Meridian Memorial

I was a happenstance pallbearer today, just north of the Wilsonville exit, number 137. It was your makeshift meridian memorial, a faltering attempt at remembrance. The Sunday afternoon traffic was sprinting by at 73 mph, caught guilty and unaware by the altar of your loved one's sorrow. Even amidst the mundane roars of the K-mart semis, I can hear tiny gasps of embarrassed guilt escape latte drinking Abercrombie Oregonians as they rush by. They stare in morbid fascination at trite trinkets of love, piled high on the muddy spot of grass where your soul was recently severed from your body.

Your mom sobbed that it was less than a day ago, you were singing Dixie Chicks at the top of your lungs. The warm night of a premature spring caused your heart to beat a little faster and your cheeks to tinge with the flirtatious red of laughter. But now the pavement is still warm with the same blood that filled your cheeks, the bumper strips still echo with the horns and groans of your sudden translation. Your life time of American-made bliss, prefabricated for you just a little farther, a little faster down the deeply worn ruts of I-5, all aborted before takeoff. You never thought one more shot of tequila would hurt anything...

And the growing silence of your death drapes your mourners in modern garbs of sorrow: short-sleeved dress shirts with hastily bought Mervyn’s tie. They stand awkwardly in these modern togas, shuffling a funeral dirge beside your little memorial. The high-pitched murmuring of traffic made conversation hard. No one would really have known what to say if conversation was possible. Instead, they intently studied the pathetic representations of your life, looking for one answer to a thousand questions: little heart shaped balloons from your boyfriend, filled with the cold air of his silent sobs; a big teddy bear, whose brown, eyes whisper the thousand 'I love you's' your dad wished he had said but never did; your senior picture in a pewter frame that only seemed to taunt your friends with memories, memories that will now and always seem more like dreams and imaginations rather than something that really happened.

They don't want to forget you for what you were, but it's inevitable. They'll paint amateur pictures in their mind, romanticized idealizations of what you represented. Its how they'll cope with the slicing anger and burning rage at the injustice of your foreshortened life. Because it's not fair and you were cheated. But they tell each other that they’ll never forget you and already they've constructed an eternal shrine in their mind, complete with balloons and teddy bears.

I'll carry your coffin with me.

Song of the Week - "Pulling Mussels (from the Shell)" by The Squeeze

This weeks selection comes from an English album released in March of 1980, almost 3 years before I was born. Also, for those of you mathematically challenged, that is almost 24 years exactly to the month, and 24 years before my 21st birthday. The Squeeze, most certainly containing all the essential elements of a pop band, had a remarkable penchant for casting catchy hooks and melodies with some relatively "wry and subtle" lyrics. This was largely due to the masterminds of Christ Difford and Glenn Tilbrook, who collaborated on the lyrics and music, respectively. However, "Pulling Mussels (from the Shell)" can't particularly be noted as a spokesong for the band's generally thought provoking lyrics. Quite to the contrary, these lyrics are rather meaninglessly silly in the greater scheme of things, or even the smaller scheme of things. But it is truly the musical beauty of this song that is it's saving grace.

Like most good pop, this song is all about the power of simplicity. The foundation is a melody that will imbed itself into your mind in apparent loving friendship, only to haunt you incessantly for the remainder of the day at the most inopportune times. You will quickly rummage around for something with which to slice your wrists with only to discover that instead you are pressing play to hear "Pulling Mussels" again.

It's a song relatively unambitious range wise, but certainly feels earnest. Apart from the melody, the other most notable facet of the song is the blatant but successful rip-off of the Beatles by drummer Paul Gunn. There are moments when you would swear you are listening to Ringo Starr hammer out the simple but foot-bouncing cadence of "I Saw Her Standing There" or "A Hard Day's Night". Another notable moment is the old school rock and roll piano solo by Jooles Holland (a name which was made for a piano player.)

The album vehicle for "Pull Mussels", Argybargy, (no, I don't have the slightest idea) like most Squeeze undertakings in the good ol' US of A was met with moderate success. It peaked at number 71 on the Billboard charts, disappointing to a group with such instant popularity in England where they routinely made a home in the Top 10. This all just goes to show that kicking Saddam's ass is a remarkable act of co-operation between two diverse and happily different countries. After all, if we can't agree on the beauty of Argybargy and "Pulling Mussels from the Sand", how are expected to lock arms in solidarity against one of the greatest tyrants the world has ever known? "Black Coffee in Bed" and "Tempted" are better known and more successful Squeeze hits.

So, enjoy, play this song at work/school. This harbinger of the new wave is sure to make you instant friends and lasting enemies as it joyfully weevils it's way into your brain's automatic repeat play list.