Snobbin: Beautiful Trash in the Pop Culture Gutter

I have been moving into our new house for what seems like days. First, we had to paint each room and remove the carpet, and then we have slowly been moving our stuff over the past week. Whenever I move, I think about getting rid of some of my records or books because of the effort of moving them. Of course, this never happens, and I find myself moving more each time, constantly swearing and cursing at myself for my collection.  I generally move them by myself so that no one else will have to suffer. I take the records off my shelf, put them in plastic storage containers, and then lug them to my car only to lug them out again. When I am done, my arms are black and blue from bruises. These deep bruises will turn yellow and take weeks to heal. When I move books in town, I have switched to smaller boxes and more trips to make it easier, but I have not found a better way to move vinyl. I started using large milk crates, but they beat my arms up as much and took more time. I ended up set...

Late Night with Conan O'Brien first aired on September 13, 1993. I'm not sure when I first tuned in, but it must have been shortly after that, and it hooked me immediately. It appealed to me in ways David Letterman and Jay Leno did not. The dynamic between Andy Richter, Max Weinberg, and Conan, along with the strange skits that felt more like the odd, hallucinatory sketches from The Kids in the Hall than those of his late-night rivals, sucked me in. I raved about it to my friends who were much more interested in David Letterman. Leno was not cool to many of us because his jokes never felt like they were for us. Letterman was hipper because of his biting satire and relatability, while the newcomer Conan was tentative and unsure of himself as a host. His self-deprecating jabs and vulnerability gave him a different type of comedic edge that appealed to the underdog and the also-ran. I started taping my favorite skits and showing them to friends. I have hours of VHS tape of Conan...

Since I moved to Arkansas a few years ago, I have realized how much the pollen affects me and how ubiquitous it can be. I have always gotten sick every year when the trees start blooming, but in Arkansas, it is so much worse. The pine trees and many other plants start blooming, and I find myself a sick mess. My ears are plugged, my head is stuffy, and my body aches. When I first encountered these symptoms a couple of years ago, I thought I had the flu, but friends informed me that it was just the pollen. The trees are beautiful, with their needles appearing ever greener through the haze, but yellow pollen covers the roads, vehicles, and pretty much anywhere else it can land. A blanket of yellow clogs the air, and it is even visible in the water that pools in drains and puddles along the muddy ground. When I return to Wisconsin, other blooming polliniferous plants will hit me again, so my head will remain a mess.  Of course, this haze cuts down my productivity, and I struggle to cat...

               Chadwick Spartan's head was ringing as he prepared himself for another day of running the machines. He was in charge of machine number 16, the scrambler, and he was sick to death of the smell of stale popcorn, fried food, and the sickly vomit smell of each sick kid who threw up on the ride after eating cotton candy or elephant ears. He was plain sick of working on the machines, listening to the tired banter of the other carnies as they played drinking games long into the night or discussed the new tattoos they were thinking of getting. His life had become a cliché; when he left home after high school, he fell for the idea that the carnival life would be adventure and fun. He would see the world. He was so damn naïve. Instead, he found himself bored on the road, wishing for all the world that he had settled down with some high school sweetheart, worked at the factory, or even gone to trade school.       ...

A dream discovered in fresh water waves Under the surface with billowing ochre weeds A deep, green curtain hiding the flutter of perch Perhaps, a tiny bluegill or larger pumpkinseed Safe under covers, hiding from the wolfish fish Predator and prey in endless dashes Never upsetting the murk I lay amidships over the side of the canoe staring for hours My father's strong arms casting and casting Nary a fish made it over its sheltering sides Glittering water on the belly in rivulets  The bright orange sun beating from behind cumulus clouds On the shimmering surface of the shrinking lake. I shielded my eyes and kept watching for fish Taking a break to read my Hardy Boys book The Mummy Case , I think it was, its lurid cover as natural as the fish below on my young imagination My father handed me a bottle of Coke, cold in styrofoam wrap I remember that first drink, cold and tickling Traveling home in his red 1984 Ford F-150  I turned the last pages of my mystery book  looking fo...

I have only experienced recurring dreams once. When I was a kid, and remembered my dreams with more frequency, and in greater detail, I had a dream that kept coming back for a few weeks. It was very detailed, and in hindsight, I'm not sure if it was exactly the same, but it had many of the same features. I  remember being confused that I kept having it because it never had before. One funny thing about memory is that you believe something happened in a specific way, and it might not have. Remembering a dream is even more challenging because nobody but you remembers it, so you cannot ask them if it really happened that way.  Visually, the dream was striking, memorable, and very strange. It was like I was trapped in a Scooby-Doo episode, except the animation was crisper and more bizarre than the Hanna-Barbera cartoon. There were two witches that looked like they had escaped from The Wizard of Oz that flitted in and out and a sled race that led me back to the beginning of the dr...

I had an internet discussion with friends a few weeks ago and was shocked to find out that one of them was a Pink Floyd fan. Either I never noticed or ignored it because he never really seemed like the type. Of course, there is nothing wrong with liking Floyd, but it got me thinking about what I want in music since prog always reminds me of hanging out with stoners and listening to Dark Side of the Moon for the thousandth time.  At his suggestion, I attempted to listen to Pink Floyd's Division Bell . I made it through, but I was awfully bored. I enjoyed parts of it, but my mind strayed, and I wanted to listen to something pithier and more straightforward. I know it is an unpopular opinion to rip on bands like Floyd in some circles, but they just don't do much for me. (Of course, other groups make a sport of it.) Nor does much radio classic rock because it lacks the hooks and melodies that I like. I'm not saying I don't listen to longer songs or other genres because I l...