Pete Townshend has got to be just about my favorite musician of all time. He is an intelligent, romantic, ugly, angry man who channels all these things through his amazing songs and his guitar which in his hands becomes a machine gun of sound.

One of my favorite things about his best work, both solo and with The Who, is that is has virtually no appeal to women whatsoever. His music is the sound of frustration, of being misunderstood, of being ordinary, and unable to communicate with girls. His songs are very open and honest while musically thundering and complex. His early songs were about the pain of adolescence and his confessional style continued through the years to document his drug and alcohol addictions in the 70’s.

Today, he is still playing some remarkably fierce guitar with The Who, and his songs still have all those great qualities.

I picked up their new greatest hits album today, and it featured a couple brand new songs on it. One of them was called “Real Good Looking Boy”, and I couldn’t help but smile and be affected by it, rembering growing up and wanting so badly to be cool. I think that part of the reason why the song touched me the way it did has something to do with where I’m at in life at this point, but the song really hit close to home for me in a great way.

When I think back to the
first time in my childhood
When I saw that face
I thought right then,
‘That’s a real good looking boy.’

I saw myself in the mirror
in profile for the first time
I thought,
‘Hey! That’s a real good looking boy’

So I went to my mother
I said,
‘Hey mom - take look at me’
Have you ever seen a teen
Fly so high?

That’s a real good looking boy

She said,
‘Son, well, you know,
you’re an ugly boy.
You don’t really look like him.

In this long line
There’s been some real strange genes
You’ve got ‘em all
With some extras thrown in

That’s a real good looking boy

Now I’m here with you little darling
And you say, ‘You’re beautiful as you are’
And I’ve managed somehow to survive

You arrived in my life like a fragrance
And helped me find a way to laugh
And I know now so-called beauty lies

God gave me a face
Then he gave me something above
God gave me grace
Then he gave me your sweet, sweet, sweet love

You make me feel like a real good looking boy
I feel like a real good looking boy
That’s a real good looking boy

I’m so sick and tired of changing my password.

My computer at work prompts me to update my password every few weeks, and it requires that my new password be different from my previous 12 passwords. Can somebody tell me what the hell it is I’ve got on this computer that is so vital that I have to go through this ordeal so often?

I suppose I’ve got lots of pictures of stuff. Somebody may find out my password and be able to access them! I have some videos of my friend Paul and I. That’d be seriously dangerous if people found that. Any my Word documents! Oh my god, if somebody were to ever get access somehow to my Anthropology papers, then this whole company would go down in searing hellfire! Or heaven forbid they could get access to the registration program we have at work - they would undoubtedly sit there befuddled because it’s the single least intuitive program ever devised.

Right now, in order to differentiate between my current password and my previous twelve (isn’t 12 a bit of overkill, by the way? Would it have killed them to say 10?) I currently have an arbitrary double-digit number following it. I use this clumsy and stupid system to accomodate an even more idiotic work requirement. This is an insightful microcosm of the things wrong with this workplace - we’re forced to spend our time and energy fulfilling so many inane tasks that we’re weighed down with tedium even before we’ve actually begun working on something productive.

There may be something I could do to address this issue, but it’s doubtful that I will. It’s far more enjoyable to sit here and gripe to all of you about it. You’re all so sensitive and understanding. You really seem to care about me. It’s like you understand me even better than I understand myself. Truth be told, I’m actually an incredibly lonely and pathetic individual. I mumble a lot and bathe irregularly. My movements are sluggish and my diet consists of frozen pizzas and buttermilk. I need you so badly. Please come back to me. I won’t do those things to you again. I had been huffing gasoline and I wasn’t myself. There is no excuse for what I did to your couch. And I’ll never make fun of that thing with your ear again. I can be good. I just need one more chance to redeem myself, and I can make you happy.

Okay, now where was I?

It’s starting to feel like spring around the Twin Cities. For the past 4 or 5 days, the weather has been warmer, we got our first rainfall of the year, and people are excited.

And tomorrow, the forecast calls for a light snowstorm.

This happens in Minnesota every year. Spring teases us like an 8th grade girl stealing a boy’s hat. Spring is coy and elusive, and we get fooled every time. All it takes is one relatively warm day and suddenly everybody is wearing shorts and pastel shirts and going for walks. People hear one bird chip and tank tops and baseball gloves are again in play. People become drunk with springtime vitality and love is in the air.

Then God dumps 4 inches of snow on us in early April and laughs hysterically.

It’s as if we’re Charlie Brown, and he is Lucy holding the football for us. Every spring, we’re convinced that this time she’ll keep the ball there for us to kick, and every time she pulls it away and we land flat on our backs. The snow falls, and as we’re scraping the ice off our windshield on April 6th we let out a collective “AAARRRRGH!!” The day of the final snowstorm of the year is always among the most depressing days of the year for many people. I’m convinced that God must enjoy himself watching this annual event, wondering if he’ll be able to pull it off yet again and always being amazed at how easy it is.

That’s why I won’t be taking my parka off until at least May 15th this year. I’m not going to let him fool me again. My long underwear will continue to be utilized until we pass the 90-degree mark. I will wear mittens until the passing of the summer solstice. I imbibe hot chocolate thrice daily through August. I refuse to allow myself to look like an idiot again. This new plan of mine will most certainly help me avoid looking foolish.

Take that, Lucy (you biatch).

When I was 16, I started dating this girl named Gina. I don’t think that she and I had much in common - we were each vaguely attracted to one another, and she asked me to the Sno-Daze dance. That night after the dance, we had nothing better to do than sit in my Plymouth Reliant and make out for 4 hours.

