I don't know what it says about me that the first time I heard of John Denver it was from the Farrelly brothers' comedic pairing of Jeff Daniels and Jim Carrey in Dumb & Dumber (1994), but Mr. Christmas' offhand (and hilariously ignorant) comment about the American singer-songwriter who died in a plane crash in 1997 was always a line that stuck in my head.
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I think it's safe to say that just about everybody and their brother has heard Posner's "I Took a Pill in Ibiza" on the radio at some point in the last few months. Everybody and their brother may not be aware, however, that that little tune is a remix — the SeeB remix, to be exact — and that the original version of the song is a much slower, much sadder rendition. It wasn't until just last week that I stumbled upon Posner's album At Night, Alone. (released May 6, 2016) in its entirety — and I must say it's a thing of beauty.
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For the first time since 1998, autumn approaches, and, despite department stores' ceaseless efforts to remind everyone of their "Back to School" deals, I will not be among the droves of students returning to the hallowed halls of learning all across the country. And, you know, if that isn't something.
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On July 1, 2016, the greatest punk rock band of any generation released its seventh studio album, the first musical project to feature vocalist/guitarist Matt Skiba, of Alkaline Trio fame. Blink 182's California, in my mind, pays admirable tribute to the band's earlier music, while throwing in some pop-y elements. Those little things are easily forgiven considering I feel just peachy that Blink has released new music for the first time in four years and most of the album rocks soundly.
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It's that time, folks. It's finally come. For better or worse, I am here to admit — wait for it, this one's a real shocker — that I may not be the most adept athlete that has ever graced this earth. Now, I know what you're thinking: "Oh come on, he caught, like, nine passes during four seasons of varsity football, and surely he had at least a sub-.200 batting average in three seasons of varsity baseball... And didn't he *almost* win like four intramural volleyball playoff games during college?"
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Home, as we know, is one of those words that, on its own, says a thousand things at once. It is a place, a feeling, an idea; it carries its own aura, makes you long for it, causes those nostalgic flashbacks to play in your mind. It is very much a noun capable of heavy lifting, of calling out to us and touching us in a way that tugs at our heart strings.
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It was mid-February when I decided to drop $350 on a four-day weekend pass to a summer music festival. I was in Grand Rapids, Michigan, at a friend's place, looking over the details online — who would be playing, where we would stay, etc. — when he and I pulled the trigger and signed ourselves up for the Firefly Music Festival in Dover, Delaware, the capital of America's first state.
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As a kid, that arboreal enclosure was more than pine cones, sappy tree branches, and pokey pine needles; it was my Narnia, complete with three separate tree forts — what I called tree forts, anyway. There was a proper entrance and a secret exit; prickly-bushed fortifications and invisible soldiers to carry out orders; heights to climb to and an “elevator” of branches to bring me back down. Fragmentary visualization is the only way I can see this magical place from my childhood nowadays; I don’t think I even have a photograph.
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