This song was quite literally the only reason I could wake up and crawl out of bed those icy December mornings. The only way I could force my legs to keep mechanically moving down the uncooperative street, trying to breathe in the stinging air. 

That beat. That chorus. The part that goes, “Make that money/watch it burn/sink in the river/the lessons I’ve learned.” (One of the catchiest bridges ever.)

How to recognize a great song: when, at 5 AM, half way to your destination, you're grinning like an idiot and practically dancing down the slick pavements. This is a great song. 

My perception is that OneRepublic is one of those bands that people relatively enjoy, but viscerally label as being “too pop” or “too top 40” to take seriously. It's not the kind of band you name-check at a party. There's this old episode of Gilmore Girls where the aforementioned Gilmore girl, at her friend's indie-rock band's gig, kindly makes conversation with her ex’s new girlfriend, who isn't really enjoying the music. "So what kind of music do you like?" 

“I don’t know,” says the sweet, dull, blonde girl, vaguely, "uh, Michelle Branch, Matchbox 20?“ 

“Geez,” mutters a James-Dean-wannabe character, and there follows a half-hearted attempt of the main character to pacify, though our intrepid heroine clearly agrees with the greasy-coiffed-leather-jacketed fellow.

The point of this tangent being: if that scene had been set in the present, I have this feeling that OneRepublic would have been one of the names slipped into that list.

But you know what? Ryan Tedder knows his way around some good music. 

He spins some incredible melodies and counter-melodies, soaring choruses, and frankly, I’ve never heard better use of dynamics by any other band.  The music is consistently epic, anthemic; it always sounds like it’s reaching upwards towards an ideal. It’s unusually positive for our post-modern culture, but it's just as thoughtful and well-crafted, if not more so. 

(More than, for instance, this eloquent line from Afraid by The Neighbourhood, whose actually poetic Sweater Weather I do like: “It hurts but I won’t fight you / You suck anyway / You make me wanna die.” Nice, guys.)  

And they are both charming and electric live. I had the pleasure of seeing them at their concert in Terminal 5, a really underrated venue, in which they were continuously delightful. The highlights: 

• - their cover of Take Me Out, 
• - the duet with surprise opener Sara Bareilles, 
• - the part where they charmingly passed a bottle of champagne to the crowd and said, "We kind of got in trouble for this at the last concert because there were people who were underaged - so pass this around and only drink it if you’re over 21,"
• - the shirtless gay guy in white pants who was sinuously dancing around in a 2-square-foot space with his hand in the air like it was a nineties' rave, and went around telling everyone that everything was fabulous
• - the cello. Any band with a string instrument is worth a listen.

So, leather-jacket-wearers of the world: I will gladly admit to listening to OneRepublic (you know what, I used to listen to Michelle Branch, too). And now, in the words of Elizabeth Bennet, despise me if you dare!

The intention of this post is not to preach or to convince you about a certain faith, just simply a reflection on an aspect of a personal belief.

There’s nothing like having a giant cross of ash on your forehead to make you really think about the way you act.

These days public displays of religions are rare, if not frowned upon or awkwardly ignored. It’s not good to be confrontational - and religion is as in-your-face as it can get. It’s accepted that faith should be internalized: you have the right to believe what you want, but it shouldn't be displayed in public. There are some exceptions to this: the hijab, for one, although also a subject of controversy, is still quite proudly worn in everyday life. But I would dare say, that especially among practicing Christians, outward signs of faith have dwindled. Gone are the days of the “Jesus is My Homeboy” t-shirts and purity rings (remember those?) These days, it’s a rare and subtle cross on a necklace, or nothing at all. I would dare say that more crosses are worn ironically than not.

The reasons for this may be multiple, but it probably boils down to this: people react more negatively and viscerally to Christianity than to any other religions, with some precedent; and Christians, faced with this culturally engrained picture of the hypocritical, self-righteous, and killjoy Bible-Thumper, are wary about reflecting any pixel of this image. It's not about verbal or sartorial expression of faith these days; it's about showing - showing that Christians can be loving, can be cool, can be relevant, and still be Christians. And there is definitely something to be said about acting out your faith, rather than just speaking it. After all, words only do and mean so much, and Christianity was always meant to be about action and relationships rather than weekly sermons and sterile dos-and-don'ts.

