The Litter Box

I AM ONE of those persons who might be labeled a cynic. It's not as though I willingly want to be seen in this light by my contemporaries, because I am, in fact, one of those who wasted a good bit of their youth attempting to save the world. I have managed a group home, baby-sat an infirm and diarrheic golden retriever, crisscrossed eight stops in three states in under 19 hours in the name of Clinton-Gore, read to shut-ins, mowed the lawns of the elderly, collected cans to raise money for cancer, adopted a whale, and donated my car to a 16-year-old hood-in-training just to prove someone cared.

Of course, I was also the only one who was genuinely shocked when that old car of mine ended up wrapped around an oak tree after the local law enforcement officers, having grown weary of the high-speed chase, shot the tires out from under my juvenile-reclamation project, who had used it to hold up the local Honey Farms.

In short, I was once an idealist brimming with confidence that singular acts of good intention would effect change.

But the older I become, the more firmly I am convinced that there is no such thing as a fair and just world. Not that I'm suggesting I deserve some type of medal, but it would be nice to say that I have more to show for my years in the trenches of serving humanity than a scar on my ass (the retriever eventually went senile too) and the test results proving that I somehow managed to dodge contracting hepatitis C from that not-for-profit group home-petri dish where I once considered a career.

The fact of the matter is, not only is life not fair, but there is just too much to worry about, guaranteeing that what you thought was a sure thing will somehow get gummed up in the end. Adopt a whale? Then you can bet some dolphin will immediately tangle itself up in some net just to take the air out of the moment. Got your budget balanced and living a relatively prosperous life? Hold on a sec, here comes the GOP, and they have freedom on their minds. Yes, it seems God is a merry old trickster, and there appears to be nothing the guy enjoys more than keeping those with the future of mankind at heart in perpetual dread. At least that's how I've come to read the lay of the land.

So while to some I may be looked upon as a pessimist with a horrible outlook on a broad scope of subjects, I contend that my perceived attitude is simply that of a well-grounded realist. I have seen too many good, pure things squished into the ground and watched too many obviously evil trends grip the multitudes.

This is never truer than when it comes to music, and there has never been a better example of this than an outfit called the Cuts. For those not in the know, the Cuts are composed of four twentysomething longhairs whom a too indulgent public has allowed to infest the local scene for the past five or so years. To the best of my knowledge, there has never been, in terms of moral fiber, a good word uttered about this pack of reprobates by anyone.

Instead there have been a number of stories floating around town that link the quartet to a variety of offenses ranging from the questionable to the loathsome. I can't vouch for the validity of the rumors, but there is a saying around town, simply, "The Cuts did it." Frankly one need look no further than the cover art of their latest CD, 2 over Ten (Birdman), to understand the impression the Cuts have been leaving with concertgoing audiences. It's right there in their eyes – shifty, hard glares that suggest the group are currently studying to become gangsters or, at the very least, have seriously contemplated doing things like headstone tipping and wedgie giving. Never mind that one of them is actually holding a rifle. It wouldn't be out of the question to believe no good can come of these people.

But as it turns out, 2 over Ten is a nearly flawless affair. It's a delightfully bouncy, wide-ranging album that is as immensely melodic as it is wholly original. With the Cuts, words like "Television," "Verlaine," and "Nuggets" seem to get tossed around a lot, but it's impossible to pinpoint exactly where these guys are coming from. It's easy-listening pop with guts, '70s New York art rock meets late-'60s AM pop radio. It really doesn't make much sense in the age-old find-the-inspiration game, but then again it doesn't really need to, because there's a familiar if old voice whispering in my ear that it's fantastic and real and from the heart. The realist in me is insisting that I'm not trying hard enough, that there is no possible way that such dreadful human beings could ever be so beautiful without trying to cash in on some current major trend.

Yet there the Cuts stand, doing their own remarkable thing and making it hit like a ton of bricks. Which leads me to wonder: Could it be that all these lousy stories about the band were circulated out of petty jealousy? Is it possible that what I had assumed was the poor conduct of four no-goodniks bent on wreaking havoc on an unsuspecting world was, in fact, nothing more than the band's youthful enthusiasm? Are the Cuts, in reality, a bunch of misunderstood softies? Is that trickling sound the melting of my icy heart?

This much is certain: today the sun shines a little brighter, the birds sing a little sweeter, and the frozen yogurt tastes a little more pectin-y, all thanks to the Cuts. I don't know if that counts as optimism, but I like to think it's a step in the right direction. It's never too late to change how you're perceived.