I've always maintained that I do not like the theatrical Les Miserables. The book is fantastic, a monstrously bonkers lifetime work of genius, and Victor Hugo wrote like 15 monstrously bonkers lifetime works of genius. You're a daunting man, VH. My inner life pales to yours.
So anyway, "I don't like Les Mis. Sors."
I've watched the trailer for the movie about 57 times. Around that. And on Sunday The Mom asked if I wanted to shotgun seats with her at the traveling production of it playing this week at the Cadillac, and I was all, sure I got nothing better to do on Tuesday.
Do you know why I don't like Les Mis? It's not because it's terrible. It's because it's fucking brilliant. I just ran the emotional fucking gauntlet for a solid three fucking hours. I am angry. I am sad. I love everyone. I hate everyone. I miss people I've lost, I'm thankful for those I have...
I cannot afford to lose all those tears, I have a goddamn cold right now. Tears are for hydrating and healing my insides. Do you understand how much water I have to drink to make up for this?
Dicks. All of you are dicks. How is it that someone so incredibly wretched in the novel comes across so beautifully on stage? Eponine is a shitbitch. Shit. Bitch. I blame "On My Own." Oh, how I hate you, "On My Own."
AND. Fuck France. This never occurred to me until recently, and by recently I mean as I started typing this sentence: I seriously love some mainstream 19th C French Lit (Who am I. Is that a real thing that I just wrote. These are not questions, they are factual statements regarding severe disorientation and how much of a prat I am) like Three Musketeers (ridicule all you want, I love it I love it I love it) and The Red and the Black and Mademoiselle de Maupin (forgive me) and Les Misefuckinrables.
That's what happens when you get too rad, France. Your descendants are douchebags. We're dealing with that same curse in the US.
Right now I am watching every version of Enjolras I can find on the Youtubes because in my youth (before I started just saying I didn't like Les Mis for fear of bursting into tears), I fantasized he did not die bravely but pulled a Purple Rose of Cairo and professed his love for me in song, stepped off the stage to take me away and we traveled around the world being super revolutionary and then we went to Ireland. Typing that, I realize that basically all of my adolescent fantasies pretty much ended the same exact way.
This fantasy was not fulfilled during tonight's production, so keep your fingers crossed for the film (just give me this and I will never ask for anything else). I have no idea who is playing Enjolras, but Dude Better Be Rad.
I'm going to go pop some Airborne tablets and pray this cold goes away before Saturday, because I'm singing in a Violent Femmes cover band for a fundraiser.
...
Showing posts with label music. Show all posts
Showing posts with label music. Show all posts
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
Monday, July 18, 2011
It's just that I don't like to sleep alone
Listen to the song because you've never heard it before. Because this was one of the only songs we recorded when I was in the band. I mean, we recorded it on a Mac, but whatever. I like it better than the ones we recorded professionally. Still, I'm going to find our recording of "Run to the Hills" if it kills me.
So I can play this song, yes. I did play this song. Many, many times. Not very well, but fuck it. Everyone else in the band was amazing. Xtine is singing this song, she wrote it, she arranged it, she should get back into music. I'm not really building this up properly. I wish I had some telling anecdote, but I don't feel like thinking of one right now.
Then last week I was feeling nostalgic, since it's the five year anniversary of Lewis' death, and the end of immortality. I decided to make a video of all of our theme nights. No one else participated in these things, we just did them every Thursday on our own. I've said so many things about hanging out with The Whores that I feel like I should just link all of it instead of repeating myself, letting you decide whether or not you want to read about us.
SO NOW FOR THE WORLD RASSLES BLOG PREMIERE OF "SPOONING BUDDIES"
day 26 - A song you can play on an instrument (or something like that)
...
So I can play this song, yes. I did play this song. Many, many times. Not very well, but fuck it. Everyone else in the band was amazing. Xtine is singing this song, she wrote it, she arranged it, she should get back into music. I'm not really building this up properly. I wish I had some telling anecdote, but I don't feel like thinking of one right now.
Then last week I was feeling nostalgic, since it's the five year anniversary of Lewis' death, and the end of immortality. I decided to make a video of all of our theme nights. No one else participated in these things, we just did them every Thursday on our own. I've said so many things about hanging out with The Whores that I feel like I should just link all of it instead of repeating myself, letting you decide whether or not you want to read about us.