But maybe the danger these days is that we’re a little too timid. A little too - afraid, perhaps? Of confrontation. Of condemnation. Of being seen as downers. Of questions we can’t answers, rightful anger we can’t dissipate. Of not living up to the standard that is set by having a little cross hanging ‘round your neck - or living up too well to what society hates about those who call themselves followers of Christ.  (Recall Gandhi and his deeply condemning quote: “I like your Christ. I do not like your Christians. Your Christians are so unlike your Christ.”) Certainly all these things, especially while working in the field of OB/GYN, has kept me quiet about my faith. I hope what I do is enough; I know that I seriously fail even my internal standards. I don’t want anyone to know. Certainly, at 3 am at the end of a 24-hour call, when a patient is vicious and uncooperative, and the ER calls the fifth consult of the night; certainly, when office conversation turns to the latest controversial legal ruling or news article; when I’m out with my friends after a hard week, and just want to let loose, let go, and fit in, I’d much rather not be labelled a Christian - and more often than not, I don’t act like one. 

But maybe that’s why we should embrace displays of belief, no matter what your faith. I’m not talking about a ironic, punny t-shirt (please let’s not bring that back, ever), or confrontational displays of religion (peace, not discord, remember?). It’s not for the sake of others, necessarily, although nothing opens doors to a conversation about religion with kind strangers more than a black smudge on your forehead while you’re wandering in public on a random Wednesday. But really, it’s for ourselves. 

Just like a hijab is both a reminder of faith and the action that follows that faith - modesty - a display of faith reminds us to hold ourselves accountable to the beliefs to which we claim hold: even at 3 am on labor & delivery, even in that interminable line at the post office, even when it's inconvenient or inopportune. It’s also a daily reminder that we may never live up to the standards set by the man who died cross before us - and we were never meant to. That’s what grace is for. And out of gratitude for that grace, we're to try every day to live every moment in reflection of that great love - even if we fail and fall, over and over. We don’t have to be “holier than thou,” because we are definitely not; we don’t have to - shouldn’t - hide that we all struggle.

Conscious of that impression of an ashen cross on my forehead today, I certainly paid closer attention to the way I acted - my speech, the expression on my face (which, judging from the look of fellow pedestrians, is generally pretty grim), even the manner in which I moved down the street. It’s human nature to forget, so no matter what your beliefs, perhaps a daily, visible impression of the convictions seared in our hearts will remind us to express in beautiful and positive ways what we believe. If we all did, the world would likely be a better place.

Mirrors:  

Oh JT. The 20/20 Experience was generally something I didn’t need to experience again, with the exception of Mirrors. The melody is epic and catchy, the beat light and nicely self-contained.The mirror metaphor gets overworked to the point where no songwriter, present or future, can ever use it again, but the lyrics are clever enough to be entertaining:

“Aren’t you something to admire/‘cause your shine is something like a mirror/

…If you ever feel alone and/the glare makes me hard to find/
Just know that I'm always parallel on the other side.”  

Aw. (Those are the perfect forgot-our-anniversary-but-get-out-of-jail-free words, right there.)

It’s also the first time in a long time that JT isn’t singing exclusively in falsetto. That’s kind of exciting. 

And at 5:45, where the part of the video most worth watching begins, he gets to show off some Gene-Kelly-Channing-Tatum moves in a wonderfully and tightly designed set. Will anyone ever say no to watching a good-looking man dancing in a black trench and turtleneck?

The dancers in the video are a bit weird (they’re what I imagine Capitol citizens would look like in a slutty, ill-fitting-hosiery version of The Hunger Games). And, like most of his songs these days, it’s a bit long. JT dear, not everything you perform has to be the musical equivalent of Beowulf.