Now, even at age 16, I was a large individual. I was probably about 6′4″ and tipping the scales at 220 or 230. The Plymouth Reliant, while being a fine steed of an automobile, is not renowned for it’s luxurious spaciousness.

So Gina and I parked my steady Reliant in her driveway. We didn’t have much to say. We were 16 years old and horny. What better plan than to make out for hours on end, uncomfortably wedged in the front two seats, with the armrest and parking brake hopelessly tangled in a mess of legs and torsos. Romantic? Not at all. Satisfying? Not particularly. Awesome? You’d better believe it.

This was a pattern that we repeated for the monthlong duration of our high school love affair. During this, I learned about makeout-time, when time progresses at 3 times faster than non-makout-time. I remember putting a 90 minute cassette in my tape deck, leaning over to kiss her, and then the tape finishing up.

I have fond memories of this awkward, fairly pointless relationship. We didn’t waste time having “sincere conversations” or “learning each other’s last names”. We just went for it and made out. What else is there when you’re 16?

One of my favorite bands in the world is the EELS. They’re an odd little group fronted by a curious man who calls himself E.

E writes songs about the underdogs in life, and he clearly views himself as one of them. He’s a rock star with an underbite and an affection for dorks. His songs alternate between Beck-style funk-noise and really sweet, affectionate miniature pop songs. Each variation is very unique and endearing, and his songs are often genuinely touching.

Many EELS fans would name Electro-Shock Blues as their favorite album. It was written after E’s mother’s death and his sister’s subsequent suicide, so it’s a heavy album. The music is very melancholy and the lyrics are remarkable in that they stare grimly into the darkest emotions yet still somehow manage to inspire beautifully and remain hopeful about life. This dynamic is found in a lot of their best work.

My personal favorite album of theirs, however, is probably their newest album SHOOTENANNY!. I think that it’s probably E’s strongest, most concise collection of songs. There isn’t necessarily an overarching concept behind this album, but it represents all of his strengths well. My favorite tune on the album is probably a catchy, touching little song called “Love of the Loveless”. It’s sort of E’s own sermon on the mount, saying that it’s easy to love people who are already loved - the trick is loving those who nobody else will.

Click here to listen to it!

Lastly, one of my favorite parts of the EELS website is a little feature called “Dear Uncle E”, where fans write in needing advice, and E offers back strange little nuggets that generally don’t make much sense, but garner a confused laugh. Enjoy a few of my favorites:

Dear Uncle E,
I am a fairly levelheaded young lady who happens to be a big fan of the EELS. However, recently I have found that my love for the EELS is becoming too much for me to handle. It all started when I saw them on their Tour of Duty in Birmingham. Since then I am unable to let go of the wonderful experience that overcame me that night. When I shut my eyes all I can see is Mr. E signing my T-shirt or Koool G smiling. I have lost my appetite for anything but the EELS. Uncle E, what can I do?

Sincerely,
A

Dear A,
You see? This is the burden of being an EEL. It’s not as easy as you might think. Believe me, we’d like to systematically make love to each and every one of you, but due to the sheer number of you, and the constraints of time, the best we can do is make love to a few hundred of you and the rest have to settle for the music. But we like to think that playing music for you is a form of making love. Really. Think about it.

Dear Uncle E,
I’m thinking about getting a tattoo (’Maybe it’s time to live’ because that whole part in ‘PS You Rock My World’ is so relevant to me.) But everyone says I will regret it (the tattoo in general -I haven’t told them what I’m getting). What do you think?

Thanks,
S

Dear S,
This is one area where I wish I could be a little quicker with the advice. Sure, I’m flattered that you would put one of Uncle E’s lyrics on your body, and maybe a little excited at the idea of being a permanent part of your skin. But trust me, one day you will be an eighty year old with skin hanging off your arms like a turkey neck, wishing to God you hadn’t been so stupid as to put the lyrics from a band you liked in the 1900s on your body. And no tongue piercing, OK? If I’m too late with my advice and you’ve already got the tattoo: Wow! Looks great! I’m honored!

Dear Uncle E,
My cat died. I think his spirit has returned in the body of the goat that lives next door. What should I do?

A

Dear A,
Invite the goat over for tea and talk about the good times you had in his previous life. Maybe check to see if he enjoys cat food. Perhaps a little catnip. Bundle up on the couch with him and see if he purrs. Knit him a nice goat coat.

I was recently looking through my yearbook from my senior year of high school and I had to chuckle. Everything that seemed so important to me back then feels utterly irrelevant to me as an adult. The dances, the homecoming royalty, the football games, the pranks, the dating - everything was pointless. I have fond memories of high school because while my friends and I took part in all those festivities, we mostly just sat around at Jason Okrzynski’s place playing videogames, watching bad movies, making bad movies, and making runs across the street to Hy-Vee to pick up Mountain Dew and Swiss Cake Rolls. This exercise, which seemed completely pointless to us at the time, now has greater resonance to me than all that other high school crap.

But one person at my school got it. A young man named Jeff Levin summed up high school so well with his senior quote. Jeff was a substandard student and occasional drug user. Jeff was quite friendly, but not likely to keep up with the fast-paced joking that my close friends were used to. But Jeff saw through the crap. He summed up his high school experience in a poignant, timeless way with his quote:

There are so many dudes I don’t know.

Yes. That is so right. There are so many dudes that I don’t know! Why couldn’t I see it then? I must have been blinded with popularity and/or gangly awkwardness.

Oh well, it’s not too late to turn this ship around. Jeff’s words will become my new life motto. Truly, there are so many dudes that I don’t know. What can be done about this? I should probably look up Jeff’s phone number and see what he suggests…

Any other preferred senior quotes, or words to live by?