SO NOW FOR THE WORLD RASSLES BLOG PREMIERE OF "SPOONING BUDDIES"
day 26 - A song you can play on an instrument (or something like that)
...
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Don't expect him to thank or forgive you
The fourth of July left me lonely and covered in bug bites, like I sprouted fifty-seven fat, red nipples in the most inconvenient areas of my body, including my forehead and six of my toes. I looked amazing. Every time I stepped onto my rug I would fist up my toes and scratch them along the shag and breathe. Simple pleasures, really. Itch fulfillment and drippy air-conditioning window units propped up on rocks. And a new ceiling fan, one that doesn't spin like a renegade hula hoop. You know, for kids. Now the itching is all gone, but those fucking red bumps are still there, and I wish they itched with the same ferocity of the Tuesday-era bug bites.
Remember the good old days, like last Tuesday? When you paid the price for fun with uncomfortable tingling, but you could vanquish the fuck out of it with a scrape? Because you're a fighter, and you don't take no crap out of nobody. Mosquitoes are fucking loitering hooligans, but they can't scare me. I wear my weekend festivities on my forehead, and everyone knew I spent a warm night outside and my only regret was a lack of bug spray.
Sure, everyone probably spent a warm night outside that weekend. Let me have my pride.
I tried scratching my toes on the carpet this morning just for shits, but without satisfying an itch, just barely quieting feeble memories of last Tuesday when I could still feel them. I miss it, oddly. As annoying and uncomfortable as those bug bites were, I preferred having the itch to not.
day 25 - a song that makes you laugh
...
Remember the good old days, like last Tuesday? When you paid the price for fun with uncomfortable tingling, but you could vanquish the fuck out of it with a scrape? Because you're a fighter, and you don't take no crap out of nobody. Mosquitoes are fucking loitering hooligans, but they can't scare me. I wear my weekend festivities on my forehead, and everyone knew I spent a warm night outside and my only regret was a lack of bug spray.
Sure, everyone probably spent a warm night outside that weekend. Let me have my pride.
I tried scratching my toes on the carpet this morning just for shits, but without satisfying an itch, just barely quieting feeble memories of last Tuesday when I could still feel them. I miss it, oddly. As annoying and uncomfortable as those bug bites were, I preferred having the itch to not.
day 25 - a song that makes you laugh
...
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Life's Like a Movie, Write Your Own Ending
Some people are gently handcrafted model ships, proud, stable miniatures
of the USS Constitution or a romantic Spanish galleon. They were filled
with intent and hopes and are dearly loved, and they're bottled up and
paraded around with honor and gratification. These are the girls in my
office, my workplace peers. All younger than me, all with jobs
requiring higher qualifications. They are smart, polite, friendly,
elite. They went to important colleges and they live in classy
neighborhoods; they exercise at least three days a week, they never take
more than one cookie at a time, they drink out of those metal water
bottles, they wear pencil skirts and sensible heels and shower everyday
and they are always on time.
I'm sure, like I am with most people, that if they have any dreams that stray from the socially comfortable, they do not voice them. They could be dying inside, they could be human-shaped sacks of marbles, spilling slowly instead of in torrents. They could be truly happy and confident and pleased and successful. They could be secret artists and dream of hermitage, they could be former addicts or hardcore militants. I don't know if any of these things are true because we just work together, plus they got their outsides on so well.
Some of us have caged mothers who are extremely private and lawful, and it scares me how much she fortifies because I learned to do it as well, and I wonder: is she happy? She would never tell. And we have fathers who carved faint traces of defiance into our lungs just because it was funny, just to see what would happen, and I'll tell you what happened: I can't breathe properly unless I'm dissident about something. Incompatible ideas and images are scrimshawed into my bones and they will always be battling each other, and sometimes I know he's prouder of me than anything and he's sad because he thinks no one sees it, so I'm constantly reassuring him when I'm not sure myself.
Then again, I may be no schooner, but maybe I'm more.
It's frustrating because I know I'm a dreamer, but then rationally I crush those dreams with temperance. I was not raised to trailblaze, because as successful as my parents were in giving me the confidence to believe in my thoughts and ideas, and as much as they encouraged creativity, they encouraged rationality so much more and I want to do anything and everything but I'm terrified of spending money and trusting people.
