for brooding. Maybe I need to leave the comforts of my dark velvet curtained apartment in Brooklyn and go to the summertime vibe of the west coast so I can write in major keys.

CWV: I was amazed to hear you used a Tricky sample on the new track, “Like A Sieve.” How’d that come about?

S. Worden: Massive Attack is so bad ass and I also really like a lot of Tricky’s solo stuff. He has a tune called “I Be The Prophet” off of his solo record [Nearly] God and there is this amazing string sample that is so bizarre and irregular. So, for a long time I played around with my impression of that lick and wrote “Like A Sieve” based off that riff but finally I broke down and wrote Tricky a letter and said, “Hey dude. You rock. Can I please use your exact phrasing in my tune? I’ll love you forever…” and he said yes, so at the end of the tune we recorded that lick and it makes me happy every time it comes around.

CWV: So you recreated the sample instead of just, well, sampling it; that’s really cool. I know some songs from Shark’s originated in the Workhorse sessions, will any b-sides or song ideas from the Shark’s session make their way onto the next album?

S. Worden: Nope. I wanna start with a clean slate. I like using singles as a way of sneaking out older material or misfit songs, so some of them will be released that way. The songs from Shark’s Teeth span six years of writing and I thought at many times that I should just let the past lay where it fell and move on, but I had put so, so, so, many hours and a great amount of thought and energy into these songs and their arrangements that I felt I needed to honor that work. But now that it’s done I am so excited to leave off old ideas and begin with the present.

CWV: Addressing the album’s title, I was pleasantly surprised to find the one we’d all come to know it by really ended up being the final title. What does the idea, or the theme, of “a thousand shark’s teeth” mean to you?

S. Worden: Ha! Me too. It was picked rather arbitrarily four years ago, but like a kid growing into it’s clothes or something, it seemed to fit the final result, so we kept it. The title comes from the song “Goodbye Forever” that is talking about the things that prevent us from giving and receiving love and if, say, one could be free of the blockages, then one could hear the singing of the stars more vividly, feel the light of the sun, like the warmth of love, prickling all over your skin, like a thousand tiny shark teeth.

CWV: The musical climate has changed quite a bit over the last couple years, what, with bands giving away entire albums for free, and album sales dropping in record numbers…unless you’re Mariah Carey. What are your thoughts on the way music is obtained now? And how would you say it affects My Brightest Diamond?

S. Worden: Yeah, it’s an awkward subject. I think no one wants to hear an artist complain about it because people want the freedom, and frankly so do I. I mean, I downloaded Portishead’s record before it was out and was ecstatic. I am very hypocritical because I have a lot of illegal music but I also still buy a lot of music. Shark’s has been “leaked” and, of course, I am thrilled that people are excited about it. On the other hand it kinda puts a pain in my chest ’cause I survive as an indie artist completely off of album sales and I feel really strongly that concert ticket prices should be as low as possible and I don’t want to make music to try and be in car commercials. There is really nothing else that I have to offer people to buy than what I have recorded. I guess I need to make a perfume line? At the end of the day, I have to keep making art whatever the situation and whatever life doles out to me, I have to accept that. I mean, global warming and the situations in Iraq and Africa are far more concerning than downloading.

CWV: No, no car commercials please. I agree that global warming, and subjects like international affairs are far greater concerns than downloading on the grand scale of things, but music - how it is obtained, digested, and changing in our digital age - is still important because it’s something that affects us every day on a personal level. It has influence. People bond over music, it shape lives and identities (for better or worse). It’s important to ask questions like, and you don’t necessarily have to answer these: with the ease of downloading do albums, as a long player listening experience, still matter? Will kids today be moved by albums the same day you and I were, or our parents were? How does downloading affect the quality of music? How do consumers view artists and how do artists view consumers? And this is going off on a tangent but I often wonder if we’re reverting back to the Fifties when everything was single driven: you heard it on the radio, it was pressed to vinyl, and sold with a b-side. The end.