But the probable reason I actually like and remember this song is because it reminds me of this exchange, one epic August night when two of my far-off friends descended into Philadelphia to rock the town:

[“Mirrors” starts to play in the background]

AH: (looking up upon hearing the song) You know, it’s a commitment.

Me: Oh, yeah. I heard that it was for his wedding to Jessica Biel.  

AH: …no.  I meant that listening to this song is a commitment.

Truer words have never been said.

It’s been a week since the Winter Olympics (or what I call the Lesser Olympics) have ended, and I don’t know about you, but the Winter Olympics far surpassed any of my expectations. No terrorist attacks, and no one died.

(Those expectations? Kind of low to begin with.)

Despite the lack of prime-time coverage secondary to time-zone differences, and I don’t know anyone who watched any of the events live, the Sochi Olympics managed to be pretty entertaining:

• - the world finally took note of a sport (yes, sport!) known as curling, if only because of Team Norway’s fantastic pants (Team Fancypants?)
• - virulent conjunctivitis (a.k.a pink eye) got its own nail-biting storyline as people tuned in every day for the ‘Bob Costas Eye Watch,’ and then did what they do best on the interwebz.

Bob Costas /via

"Bob Costas tomorrow morning." /via

• - we were introduced to the saddest Olympian in the village, who apparently should walk around accompanied by “a guy playing a sad trombone.” (the Olympics' version of a tiny violin, I suppose)
• - another figure skating controversy - always fun, especially when you end up crashing someone’s server because of a request that will never come to fruition - about artistic versus technical scoring in an Olympic sport
• - these crazy costumes, and these, and this:

God bless America, truly. /via

• - this little girl, who will have a great future ahead of her, and by artistic AND technical merits is now one of my favorite skaters
• - this version of “Get Lucky”

Additionally, even in the midst of controversy, racism, and faulty doors, the Sochi Olympics still managed to introduced the world to the cultural influence of Russia.

Prior to Sochi, this was my idea of Russia: 

• Cold, icy cold. Lots of snow. 
• Palaces with funny looking, colorful bulbs for roofs rising from said snow.
• Lots of grey, identical concrete blocks used as housing. 
• Tall, bottle-blonde women sneering in fur. 
• Writers who produce thick bricks of books with equally dense themes and far too many characters with too-similar surnames. 
• KGB. 
• Vodka, lots of vodka.

[It follows, then, that when my friend and I were choosing between cheap tickets to Moscow or to Norway, I threw a wet blanket on the idea of going to Russia. I distinctly remember this image of us shivering outside in front of a palace in an otherwise dead Communist-block style street, with restaurants serving only vodka or tea, and humorless Cyrillic syllables bouncing harshly and uselessly around my Romantic-and-Germanic-language programmed head popping into my head. Funny enough, we ended up meeting a group of teenagers from Murmansk, Russia while trudging around the Arctic Circle; it was hilarious, and an entirely different story.]

It’s probably because I was raised on an almost Cold War-era diet of propaganda consisting of GoldenEye, Jason Bourne, KGB-by-the-way-of-Archer (what era is that set in anyway? - the “Era of Plot Convenience,” says the internet), and recently, the superb The Americans. 

Also, a lot of early childhood conversations were dominated by talk of Siberian gulags, which my dad prefers to the death penalty, and with which I was threatened from time to time for bad behavior. 

Also: Putin just looks, for all intents and purposes, like a fascist dictator.

Those eyes will follow you wherever you go /via

Russia, for me, in one picture, is this:

(That is actually Harbin, China, but so heavily influenced by Russia that it may as well be. Also, if you haven’t seen this episode of No Reservations with Anthony Bourdain, it’s a must. There is food. Awkward conversational pauses. A luging accident. Vodka, lots of vodka. The above dance, which goes on for a half-minute, and is narrated by Bourdain thusly: “Really two of my two favorite things, actually, together in one place: freezing to death, and karaoke. Really, just add genital torture to that, and we’ve got the perfect trifecta of ****.”)

