“Alice in Wonderland” has been recycled so many times in so many mediums that every living American probably has some childhood association with the story. Here’s mine: The 1985 music video for “Don’t Come Around Here No More” by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers. Here’s Tom Petty at his coolest:

If you’ve ever taken a writing class, you’ve probably been taught “show, don’t tell.” We’re supposed to communicate with revealing details instead of broad statements. Strunk and White tell us, “Prefer the specific to the general, the definite to the vague, the concrete to the abstract.”

But does being specific always serve us well? Is it possible to omit detail to reach some deeper truth—say, in a song or a poem (or an image caption)? I thought about this recently after listening to two songs, one with very strong lyrics and one very weak lyrics. The stronger song tells, the weaker song shows. Do we have this rule backwards? See what I mean…

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I thought about posting a list of my top 10 songs of the decade, but I only feel like writing about one.

This particular song is the antidote to cynicism. It kicks gravel in the face of everyone who would cast scorn upon somebody else for trying too hard.

Twelve weeks at number 1 on the Billboard Hot 100 chart. Winner of two Grammys and an Oscar. The most successful rap song of all time. A song that never wears out. (How many other songs from 2002 have 36 million plays on YouTube?)

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Lonely Planet guides often begin with the author’s “top day” in a particular location. My brother was visiting this weekend, and I think on Saturday we achieved my personal top day in New York City.

Here’s what we did. I’m going to include Friday and Sunday, just for good measure.

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August 12, Rio de Janeiro, on a vacation I felt I had earned.

A banged-up Volkswagen sedan picked me up at the hostel. As I climbed in the back, the driver apologized in part-English, part-Portuguese for the busted rear window, which was stuck open. We turned onto the road that parallels the beach. The air that blew through the car was warm and smelled like the sea.

We followed the coast and passed through tunnels cut into seaside cliffs. I was on my way to go hang gliding for the first time. This is a touristy thing to do, but the gliding conditions were good, and I felt excited.

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This store cracks me up every time I walk past it:

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I’m at the Pizza Hut! I’m at the Taco Bell! I’m at the combination Pizza Hut and Taco Bell!

I can’t explain why that stoner refrain is so darn catchy, but it cannot be denied. Give a listen to the Das Racist song “Combination Pizza Hut and Taco Bell (Wallpaper Remix).” You can play it here (MP3) or here (Pitchfork) or here (YouTube).

I don’t know if this song will be a hit, but it begs the question: Is there really a combination Pizza Hut and Taco Bell on Jamaica Avenue in Queens? Yes. There is. It’s now been immortalized in song. Here it is on Google Street View: (more…)

Two items for the no-right-to-be-good file:

• Brad Paisley. I’m not supposed to like country music. I’m not the target demo. In fact, I’m programmed to hate it. Pre-fab corporate schmaltz wrapped in the American flag hits all my cynicism buttons. But for some reason, I enjoy putting a country channel on when I’m cooking or driving, and lately I’ve grown fond of Brad Paisley songs. The other day I nearly teared up when “Letter to Me” came on. Now at this point in the blog, I should get analytical, right? I should be doing research on whatever Nashville machine manufactured it, or parsing what my fondness for this music says about me. But I’m not. I’m just going to say I enjoy it, because it’s good.
• South Street Seaport. Yes, the shopping mall in Lower Manhattan. The one where dozens of coach buses unload hundreds of tourists every day. The one with a Pizzaria Uno and a kiosk where you can have your name etched on a grain of rice. In other words, the most un-New York place in New York, if not the worst place in the whole universe. However, the Seaport happens to be built on a pier over the East River. And in a stroke of genius, there’s a deck on the far side of the complex with what might be the best view in the whole city (easily in the top five). Few things are as relaxing on a summer evening as buying a Coke in the Seaport food court, claiming a chaise lounge on the deck, and gazing out at Brooklyn while boats go by.

I’m not sure what to make of the explosion of ukulele artists and homemade folk music acts on YouTube, but there’s definitely something real going on. Is it really so great that everyone can be a novelty music act? Are we going to be a nation of Weird Als? Doesn’t somebody actually have to create original stuff before the bored kids of the world can chew it over, mash it up, and record the parody kazoo version?

Eh. Whatever it is, let’s welcome it. If Glenn Beck gets his own show on national TV, then the guy with the kazookeylele deserves to be heard, too. Thank you, Internet, for giving homemade trash culture as loud a megaphone as mass-produced trash culture!

A lot of things don’t make any sense. One of them is the persistence of the 1977 Jimmy Buffett song “Margaritaville.” The lyrics tell the following tale:

I may look relaxed as I play guitar on my porch, but don’t let my appearance fool you. I have been drunk for three months. I have lost the few simple things I had. I got so wasted that I got a tattoo of a Mexican woman and I don’t remember why. My sandals disintegrated and my foot is bleeding. The only thing I have to live for is the alcohol. And the sorriest part of my story? This sad descent into depression isn’t due to bad luck. Nor is it because a woman broke my heart. It’s a consequence of my own poor choices. And I have to live with that.

Yet people don’t think of “Margaritaville” as a lonely ballad of personal anguish. It’s the party anthem for every trip to the beach! It’s so popular at concerts that it has its own sing-along chant. And it’s a multi-million-dollar marketing concept, complete with a chain of theme restaurants. It’s surely one of the most lucrative recordings in pop music, in the same league as “White Christmas” and “I’m Proud To Be An American.” And even now, that easy tune is probably stuck in your head, and putting you in a good mood.

Seriously, does anything in life make sense?