S. Worden: Dude, you are preaching to the choir here. Amen brother, amen!

CWV: Thanks. There’s just an optimistic part of me that thinks people still care about albums and supporting quality artists. I mean, I downloaded Shark’s when I found out it had been leaked, but I’ve also pre-ordered it on vinyl and CD. And I’d like to think I’m not alone; people know that purchasing albums by their favorite artists is vital to the longevity of this thing we all love. And, at the risk of sounding like a gushing school girl, I think people need an album like Shark’s, especially in the indie world where lately it seems like anything female fronted is garbage. She & Him? Forget it. And Scarlett Johansson has an album? Give me a break; I might steal that but I’ll never buy it. I think your band, your albums, are reminders that art is still alive in music, and if enough people realize that they’ll shell out the $11/$12 to own a physical copy. Or at least support you by buying it off iTunes, digitally.

S. Worden: Thanks for the love, Chris. I appreciate it. I, of course, am with you on the love of the album, the art of album making. But no matter what happens in popular culture, I think there will always be an underground of album lovers. As an artist, of course you want people to like what you do and support you, so that you can make more more more music the way you want to and have your life stuff: rent, bills etc. taken care of, so that you don’t have to have the day job. I don’t know where things will end up for me. I think the balancing act is working that line between dreaming big and working within your resources and at a certain point, it is out of the artist’s control. One foot in front of the other. One day at a time. Cue a Dolly Parton song here or something.

CWV: On a lighter note, the bonus EP that comes with the pre-order on Asthmatic Kitty sounds cool. Do those demos date back to the Workhorse sessions, or are they newer? Older?

S. Worden: We first started recording for Shark’s in September of 2004, (predating Workhorse) and then I added a lot of other instruments on to those initial string quartet recordings so that’s what’s reflected in these demos. They are kind of the final moment before they “hit the trash can” and I started over. In some cases, like for “Pluto’s Moon” I abandoned the string quartet direction and took a very different approach for the album. To me, showing the demos is a way of kind of revealing the skeleton, the process of the album and also a way of honoring the people that have helped me along the way, but weren’t ultimately represented on the final recording.

CWV: You’re going on a brief tour before and after Shark’s hits store shelves, will their be a larger tour to follow or is that it for this year?

S. Worden: Yes, yes! Tour, tour, play, play, play! We will be doing string quartet tours in the fall.

CWV: Good to hear. So, have you come across any Chateau l’affite 1984 lately?

S. Worden: No, these days it seems like it’s only bottles of wine from 2006.

CWV: So sad. Blame the recession. Well, it’s been a pleasure, as always. Anything you’d like to say before we conclude?

S. Worden: Hip hip hooray! And a toast to you!

A Thousand Shark’s Teeth, in stores June 17, is available for pre-order in both LP and CD format (with bonus EP) at Asthmatic Kitty. Be sure to catch My Brightest Diamond on tour. Remaining show dates (before Fall):

06.09.08 Other Music (Instore), New York, NY
06.14.08 Hultsfred Festival, Hultsfred, Sweden
06.17.08 Blender Theatre at Gramercy, NYC, NY
06.20.08 Berklee Performance Center, Boston, MA
06.27.08 Le Rock dans tous ses Etats, Evreux, France

Pre-order A Thousand Shark’s Teeth.

My Brightest Diamond [Official] [MySpace]

I didn’t have to take off my shoes this morning. Neither did anyone else on my flight. Or on any other flight departing Guadalajara, for that matter. And guess what? All the planes made it to their destinations unscathed. Will wonders ever cease?

American Airlines schedule flights under the assumption everything from time spent taxiing on a runway to getting your bag off a carousel will go according to schedule. Do they ever? Of course not. So while 40 minutes between flights may seem like a lot of time…it’s just not. Which is retarded.

Sprinting out of customs at Dallas-Fort Worth, I managed to navigate through the blundering idiots at bag re-check like a professional basketball player only to be stopped by the long security checkpoint line where no one, including the people trying to get through airport security, seemed to give a shit about anything. I caught a break when a airport employee announced: a security checkpoint with virtually zero traffic was just one corridor over, if anyone wanted to go. I didn’t have to look at a clock to know it was my plane’s official boarding time so, I went for it. I think that was maybe the second time ever, in the history of mankind, an airport employee has actually been helpful.