But you know what? The closing ceremonies had me revising my mindset of Russia. 

For one, the Russians - they have a sense of humor!:

via

(And as far as we know, the poor soul who messed up that Olympic ring was not executed.)

And clearly, Russia has a rich history of art and music and culture, and an equally strong influence on global culture that we don’t often consciously acknowledge. I can’t think of any other country where artists - their ballerinas, their writers - are more honored by the general public, to the level of celebrity, than in Russia.

The Bolshoi / Darron Cummings/AP / via

In ballet - my alternate-universe profession! - Russia is undoubtably the gold standard to which all other ballet is held.

I initially had a giant paragraph nerding out about this - once a bunhead, always a bunhead - but let’s face it: most normal human beings don’t know or care. So suffice it to say that the legends, so well known that one only needs to hear their surnames - Balanchine, Baryshnikov, Nijinsky, Nureyev, Pavlova - they all hail from Russia. Some of the world’s greatest ballerinas today were trained in Mother Russia - for instance, my favorite one, Evgenia Obratzsova. (For a fantastic look at the world of Russian ballet, try the excellent documentary Ballerina - and then come find me so we can obsess together, please!).

Doug Mills / NYT / via

Even music for ballet is written by some of the greatest composers of all time. Tchaikovsky anyone? Stravinsky? As someone who labored away hours and years of my youth at the black-and-white keyboard, I don’t think that influence of Russia on music can be more strongly felt than in the piano. I could go on for paragraphs, and still only lightly touch upon how much pain and how much joy Russian composers have brought me: technically challenging, notoriously difficult, and occasionally, like their literature, incomprehensible (Prokofiev and your Sarcasms, I’m talking to you).

But when mastered, it’s otherworldly in depth of feeling and artistry; it’s powerful and complicated; it's an accomplishment. 

Josh Haner / NYT / via

And of course, Russian literature. Besides being:

• - good protection when caught in the line of fire (a paperback copy of War and Peace = Kevlar);
• - a movie trope signaling how intelligent and thoughtful a character is;
• - a good way to attract a theater girl at a liberal-arts college (when paired with thick-black rimmed glasses and a morose Prince-of-Denmark expression), 

Russian literature is also particularly good for challenging the mind. Forget Jeopardy and Luminosity and all that other brain food crap - just shovel your way through a hundred pages of characters who are prone to lengthy monologues of internal thought - and are all somehow royalty - and try to keep their names straight. Too easy? Okay, now try understanding what you just read.

And yet, despite the complexity of their literature, everyday Russians - from high to low - seem deeply influenced by it, by which I assume that they read and actually understand it. I guess I wouldn’t expect anything less than equal comprehension from serf to sire in a formerly Marxist society.

In fact, what really got me revising my view of Russia were these lines from the NYT Sochi closing ceremony recaps:

“Enormous pictures of Gogol, Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky and others rise and receive an unaccountably loud cheer. It’s a well-read audience, clearly.”

“Got to love a country that gives its greatest novelists the celebrity treatment. In the United States, you need a movie franchise to get that kind of applause and attention.”

Gotta love that country, indeed.

James Hill / NYT / via

Also, you gotta love a nation that thought it was a good idea to feature as their Olympic mascot a hydrocephalic, blinking, animatronic bear the Internet quickly nicknamed “Nightmare Bear.” Russian humor!

Some mascots just want to watch the world burn. James Hill/ NYT/ via

Oh Jurij, you will never live this down. On the other hand, this is perfect. source

So really, if we learned anything from the Russian-hosted Winter Olympics, it boils down to what someone said in conversation last weekend: “People keep saying that Snowden must be having a really hard time, but it’s not like he’s stuck in the middle of North Dakota. He’s in Russia.”

And really, to be stuck in the land of Tolstoy, the Mariinsky, Rachmaninoff, and high-quality vodka? 

It’s not a bad place to be.

