Ice Cream Trucks/Cold Stone Creamery

I LIKE: ICE CREAM TRUCKS


I shouldn't love ice cream trucks, given the numerous traumatic moments in my life associated with them:

1. While ordering out of a truck once, the ice cream man asked me if I was indeed standing barefoot in a nest of ants. Indeed I was. I was instantly whisked home and stripped of my clothing, and I don't even think I got my ice cream.

2. True story. Our neighborhood ice cream man used to ask us if we wanted bubble gum instead of our change back. Bubble gum! What kid could resist? Who needs those four dollars when you can have two pieces of Dubble Bubble?
When the neighborhood parents finally caught on and forced us to ask for our change back, the ice cream man never came back.

3. I once ordered a bar called the "Screwball." This was the most vile product ever invented. It tasted like frozen vomit and had a tooth-cracking gumball at the bottom of the cone, in case you weren't crying enough by that point.

Ice cream trucks also blast that music that sounds like it's coming from a Casio keyboard with low batteries. And the one that circled our high school campus was little more than a sloppily-disguised drug front.
But still. I've always liked the King Cone, and those ice cream bars with gumball noses that are in the shapes of cartoon characters (Mario, Aladdin, etc.)
For that, I can forgive them the music and the fact that most of their vendors look like Switchblade Sam from the "Dennis the Menace" movie.


I HATE: COLD STONE CREAMERY


I went into Cold Stone Creamery last week for the first time since 2002. The windows were barred. Tumbleweeds rolled across the floor. An obese man was passed out in an enormous bowl of Birthday Cake Remix muttering "Gotta have it." An apparently abandoned child was wimpering in a corner. Bands of feral cats hissed at me as they reproduced. The cashier snorted lines off of the stone slab. I gagged at the sight of it all.
This is a slight exaggeration. But I got the general sense that the "cold stone" craze had wound down.
Why did we ever think it was so revolutionary to throw ice cream onto a slab, smash lots of crap into it, and then sell it for eight dollars? Most of their creations have thousands upon thousands of calories and are little more than a random mash-up of nauseatingly sweet ingredients.
Also, they didn't give me a job. Fools. Lousy, bureaucratic fools.
That was going to be my first summer job at the age of 17. As I have actually described in a previous blog post, I even went to the trouble of wearing an "interview outfit" that consisted of a cream-colored polo shirt over an extra-large, gray t-shirt.
A thirteen-year old got the job instead. Ironically, two months later, I lost a piano competition to another thirteen-year old.
I suddenly realized that I was old.
And I have only gotten older since then.

Hannukah Music/Christmas Music

I LIKE: HANUKKAH MUSIC


Hanukkah music is the unsung hero of holiday music, and no true high-school chorus concert is complete without it.
Around the fourth time I participated in a holiday concert, something started to dawn on me--our chosen "Hanukkah" songs were always nearly identical, melodically and lyrically.
In fact, with a bit of practice and natural talent, I quickly learned that I could improvise my own songs by following a few rudimentary rules:

1. Hanukkah songs are always in a melodic minor key--think "Arabian Nights" from Disney's "Aladdin," or "Prince Ali" from the same film.
In composition, this is the key used solely to add a cheap, faux-Middle Eastern twist to your music.
If it's not in a melodic minor key, you don't have a Hanukkah song. You have a piece of shit.

2. Make lots of vague references to "lights" and "candles," and remind people that "we're going to have some fun tonight."

3. Include a few irrelevant Yiddish phrases. If this is too much work, you can shout "La'chaim!" at the end of the song (our preferred method of ending Hanukkah songs in the Galloway School chorus).

4. Mention dreidels. Do not mention circumcisions, as this is not a Hanukkah tradition.

5. I wrote a song that included the line, "Crack out the latkes." You do not have permission to use this line.


My guess is that before Hanukkah had to step up its game to compete with the commercial behemoth of Christmas, Jews probably didn't care much about composing catchy music for a marginal holiday in their religion. How many Good Friday songs can you name?
But composers have done a good job in the last thirty years of dashing off acceptable holiday fare that can sit comfortably in between "Sleigh Ride" and "White Christmas," and most of it does make me appreciate that Hanukkah indeed has something or other to do with lights.



I HATE: CHRISTMAS MUSIC



Okay, let's get this out of the way first. When I say I hate "Christmas Music," this obviously excludes:

1. The music from "A Charlie Brown Christmas." This music is so melancholy and spirit-breaking, that you usually forget it has anything to do with Christmas.

2. The carol "Sleigh Ride." "Sleigh Ride" is a genuinely good carol. It has a funky rhythm, a nice percussion section, and some pretty revolutionary chord changes for its time, even if I could do without the line about "spearing the skulls of our enemies."

