Music you didn't ask for

I used to love year-end lists, I guess mainly because I thought they kind of validated what I liked. But then I realized that the weird stuff I liked tend to fall off of the radar of most everyone else, especially when it came to music. There is nothing more subjective or diffuse than music because of two things: people shake the junk in their trunk to different stuff; there's sooooo much stuff out there to make you shake the junk in your trunk.

Anyhow, I still troll the year-end lists of best albums because I love finding new stuff. Last year I came across my absolute favorite album for quite some time in Lord Huron's Lonesome Dreams (if you haven't given it a listen, do so now...and see these guys live if you ever get the chance. You will not be disappointed). While most of my list for this year actually came from either bands I knew and loved already or learned via SiriusXM, one great discovery was made just under the wire and has been in heavy play mode ever since.

So, here's my list, hoping the one or two of you who read this might find something new. If nothing else, Sophia likes what I play (and what's better for a dad's ego than for his daughter to tell him he's got great taste?).

1. Vampire Weekend, Vampires of the Modern City


2. Cayucas, Bigfoot


3. Arcade Fire, Reflektor


4. Daft Punk, Random Access Memories


5. Yo La Tengo, Fade


6. The Mother Hips, Behind Beyond


7. Typhoon, White Lighter


8. Atoms for Peace, Amok


9. Foxygen, We Are the 21st Century Ambassadors of Peace & Magic


10. Volcano Choir, Repave


11. Wiped Out, Paracosm


12. Dr. Dog, B-Room


Happy 2014, y'all!

I am a very fortunate human being

I am a very fortunate human being. I am married to an incredibly loving, nurturing, supportive woman. I have two children who are far more intelligent and kind than I could ever expect to have the right to be. I am able to go to work and earn an honest wage at a place whose sole endeavor is to make the world better and healthier, all in the name of education, which I believe is any human’s greatest pursuit. I am surrounded by family and friends who value one another so selflessly and openly. I cannot take this for granted.

One Fan's Sense of the Myth and Legend of Lance Armstrong

In the summer of 2004, Lance Mania was in full swing. Lance Armstrong was about to embark on a record-setting sixth straight Tour de France victory and his dominance in the sport of professional cycling was unchallenged by the rest of the pro peloton.

I was one of those who fell in line, ordering packs of the ubiquitous yellow Livestrong wristbands that were more a symbol of being an Armstrong fan than anything having to do with supporting cancer research. The fact of the matter was Lance Armstrong was easy to root for. He had charisma, he overcame cancer, he embodied that ballsy American arrogance swagger that all Americans love but the rest of the world hates, and he rode the hell out of his bike with a ferocity that even his greatest rivals admired. He was in the same atmosphere as Michael Jordan and Tiger Woods. He was a sporting god. A deeply flawed sporting god.

I have always loved watching the Tour de France, long before I ever realized how much I loved to ride a bike. Back in the early 80’s when CBS offered limited coverage on the weekend with John Tesh giving commentary over his own synthesized musical score, I sat hypnotized by the coverage of the pro peloton winding and weaving through the undulating French countryside. The scenes of Greg Lemond battling Bernard Hinault or Laurent Fignon for tour supremacy while Claudio Chiappucci would make his fleeting yet heroic attacks made me alternately gasp and cheer in amazement. And then there was the group of North Americans sponsored by the corner convenient store, led by a  burly Mexican named Raul Alcala, a scrappy American named Davis Phinney, and the beautiful climber from Idaho, Andy Hampsten, who gave all of us Yanks a few moments to cheer and dream that an American on an American team would someday wear the maillot jaune in Paris.

After Lemond’s body gave way (after accidentally getting shot by his brother-in-law on a hunting trip) and Hampsten never could piece together that one, great tour, the American dream in France faded and the Tour became dominated by Spain. Yet in 1993, word began spreading of a scrappy Texan whose cockiness knew no end, nor did his talent. In 1996, Lance Armstrong, still known more as a one-day classics rider than a grand tour contender, was listed as a potential challenger for the yellow jersey but withdrew in the rain after the sixth stage. I remember turning to my brother and adamantly saying, “Lance Armstrong will win the Tour de France within the next two years.” About four months later Armstrong was diagnosed with cancer.

I had mostly forgotten about Armstrong over those next couple of years. Americans named Julich, Hincapie and Andreu had become the names of note, and Armstrong’s return couldn’t be anything too serious. And then he finished fourth in the 1998 Vuelta a Espana, Spain’s version of the Tour. The field for the 1999 was considered incredibly weak – no Marco Pantani or Jan Ullrich, both out for drug issues – and the Tour really was there for Armstrong to take…and he did just that, winning by a staggering 7 and a half minutes. The die was cast and America was hooked. Our cancer boy defied all odds and won the most beautiful and challenging sporting event in the world.

In the following years we were treated to classic moment after classic moment. The Look. The Field Crossing. The Musette. The Catch. There were indications that performance enhancing drug use could have been happening at the time. In 1999, Armstrong tested positive for cortisone, but he quickly produced an approved prescription for cortisone cream for his chapped ass and all was OK. His team was an infallible armada clad in the red, white and blue kits of their US Postal Service sponsor, always hitting every impossible climb with ferocious speed and undying relentlessness. It looked…impossible. But it was real, and unbelievably impressive. Perhaps that was the problem that the vast majority of us never acknowledged.

I defended Armstrong to those who would question his legitimacy. I said “Why would anyone who came so close to death be so willing to put such damaging chemicals in their body once back to full health?” I said “How great is it that at a time when the world hates Americans they cheer for a team with the US and US colors all over their uniforms.”

As we all now know and will get greater detail thanks to (seriously?!?) Oprah Winfrey this Thursday, Lance Armstrong was a doper, like much of the rest of the peloton during his racing career. What sets Armstrong apart in terms of his guilt is how horribly he treated those around him who attempted to tell the truth. Armstrong was and is a good old boy from deep in the heart of Texas. In short, an ass hole.

To this fan, Armstrong’s admission comes as a total surprise. Not that he actually doped. I think every fan realized this years ago and most who truly followed the sport figured it out while he was still winning. The surprise is that he is actually admitting to it. I figured he was taking this to the grave, either because he grew to believe the lies or because he had so much tied to it through litigation that financially he couldn’t let it out.

But looking back, as a cyclist, there are those great moments that no amount of doping can replace. Armstrong was a truly great cyclist and the fact that so many of his peers have confessed does speak to his doping keeping him on a level playing field rather than giving him an advantage. Doping did not help carry him across that rugged field outside of Gap. Doping did not lift Armstrong from the tarmac to not only chase down but pass the entire field after that fan’s musette pulled him to the ground on the Luz Ardiden. Doping did not drive Armstrong to chase down Andreas Kloden after Armstrong tried to gift the stage to his then teammate Floyd Landis, only to see Kloden snatch it away. Each of those moments came courtesy of Armstrong’s amazing bike talent and his unquenchable desire to win. Just like Michael Jordan. Just like Tiger Woods.

Just like those ass holes.