Our science experiment goes awry. We blame roasted beans

Today was to be the day where I went 24 hours without music. I'd forgotten, of course, until my roommate reminded me while I was snatching my iPod from the kitchen counter. "Isn't today the day you can't listen to music?" she asked. "GRrbjadbljskj" I mumbled, still forty minutes from my first cup of coffee.

It started well enough: I was on one of those buses that resembles an Indian subway more than a San Franciscan commuter bus (sadly though: no monkeys) and I couldn't hear any Eminem overflowing out the earphones of some pre-pubescent quasi-hard-ass. Sure I was stepping on some large gentleman's foot while enduring the surprisingly pointy elbow of a rotund grandma, but the bus was to be one of the great no-music-for-a-day challenges. I can regulate the atmosphere of my house and my office is a soulless wasteland, so all I had to do was travel between those two places in relative silence and success would be mine. Or, so I thought.

Our rolling sardine mobile stopped on 3rd street and I walked down the alley that takes me toward my office, trying to enjoy the early morning chill and vague aroma of urine. "Coffee," said my brain. "Yes, brain," said my mouth. "We're almost there." And, unthinkingly, I walked into the cafe where I usually start my morning and---John Mellencamp. Of all people. And it wasn't even Jack & Diane. No, it was one of those other "Look, I'm really a lot like Springsteen" "songs" that our Mr. Mellencamp foists upon the unsuspecting radio universe. That is, when he's not scoring flabbergastingly offensive Chevy commercials. Badness abounded.

So, attempt number one lasted about an hour until unbridled Mellencamp flavored failure but I learned a lesson I thought I'd realized, namely: you can't go shopping and avoid music. Attempt two will involve a sack lunch and the soil-flavored work-coffee.

The nice part was I forsaw the probable lack of success and brought my iPod anyhow. Either that or I was too groggy to fully comprehend what my roomie was saying. Serendipitous nonetheless. I say this because, when you get denied by Corporate Springsteen, it's best to wash the taste out of your earholes as fast as humanly possible. I put on that "Pillar of Salt" song by The Thermals (this week's front runner for "Best Song in the Universe"---sorry Beethoven's Ninth) and everything was alright all over again.

A detailed chronicle of the first half of our science experiment: dinosaur related asides and scatalogical humor provided free of charge

Disclaimer: Birdmonster would like to apologize in advance for the loopy rambling, misguided whatnot-ery, and slew of shameful "humor" that will ensue at the end of this introductory warning. Birdmonster is still drunk. Drunk enough to refer to itself in the third person, which is quite a feat, considering it's actually four people. Birdmonster needs to remember Mondays are for sleeping, cribbage double-headers, and home cooked crock-pot dinners. Gin is a poor substitute for all three. Next Monday: naps, cards, and stew. This Tuesday: ache-y noggins. Onwards:

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When I started this whole "listen to music for 24 hours straight, then go 24 hours without it" thing, there were a few things I didn't properly account for. Firstly, I overlooked the fact that I never came up with a catchy name, which, as any scientist knows, is half the battle. When I discover a dinosaur, for example, I'm not going to name it anything that ends in "saurus." Instead: "Lord Awesome the Kick-Ass." What ten year old wouldn't love that? Secondly, I thought that music all day would be easy, enriching, and downright enjoyable. Like so many good hypothesis...es...es...hypothesees....es.....guesses, that was wrong, wrong, wrong. Allow me to explain.

It started easily enough. Alarm clock muzak jazz, relaxing bus ride with Ryan Adams and Primus (not exactly kindred spirits, I'm aware), croissant with Cinematic Orchestra. I was enjoying myself. I got to select my own private soundtrack for every piddling detail of an otherwise drab Monday. Suddenly, my bus ride seemed more poignant, my croissant more epic. I was a living, horrible art house movie where nothing happens.

Then, the little snags began. See, if you're really going for music all day, you need accompaniment while eating, while sleeping, while talking on the phone, while, say, squatting over the toilet at the office. (Which in itself brings up countless quandaries. What, exactly, is good pooping music? Are people going to be slightly perturbed when you walk into the bathroom, rocking out, with headphones in? At what point will this actually get you fired?) By eleven o'clock, the experiment was starting to be a bit of a hassle. I was talking to my boss with one earphone in, trying to explain, no, "I'm not horribly rude, I'm just trying to... oh I love this drum part" when I realized that yesterday wasn't going to be easy. I hadn't fully realized I spend about two or three hours of my work day haggling with people on the phone. This becomes much more difficult when Tina Turner is offering to be your Private Dancer.