[Ever wonder if there are aspects of medicine that TV shows, even fairly accurate ones like Scrubs, don't show on TV? Ever wonder why, despite advances in technology, some aspects of medicine still seem stuck in the 1950’s? Let’s discuss.]

As sarcastic as I can be about the field of medicine, surgery is truly something that I find enjoyable. 

One of the aspects I truly dislike, though, is DICTATING.

God, what can even say about dictation? In medicine, dictating is when you regurgitate into words everything that was done during a surgery, or during a patient's hospital stay, with excruciating detail (excruciating being the operative word). 

Dictating is that black menacing cloud whose specter ominously creeps across the otherwise sunny day known as a day in the operating room. 

Dictating is necessary, yes, especially when there are complications, but make no mistake, it is evil. 

It's not even so much the act of dictation, but the particularly incomprehensible way most hospitals still go about doing it. Even at the fairly 'fancy' hospital I work at these days (by which I mean working lights in every room), they still use an offensively inefficient and appallingly ancient system to transcribe and record operative notes.

First of all, the process involves a phone. 

If you're a youths, and you dare ask me what this is, I'll kill myself. I swear. source

A phone. As though time and technology had never evolved beyond Alexander Graham Bell to the development of computers, texting, Seamless, and near-total avoidance of real-time communication with other human beings, we must begin with a telephone.

Then, you dial the dictation number, where you will hear this cheery, static-ridden message:

“Welcome to the dictation system for the ____ Hospital.”

Then, you encounter an equally inaudible and particularly painful automated menu consisting of queries about:

• physician ID number
• dictation type
• hospital site
• patient medical record number
• the date of operation. 

An answer is required for every single question, or 

source

An especially fun situation: when your menu doesn't specify which options are associated with which telephone key, but instead, ask you to read its automated mind. Making an assumption that pressing #1 will lead you down the right path may seem logical, but isn't, as logic is not to be included in the process of medical dictation; for this reason, some menus don’t even include an option #1.

Even when you know what numbers you must type to cross the River Styx, typing the answers may pose another Herculean trial. Hospital phones like to test your dexterity and ability to adjust to challenges by either:

1) having sticky keys, or 

2) not registering properly unless you allow a good one-second pause between entering digits. 

Patient medical record numbers are particularly entertaining, usually consisting of a string of 10+ digits, any of which, if you type incorrectly, will require you to hang up and restart the whole process once again. This means listening to the chipper and dreaded menu from hell, again. And even after the numbers are entered correctly, you face another challenge: the pound key (for the youths: that's the one that looks like hashtag). For sometimes you have to press ‘#’; sometimes you don’t. 

Which adventure will you choose? 

They will sometimes mercifully tell you whether ‘#’ is required. 

But, sometimes, they will yell at you for pressing the pound sign. 

Sometimes, they will passively aggressively hang up on you. 

Sometimes, you will try not to slam your head repeatedly on the table and cry.

And then - AND THEN - you dictate! Which really means that you will parrot the exact same phrases again and again, because essentially, unless there are major complications, every case is performed in the exact same way. If you are an intern, and you have three hysteroscopy/D&Cs in a row, you will have to recite the same string of words and phrases three separate times, with increasingly angry and sloppy enunciation, for the sole reason that they must be recorded under three different medical record numbers. 

(My poor beleaguered interns, if I can give you any hope about subsequent years of residency, it is this: advancing to second year will be better simply because you have more complicated cases, and thus a decreased number of dictations to do.) 

At the end - OH GOD THE END - it’s of utmost importance that you jot down the “job number.”  Not only is it proof that you did the dictation, but when your dictation from your cellphone doesn’t go through because, for some reason, only obsolete technology is compatible with this ancient system of record keeping, (or when your landline phone keys stick and enter in the wrong medical record number, or the wrong operation date), someone can use this number to scan through reams and reams of transcribed notes and charts to find the paragraphs that you painstakingly regurgitated into the phone so that you won’t have to go through this whole damn process again.

