My Top 10 Favorite Black Sabbath Songs

There’s nothing I can add that hasn’t been said about this monumentally influential band. If heavy metal was personified as the United States, statues of Ozzy Osbourne, Tony Iommi, Geezer Butler, and Bill Ward would greet newcomers to this dark land. If heavy metal were incarnated as a landscape in Middle Earth, the Gates of Mordor would be engraved with towering sculptures of Black Sabbath. In other words: they’re a Big Fucking Deal. Just how important are they? James Hetfield got choked up when he spoke at Black Sabbath’s induction to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame:

  

Sans the difficult upbringing, I can relate with Hetfield. If heavy metal and all its spawnings didn’t exist, I’m not sure I’d want to stick around. Maybe an old geezer version of me won’t agree, but that’s how my thirty-six-year-old self feels.

In honor of this band—and because I’m bored at work (No work and little play makes Juan bored, bored, bored)—here’s a list of my favorite ten Black Sabbath songs:

Memoir Outtake: Thanksgiving

I stared out to the Quarry Lakes as the BART train rolled into Fremont. The small lakes shimmered in the sunlight. A majestic heron stood on a grassy bank. Up above, a V of Canadian geese appeared to fly to the sun. John Coltrane’s “My Favorite Things” played from my iPod. I picked it because I felt happy and sappy, heading home for Thanksgiving. The song packed an emotional wallop. We had history. Three years before, I had traveled through much of South America by bus. I remember riding through the countryside from Uruguay into Argentina listening to “My Favorite Things.” I stared out the window as these beautiful trees that graced the highway swooshed by. When Coltrane soloed during the song’s outro, I began to cry to myself. The melody he plays during that final verse is excruciatingly beautiful; it sounds like a eulogy, a call of profound gratitude as though Coltrane were ascending into the sun’s light, turning back and expressing through his saxophone: it was a good ride. Listening to him play, staring at that Argentinean countryside, I simply cried because I felt so fortunate to have the opportunity to travel, to see foreign lands, to feel such beauty.

Goo Goo G'joob!: My Top 10 Favorite Beatles Songs

About a month ago, my good friend Chris and I were strolling through Central Park. Since we're good boys, we made a pilgrimage to Strawberry Fields. Once we paid our respects to one of the greatest hippies ever, I mused that it would be difficult to whittle down my favorite Beatles songs to a top 10 list. A few days later, at a bar in Brooklyn, I told my homie and fellow blogsmith, Justin “Ticket to Ride!” Goldman about this thought I had. Two pints deep, copping a fluffy buzz, Justin did not hesitate to ask the bartender for a pen. “Let's do this right now,” he said, or something like that, and off we went. Within a few minutes, this is what we produced:

Memoir Outtake: Baker Beach Bliss

photo by Juan Alvarado Valdivia, 2005

The city was scorching, afternoon temperatures reaching the upper seventies (which is considered hot in San Francisco any time of the year). Paola suggested a trip to Baker Beach. She was a sucker for the beach, which I always found endearing. I was still reeling from the horrendousness of her birthday three nights before. I gladly accepted her invitation. I was beyond grateful for it. In the four months we had been together, she had already been witness to three instances in which I drank myself to a state of oblivion. A significant part of me felt I didn’t deserve to have a tranquil afternoon at a beach with my forgiving girlfriend. 

Shit I Learned in New York City

me took this picture!

Last week I spent an exhilarating, bedazzling week in New York City reuniting with friends. It was my third trip to one of the world’s greatest cities. (I would argue that it’s the only great metropolis in the United States.) I learned a few things while I was there:

What’s a Suicide drag?

My good friend Chris and I hunkered down at a gay bar in the West Village called Pieces. (We’re still unsure how it got its name.) Around two or three in the morning the karaoke deejay and our emcee—a tall, muscular, irreverent drag queen—announced that they would hold a “suicide drag.” For the next fifteen minutes or so, the deejay played a relentless medley of high-energy dance songs while the limber drag queen proceeded to dance up and down the entire bar as though she was born in three-inch heels. It was quite a performance.

Observations & Thoughts After Visiting Maui

Ka'anapali Beach, Maui

My sweetheart and I just returned from our first visit to Hawaii. Here's some thoughts and observations I generated from our trip halfway across the mighty Pacific.

How to Know You're in Hawaii

In my travels, I've always been interested in identifying landmarks, physical features or manmade structures that can tip me off as to where I am if I were an alien life form cruising on by. Here's some examples:

Los Angeles – an eight-lane highway or the Hollywood sign

Amsterdam – picturesque canals or a plethora of bicycles

Rio de Janiero – Sugarloaf Mountain or Christ the Redeemer

Bangkok – tuk tuks or short non-pervy-looking men saying “You want boomboom?” as you walk by.

Anyway, you get the picture.

My 2015-2016 NFL season preview

Summer is fading out. A federal court ruled against Roger Goodell again. That means it’s time for you NFL fans to set aside, yet again, all the yucky moral apprehensions that come with being a devout fan—like rooting for a league with an inordinate amount of batterers, rapists, and jock asshole motherfuckers who are frequently in trouble with the law; a league managed by a commissioner who earns $44 million per year; a league managed by a bunch of self-serving cunts who have been trying their darndest to mask the full truth about chronic traumatic encephalopathy (CTE) since 2006—the degenerative brain disease that has ravaged the lives of former players such as Mike Webster and Junior Seau and Harvard MBA-educated hard-hitting safety, Dave Duerson, both of whom committed suicide by shooting themselves in the chest. (Dave Duerson’s suicide note read, and the caps and misspellings were in his writing: “MY MIND SLIPS. THOUGHTS GET CROSSED. CANNOT FIND MY WORDS. MAJOR GROWTH ON THE BACK OF SKULL ON LOWER LEFT SIDE. FEEL REALLY ALONE. THINKING OF OTHER NFL PLAYERS WITH BRAIN INJURIES. SOMETIMES, SIMPLE SPELLING BECOMES A CHORE, AND MY EYESITE GOES BLURY… . I THINK SOMETHING IS SERIOUSLY DAMAGED IN MY BRAIN, TOO.”) That’s right—it’s time for the NFL season to begin!