Like a whirlwind, I ripped off my incredibly dangerous Chuck Taylors and equally unscrupulous belt, and threw my things onto the conveyor belt…which takes them through the imaginary box. The tubby, mustache having TSA representative waved me through the metal detector, which I passed with flying colors, except I was still carrying my passport and flight itinerary with my boarding pass, which is evidently forbidden. “Well, what do we have here?” Tubby Mustached Fuck asked, rhetorically. I handed over my potentially dangerous collection of papers and stepped to the side. “Wait just a minute,” Tubby Mustached Fuck snapped. “You’re not going anywhere, you stay right there.” He had my passport, he had my boarding pass; WHERE THE FUCK WAS I GOING TO GO? Yes, my paperwork was actually a diversion; while you inspected it I was going to leave my shoes, my laptop, my camera, all my shit, and run over to the Coffee Bean to grab a latte. Thank god you stopped me. Seriously, why does every single airport security personnel have to be a nerd who never amounted to anything, was faced with the option of being a checker at Kohl’s or a pretend officer for the airways* and chose the latter, and has henceforth spent everyday making people’s lives hell (while simultaneously keeping airports a whopping zero precent safer)?

On my flight to Reno I witnessed one of my favorite people: the flight attendant who takes her job way too seriously. You know them, the kind who has to get a verbal “yes” from each and every person sitting in the emergency exit rows. This one took it to the next level; this miserable looking spinster, with short, dykey hair, and exquisite FUPA** not only had to get a verbal “yes,” she proceeded to lecture everyone in the exit rows about how they shouldn’t take on the responsibility if they can’t handle it, how it’s a big deal to sit in the exit row, and they really should ask themselves, “Am I strong enough to open the emergency door?” Because we all know, in the unlikely case of an emergency, that’s how we’re getting out. It happens all the time. Planes hitting the ground and exploding into flames and everyone dying? Never happens. Safely crash-landing, popping open the emergency doors, and galavanting out? All the time. My favorite part was this woman had to make everyone think long and hard about their seating choices however; she couldn’t complete the task of getting me a double vodka with a twist of lime and a Coke. Priorities. Priorities.

By the way, why does James Marsden look dirty - like, legitimately unbathed - throughout the entirety of 27 Dresses? Not that I’ve watched 27 Dresses or anything. It just happened to be playing on the plane and I looked up and, yeah, shut up, I know, fuck you.

* Don’t kid yourself, airport security is in the same class as mall security, movie theater stub-ripper, and the guy who inadequately towels off your car after it’s gone through the wash. You want a real security job? Be an Air Marshal.

** Fat. Upper. Pussy. Area. for those who don’t know.

Bring. Back. The. Mixtape.

I found those words in the April 2008 issue of GQ, exactly as presented, in “Treat Me Right!” a six-page spread about - you guessed it - how to please women. When I read women, or at least the ones made up by GQ*, still appreciate the mixtape I got so excited I hi-fived myself. I love the mixtape. Much of my high-school dating career can be attributed to the mixtape. There are former-teenage girls who still possess my intricate song selections, cataloged on tape, and encased in a plastic shell. That’s not even wishful thinking, it’s fact.

Of course, Bring. Back. The. Mixtape. came with a stipulation…as do most things involving women. Sure, they want the mixtape back but they also want to tell you which songs you can’t include. Of those that made the short-list: “Fuck You Tonight” by the Notorious B.I.G. featuring R. Kelly, “The Stroke” by Billy Squire, and “Ain’t No Fun (If The Homies Can’t Have None)” by Snoop Dogg and friends. You mean to tell me songs that encourage sex with entourages or to forgo wining and dining for “fucking” and leftover spaghetti don’t get chicks in the mood? I don’t believe you.