I really noticed how burdensome the whole thing was on my bus ride home. Usually, the whole "music while struggling through the crossword I stole from the coffee shop" thing is really pleasant. The bus is empty and I'm trying to figure out who the only palindromic band with a palindromic hit single is (ABBA, by the way) and I'm on my way to the couch and a cozy book. But by 5 yesterday, I was starting to feel stressed out. My thought process was breaking down. It wasn't stupidity, per se, but complete distraction. At home I watched Jeopardy with my girlfriend (while listening to Cake but eating spaghetti) and struggled endlessly. I actually knew the final answer and had to spend twenty second pacing in circles like a skittish Labrador before actually remembering Edward R. Murrow's name, followed, of course, by berating the people on the television who got it wrong to the tune of "This Long Line of Cars."

Then, us Birdmonsters got to judge a local band contest at night. This was good because live music is far superior to recordings, and, quite frankly, I needed a drink. The problem was, I didn't need several. Half-drunk, I almost blew the whole thing when I went outside without my iPod and spent the next ten minutes humming to myself while pretending to talk to some guy who may or may not have been on serious uppers.

But I learned plenty. I learned that music all day, if you're diligent about it, isn't all that hard. It's just annoying. I learned you can overdose on your favorite thing in the whole world if you really put your mind to it. I learned there's a reason everyone loves the Beatles. (News flash: they're really good).

On Thursday, we try to go 24 hours without music. I'd try to do it today, but band practice would be fairly difficult. Until tomorrow.

One day with, one day without; or, can I survive 24 hours without "Muskrat Love"?

I was having this discussion with---hmmm...can't remember---but I was probably talking too much with someone who wanted me to just please shut up and we started to discuss how we view music now versus folks in other eras. For example, you couldn't really listen to music of your choice at home until the late 1890s (when wax cylinders were first released) and you couldn't take any recorded music with you anywhere until 1959, when transitorized radios finally made it to the market*. See, I was born when Walkmen when the height of kick-ass technology (I had one of those gaudy yellow ones which, after it ate my Boyz II Men tape, I never trusted again) and, therefore, I've never lived without the option of constant music. So, mysteryhuman and I contrasted that with the reality of, say, three hundred years ago, when the only music you heard was from smelly troubadours, drunk neighbors, and soon-to-be-castrated choir-boys. It was all live and you really didn't have any choice about what you heard. Hopefully: lots of "Greensleeves."

So I thought I should do an experiment.

Now, you know I'm fond of pretending I'm doing things or have done them when we all know I haven't and won't (like the O.J. book or, yesterday, when I claimed I sold my soul to the devil but, in all honestly, sold it instead to a lesser imp), but this one is actually going to happen. Seriously. Now, here's the plan: tomorrow, I'm going to listen to music for 24 hours straight. I'll put on something soothing as soon as I wake up (I'm thinking Anthrax's "Attack of the Killer B's" or "Return of the Killer A's" (and yes those are real)) and spend the rest of the day at least half-immersed in something musical. And here's the thing: it's going to be really, really easy to pull that off. The second part is far trickier.

I'm going to try and spend Friday without any music whatsoever. If that doesn't work, Saturday. If not then, Sunday. If not then...well, I'm already thinking that it's going to be borderline impossible. How do you avoid music anymore? I mean, you can't watch TV: every show has theme music, scene changing music, shmaltzy resolution music; you can't really walk down the street without being bombarded by trunk-rattling E-40 or "please roll your window up"ing smooth jazz. You can't live in an urban area with roommates and regulate the entire block's auditory output. I'm seeing this going on for weeks already. Music is completely ubiquitous now, it's just not the center of attention as it used to be at church or in the town square. Now it's an irritating jingle of nonsense noises in McDonald's commercials or some younger, talentless sister of an older, talentless floozie waking you up on your alarm clock. If I'm going to actually live for 24 hours without music, I'll have to pull a Ted Kazinski. Most likely: less letter-bombs. No promises though. You should totally check out my manifesto.

Anyway: I'll let you know how that goes. My guess? Frustratingly improbable. Now, I need to eat this cinnamon roll. Gooey is an essential food group, you know.

* Fun factoid: Looking on Wikipedia, we must note that transitor radios cost about $49 when they came out, which is equivalent to around 300 and something dollars, which is what iPods cost, which I think is kind of interesting. You don't, huh? Well, good thing this is the end of today's ramble.