The last time I made a Year in Review mix was 2006, and even that was just about the summer. (It appears I watched way too much Comedy Central back then.) From time to time I'll queue it up on iTunes, and inevitably I start thinking about why I picked this or that song and what was going on in my life then.
I decided it was time for another round and started compiling the list well before the end of the year, modifying it as needed.
As October turned into November I thought I had the list fairly set except for the order. After all, it takes a special kind of song to make a big impact with two months left in the year. That song happened.
And here... we... go...
Major Tom (Calling Home) - Shiny Toy Guns
Yes, this is the song featured in a Lincoln car commercial. It's fun. It refers to various space terms. It makes me sing along (badly).
Bein Kirot Beiti (Within My Walls) - The Idan Raichel Project
An Israeli with epic hippy hair sings and plays the piano. Do I really need to go into details?
One - U2
I enjoy the lyrics. That's really about all I can say.
Bad Romance - Lady Gaga
First I hated this song, then I loved it, then I got sick of it and refused to listen to it for a while. And then I loved it again. I may or may not dance around when it's playing. This might be *the* song of my 2010.
Doomsday - Doctor Who soundtrack
This is the song that in October demanded to be put on the playlist. I had vaguely known about Doctor Who for years. I'd even watched one of the David Tennant/Martha Jones episodes a few years ago, but at the time it just seemed cheesy. Then I realized how awesome Tennant is and that the library had entire seasons on DVD. In the span of 10 days I watched every Tennant episode. I was hooked. "Doomsday" is a haunting song that plays prominently in Rose's rather dramatic departure.
Mi Ma'amakim - The Idan Raichel Project
The greatest love song in the world is in Hebrew. "Out of the depths I called unto you, come..." The first time I heard it, I didn't know what the lyrics meant but it resonated within me. I listened to it several times in a row, and it's one of the most-played songs in my iTunes. It's sweet and gentle, almost like a lullaby.
I Need Thee Every Hour - Selah
"I need thee, oh I need thee, I need thee every hour." It's been a rough year, and there's been a lot of just trusting God to work things out because I don't have a clue how.
I Stand Amazed - Chris Tomlin
I like when singers update the music to hymns (at least, when they do it well). He doesn't change much, slows it down a little in places, but it's enough that I can't help but think about the words.
"That's, uh, hockey, you know? It's only game. Why you haf to be mad?" - Ilya Bryzgalov
Why you haf to be mad? Trade "hockey" and "game" for whatever it is that's ticked you off lately, and feel the Zen of Bryz calm your frazzled nerves. "That's, uh, forum trolls, you know? It's only Internet. Why you haf to be mad?"
Uprising - Muse
My Sister City introduced me to this song, and it became my hockey playoff anthem.
Chelsea Dagger - The Fratellis
Speaking of hockey, this is the Chicago Blackhawks' goal song, and in 2010 they just happend to win a little championship for the first time in 49 years. CHELSEA, CHELSEA, I BELIEVE!
Smells Like Teen Spirit - Nirvana
Several times a month as I drove to work long before dawn this used to come on the radio and I would crank it up. It also showed up on my Angry White Girl playlist.
Rock el Casbah - Rachid Taha
I don't remember how Rock the Casbah and I met, but suddenly it was everywhere. And other than The Clash, who better to sing it than a French Arab?
21 Guns - Green Day
The opening notes draw me in every time.
Barra Barra - Rachid Taha
Oh man, the rolling Rs slay me.
Hot Mess - Cobra Starship (the chorus)
A long, long time from now I may stop associating this 17-second clip with drunk Patrick Kane shaking his booty at the Blackhawks' championship parade and rally, or I may have forgotten about it altogether, but until then...
Brass Bonanza - unknown (Hartford Whalers)
In my mind I have managed to link this with bad '70s cop shows set in tropical places (Miami, Hawaii, etc.). It's weird, it's fun, it's at the end of the list where I may or may not hear it depending on how long I listen to the mix.
Arranging songs into their final order was a bit tricky. To some extent they're grouped by theme (general likes, hymns, hockey, rock, hockey round 2), but I also wanted some fairly smooth transitions. At one point, "Doomsday" went straight into "Smells Like Teen Spirit," which wasn't going to work in any universe.
So there it is, my 2010 as defined by the music.
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Friday, December 17, 2010
The last night of the Uprising
Awhile ago, I was bored and asked for story prompts on Facebook. This is in response to, "What if you owned a hockey team?" (2,010 words) I haven't written fiction pretty much all year, so this could be total dreck since I'm out of practice. And because I've perfected the art of procrastinating, at the bottom is the logo I made for the team.
