It may have been said at a house party.
A bar.
It may not have even been said at all.
It may have just been a look.
An expression.
Imagine for a moment, a face. Disgusted. Picture YOUR own face when you open the door to the toilet on an airplane. Having already breathed in an hour’s worth of stale, Diet Pepsi-ass air, people’s evaporating cough lozenges, befouled diapers, cold coffee, wafts of corn chips, maybe a shrimp wrap.
With a full bladder, you’ve navigated the aisle, wandering through a haze of nineteen different exhaled strains of apnea breath, glopped-up Strep molecules dancing ever closer to your nostrils. Dry recycled air filtered through even drier Mesozoic-era boogers that feel like sharp scabs by the time you land.
Then you hit that bathroom.
It smells like a man and an ostrich quarreled.
The liquid in a dumpster behind a Wawa in July.
You have no choice but to endure.
Now though, you are in a full room.
Is it festive? Maybe.
It’s 1990-something. Kurt Cobain is dead. Blew his own brains out. Somewhere indie rock / punk rock mutated into “alternative rock” an ever-evolving, glitchy cash machine — a format that could encompass just about anything from Mojo Nixon to Midnight Oil. From New Order to Daniel Johnston. But as the 1990s hurtled forward, alternative rock was more than anything, a bet. A commodity whose value would fluctuate insanely. Curdled capitalism.
Anyway, in this room, “Barely Breathing,” by Duncan Sheik comes on the stereo. The jukebox. The speakers at a Target. Who knows where it actually was?
The song is a 1990s update to Leo Sayer-grade schmaltz. Neil Sedaka with some synths and access to J. Crew. It’s about as edgy as mashed potatoes. But nevertheless it’s packaged as “alternative.”
“This is your shit, Johnson,” someone utters with disgust.
Not even as an insult. An observation. Which stings even more. Giving you the above face that took 41 paragraphs to establish. Bequeathing you full ownership of some vibe-eradicating dog shit. To any casual, the logic was that because you like “alternative rock” you like this song. Probably even fucking requested it, pussy.
Even though there’s no traceable path backwards linking this song to REM’s Reckoning or Husker Du’s Zen Arcade, this shit is going in people’s ears because of YOU and your taste.
Who said it? Probably a Jimmy Page-guy. Maybe a Sammy Hagar-guy. Maybe a dude with unintentional Klaus Meine hair. (I never realized how much Klaus started relying on hats until I did an image search).
Someone with, perhaps, a genuine budding curiosity about Soundgarden. Or Bush. But, at the core, a stalwart of “real” rock. Or even “real” pop music. Someone who also knows many Billy Joel lyrics.
“He actually has something to say, Jeff,” I was once told, scoldingly, by someone else, a year older, who’d recently driven their car on purpose into a snow bank. “Even ‘Piano Man’ is about the human condition. Sorry you don’t get it.”
“Wait a second—”
“And he’s a millionaire. What have you ever done?”
Who the fuck knows, though? It could have been a future orthodontist. A sales guy. Maybe it was a jock who was fed up with adult alternative. Afraid that the emergence of Duncan Sheik somehow meant that the window where they could sing along to “More Than a Feeling” with a pool cue in hand was closing.
It was a weird time. The point is, the alternative rock umbrella was too huge. Even if you grew up listening to Bad Brains, somehow the taint of The fucking Rembrandts clung to you.
This was your shit, Johnson. Own it. Oh, you grabbed a Sonic Youth set list from the stage of CBGB when they played a secret show as Drunken Butterfly? You ALSO hop out of the shower and clap along to The Rembrandts, don’t you, jerk off?
(Speaking of which, mainstream culture like Friends did their best to pinch, tug, and co-opt “alternative rock” every step of the way please watch)
What I am saying is that it did not help your cause that:
For every Stereolab there was a Cranberries.
For every Guided By Voices there was an Everclear.
For every PJ Harvey there was Better Than Ezra.
Fuck it, for every Replacements there was a Goo Goo Dolls. Who today have 25,000,000 monthly listeners on Spotify and whose main hit, “Iris” has over 2 billion plays on that platform alone. Newsflash — Spotify spins don’t get you the best plastic surgeon.
Anyway, how is this football?
If you have a favorite team, we are DEEP in the part of the season where you can not escape the stench of whomever your team is now. For better or worse.
If you are a Jets fan in New York right now, I know someone bullies you at work. (But that person is not a Giants fan, lol.) When I temped at NBC a million years ago, it was during a season when they went 3-13. One of my coworkers, one of the smartest guys there, wore a Jets jacket into the office. He was regarded as if he was constantly foisting expired egg salad on everyone. Sliding it to them in the toilet stalls. Wanting to photograph them eating it. Filling bubble wrap mailers with it.
If you love the Chicago Bears, I know you were never a Matt Eberflus guy. I know you were never a Matt Nagy guy. How far back do we go? How many more Matts are out there? (They won’t hire Matt Patricia). Anyway, you are somehow to blame for this version of The Bears. Sorry.
Your presence anywhere triggers conversations you should not have to have.
“What the fuck were they thinking with that time out, man?”
“I don’t know. They usually fucking text me in the 4th quarter to see what I’d do.”
My point is, you might be a Richard Dent Bears Person. A Brad Muster Bears Fan. A Lemuel Stinson* Bears Fan.
But now you are forced to DEFEND the indefensible. And for who knows how long?
“Why was that DB dancing around and not getting ready for the Hail Mary?”
SHUT THE FUCK UP.
Growing up, people made that same face at me about liking “The Cubs.” Always a cynical what the fuck? Like I broke out a photo album of my wedding to a Golden Retriever, and insisted on giving them the play by play.
The mere idea of “what I like” was a referendum about shit I had no control over that eventually spiraled into their own neuroses.
“Why do they turn the river green there, anyway, dipshit? Real fucking smart.”
“I suppose you’re cool with all the gun violence? How would you fix it?”
“Why do you care what condiments I put on my hot dog? Sorry, I’m eating ketchup, and I’d love to see you try to take it away from me.”
“You probably think John Wayne Gacy is cool. Did you help his ass?”
Round and round with shit I could not control. Only to learn the criticism was coming from a “Mariners guy” or something. Get the hell out of here.
Anyway, we need to be more nuanced.
If you’re a Bears fan. I am sorry you are in your “Counting Blue Cars” era. I won’t bug you about it.
It’s a character builder, especially when you experienced a “FEAR: The Record” Era
If you’re a Vikings fan, I won’t make you explain signing Daniel Jones last week.
If you’re an Eagles fan, I know you’re are (probably) not eating horse shit when they win. Or throwing batteries at players.
If you’re a Lions fan, feel free to do this. I won’t judge you. It ain’t gonna last forever.