So I've reached a decision. Money can go fuck itself. I don't even care anymore. I'm tired of penny pinching, I'm tired of making lists of things that I will do when I have the money to do it, because you know what? I am NEVER going to have that much money. Never, unless I finish number 6 on my list: write bestselling novel and reap the rewards. But plots are so hard. I can do it. I CAN DO IT.
day 24 - a song to play at your funeral
I used it already, but fuck this meme. I used to imagine dying would be like Kermit's show at the end of the Muppet Movie, walking down a road and passing all of the people I loved over the years, and they're all serenading me with "Rainbow Connection." And then at my funeral everyone gets fucking wasted and they break things, talk shit about me and have a sing-a-long.
...
I'm sure, like I am with most people, that if they have any dreams that stray from the socially comfortable, they do not voice them. They could be dying inside, they could be human-shaped sacks of marbles, spilling slowly instead of in torrents. They could be truly happy and confident and pleased and successful. They could be secret artists and dream of hermitage, they could be former addicts or hardcore militants. I don't know if any of these things are true because we just work together, plus they got their outsides on so well.
Some of us have caged mothers who are extremely private and lawful, and it scares me how much she fortifies because I learned to do it as well, and I wonder: is she happy? She would never tell. And we have fathers who carved faint traces of defiance into our lungs just because it was funny, just to see what would happen, and I'll tell you what happened: I can't breathe properly unless I'm dissident about something. Incompatible ideas and images are scrimshawed into my bones and they will always be battling each other, and sometimes I know he's prouder of me than anything and he's sad because he thinks no one sees it, so I'm constantly reassuring him when I'm not sure myself.
Then again, I may be no schooner, but maybe I'm more.
It's frustrating because I know I'm a dreamer, but then rationally I crush those dreams with temperance. I was not raised to trailblaze, because as successful as my parents were in giving me the confidence to believe in my thoughts and ideas, and as much as they encouraged creativity, they encouraged rationality so much more and I want to do anything and everything but I'm terrified of spending money and trusting people.
So I've reached a decision. Money can go fuck itself. I don't even care anymore. I'm tired of penny pinching, I'm tired of making lists of things that I will do when I have the money to do it, because you know what? I am NEVER going to have that much money. Never, unless I finish number 6 on my list: write bestselling novel and reap the rewards. But plots are so hard. I can do it. I CAN DO IT.
day 24 - a song to play at your funeral
I used it already, but fuck this meme. I used to imagine dying would be like Kermit's show at the end of the Muppet Movie, walking down a road and passing all of the people I loved over the years, and they're all serenading me with "Rainbow Connection." And then at my funeral everyone gets fucking wasted and they break things, talk shit about me and have a sing-a-long.
...
Thursday, June 2, 2011
I can't take hand-me-down destiny
day 23 - a song that you want to play at your wedding
I didn't know people thought about things like this. Picking a song to play at your "wedding" like I'm going to have one or something? That's like naming your children or your dog before you meet them. Makes no sense to me.
Sure, when I was little I imagined I had a giant red dog named Ox who had absolutely nothing to do with the giant red dog named Clifford. Ox was more feral and hyena-y and ate chipmunks and lilacs, because those were the two things that were most prominent in my parents' backyard. He was extremely protective of me. Oh, and I had an imaginary mustang named Astronaut who lived under the apple tree and I was the only one who could ride him because I was patient and kind and could totally speak horse. But I don't ever plan on owning a horse or a dog with those names.
Quaint little child, eh?
So I need to come up with a song to play at my wedding. Since I have no boyfriend, fiance, or possible marriage in sight, this seems pointless. But a meme is a meme, and memes are unstoppable.
Traditionally at weddings, the bride dances with her dad, correct? Because my dad and I have an anthem, and this is it.
Sure, it's not exactly appropriate for a father/daughter dance, but fuck that, right? That's what makes the song perfect. People will probably scoff and wonder why we aren't playing "Butterfly Kisses" or "Wonderful Tonight" or some other fucking nancypants song, and them I will REFER TO THE LYRICS.
Although apparently now it's all hip to start dancing with your dad and then bust out Soulja Boy choreography halfway through the song to show that you're his special little girl, but ya'll can pal around be goofy cuz u don't take sh*t 2 srsly.
(Sorry, I have this weird obsession right now with sporadic, mean-tempered textspeak)
On another note: My boss (I have two) and her wife got their civil union license yesterday. Hooray for separate but equal! You lesbians have to use the lesbian bathroom, but at least we let you go inside now.
