Eleven. Twenty-Two. Thirty-Three. Etcetera.

In late March 2008 I found myself totally wrapped up in two albums: Flogging Molly's "Drunken Lullabies" and the self-titled project from Ben Kweller. In late February 2009 I had a solid hankerin' for both once again so I burned them onto a disc and labeled it "Flogging Ben Kweller". Last week I got that very same taste in my ears while I was on my way out to a good buddy's house in West Duluth. As I sifted through my disc collection looking for "Flogging Ben Kweller" I was so tied up in the anticipation of the enrapturement that I'd enjoy when I finally popped that puppy into my CD player that I sideswiped a snowbank in my trusty old Lumina. Poor beauty.

Don't worry, she was fine. I'm not interested in talking about my car right now, or Ben Kweller, or inebriated Irishmen. This is simply the most recent manifestation of a personal phenomenon I began noticing a few years back:

My specific taste in music, literature, and movies runs in an 11 month cycle.

I first noticed that my tastes were constantly jogging on this not-quite-annual treadmill during my sophomore year at UMD, and let me tell you, whatever this thing is, it's a juggernaut. I can't stop it, I can't even curb it, I can't guess as to its source, and, honestly, I have no desire to deny it the control it so readily snatches from me whenever it rolls around. At this moment I would love to watch the Planet Earth documentaries because that's what I was doing two years ago during Mustache March. When I go home I'll probably grab up and devour my copy of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance because that's what I was reading last February when I wasn't watching Planet Earth. Next January I'll probably be listening to my most recent love, "The Seldom Seen Kid" by Elbow as I drive home to read a chapter or two from ZAMM and fall asleep to the voice of David Attenborough narrating the dance of the ellusive Bird of Paradise.

Whatever this dictator of taste inside of me is made of or birthed from, I have a love/hate relationship with it. I love knowing exactly what will tickle my listening fancy the most at this very moment. I love knowing which book is going to most firmly hold my tired attention tonight when I get home from work. I could set my watch by my media appetites, and that's fine by me. But the problems surface when a roommate wants to watch Shawshank Redemption in June, or when my iTunes library is playing on shuffle.

"I'm sorry, Spoon, it's nothing personal. 'Gimme Fiction' was great and all, but... well, look, your timing isn't great. It's not you, it's me, I swear. I'll see you in July. I just ...I'm sorry." *Next >>*