That being said, I hate Christmas music. I not only hate Christmas music, but I am suspicious of anyone who enjoys it.
Can people really still feel nostalgic about these songs after hearing them on loop, for two months, every year, for 45 straight years?
And did I mention that I hate children, laughter, and charity?
I realize this is making me look like a Scrooge.
But I challenge anyone to listen to "Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer" or "I'm Gettin' Nuttin' For Christmas" for eight hours a day at work without complaining to your superiors ("Some customers like it," was the response I got today).
I'm not trying to have a "merry little Christmas," and I don't want to hear your a capella rendition of it.
I don't care if Santa Claus is coming to town, as long as I don't have to hear you scat sing over the chord changes.
And would Jesus have wanted to hear a saxophone solo in "Jingle Bells?" Maybe. But I sure don't.
I enjoy the holidays. But can we all agree to just retire the music and start listening to "Moving Pictures"-era Rush instead?

Primanti Brothers/Leadership Conferences

I LIKE: PRIMANTI BROTHERS


Pittsburgh was once the steel capital of the world, until the mills closed in the 1980s. In the 20-odd years since, the city has experienced an exciting rebirth by transforming the sites of the closed mills into strip malls, Stein Marts, and world-class dining spots such as P.F. Chang's and Fuddruckers.
Okay, I have never had much leftover praise for the city of Pittsburgh. In fact, I never had *any* praise for the city until a specialty cupcake store opened a few blocks away during my senior year.
Nonetheless, as much as I rib and jibe Pittsburgh, I will humbly admit that Primanti Brothers, the shining star of the city, turns out a damn good sandwich.
I guess Pittsburgh wanted to be important enough to have a "cuisine" specific to the city. They hastily accomplished this by putting coleslaw and fries on their turkey sandwiches. Bam! Ethnic cuisine! A cultural experience! Pittsburgh on the world scene! The quintessential Pennsylvania experience!
No, not really. But coleslaw on sandwiches tastes better than you probably think it does. Also, you get a ticket for a free cookie with every sandwich.
Oh wait, that's Fuddruckers. Well, I guess that place is pretty good too.



I HATE: LEADERSHIP CONFERENCES, HONOR SOCIETIES, YADDA, YADDA, YADDA


In high school, my friends always got invitations to those elusive "leadership conferences," which I assumed would turn an average kid like me into a kid who could get laid. The invitations never seemed to make it to my mailbox.
By the age of 17, however, I had matured enough to approach the school guidance counselor and bug into her sending me one. It finally arrived.
At that point, however, I began asking myself a question that has not changed to this day:
What exactly are these things for?
What the hell are these cheery guys in ties talking about when they promote "leadership" and "initiative?"
The kids who attend these conferences are people that I would only allow to "lead" my frozen, wolf-eaten body. They are invariably the same kids who joined those honor societies in college--societies that allow you to gas on about the same vague topics of "leadership," "ideas," and "good attitudes" every week for a $60 fee.
Sure, it looks good on resumes, but so does being president of the Trick-or-Treat club (a short-lived, but immortal club).
To be fair, I never attended a single one of these conferences, so this is all speculation.
I imagine, however, that they would probably start with that same cheery guy in a tie leading a human knot exercise.
God, I loathe the human knot. I don't want to work constructively to untie ourselves. I want the person next to me to dry their clammy hand, release it from mine, and make everyone else on the team line up and apologize to me individually.
Take off your tie, buddy, because the only person I'm following is that 45-year old woman I trail home every day before speeding off.

Belgium/Franz Liszt

I LIKE: BELGIUM


If I were ever to found and run a country, it would probably be the most epically disorganized and incompetently managed affair in history. I guess that's why I love Belgium so much.
The entire USA runs under one government.
Belgium is the size of New Jersey and runs under six governments.
Obscenely ridiculous bureaucracy? Maybe.
Awesome? Absolutely.
Geography lesson of the day:
Belgium is really two completely different countries (Flanders and Wallonia) that have been messily pasted together through trial and error. Flanders constantly threatens secession from the rest of Belgium, thinking that this may somehow have an impact on any of the world's affairs.
Either way, the six governments bicker nonstop, and their Parliament plays out like a neverending Punch and Judy show from Hell. There will come a time when the country suddenly explodes and sinks to the bottom of the ocean, hopefully leaving bottles of Duval and Chimay to float to the surface. I'll be out there in my gondola with a net and a bottle-opener.
Belgium is like the tiny, sick kid on the roller-coaster of Western Europe. Eventually its anger and revolutionary spirit will spread throughout the continent, until everybody is yelling in Flemish, blasting Jacques Brel from their windows, choking on mussel shells, and generally torching the earth until nothing can ever grow again.
This sounds like a negative post, but it's not. I really enjoyed my time in Belgium.
Also, they have this really good spicy mayonnaise they eat with their fries.
It's called "Samurai Sauce."


I HATE: FRANZ LISZT


Franz Liszt is the Yngwie Malmsteen of classical music. Before he came around, composers put notes together in certain combinations to make some sort of sense.
Then one day, a Hungarian guy came around and thought it would be cool to just, like, shred. To write piano pieces with lots of random, difficult chords played at breakneck speed so the audience could have the pleasure of watching hands move real quick-like.
It would be fair to say that Liszt was a direct precursor to Poison, RATT, and other 80s metal crapola.
I might even go so far as to blame him for the first Gulf War, the decline of educational standards in America, the collapse of Bear Stearns, the movie "Blankman," Hurricane Hugo, and the Tommy Lee sex tape.
He had enormous hands. Why does anyone need hands that big? I guess you do if you're using them to construct evil things, like WMDs, or the Transcendental Etudes.
He came from Hungary which, despite having the world's most difficult language for Anglophones to learn, is little more than a poor man's Belgium.