...
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Drink a toast to never
I stopped feeling sorry for myself in public because I never got anyone to sympathize with me - oh, look at that independent, self-sufficient white girl from an upper/middle class family who has a job, a home, and a loving family, fucking boo waaah hoooooo, I sor you sad, have 10 cookies shaped liked stars cz u r 1 LOLZ!!!!
Right? Why don't I get that? It's all, "shut the fuck up and stop feeling sorry for yourself."
day 22 - a song that you listen to when you’re sad
That's legit, though. You know what's better than dealing with your issues? Not realizing you have them in the first place. Issues cripple your psyche. I didn't even know I had issues until someone told me I had issues, and then all of a sudden it was like, "I have issues? Where are they?" And then I found them, like a pile of bones at the foot of the stairs. When you throw 'em down one bone at a time they don't seem like much, but bones don't go away. They just accumulate.
Sorting through them is a solitary activity, and "After Hours" is my soundtrack. Lou, Lou, Lou...how did you know? I never realized I could identify with something so much and feel so isolated because of it.
...
* * * * * * * * * *
Right? Why don't I get that? It's all, "shut the fuck up and stop feeling sorry for yourself."
day 22 - a song that you listen to when you’re sad
That's legit, though. You know what's better than dealing with your issues? Not realizing you have them in the first place. Issues cripple your psyche. I didn't even know I had issues until someone told me I had issues, and then all of a sudden it was like, "I have issues? Where are they?" And then I found them, like a pile of bones at the foot of the stairs. When you throw 'em down one bone at a time they don't seem like much, but bones don't go away. They just accumulate.
Sorting through them is a solitary activity, and "After Hours" is my soundtrack. Lou, Lou, Lou...how did you know? I never realized I could identify with something so much and feel so isolated because of it.
...
Monday, May 23, 2011
You Take Your Own Life In Your Hands
day 21 - a song that you listen to when you’re happy
"Wull, yeah," Michelle shrugs and cuddles her shins. "Just on the floor."
"Just...on the floor."
"Just on the floor."
I taking a long pull from my beer. "I don't get it."
"Well, it doesn't occur to people to...you know. Look down."
She's right. I set the beer on the table, pick up a pair of scissors and start cutting the paper in front of me. "And you just find it there. All the time."
"It's not just me," she says, delicately peeling a piece of tape from the back of a pinwheel and shifting its location. We're making pinwheels. It's very Martha Stewart. "I mean, I have friends that work at bars and they say that after their shift when they're cleaning up they find a ton. You know, people get drunk and they're stupid. They drop things."
"I just don't buy it. I mean, I've found like a dollar before. Usually in my own pocket. Or something. Or a nickel. I find nickels. I find fuckloads of nickels."
"No, I don't even bother with, like, nickels," she laughs and shakes her head, thick black curls shading her face. "Sometimes I'll find a dollar and I'll just be disappointed."
"So you're finding what? Big bills?"
"Usually. I found sixty the other day at Rainbo, just three crisp twenties laying on the floor. Yesterday there was a ten crumpled up on my lawn. I just pick 'em up. You know, and like, drug dealers are bad with money and they drop things all the time. I find cigarettes too, but I don't smoke so I'll just give those away." She turns to set her finished pinwheel on the ground, then tilts her head with a soft pause, staring at the thing.
"It looks good," I say. She smiles and drops it on the pile. "So just cigarettes? You just...pick up loose cigarettes? Or packs?"
"Oh, like, packs. I wouldn't pick up just like, a cigarette."
"No, of course not. That would be ridiculous."
Xtine laughs from the other side of the table, but Michelle just keeps talking. "And then when I find like, a pack of cigarettes I'll give them to a friend in exchange for drinks."
"Prison currency."
She laughs. "Yeah, I guess."
"This is bonkers. I can't believe you just find money. Like laying around. Did you know about this?" I flap a maniacal pinwheel at Xtine, who is jamming wooden dowels into carved wine corks and getting glue all over her kitchen table.
"Michelle is just lucky," Xtine giggles, wiping her fingers on her skirt. She hands me the dowel, and I fasten the pinwheel to the wine cork with a thumbtack and give it a spin. "Oh, they look so fucking good."
"Your wedding is going to be awesome," Michelle tells Xtine.