The crowd had filtered out to the lobby and from there into the snowy parking lot long ago, a sea of red ebbing into the night. Some had been in a rush to get back to their cozy homes; others had dawdled, lounging in their seats, content to soak up the last few memories. But by now even the janitors had finished sweeping up the spilled popcorn, crushed peanut shells and dented paper cups left under the rows of seats. In the stillness, I could hear the constant, quiet hum of the ventilation system as the fans drew what had once been warm air away from the rink. One bank of lights had been shut off, leaving the seats in shadow, but the second bank still illuminated the ice. From where I sat, eight rows up, the surface looked dull and tired. Usually the Zamboni would have made its postgame circuits, scraping the ice and trailing a smooth, shiny topcoat ready for the next morning's practice. But not tonight. Tonight the lumbering machine stayed in its garage as the ice was left to melt away.
As far as endings go, I suppose this one wasn't too terrible. Our supporters filled the arena to the brim, we won the game, 4-2, and the goal horn roared for almost a full minute after the clock hit 0:0. Some people had brought red and black streamers and threw them over the glass, the ends fluttering in the air, as my team skated to center ice and raised their sticks to salute the 3,000-strong mob. As the rowdier supporters resumed singing their favorite songs, the players lingered on the ice, giving each other bro hugs and slaps on the back, and sometimes skating to the glass to greet friends they noticed in the stands. This was the end, but it was also a going-away party.
Finally the guys retreated to the locker room in ones and twos to enjoy some contraband cigars and beers, and then, officially, the Warsaw Uprising was no more. I joined the fun for a while, thanking the team for their hard work day in and day out, telling stories about the more infamous moments from the past two years, but I knew when it was time to leave. Any other night I would have stuck around as long as I liked, but tonight the guys wanted to have fun, and that can quickly turn awkward when the boss is around. Even if she is working on her second bottle of Danny's home-brew.
So I came out here to sit one final time in Section 17, straight behind where our net had been. Now just the faded red of the goal line and the blue of the crease remained.
Watching your dream die wrenches your soul, but sometimes it just can't live in the world where it's born. We had had a good season, two good seasons, but war rationing had caught up with us, and the supplies needed to keep the team stocked were scarce. Those people who did have jobs often had to choose whether to buy groceries or gasoline. Our tickets, even at their modest prices, were considered luxury items, though it was surprising how often this particular luxury item was sold out. The energy needed to run the building could be put to better use elsewhere in the war effort. Even more unfortunately, so could some of the manpower.
Marco shipped out three weeks ago. Jake received his draft notice this morning. Inevitably more would follow.
I shook my head, hoping the motion would help banish the worries, and hunched my shoulders as a wind gust slammed the building. The storm that had been brewing all day over Lake Michigan had finally arrived. We had expected to be finished with winter's nasty weather now that it was mid-March, but clearly the lake had other ideas. Lake-effect snow had fallen often this winter, and more than once the team had needed to leave extra early for games in Michigan as the thick, fluffy flakes quickly blanketed the roads. Once on the drive home in the middle of January the bus had gotten stuck in a drift and the half-asleep, grouchy squad had to push it loose. Insult added to injury: They had lost that night, 8-1, to the Grand Rapids Grizzlies.
As the building creaked amid another gust, I wondered if Yoda had left already. Often Father Yoder and at least one or two of the younger brothers waited with the buggy to take Matthew home. Forwards had quickly learned to avoid drawing the attention of our tall defenseman, because years of throwing hay bales and other farm chores had built him more solid than any gym workout. Woe to the idiot who kept his head down while flying across the blue line; a collision with this pillar had knocked two guys out cold.
Someone – it sounded like Jared – was singing in the hallway, and his booming voice drifted into the arena.
Our forwards shoot better than snipers
Our defense stands strong like a wall
Our goalie is nutty like squirrel shit
Uprising don't fear you at all
Oh, yes, one of the many tunes our fans had commandeered and set new lyrics to, this time “My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean.” Our crowd inexplicably had a European football atmosphere, with songs and chants ringing out almost nonstop, flags waving and scarves held high. After numerous complaints about this song and a few flyers posted around the building, a particular line had been amended to “squirrel crap,” but I still got phone calls Monday morning from people who thought such language shouldn't be sung on a Sunday evening. Part of me always wanted to suggest, “Try singing some other song louder.” Mob mentality was simple: You follow the loudest leader.