Dictating gets really entertaining for the transcriber at 3 am after an stat cesarean section (or two or three). During night float and call, I have definitely, and more than once, lost my train of thought or starting mumbled nonsense in addled delirium while dictating. One time, I fell asleep while talking, woke back up after an unknown amount of time, and sheepishly finished the dictation; I still wonder if the transcriptionists actually listened the whole recording and managed to find my poor dictation peering out from behind a long, long silence.

The particularly frustrating part is that there is a solution, and this solution is extraordinarily easy: computers. The nationally-required electronic medical records system. AKA just typing the damn note into the system.

The advantages:

1) typing, for many people, is faster than talking - and it’s certainly easier to go back and correct mistakes or add to the dictation 

2) you can make a template for each case type, then copy/paste and alter as needed

3) you can be sure that while trying to decipher your mumbled and monotonous 500-wpm dictation, the medical transcriptionist didn’t accidentally write that a medication was given “trans broccoli” instead of transbuccally, or that Clearasil was placed at the surgical site instead of the usual Premarin.

4) when you fall asleep on the keyboard, you can always erase the rows of ggggggggghjklhjkyuiojhf without the risk of embarrassment or the wasting of your hard work.

5) in the case of discharge summary dictations, you can add to it gradually over time, rather than at discharge, which saves time and decreases inaccuracy due to impatience or lack of knowledge of the medical course of a patient who has been in hospital for 8 months, and has been passed between 10 different teams of physicians.

5) you can save money by not hiring medical transcriptionists, who probably can't hear what you're mumbling anyway.

Spread the word. Tell your local hospitals if they will listen: Computers - they EXIST! Let's use them.

Next time in Medicine from Yesterday, Today!: pagers. I mean, really,

I'm finally getting around to my memories of 2013! I was starting to forget...

There's so often a song playing in the canopy of my mind that I might as well have an internal soundtrack to my life. I've come to realize that I consist of 80% music, not water; from day to day, many of my life's moments and emotions are defined by and saturated in rhythm, voices, and melodies. As follows, much of 2013 was reflected in the music I heard and loved. Here's one:

Wicked Game - James Vincent McMorrow

About 45% of the new music I “discover” is from watching TV, usually bad TV. This is no exception. But if there’s good-bad TV, So You Think You Can Dance would be it, and since in my alternate universe life (where polar vortexes don't exist and I always make wise and perfect decisions), I would have become a ballerina instead of a doctor, I not-so-secretly love this show, and I very secretly try to learn the choreography. 

But how could you not? Watch the video above, listen to that beautiful song and watch this exquisite interpretation. 

If your heart doesn't ache a little after watching that, you don't have one. (Doctor says.)

I downloaded this song the next day and listened to it for about 8 hours straight. I kid you not. (I am one of those people who greedily latch on to melodies and suck each nuanced pause and instrumental riff dry until it's memorized in my own veins; a musical vampire.) 

What's more: one day later, while looking for other versions of this song, I realized this song was itself a cover of an 80s song. I still loved it - and given my disdain for the eighties, that means something.

This lovely cover was a gateway drug to the rest of JVM’s beautiful music: lush, lavish, and quiet melodies laced with that touching, broken voice. Undeniably rooted folk, but with some intriguingly r&b touches: addictive, evocative, and extraordinarily harmonic. 

And he has a wonderful new album out: check it out. (spotify/amazon)

Listomania Edition #1 : 8 of the Most Amazing Bass Lines That Make Their Songs Great

Basses are underrated. Not as showy as the electric, not as often as showcased as the acoustic, basses are there to blend into the background. Just think of all the bassists you've seen in concerts: they’re off on stage left, anchored to their amp, all long fringed bangs and melancholy, dreamily staring off into the distance or the ground or the back of the stage while utterly engrossed in the music.

But basses add much needed depth, and often interesting counter-melody, to the mix, and when you discover those deep glimpses of bass between the screaming riffs of the guitar and the clamor of the drums - wow.  It hits you - pow - right in the heart. (And quite literally, if you’re near the speakers).

