“For even when coming into slight contact with the outer, vapory shreds of the jet, which will often happen, your skin will feverishly smart, from the acridness of the thing so touching it. And I know one, who coming into still closer contact with the spout, whether with some scientific object in view, or otherwise, I cannot say, the skin peeled off from his cheek and arm. Wherefore, among whalemen, the spout is deemed poisonous; they try to evade it. Another thing; I have heard it said, and I do not much doubt it, that if the jet is fairly spouted into your eyes, it will blind you. The wisest thing the investigator can do then, it seems to me, is to let this deadly spout alone.”
- Herman Melville “Moby [fucking[1]] Dick”
I begin with a lengthy quote from “Moby Dick” for three reasons: 1.) Not nearly enough non-“Moby Dick” affiliated web-logs[2] begin entries with Herman Melville. 2.) The presence of this quote makes me appear more intelligent than I actually am, regardless of whether it is germane or not.[3] 3.) This passage immediately came to mind after I had sprayed a plume of non-Surly brand beer out my nose at the Twins game of 26 June 2012, the aftereffects of which I am still experiencing in the form of a raw, chemical burning sensation in my sinus cavities.
Any time beer is wasted in such a fashion, it right and salutary to turn our thoughts inward: “Why did this happen?” and “What can I do to make sure this never happens again?” and “At $7.85 a cup, I just did a Liquid Reverse Tony Montana!” I will answer the first question (and probably forget to address the second) with this:
Bon Jovi.
One inning earlier, we had risen (hallelujah!) and sung “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.” I had sung it like Tom Petty – because I can. This is perfectly acceptable. Singing in sports is best left for either a.) mid-level local celebrities whose continued existence on this plane depends upon their ability to belt out a respectable national anthem before professional games or b.) the occasional half-time Ricky Rubio spotlight treatment of “Man of La Mancha.” Lucky are those who have seen him perform it in full armor and stage make-up. None of these instances, you may have noticed, include anything from the vast, nauseating oeuvre of the dentally sublime Jon Bon Jovi.
Yes, musical preference is a matter of opinion, but as Duke Ellington once famously said, “There are two kinds of music: good music and Jon Bon Jovi music.”[4] It wasn’t until the end of the first “Uva uva uva” that I sprayed my beer. My eyes, stinging from the mist, trailed to the big screen where I saw changing crowd shots framed in by Best Buy blue. Seven full innings of imbibing alcohol had clouded the faculties instrumental in determining right from wrong in many a spectator’s brain. This resulted in most participants braying out the song like shameless bachelorettes, regardless of gender. The lyrics appeared on the bottom of the screen with a bouncing ball to help anybody who had just recently thawed from three or more decades of cryogenic hibernation.
Without further delay, here are the complete lyrics of “Livin’[5] on a Prayer” written by Jon Bon Iver Jovi, Desmond Child, and Richard Sambora.
Once upon a time
Not so long ago
Tommy used to work on the docks
Unions been on strike
He’s down on his luck… it’s tough, so tough[6]
Gina works the diner all day
Working for her man, she brings home her pay
For love – for love
[7]She says we’ve got to hold on to what we’ve got
Cause it doesn’t make a difference
If we make it or not
We’ve got each other and that’s a lot
For love – well give it a shot[8]
Chorus:
Whooah, we’re half way there[9]
Livin on a prayer
Take my hand and we’ll make it – I swear
Livin on a prayer[10]
Tommy’s got his six string in hock[11]
Now he’s holding in what he used
To make it talk – so tough, it’s tough
Gina dreams of running away[12]
When she cries in the night
Tommy whispers baby it’s okay, someday
We’ve got to hold on to what we’ve got
Cause it doesn’t make a difference
If we make it or not
We’ve got each other and that’s a lot
For love – well give it a shot
Chorus
We’ve got to hold on ready or not
You live for the fight when it’s all that you’ve got
Chorus
In closing, this is why I believe The Cure’s “Like Cockatoos” from the 1987 album “Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me” should be the next 8th inning Best Buy sing-along song. Thank you.
[1] Once you say the title of the book this way it is impossible to revert to calling it simply “Moby Dick” ever again. It sounds wrong. It lacks a certain musicality and cadence. Listeners will also glean that you take your cetacean-based literature very, very seriously.
[2] Yes: “web-logs.” The day I use the word “blog” as either a noun or verb, remember your asbestos umbrella on your way out the door because it will be hailing fire and brimstone with a good chance of apocalyptic equestrian-ship later in the afternoon. “Blog” falls out of one’s mouth like a greasy, dead mouse. See? “Blog.” Disgusting.
[3] But I assure you that it is completely germane, as you will see when your eyes return to the main body of text from this superfluous footnote. Despite taking advantage of your trust, please don’t skip future footnotes, as many of them will contain graphic sex acts.
[4] What. It’s on the internet.
[5] May I buy a “G”?
[6] Tough indeed, but what is Tommy doing right now to better his situation? [Spoiler alert!] As we will soon see, Gina is busy working at the diner, selflessly working “for her man.” Does she bring home money for the mere survival of their struggling family unit? No. She brings home her pay “for love.” To drive this idea home, the lyric repeats: “for love.” This is powerful.
[7] Do you hear that synthesizer on every beat? Enjoy it until your tympanic membrane bursts and the resulting blood coagulates into a makeshift earplug. The human body is amazing at adapting to stressful and dangerous environments. The snail march of evolution could never aim at combating an external phenomenon such as 8th inning sing-along of “Livin’ on a Prayer,” yet we thrive as a species. Bravo, us.
[8] “For love – we’ll give it a shot.” For love – again? How about “For sub-standard food, a crappy apartment, basic cable, and the promise of having to perform this sisyphean task until we die – we’ll give it a shot.” No? Too dark?
[9] Half way to where? Tommy is spending all day home watching “The Price is Right” and wondering why he cries every time somebody has to play “Plinko.” Halfway to exhausting unemployment benefits? That can be terrifying. I am slowly beginning to see why this is such an excellent sing-along song for people who have just spent considerable sums of money to see a baseball game.
[10] Thus far, Gina is the only one making any effort to improve the couple’s lot. One bright spot is that Tommy isn’t a musician, because there is nothing sadder than a musician who is down to his last dollar and is then forced to sell his instrument to cover the basest of human needs. It is akin to a non-musician losing a limb or a hedge fund manager losing his or her summer villa. Not only is the musician losing his means to make music and hopefully support himself and his loved ones, but he is also losing his voice, his soul. So. Thankfully. We don’t have to worry about Tommy suffering through that pain and that indignity.
[11] Oh fuck.
[12] Running away. Perhaps to a Twins game? Maybe she was there that night, singing along with her husband who is wearing a semi-ironic Steve Lombardozzi jersey — singing along with the song that Jon Bon Jovi wrote for her and her boyfriend at the time, Tommy. She will think about him for a few minutes after the song is over – how he would tuck a bag of sunflower seeds between the arm of the couch and the cushion. How he would try to disguise his “Plinko” tears of shame when she would come home early after getting cut first at the diner. How she knew she was going to runaway – even before he told her he was going to pawn his guitar. That was a little cold, admittedly. She felt bad about that. But it is the top of the 9th and it is time to head home to Maple Grove and relieve the sitter, after all, it is a Monday.