After the song debuted, our number one goalie, Edmond, had gone out to talk to fans milling around near the locker room and asked in his thick French accent to “please be explain” the squirrel part. Amid hoots of laughter they assured him it just meant that he was crazy, crazy in a good way. And he was, as all good goalies are. The evening before training camp began this season, he realized he had left his second-luckiest pair of socks at home. He drove to eastern Ontario that night and pulled into the parking lot at the arena, hopped up on two thermoses full of Tim Hortons coffee, three minutes before 10 a.m. He was mostly useless the rest of that first day and looked like a zombie in his roster photo, but he had his socks.
Another time he was fifteen minutes into putting on his equipment for a game when he realized he had started with his left side, not the right as usual. Off came the pads, pants and protectors. Back on went his game-day suit. He walked out of the locker room for a few seconds, then came back in and began the routine from the beginning, this time starting with the right side.
Now he was skating slowly through center ice, wearing just a T-shirt and shorts with salvaged streamers draped over his shoulders like a cape. He had been working on his fifth bottle of brew when I had left the locker room, and I was impressed at how steady he was now. A few strides later he was in the crease, scraping the ice like he did before a game. The furtive glance over his shoulder toward the bench and locker room door, though, was a variation from the routine. When he was confident no one was watching him – from that angle, at least – he lifted the heel of his right skate and slammed it like a pick into the ice on the goal line. A small pile of chips grew as he continued to dig.
After several jabs, he crouched and lifted a small object out of the ice. He stood there and brushed it clean with his thumb
“Ça va, Squirrely?” I called.
He flinched, and as he turned, the tip of his right blade caught the edge of the hole. I had to stifle a laugh as his left leg shot out from under him and landed with a thud. He prided himself on being graceful in the net, none of that wild flopping around business, and this had hardly been one of his finer moments. By the time I descended the stairs to ice level, he had sat up and was brushing snow from his shoulder. One of the black streamers had torn and was starting to shrivel in the moisture.
“Your first time on skates?” I teased as I opened the maintenance door built into the boards and stepped onto the ice.
“I am a goalie, not a skater,” he retorted as he got back on his feet. A few ice chips and flecks of snow clung to his brown curls. He kept his right hand clenched, but I could see part of a gold chain dangling from his fingers.
“Whatever you are, you're destroying my rink! How about you show me what buried treasure you found and I won't call the cops for vandalism.”
Edmond opened his hand, and across his palm lay a small gold crucifix. So, that would help explain why he had arrived in town almost two weeks earlier than expected, just as the ice crew was ready to flood the rink to build the sheet of ice.
I shook my head. “French Catholic and more superstitious than ... I don't know what.”
He grinned as he slipped the cross over his head. “Never injured,” he stated. “And never more than four goals a game.” When I brought up a strained knee in December, he waved it off. “Just tired.”
I chuckled. “And now you go home to wait until fall comes and bury it again. You really are a squirrel, aren't you.”
It was his turn to laugh. “Yes! And what about you?”
“Back to the farm,” I replied. “Plant in a few weeks, hope the summer isn't too dry, harvest in the fall, and wish there was hockey in the winter.”
“Have Yoda shovel the pond.”
“He can't do it alone. How about you come help him?” I suggested.
He looked thoughtful for a moment. “Will you have cider?” He had become addicted to fresh apple cider from the local orchards and swore he could tell which orchard each gallon came from just by subtleties in the taste.
“If you come shovel snow,” I said, “I will make sure I have cider.”
“Deal!” He stuck out his hand and I shook it, unsure whether he was serious or whether the home-brew had taken over. Then he pushed off with his skate and started toward the locker room, stopping only when he noticed I stayed behind. “Come on.”
I shook my head. “Nah, it's time for the team to just be the team.”
His eyebrows scrunched together as he frowned.
“No, really, I'm done for the night. Just make sure this place is still standing when you guys leave, otherwise I'm in a lot of trouble with the bank.”
The frown deepened, but he didn't say anything more as he went back to the bench. I saw him glance back once, and then he disappeared into the locker room.
I looked around the rink for the last time, fixing every scratch and black mark on the glass, every dent and scrape on the painted boards in my mind. Our entry in hockey history would be brief, but we had been a team, had played hard, and wouldn't have changed a day in the past two years.
And as I headed for the stairs, I made a mental note to keep some cider in the freezer next winter, just in case.