"I know," Xtine laughs. "Everyone is going to be so jealous. And we're almost done! But I'm thinking about starting a pinwheel sweatshop. Michelle, you ready to get back into the work force?"
Not sure if I heard right, I ask, "You're not working right now?"
Michelle looks sheepishly through her hair and shakes her head. "Mmm mmm."
"For how long? Does it suck?"
"Three years or so."
I stop making pretty pretty pinwheels to look up in disbelief. "What the hell? So you don't have a job? Other than finding money?"
She laughs and doesn't answer. "Right now I'm making wedding decorations in exchange for cookies, lentil soup and wine." After a brief silence, she adds, "But I can't give away all of my secrets."
"I had no idea finding money and cigarettes was such a lucrative business."
"I dunno. I find at least thirty or forty dollars a week. You just need to look down. That's what people don't realize," she shrugs, pulls her knees closer to her chest and starts cutting another piece of paper.
"I'm so confused."
"Just, like I said. Just look down. It's there."
...
"Wull, yeah," Michelle shrugs and cuddles her shins. "Just on the floor."
"Just...on the floor."
"Just on the floor."
I taking a long pull from my beer. "I don't get it."
"Well, it doesn't occur to people to...you know. Look down."
She's right. I set the beer on the table, pick up a pair of scissors and start cutting the paper in front of me. "And you just find it there. All the time."
"It's not just me," she says, delicately peeling a piece of tape from the back of a pinwheel and shifting its location. We're making pinwheels. It's very Martha Stewart. "I mean, I have friends that work at bars and they say that after their shift when they're cleaning up they find a ton. You know, people get drunk and they're stupid. They drop things."
"I just don't buy it. I mean, I've found like a dollar before. Usually in my own pocket. Or something. Or a nickel. I find nickels. I find fuckloads of nickels."
"No, I don't even bother with, like, nickels," she laughs and shakes her head, thick black curls shading her face. "Sometimes I'll find a dollar and I'll just be disappointed."
"So you're finding what? Big bills?"
"Usually. I found sixty the other day at Rainbo, just three crisp twenties laying on the floor. Yesterday there was a ten crumpled up on my lawn. I just pick 'em up. You know, and like, drug dealers are bad with money and they drop things all the time. I find cigarettes too, but I don't smoke so I'll just give those away." She turns to set her finished pinwheel on the ground, then tilts her head with a soft pause, staring at the thing.
"It looks good," I say. She smiles and drops it on the pile. "So just cigarettes? You just...pick up loose cigarettes? Or packs?"
"Oh, like, packs. I wouldn't pick up just like, a cigarette."
"No, of course not. That would be ridiculous."
Xtine laughs from the other side of the table, but Michelle just keeps talking. "And then when I find like, a pack of cigarettes I'll give them to a friend in exchange for drinks."
"Prison currency."
She laughs. "Yeah, I guess."
"This is bonkers. I can't believe you just find money. Like laying around. Did you know about this?" I flap a maniacal pinwheel at Xtine, who is jamming wooden dowels into carved wine corks and getting glue all over her kitchen table.
"Michelle is just lucky," Xtine giggles, wiping her fingers on her skirt. She hands me the dowel, and I fasten the pinwheel to the wine cork with a thumbtack and give it a spin. "Oh, they look so fucking good."
"Your wedding is going to be awesome," Michelle tells Xtine.
"I know," Xtine laughs. "Everyone is going to be so jealous. And we're almost done! But I'm thinking about starting a pinwheel sweatshop. Michelle, you ready to get back into the work force?"
Not sure if I heard right, I ask, "You're not working right now?"
Michelle looks sheepishly through her hair and shakes her head. "Mmm mmm."
"For how long? Does it suck?"
"Three years or so."
I stop making pretty pretty pinwheels to look up in disbelief. "What the hell? So you don't have a job? Other than finding money?"
She laughs and doesn't answer. "Right now I'm making wedding decorations in exchange for cookies, lentil soup and wine." After a brief silence, she adds, "But I can't give away all of my secrets."
"I had no idea finding money and cigarettes was such a lucrative business."
"I dunno. I find at least thirty or forty dollars a week. You just need to look down. That's what people don't realize," she shrugs, pulls her knees closer to her chest and starts cutting another piece of paper.
"I'm so confused."
"Just, like I said. Just look down. It's there."
...