While the first three do-not-include tracks were clearly placed for humor, I found the fourth pick, “Your Body Is A Wonderland” by John Mayer, to be a little more, well, baffling. I remember a time not too long ago when “Wonderland” was thee panty-dropping anthem. If a woman was in your bedroom anywhere between late 2001 to mid 2002, and you played that song for her, she would immediately take off her pants and mount you. Women could not control themselves. I played “Wonderland” at a party one time and it turned into a full-on orgy. It was insane. And that would be a completely true story if I didn’t just make it up.

But seriously, there was a time when every woman loved “Wonderland” and yearned for a man to utter that orgasm-inducing phrase to her (I preferred: your body is a junior-high playground). But now you mention “Wonderland” and a woman’s vagina dries up quicker than the Serengeti during drought season. My question: why? I dusted off my ol’ Room For Squares CD and gave track four a spin. It’s still a great song. The musical structure, still solid. The lyrics, still good. Compare the following excerpt from “Your Body Is A Wonderland” to any current love song you’ve heard:

“There’s something ‘bout the way the hair falls in your face
I love the shape you take when crawling towards the pillow case
You tell me where to go
And though I might leave to find it
I’ll never let you head hit the bed without my hand behind it…”

Still sexy. So sexy, in fact, I want Mayer to put his dick inside of me.

There can only be one explanation as to why women now cringe when they hear “Wonderland” and it’s so obvious I should kick myself for not realizing it sooner: millions of women were duped by this song. How many young co-eds do you think found themselves in this compromising situation: she goes home from the club, bar, foam party with a guy she only has the intention of mashing faces with and/or giving a tug job to; he puts on “Your Body Is A Wonderland” and - boom! - she suddenly decides, “Well, I might as well have sex with him now.” I’m sure that scenario happened to millions of women. And not once. No, the same girl was probably involved in heavy petting elsewhere, talking about “taking it slow” and “commitment,” when Mayer came on crooning about a deep sea of blankets and if you want love, we’ll make it and before she knew it she had her face in a pillow and her ass in the clouds. “Wonderland” undoubtedly evokes a lot of bad memories of questionable hook-ups for women everywhere and therefore; they hate it. Not since Silk’s “Freak Me” has a song had such powerful influence over women’s desire to “give it up.”

Silk: Freak Me

I think John Mayer gets a raw deal. Sure, he’s written a couple faggy songs like “Waiting On The World To Change” and “Daughters” (in fact, you can pretty much ignore 2003’s Heavier Things) but Mayer also penned “City Love,” a song about drinking at a bar until 2 AM with a chick that leaves her toothbrush at his apartment and wears his shirts to work. Any guy who’s ever hooked up with a girl for an extended period of time, whether he lives in a big city or not, can relate to and appreciate that song. And “Vultures”? Mayer’s song “Vultures” is cool and it will make women dance to blues guitar. Not the women that typically dance to blues guitar (read: fat ones that resemble men), we’re talking about attractive women. Or how about “I Don’t Trust Myself (With Loving You)”? While it may sound super sensitive, it’s actually a song in which Mayer admits he’s non-committal, makes no apologies or vows to change, and tells whomever he’s currently banging/trying to bang: have fun while it lasts because it won’t for very long.

Do I even need to mention the copious amount of women he’s ran through? Mayer motor-boated Jessica Simpson’s great, big ol’ tits. From there he hooked up with Minka Kelly. Who is Minka Kelly, you ask?

That’s Minka Kelly. And while that scorching piece of tail would probably domesticate the average male, it didn’t stop Mayer. He was like, “Yeah, you’re hot and all but I think I’m going to go bang Cameron Diaz now.” After Diaz he nailed Jennifer Aniston. Then he hooked up some random over the weekend, went back to hang out with Aniston poolside and Aniston was like, “It’s cool. You’re John Mayer, you need to bang chicks; I’m just happy to be here.” Keep in mind, these are just a few of the high-profile chicks we know about; how Mayer’s head hasn’t exploded from all the hot ass he gets is beyond me. The man is certifiably awesome.

* I cannot confirm GQ made up the women polled for their “Treat Me Right” special, it’s just a hunch.