Yes, that's a ninja with a hockey-stick nunchuck. This is, after all, MY team.
The crowd had filtered out to the lobby and from there into the snowy parking lot long ago, a sea of red ebbing into the night. Some had been in a rush to get back to their cozy homes; others had dawdled, lounging in their seats, content to soak up the last few memories. But by now even the janitors had finished sweeping up the spilled popcorn, crushed peanut shells and dented paper cups left under the rows of seats. In the stillness, I could hear the constant, quiet hum of the ventilation system as the fans drew what had once been warm air away from the rink. One bank of lights had been shut off, leaving the seats in shadow, but the second bank still illuminated the ice. From where I sat, eight rows up, the surface looked dull and tired. Usually the Zamboni would have made its postgame circuits, scraping the ice and trailing a smooth, shiny topcoat ready for the next morning's practice. But not tonight. Tonight the lumbering machine stayed in its garage as the ice was left to melt away.
As far as endings go, I suppose this one wasn't too terrible. Our supporters filled the arena to the brim, we won the game, 4-2, and the goal horn roared for almost a full minute after the clock hit 0:0. Some people had brought red and black streamers and threw them over the glass, the ends fluttering in the air, as my team skated to center ice and raised their sticks to salute the 3,000-strong mob. As the rowdier supporters resumed singing their favorite songs, the players lingered on the ice, giving each other bro hugs and slaps on the back, and sometimes skating to the glass to greet friends they noticed in the stands. This was the end, but it was also a going-away party.
Finally the guys retreated to the locker room in ones and twos to enjoy some contraband cigars and beers, and then, officially, the Warsaw Uprising was no more. I joined the fun for a while, thanking the team for their hard work day in and day out, telling stories about the more infamous moments from the past two years, but I knew when it was time to leave. Any other night I would have stuck around as long as I liked, but tonight the guys wanted to have fun, and that can quickly turn awkward when the boss is around. Even if she is working on her second bottle of Danny's home-brew.
So I came out here to sit one final time in Section 17, straight behind where our net had been. Now just the faded red of the goal line and the blue of the crease remained.
Watching your dream die wrenches your soul, but sometimes it just can't live in the world where it's born. We had had a good season, two good seasons, but war rationing had caught up with us, and the supplies needed to keep the team stocked were scarce. Those people who did have jobs often had to choose whether to buy groceries or gasoline. Our tickets, even at their modest prices, were considered luxury items, though it was surprising how often this particular luxury item was sold out. The energy needed to run the building could be put to better use elsewhere in the war effort. Even more unfortunately, so could some of the manpower.
Marco shipped out three weeks ago. Jake received his draft notice this morning. Inevitably more would follow.
I shook my head, hoping the motion would help banish the worries, and hunched my shoulders as a wind gust slammed the building. The storm that had been brewing all day over Lake Michigan had finally arrived. We had expected to be finished with winter's nasty weather now that it was mid-March, but clearly the lake had other ideas. Lake-effect snow had fallen often this winter, and more than once the team had needed to leave extra early for games in Michigan as the thick, fluffy flakes quickly blanketed the roads. Once on the drive home in the middle of January the bus had gotten stuck in a drift and the half-asleep, grouchy squad had to push it loose. Insult added to injury: They had lost that night, 8-1, to the Grand Rapids Grizzlies.
As the building creaked amid another gust, I wondered if Yoda had left already. Often Father Yoder and at least one or two of the younger brothers waited with the buggy to take Matthew home. Forwards had quickly learned to avoid drawing the attention of our tall defenseman, because years of throwing hay bales and other farm chores had built him more solid than any gym workout. Woe to the idiot who kept his head down while flying across the blue line; a collision with this pillar had knocked two guys out cold.
Someone – it sounded like Jared – was singing in the hallway, and his booming voice drifted into the arena.
Our forwards shoot better than snipers
Our defense stands strong like a wall
Our goalie is nutty like squirrel shit
Uprising don't fear you at all
Oh, yes, one of the many tunes our fans had commandeered and set new lyrics to, this time “My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean.” Our crowd inexplicably had a European football atmosphere, with songs and chants ringing out almost nonstop, flags waving and scarves held high. After numerous complaints about this song and a few flyers posted around the building, a particular line had been amended to “squirrel crap,” but I still got phone calls Monday morning from people who thought such language shouldn't be sung on a Sunday evening. Part of me always wanted to suggest, “Try singing some other song louder.” Mob mentality was simple: You follow the loudest leader.
