Good Words Bad Words

On vacation in a Barnes and Noble I picked up a book about the Genome and came across the word hereditable. Not, in and of itself, a shocking thing to find in a book about the Genome, rather more shocking to willingly read such a book, on vacation, in LA. It was a distraction never the less. I sort of got stuck on the entire sentence. I found myself rereading the word hereditable and then starting the sentence over in an attempt to rediscover its lost context. Even now, retyping it, I find myself parsing out the ('Her' 'ed' 'it' 'a' 'ble') syllables in order to accurately spell it.

Hereditable is clearly a bad word, not bad in the vulgar sense, not even bad in the sense that it is ununderstandble. Maybe when a word becomes so distracting that it implores an audience to ponder its very virtues, a word has reached its ultimate underachievement.

Words are not like figure skating or sumo wrestlers; they do not improve or worsen with increased complexity, size or physicality. In a sense they are spineless and lack integrity. A word need not be spelled properly in order to interpret its meaning. 46 chromosomes define a human, yet goood with three o’s is just as good.

A word can’t be bad because of how it sounds. Jack Nicholson proves that point.

Often it’s the people who use words that frame their quality. Bob Dylan employs words to artfully step through meter and fall into verse, while a politician from Alaska robs paul to pay peter, claiming a gift not a purse. Words also age like their employers. Mr. Tamborine man would look different today than he did in 1965.

So maybe it’s all about context? Some words can overshadow others. Complexity of a subject takes away from complex words and complex words take away from complex subjects.

Words are the chromosomes to our body of language. They construct voice for our ideas and drive the vehicle of our knowledge. Where a good gene falls in the right part of the cell at the right time to define life, is that similar to a well-placed word in long overdue ending? According to the Genome book our complex fabric of human life can be broken down into 4 simple letters, then maybe hereditable should be left for simple sentences, with simple subjects.

Screaming, Not The Pride

It's been a few weeks, and the dust has settled. No I don't mean since the last time I have posted, I'm talking about the results of THE AMERICAN IDOL. Actually, this post is mostly in response to my fellow blogger's thoughts on Lambert here. Consider this a "wall-to-wall" if you will. And you'll also notice that the content on this site is about to change...for the better.

So my boy Kris Allen probably overachieved in the truest sense of the word. No one would argue that the kid has talent. He plays both the guitar and the piano. His vocal range is limited compared to his fellow finalist, so he stayed true to those limitations. Where he lacked in vocal dynamic, he made up for it with originality, execution, and humbleness. I believe he played the Idol game very well. Kris appealed to a greater audience with his boyish charm and was never afraid to flash that great smile.

In contrast to Kris, Mr. Lambert had an unbelievable vocal ability. He also had lots of flash and style. Every week you never knew what to expect from Mr Lambert. His performance of Smokey's "Tracks of My Tears" was also the best performance I've ever seen on American Idol. So why did he lose? The Screaming! Maybe it was the judge’s fault for always applauding his ability to hit "that" note? Bottom line, it was just too much for America to handle. It's like they say, the pride comes before the fall. In this case it was Adam's screaming that came before the fall because it was that which overshadowed his amazing talents, and ultimately led to his defeat.

The "It" Girl

So here’s the situation. Picture yourself listening to the radio in your car, or in my case streaming off my favorite station on Pandora. Out of nowhere a new song you’ve never heard before starts playing and blows you AWAY! You probably end up speeding home; rolling through each passing stop sign to write down the name of the song and artist (we all know it’s the worst to forget that). Since I’m listening via Pandora on my computer, I scramble to find another link to download that MP3 software which just last night required 75 uninstalls to remove.

With the bootleg software installed we are able to get the new song downloaded, along with 50 new viruses for your computer. But it is all worth it. For the next few hours you sit at your computer with Winamp open, set to repeat, and that one magical song loaded to your playlist.

Now here is the interesting and curious part. While you listen to the song over and over again, you realize this familiar feeling. You can’t put your finger on it. I like to think it similar to the emotions you felt on your last day of summer camp with your closest friends, or to the time you finally had the courage to ask the “it” girl to a dance and she said yes!

As the song continues to play you struggle to understand this complex, yet familiar feeling. So you continue to listen, over and over, each an attempt to cherish the moments fleeting happiness. But just like your last day of summer camp or your long awaited slow dance, it must come to an end, and so does your new favorite song.

A Random Memory

It is a warm summer day on Block Island. A cool blue-green lagoon is located across the street from the Narragansett Inn. I grab my neon US Diver's snorkel, Hydro-fins and head for the shallows. The fins are multi-purpose; originally purchased for body boarding. It is customary to give your mask a thorough wash with saliva and salt water, which I did prior to entry.

The water is murky and cool. My visibility is poor and not quite as exciting as I expected. There is a predictable calm; a sharp contrast to the more tumultuous currents off Monahan's dock. Although somewhat dull and dissimilar to the snorkeling adventures I grew accustomed to. I lay floating around the lagoon for hours that day, one half of me submerged by the water and the other half blind, but equal parts satisfied with the overall experience.

I spent my summers in the water of Narragansett Bay, but for some reason tonight I thought of that day in Block Island, when I spent the afternoon puttering around that blue-green lagoon across the street from the Narragansett Inn.

Intial Thoughts

A few years back I got the idea from a roommate to clean, organize, and update the data and labels of my music files. My goal was to create a complete and well categorized library. It has been a slow and steady process, around two thousand songs and a few years, but ultimately very satisfying.

During the course of this project I spent my time thinking about my “music listening” experience and how it has changed over the years. As a child, I grew up listening to my father’s collection, which consisted on Credence Clearwater Revival, The Band, and Neil Young. I am very fortunate to have exposure to such great music which created a solid foundation for me to build upon.

My own personal listening experience began with an album and a machine. The album was “Enter The Wu-Tang (36 Chambers)” by The Wu-Tang Clan. It was badass and I loved every second of it. From cover to lyrical content, 36 Chambers was mystical and rebellious. The machine was an old hand me down Sony CD/Cassette player, AM/FM tuner. It had a retractable aluminum antenna and detachable speakers. There was no remote, so I usually moved through an album as the artist intended, from first track to last.

My experience today consists of roughly six thousand songs organized by track, title, and album. The machine is no longer my old Sony player, but a multitasking monster of a computer. It allows me to breeze through song after song with the flick of my finger. Rarely do I listen to an entire song in one sitting, let alone an entire album. I have removed my relationship with the artist and their given body of work, and evolved that into a more personal reactionary experience.

It’s interesting that these changes were not a conscious decision but results of pragmatism. The “Catch 22” to this situation and a direct result of my multitasking monster is the increased musical exposure I have recently enjoyed. And although I miss my earlier listening experience, I appreciate the memories.