Ronnie Coleman/Yoo-Hoo

I LIKE: RONNIE COLEMAN


Despite the subtle "gay yuppie" overtones that eating fruit and French toast on Sunday morning evokes (or maybe because of them), I like brunch.

This is what I began to write, before I realized that this energy would be better spent praising "Big" Ronnie Coleman.
The "Big" moniker likely comes from the fact that he is, in fact, physically quite big. Big enough to win eight consecutive Mr. Olympia titles, which is more than I've done.
Mr. Olympia, by the way, is a competition in which bodybuilders spray on laughable tans and exhibit their grotesquely deformed bodies.
Why should I admire someone who has lowered his life expectancy by thirty years from rampant abuse of steroids/growth hormone/stem cells/Powergel?
I guess I just like what he stands for. He stands for America--a country where you have the right to get so large, that not even bullets can penetrate you.
A Google search has just informed me that gigantic muscles cannot deflect bullets.
I guess that makes sense.



I HATE: YOO-HOO


What the fuck is this stuff?
When I was young I always assumed it was chocolate milk. Yet, somehow, it contains neither milk nor chocolate.
It seems to be a mix of alkaline bases and corn syrup, which make it taste like chocolate milk that's been infected by botulism.

I went to traffic court today to answer charges for improperly turning left. Is there a proper way to turn left? Was I a bit crass in my turning? Should I have done it while wearing a dinner jacket and sipping some Lapsang Souchong? Shitheads.

After paying my ticket, I went to the lot where I had parked my car. This was a lot run by a homeless man who swore that he would watch over my car and maybe even wash it while I was gone--I just had to pay him $3.50 when I got back.
As luck would have it, I only had a 20. I went to make change at a neighboring Greyhound station, where the only product available was Yoo-Hoo. After having paid a hefty ticket and feeling a bit down, this lowered my spirits even further.
I returned with my change and drink, and I paid the guy. His response:
"Hey! How about a tip? I'm homeless you know."
"Uhh...alright. Here's a dollar."
"Great! Maybe I'll go by myself a Yoo-Hoo too."
He then burst into hysterical laughter.

When even the homeless mock your product, it's time to rethink things.

Eastern Europeans/Singer Songwriters

I LIKE: EASTERN EUROPEANS

What is it about me and Eastern Europeans? I like them. We click. We always seem to end up together, giggling helplessly, stroking each other's flowing blond hair, communicating in broken English, and discussing Macedonian economics.
Americans can instantly tell that I'm an exceedingly awkward person who is not really representative of the American population.
Thankfully, the language barrier is strong enough to hide this fact from most Eastern Europeans, who will laugh at my tired, banal jokes, and who can appreciate that I know the capital of Estonia (Tallinn, BOO-YA!)
My brother has shared with me that he thinks my thing with Eastern Europeans is "weird." I think it is inevitable. When Americans shun you, you try your luck at Western Europe. When the French shun you, where else do you go? East, my friend.
Keep going east.
This is something I repeat to myself throughout the day. It might actually qualify as a tic.


I HATE: SINGER/SONGWRITERS

Hence the name of this blog. I don't like singer/songwriters. I don't like "that guy" at the party who pulls out the guitar, closes his eyes, looks into his soul, and plays "Wonderwall." Even better is when he performs his own songs, which he usually writes during sleepless nights while thinking about a girl and noodling on some DMB songs.
He plays at open mics with a hushed voice and half-closed eyes. His songs probably rhyme "rain" with "pain" and "life" with "strife." There will invariably be some reference to staring out of a window.
He refers to himself as a "composer." He describes his music as "something new, trying to fuse some elements of hard bop with the recent jam-band scene, adding in some musique concrete with lots of double-sharps to mix things up." This makes no sense whatsoever, but he's too talented to make sense.
He's a genius.

Introduction to My Blingin' New Blog

As I was nodding off to sleep last night, I had a feverish revelation: I needed to create a new blog. This would not just be any blog.
It would be a blog about how much I hate singer/songwriters.
This seemed a little bit too specific. Okay, it would be about things I hated in general.
This seemed pessimistic.
Okay, it would be about things that deserve my scorn, and equally, some things that deserve my praise.

I am now 24 years old. I have concluded that by age 24, you know what you like and don't like. Nobody is going to convince me that I should listen to the Dave Matthews Band, or that I should choose banana Moon Pies over chocolate or vanilla ones.

Thus the format of my new blog.
I will ruminate briefly on something I love. Then ruminate briefly on something I don't love.
I like talking about things I like and don't like, so be prepared for some mighty self-indulgence.