After the song debuted, our number one goalie, Edmond, had gone out to talk to fans milling around near the locker room and asked in his thick French accent to “please be explain” the squirrel part. Amid hoots of laughter they assured him it just meant that he was crazy, crazy in a good way. And he was, as all good goalies are. The evening before training camp began this season, he realized he had left his second-luckiest pair of socks at home. He drove to eastern Ontario that night and pulled into the parking lot at the arena, hopped up on two thermoses full of Tim Hortons coffee, three minutes before 10 a.m. He was mostly useless the rest of that first day and looked like a zombie in his roster photo, but he had his socks.
Another time he was fifteen minutes into putting on his equipment for a game when he realized he had started with his left side, not the right as usual. Off came the pads, pants and protectors. Back on went his game-day suit. He walked out of the locker room for a few seconds, then came back in and began the routine from the beginning, this time starting with the right side.
Now he was skating slowly through center ice, wearing just a T-shirt and shorts with salvaged streamers draped over his shoulders like a cape. He had been working on his fifth bottle of brew when I had left the locker room, and I was impressed at how steady he was now. A few strides later he was in the crease, scraping the ice like he did before a game. The furtive glance over his shoulder toward the bench and locker room door, though, was a variation from the routine. When he was confident no one was watching him – from that angle, at least – he lifted the heel of his right skate and slammed it like a pick into the ice on the goal line. A small pile of chips grew as he continued to dig.
After several jabs, he crouched and lifted a small object out of the ice. He stood there and brushed it clean with his thumb
“Ça va, Squirrely?” I called.
He flinched, and as he turned, the tip of his right blade caught the edge of the hole. I had to stifle a laugh as his left leg shot out from under him and landed with a thud. He prided himself on being graceful in the net, none of that wild flopping around business, and this had hardly been one of his finer moments. By the time I descended the stairs to ice level, he had sat up and was brushing snow from his shoulder. One of the black streamers had torn and was starting to shrivel in the moisture.
“Your first time on skates?” I teased as I opened the maintenance door built into the boards and stepped onto the ice.
“I am a goalie, not a skater,” he retorted as he got back on his feet. A few ice chips and flecks of snow clung to his brown curls. He kept his right hand clenched, but I could see part of a gold chain dangling from his fingers.
“Whatever you are, you're destroying my rink! How about you show me what buried treasure you found and I won't call the cops for vandalism.”
Edmond opened his hand, and across his palm lay a small gold crucifix. So, that would help explain why he had arrived in town almost two weeks earlier than expected, just as the ice crew was ready to flood the rink to build the sheet of ice.
I shook my head. “French Catholic and more superstitious than ... I don't know what.”
He grinned as he slipped the cross over his head. “Never injured,” he stated. “And never more than four goals a game.” When I brought up a strained knee in December, he waved it off. “Just tired.”
I chuckled. “And now you go home to wait until fall comes and bury it again. You really are a squirrel, aren't you.”
It was his turn to laugh. “Yes! And what about you?”
“Back to the farm,” I replied. “Plant in a few weeks, hope the summer isn't too dry, harvest in the fall, and wish there was hockey in the winter.”
“Have Yoda shovel the pond.”
“He can't do it alone. How about you come help him?” I suggested.
He looked thoughtful for a moment. “Will you have cider?” He had become addicted to fresh apple cider from the local orchards and swore he could tell which orchard each gallon came from just by subtleties in the taste.
“If you come shovel snow,” I said, “I will make sure I have cider.”
“Deal!” He stuck out his hand and I shook it, unsure whether he was serious or whether the home-brew had taken over. Then he pushed off with his skate and started toward the locker room, stopping only when he noticed I stayed behind. “Come on.”
I shook my head. “Nah, it's time for the team to just be the team.”
His eyebrows scrunched together as he frowned.
“No, really, I'm done for the night. Just make sure this place is still standing when you guys leave, otherwise I'm in a lot of trouble with the bank.”
The frown deepened, but he didn't say anything more as he went back to the bench. I saw him glance back once, and then he disappeared into the locker room.
I looked around the rink for the last time, fixing every scratch and black mark on the glass, every dent and scrape on the painted boards in my mind. Our entry in hockey history would be brief, but we had been a team, had played hard, and wouldn't have changed a day in the past two years.
And as I headed for the stairs, I made a mental note to keep some cider in the freezer next winter, just in case.
Yes, that's a ninja with a hockey-stick nunchuck. This is, after all, MY team.
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