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
The Chosen Whites
day 20 - a song that you listen to when you’re angry
"Please can you just let me back in?"
"Back of the line."
"Five minutes ago you said I could get back in when I got off the phone. Five minutes ago."
"Well now you have to go to the back of the line," the bouncer snaps without looking me in the eye.
"What the fuck? Seriously?" The bouncer ignores me, looking over my head. My eyebrows smoosh. "I don't have my ID," I sneer.
"Not my problem."
"Yeah it is. I'm not the one who goes back on my word, dick."
Fraya slides between me and the bouncer and turns. "Ross, calm down." Bouncer's eyes flicker towards her and then back to the line. Someone else comes up and he let's them right through.
"See, Fraya! This is why I fucking hate coming to bars in this neighborhood, because this dick won't let us back in because HE GETS OFF ON WITHHOLDING," I push past her. "Come on, guy. Just please let me back in LIKE YOU SAID YOU WOULD."
"Not my problem."
"Yeah it is, because my ID is inside. With my credit card. With the bartender."
"Not my problem."
"Ross--"
"Actually, your fucking retarded bouncing system IS your problem."
"--be nice."
"NICE? It's three in the morning and we're surrounded by fucking douchebags" (I'm sure that did nothing to get anyone in line on my side) "who buy their jeans fashionably fucking torn and speak in Jersey Shore quotes. NICE has no meaning here when you're dealing with goons on a power trip. Nice gets you ignored. So if I have to yell LIKE A BITCH, I will."
Fraya grabs my elbow and pulls me back. "Ross. Let me handle this, okay? All right? You're being an asshole."
"I'm being an asshole? OF COURSE I'M BEING AN ASSHOLE. I'm being an asshole because THAT FUCKING BOUNCER OVER THERE HAS FUCKING MEMENTO MEMORY AND WON'T LET US INSIDE."
"Listen. Ross. Ross," she growls. "You are being a bitch and you don't make any sense. It's Friday. Friday. Partyin partyin, that's all they're doing. Ross? Listen to me. Tomorrow. ROSS. Yesterday was Thursday, and tomorrow? Tomorrow is Saturday."
I take a deep breath. "And Sunday comes afterwards."
"Partyin partyin--"
"Yeah." I smile.
"Okay. Just stand here and let me do this."
The bouncer let's some hoe bag through the door who was definitely not in line. I lift up on my toes. "Fucking EUNUCH."
Fraya giggles, and tries to be stern with me. "He probably doesn't know what that word means."
"Fraya. Be nice. I don't want to be at this shitty bar anyway. PLEASE CAN I CLOSE MY TAB?"
The bouncer doesn't even look at me, just checks another ID and says to me, clearly, "Back of the line."
"What the FUCK is your damage? You know I'm going to yell at you until you either get my shit or you let me get it myself. You think I want to give this bar any more money?"
"Back of the line."
"Get me my shit and I will have no reason to stay."
"You gotta get in line."
"And then do what? Argue with you in half an hour when I still don't have my ID? That makes no fucking sense. You were not hired for your ability to fucking reason and...rationalize. And shit."
Fraya squeezes her way up to the bartender wearing her apologetic face. "Listen, I'm sorry my friend is being such a bitch, but we gave her whiskey earlier and she just lost $150 at the casino."
"AND YOUR HAIR IS FUCKING DUMB."
"Could you please just, please let us in so we can close our tabs and we'll leave right away. Please? Otherwise we're both going to have to listen to her bitching."
"THAT'S FUCKING RIGHT."
"And I don't think either of us want that."
The bouncer looks at her. Looks at me. "Close your tab and leave."
"Thank you," Fraya says. "Thank you so much. Come on, Ross."
"Fuck you, I won't do what they tell me."
Aaaaaaaand I'm thirty.
...
"Please can you just let me back in?"
"Back of the line."
"Five minutes ago you said I could get back in when I got off the phone. Five minutes ago."
"Well now you have to go to the back of the line," the bouncer snaps without looking me in the eye.
"What the fuck? Seriously?" The bouncer ignores me, looking over my head. My eyebrows smoosh. "I don't have my ID," I sneer.
"Not my problem."
"Yeah it is. I'm not the one who goes back on my word, dick."
Fraya slides between me and the bouncer and turns. "Ross, calm down." Bouncer's eyes flicker towards her and then back to the line. Someone else comes up and he let's them right through.
