Twin High-Maintenance Machines (8.21.22)

I once had the (dis)pleasure of tasting goat cheese. I am not a fan. Perhaps not served in an ideal way⁠—it was handed to me as a dice-sized cube⁠ with nothing else—I have nonetheless carved it onto the short list of tastes I do not crave. Yes, my primitive tongue likely had a role in being unable to discern the subtle notes of wherever this forsaken taste would make sense but simply put, it reminds me of a well-used barn floor. And I wonder what dish would be best served by the essence of a well-used barn floor.

Now, goat meat is a different tale that does not share in the irrational hate I harbor for goat cheese. And singing mountain goats playing a tune that make you sing the chorus with tears in your eyes?

Now that’s a goat thing I’m genuinely a fan of.

This Week’s Song:
This Year by The Mountain Goats (2005)

You can already sense the indie goat energy.

What do I like about it?

Each passing year always feels like the toughest when you’re in the dregs of it, conveniently turning into something that “doesn’t seem that bad” in hindsight once you pass it. It’s just how aging feels. You move from world 29-12 to world 30-1 like some Super Mario stage level up, each new level presenting a new set of challenges, adventures, and monsters likely unencountered before. There are days when you keep getting nicked and shrunk down by the monsters you encounter—deadlines, to-do lists, anxieties, lack of sleep, randomly generated life troubles—that it’s easy to feel trapped in whatever stage you’re on, unable to move forward. 

But then come the Mountain Goats, charging through the speakers armed with their jangly acoustic guitars, hand claps, and folksy coming-of-age lyrics filled with the resilience and bullheaded stubbornness of youth. 

“I am going to make it through this year, if it kills me.“

The chorus is the song’s star, with each repetition engaging you to the point of getting you to firmly believe with the utmost conviction that you will also make it through whatever it is you’re going through. 

There is a relatable, defiant youthful energy within the rest of the song that speaks to everyone regardless of age. The tale within the determined verses exudes the tenacity of knowing we’re likely going to get whooped and whipped on this path we’re on now, but we’ll still push forward anyway because, as we reiterate to ourselves at each chorus, we are going to make it through, if it kills us.

What mountain memories does it conjure?

Me and my friends’ high school dismissal routine consisted of us skedaddling from school at 5 PM, strolling to Session, gradually picking up speed to a near sprint as we dart up the stairs of the La Brea building, racing against each other to ensure ourselves a seat at the shop AKA the internet cafe where we all sunk in an incomprehensible number of life hours collectively.

We’d spend an hour or two refueling our dopamine with whatever game was in at the time before heading home, the sunset long past and the lines to our paradahans now kilometers-long with other commuters desperate to head home. 

Back then, I always tried to skirt the limits of how late I could go home without my father blowing a gasket on me. I found that 7 PM seemed like the limit, aided by my propensity to pretend I had other school work to finish after the final bell rang. This was a time I dared not cross—until one evening when a heated game my friends and I were on ran longer than anticipated and was so hotly contested that a rematch was required, lest we lose all shop-cred.

By the time we finished, it was 7:30 PM and I had only just begun to race to the Loakan paradahan, which for some reason that night, had a shortage of jeeps heading back to town. The line of weary commuters, which already stretched for miles on a regular day, seemed to go on into infinity that night. I felt myself age as I trudged toward the back of the line, wondering what I would succumb to first. Hunger? Old age? The anxiety of imagining how enraged my father would be?

It was 9 PM when I reached the front door. Even though I prepared a million excuses in my head, I had no chance of uttering one as my father, who had waited for me outside, gave me a tongue lashing for the ages, one that I still clearly remember to this day. He was not interested in my feeble attempts of weaseling my way out and looking back; he was right to be worried and furious at the numbskull before him.

He told me he expected me home by 6 PM the next day—which I did and continued to do for the next few weeks until the furrowed brows cleared and lightened. Sure, I may have missed out on a couple of big games after that night, gotten a severe telling-off, and spent the next few weeks with my tail between my legs at home, but to my adolescent brain, it was worth every second.

Because this punishment would soon pass.

And the rematch we stayed late for the begin with? We won.

Good times.

Who should you recommend it to?

This may be a nice track to recommend:

• To your friends going through the toughest Mario-stage levels of their lives.
• To your kabsats who need reassurance nga we’ll make it. Because we always will.

Which lyrics deserve a second read-through?