"Danny Boy" or "Mmm, Bop?": The Quest For the World's Greatest Song

First of all, let me give you a piece of advice: never ask someone what the greatest song of all time is.
Is it because they will be wrong? No. Of course they will be wrong. This is a given. A panel of experts, made up of myself and my brother, has proven long ago that the greatest song ever written is "Louie, Louie," by the Kingsmen, closely followed by Judy Garland's performance of "Somewhere Over the Rainbow," Gruber and Mohr's "Silent Night," and "The Theme to the Cosby Show."
The reason you should never ask someone what the greatest song of all time is this: sometimes, you will not be able to tell if they are joking.
Now, we in the column business are hesitant to write about music, because music makes up a quarter of the Wheel O' the Offended (the other three quarters are religion, politics, and the Twilight series). None of these four topics can be addressed without torrents of spittle-dripping, venomous, quotation mark-laden e-mails being e-thrust into our e-faces. They always seem to sound like this:
"Hey, Dung-for-Brains! I can't believe you think bands like Journey and Boston and Kansas and Styx and Rush and Foreigner are "all the same band!" So what if they all sound "exactly alike." So what if the "tightness of their leather pants cuts off the circulation to the musically creative parts of their brains." If I ever find out who you are, I'm going to shave obscenities in your hair while you're sleeping! And you're a bad writer! And ugly!"
Recently, I conducted a very scientific and accurate poll of my closest friends and family (via text message) to find out what they thought was the greatest song of all time. Some people shrugged the request, citing the "too many musical genres." Wimps. Most people, however, tightened their belts and gave their answers.
Expectedly, repeat responses were given. "Danny Boy," "Greensleeves," "O, Holy Night," "The Hallelujah Chorus," and "Stairway to Heaven" were some of the pre-1900's classics listed. The Beatles made the list at least eight times, with "Hey Jude," "Eleanor Rigby," "Blackbird," "That One Awful Song They Let Ringo Write," "Stairway to Heaven," and "The Theme to the Cosby Show." Michael Jackson showed up more than a few times, as did both Billy Joel and Elton John. Even Journey made the list a few times with "Don't Stop Believin'," "Tom Sawyer," "Come Sail Away," and "Stairway to Heaven." All these responses are valid ones, though technically wrong (ref. paragraph 1).
A few respectable token songs also made the list. Songs like Sting's "Fields of Gold," Eric Clapton's "Change the World," and James Taylor's "Gone to Carolina" meant something to somebody, and though they may not be academically superior to other works (ref. "Louie, Louie"), they are good simply for the fact that you can't hear them without humming them. I'm pretty sure no one has ever said, "Oh, no! Not James Taylor! He's awful! Quick, change it to Flock of Seagulls!"
I begrudgingly accepted multiple country music songs as answers, though I died a little. "Then," by Brad Paisley," "Amazed," by Lonestar, "Something Sappy and Catchy," by Rascal Flatts, the Dixie Chicks' "Stairway to Heaven," and "Patriotic Nostalgia in My Home Kitchen," by Dwayne "Ford Endorsement" McMustache, all made the list.
What makes this poll a problem are answers (all real) like "Mmm, Bop," "Love Shack," "Blue (da-ba-dee, da-ba-die)," and anything by Neil Diamond. Was someone out there simply being impish, thinking that an outlier like "I'm a Barbie Girl" would burn a hole through the bottom of the graph and ruin the poll? Or were they really sitting, dripping perspiration, making pro and con lists, debating whether Rod Stewart's "Sometimes, When We Touch" or Madonna's "Like a Virgin" was historically more significant?
At any rate, it's hard to define what makes good music good music. The main thing to remember is, though some music may be technically better than other music, that technically does not make it better than other music which is technically worse, though it is better, technically. And what may have meaning (though sometimes inexplicably) to someone else may sound to me like "Mmm, Bop."

The Candy Man

An older man
Comes in and fills the office candy machine.
I see him now and then,
He walks awkwardly with the weight.

I wonder what his family's like,
And if he really likes those sweets.
How did he get that job?
Did he retire but it's not enough?

Usually his pants hang a bit low
I don't really know him, and so
We pass each other in the hallway
Without saying a word - me on my side, and he on his.

The River, a Moose, and my Grandpa

The following is a paper I wrote for a class last semester - it's an attempt at creative non-fiction using water as a symbol. I was supposed to keep it to 600 words, which is difficult but makes you force your writing to be better.

Filtering water shouldn't be this hard, I grumbled to myself.

My forearms throbbed, but I ignored the pain and continued to pump. Stopping mean there wouldn't be any clean water to drink that day, and there was no way I was drinking straight from the river. The bottom of the six inch side-pool that my pump drew from wasn't even visible.

I had wondered from time to time how the Green River got its name, and now it seemed obvious. Here, near the headwaters of the Green in Wyoming's Wind River Mountains, glacial silt gives the river its namesake color. No manufactured pigment can compare. Fish are rare, and the water is nearly opaque. The silt completely clogged my filter after one day, but the water I drank was clean.

The next day we searched for a clearer source. Through wide glacial valleys, the Green begins its journey toward the ocean. These valleys are nature’s half-pipe. The only lake within 10 miles was up and over the nearly impassable side, under the gaze of Square Top Mountain. This granite behemoth is visible for miles in all directions, a watchful protector of a precious resource. Upon arrival, we rested and caught so many fish that I grew tired of it. Nobody else crossed our path that day.

Downstream lies Flaming Gorge reservoir, which is a second home for me. It is a place where my cares dissipate and I enjoy both nature and my family. Memories here are as abundant as calories in a French fry. Even today, I remember where I built a stick fort as a child. I remember where my uncle saw the mountain lion. One year, beyond Skull Creek campground, my father and I stopped to rest and observe a herd of elk grazing on a distant mountain. Grass crunched as something approached us from behind. Casually turning to see what it was, a large, dark biomass with antlers the size of Maryland stared back. The moose ignored our existence as he walked briskly between us. We trembled and continued munching on our trail mix. Maybe he was scared, too.

My late grandpa comes to mind whenever I’m here. I remember card games and campfires. “Keep the fire in the fire!” he would scold whenever I torched various sticks which I had found exploring earlier that day. Once, we took a German exchange student boating through the scarlet cliffs of Red Canyon. His eyes were wider than chicken eggs. I guess stupendous cliffs are rare in Niedersachsen.

As it continues downstream, the Green descends a desert staircase. Winding through sandstone canyons, it continually hones the formations that make southern Utah famous.

Recently, as two of my fellow desert rats and I approached Moab, we turned go up the highway that runs parallel to the Green, toward Castle Valley. On the right side of the road, there is a pipe that comes straight out of the cliff. It’s tradition to fill Camelbaks here. The water was clean and delicious. This time, we were all disappointed to see that the pipe is dry. Perhaps pollution forced the government to turn it off. I heard there was a uranium mine nearby. Maybe no one actually got sick, and some bureaucrat just didn't want to risk liability. Whatever the cause, my trips won't be the same.

Like the glacial valleys and sandstone it cuts through, the Green River has helped shape me. It supports life everywhere it goes. It provides places of solitude, adventure, and refuge. The river is constantly changing the world around it, and man is constantly changing the river for himself.

That moose is gone. My grandpa is gone. The river remains.

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A late night trip to Denny's,
Hot chocolate and chicken noodle soup.
Discussing Rembrandt and Disney movies,
I fostered my foolish hopes.