Also, importantly: bassist are the most attractive member of any band in general.

So here, in no particular order except for memory, is my list of some of the greatest baselines in music history (meaning, the music that I’ve heard and know - I mean no offense to people who find gaping holes in this list where the classic, not-to-be-missed should be.)

1. Seven Nation Army - The White Stripes

Famously not actually a bass, but a guitar made to sound like a bass, this song is still driven by one of the most memorable bass riffs to date. Apparently it’s been given new life as a football theme (Italy World Cup 2006, Euro Cup, Bayern Munich); a Manchester United chant for our growing MVP, RvP (Robin van Persie); and apparently figured prominently during the Arab Spring prodemocracy rallies in Egypt, so rank this as potentially my favorite song, ever. 

2.  I Will Possess Your Heart - Death Cab for Cutie

This song is just gorgeous, and in fulfilling all definitions of beauty, starts with a hauntingly yearning bass line, and then continues into a five minute long, thoroughly engaging instrumental riff in a frozen, icy, snow-carpeted boxcar BEFORE anyone even starts singing. This was JT-style epic before JT even born (well, before his solo act was born). Also, THAT VIDEO.

(That girl, with her draped scarves, headphones, and graceful manner, and her apparent career consisting of traveling and looking tragic and lovely and contemplative in exquisite locations around the world - this is who I want to be when I grow up.)

The words - well, if you listen hard, they sound rather creepy. So just ignore the slightly sinister meaning behind the words, sit back, watch the pretty girl close her eyes on the gorgeous bridges of Paris, and bask in the crooning voice of Ben Gibbard and the driving, thrumming bass.

3.  Are You Gonna Be My Girl - Jet

Dun-dun-dun-dun-da-dun-dun. Go! 

This song - which, even with its aspirations to rock, is nonetheless pure pop, which is not an insult in this case - is probably best known for that extremely catchy 4-beat bass riff paired in delightful combination with drums. It may not be a deep meaningful song, but it is fun, and it does get off your seat and onto the dance floor, and that's all we should really ask of a song. Good times.  

4.  Otherside - Red Hot Chili Peppers

Or, basically, every single Red Hot Chili Pepper song - which, no doubt, has to do with the extraordinary abilities of their bassist, Flea. But, this was also one of the first things I learned to play when I first picked up a guitar (of all things) during the crazy sweltering summer of 2003 as a wide-eyed freshman at Penn State, so this is the one that will stick with me forever.

(I have never watched that video before, and may I say, that is a really, really late 90s-early 00s video.)

5.  Another One Bites the Dust - Queen

An old school-funky bass line, almost immediately recognizable to everyone. People are going to start throwing eggs at me through their computer screens for suggesting this, but you should also check out this fun, blasphemous version, courtesy of Glee (I know, I know) and the incomparable Jonathan Groff (aka Kristoff in Frozen).  And yes, that is how I learned about this song (and about The Zombies, and The Doors. Please don't martyr me.)

6.  Pumped-Up Kicks - Foster the People

This song is basically just all bass line and vocal radio-compression, and I love it. It is addictive, it’s deliciously lo-fi, and I can't ever hear this song without thinking of salt-sea breezes on a Californian beach, hanging out of an old-school open air Jeep, watching the layered orange glow of the sunset. The lyrics are also incredibly creepy, but I will never tire of singing along and being blissfully ignorant of the meaning.

7.  Jenny Was A Friend of Mine - The Killers

This is first-chair bass, virtuoso bass, the Mozart of basses, if there ever was such a thing. This is the bass in the lead, creative and freed. I mean, the Killers live - a-mazing in general. But their bassist, Mark Stoermer, is definitely one of the most amazing bassists around these days - and an incredible song writer as well.

(I must admit though, having seen them live twice, this may be one of the cases where the lead singer is the most attractive member of the band. Brandon Flowers is the Tom Brady of lead singers - except not a pregnant-girlfriend dumping donkey.)

Any other suggestions? (and anyone want to teach me how to play the bass?)