iPod shuffle

An occasional feature where we see what's on my iPod

"My Stupid Mouth," John Mayer: A quick synopsis of every awkward date I had between the ages of 18 and 27. 

"Counting Blue Cars," Dishwalla and "Everything Falls Apart," Dog's Eye View: Both minor, '90s one-hit wonders with something else in common -- both songs mention meeting or wanting to meet God.

In "Counting Blue Cars," the singer reminds us of his biblical appointment repeatedly, almost taunting the listener. "Tell me all your thoughts on God," he croons, "because I'm on my way to see her."

I added that emphasis on "her" to point out the casual way the pronoun is dropped. As an impressionable youth, this blew my mind. God is a woman? Why was this never mentioned in all my years of Hebrew school?

In "Everything Falls Apart," by contrast, our protagonist meets God on a train. And, to be honest, our protagonist is kind of a dick:

I said, "Don't you have
Better things to do?"
He said, "If I do my job
What would you complain about?"

You tell him, God!

So who wins in this battle of the Almighty? I prefer our man in "Everything Falls Apart" because at least he does stuff; "Counting Blue Cars" guy, when not, well, counting blue cars, just broods and whines. On the other hand, "Counting Blue Cars" is much more fun to sing in the car.
 
"Hava Nagila Baltimore Breaks,"Joro-Boro: Because if you can only have one club-remixed version of Hava Nagila, this is the one you want.

"Bleeding Love," Leona Lewis: Belle and I heard the song on the radio recently. Then this conversation happened.

Belle: Whatever happened to her?
Me: I guess she bled out.
Belle: [Uncontrollable laughter]
Me: [Uncontrollable laughter because of her uncontrollable laughter]

If keeping each other laughing is the key to a successful marriage, we'll be OK.

"Luck Be A Lady," Frank Sinatra: From "Sinatra at the Sands," it's one killer standard after another backed by Count Basie and His Orchestra. Whether singing or telling jokes on the album, Sinatra sounds like a man in complete in control of the room. Every time I hear this song, I imagine Sinatra at the craps table, Mia Farrow on his arm and yelling "Eleven!" as the dice turn one last time.

The song also reminds me of a framed picture I had on our wall. I first saw it at my grandfather's, at which point I decided I would get one when I had my own place.

For lack of a better word, it's just a cool picture. What is the source of their laughter? (My theory: Someone farted.) Why are they all reacting in different directions? How much less cool would this be if they were not wearing tuxes? It's a great conversation starter and an interesting moment frozen in time.

Frank, Dean and Sammy have lived with me the last five years or so, the first few when I was a bachelor in a bachelor pad. When Belle and I moved in to our apartment, she graciously -- OK, begrudgingly -- allowed me to hang the photo in our living room.

Earlier this summer, as we started planning to buy a house, Belle told me there would be no place for The Rat Pack in our new home. Frankly, I was just glad she decided to take me to the new house, so I nodded in agreement.

I took the photo down from the wall the other week as we prepare to move and truly start our lives together. Like the men it features, the picture is now a symbol of a bygone era.

But the future still feels like nothing but rolls of 11.

Urine trouble

I was sitting on the beach in the Outer Banks earlier this summer when nature called. There was no Garçon de Piss in the vicinity, let alone a public bathroom.

Belle had to go, too, so I followed her into the water (keeping some distance, natch). She was out of the ocean in a few minutes. I remained in the waves.

And I tried.

And I tried.

After 10 minutes, I gave up.

I walked back to our beach chairs, defeated. Belle, my sister-in-law and her boyfriend looked at me with a mix of incredulity and empty bladders.

I like to think of myself as pretty good when it comes to urination: my autobiography could be titled "Wait for the Shake." Sometimes, in the middle of the night, I'll be in the bathroom for so long I fall asleep standing up. I have had no problems going No. 1 in the woods or on the side of the road if I absolutely had to. But I might be the only person who cannot pee in the ocean.

The irony, in an Alanis Morissette kind of way, is that I love the beach. Give me a beach chair and a couple magazines and I'm content for an entire day. Until I have to go to the bathroom, at which point I find the nearest restroom.

I think my issue is how ocean urination is basically peeing your pants. Perhaps I have some repressed memory of feeling embarrassed when I was a wee lad (ha!) who couldn't hold it in. Besides, aren't children taught to wait to use a bathroom and given positive reinforcement for doing so? Maybe, by peeing in the ocean, I would be setting a bad example for the next generation of beachgoers, like Fat Guy in Speedo or Guy Strumming Guitar But Not Actually Playing A Song. (Note to Guitar Guy: You playing a G chord over and over is not going to make bikini-clad groupies come out of nowhere but it will give me a headache.)
 
Yet on some level, I understand that I'm coming out of the ocean with a wet bathing suit no matter what, so I might as well just go. But I physically can't pull the trigger. The act of urinating on my clothing is a mental block I can't overcome. While in the ocean at the Outer Banks, the thought  of pretending I was in front of a urinal crossed my mind, followed by the thought of getting a citation for indecent exposure. 

Instead, I sat down in my beach chair and picked up my magazine. Then a funny thing happened -- my need to pee went away. I was able to enjoy the rest of the day on the beach.

Looking back on it now, I realize my ability to hold it in means I'm living in a golden age of bladder control. That is, when I was a baby, I had no control. Thirty years from now, I'll probably have to go on the hour, every hour. So I'm going to enjoy these years of a regular-sized prostate before it's too late.

And I'm also going to enjoy these years when I can still sprint, because that's exactly what I did when I got back to beach house to reach the bathroom.