"See, Fraya! This is why I fucking hate coming to bars in this neighborhood, because this dick won't let us back in because HE GETS OFF ON WITHHOLDING," I push past her. "Come on, guy. Just please let me back in LIKE YOU SAID YOU WOULD."
"Not my problem."
"Yeah it is, because my ID is inside. With my credit card. With the bartender."
"Not my problem."
"Ross--"
"Actually, your fucking retarded bouncing system IS your problem."
"--be nice."
"NICE? It's three in the morning and we're surrounded by fucking douchebags" (I'm sure that did nothing to get anyone in line on my side) "who buy their jeans fashionably fucking torn and speak in Jersey Shore quotes. NICE has no meaning here when you're dealing with goons on a power trip. Nice gets you ignored. So if I have to yell LIKE A BITCH, I will."
Fraya grabs my elbow and pulls me back. "Ross. Let me handle this, okay? All right? You're being an asshole."
"I'm being an asshole? OF COURSE I'M BEING AN ASSHOLE. I'm being an asshole because THAT FUCKING BOUNCER OVER THERE HAS FUCKING MEMENTO MEMORY AND WON'T LET US INSIDE."
"Listen. Ross. Ross," she growls. "You are being a bitch and you don't make any sense. It's Friday. Friday. Partyin partyin, that's all they're doing. Ross? Listen to me. Tomorrow. ROSS. Yesterday was Thursday, and tomorrow? Tomorrow is Saturday."
I take a deep breath. "And Sunday comes afterwards."
"Partyin partyin--"
"Yeah." I smile.
"Okay. Just stand here and let me do this."
The bouncer let's some hoe bag through the door who was definitely not in line. I lift up on my toes. "Fucking EUNUCH."
Fraya giggles, and tries to be stern with me. "He probably doesn't know what that word means."
"Fraya. Be nice. I don't want to be at this shitty bar anyway. PLEASE CAN I CLOSE MY TAB?"
The bouncer doesn't even look at me, just checks another ID and says to me, clearly, "Back of the line."
"What the FUCK is your damage? You know I'm going to yell at you until you either get my shit or you let me get it myself. You think I want to give this bar any more money?"
"Back of the line."
"Get me my shit and I will have no reason to stay."
"You gotta get in line."
"And then do what? Argue with you in half an hour when I still don't have my ID? That makes no fucking sense. You were not hired for your ability to fucking reason and...rationalize. And shit."
Fraya squeezes her way up to the bartender wearing her apologetic face. "Listen, I'm sorry my friend is being such a bitch, but we gave her whiskey earlier and she just lost $150 at the casino."
"AND YOUR HAIR IS FUCKING DUMB."
"Could you please just, please let us in so we can close our tabs and we'll leave right away. Please? Otherwise we're both going to have to listen to her bitching."
"THAT'S FUCKING RIGHT."
"And I don't think either of us want that."
The bouncer looks at her. Looks at me. "Close your tab and leave."
"Thank you," Fraya says. "Thank you so much. Come on, Ross."
"Fuck you, I won't do what they tell me."
Aaaaaaaand I'm thirty.
...
Saturday, May 7, 2011
I'll let you be in my dreams if I can be in yours.
day 19 - a song from your favorite album
Picking my favorite album isn't very hard. Freewheelin' Bob Dylan, easy peasy lemon squeezy. Makes me pissed at the world, giddy because I get the joke, longing for romance, relieved at my self-sufficiency, cheated out of peace, serenely relaxed, embarrassed by my capriciousness, guilty for being selfish, impressed by my personal complexity, and giggling at the ridiculousness of everything. It spoke to me at what, sixteen? Yeah. I'm still a bit shocked every time I hear it.
I was loitering at Record Swap, listening in on those music guys talking music. Back then, in high school, I was in love with up to seventeen boys simultaneously and most of them never spoke to me, but half of them hung out at Record Swap and I would go there after work at Cock Robin or Bookzellers or wherever I worked that day and just meander and listen to them talk about music. Then I would walk over towards them with my purchase, and one of them would slip off the counter and ring me up on the register. We never made eye contact. They never showed any recognition, not here or at school, and neither did I.
My shift would end and I would decide to walk over there, thinking, Today. Today I'm going to talk to them. And I'm going to say, "Hey, I heard (some band) is playing (somewhere) on Sunday. I think I saw you at their last show at Off the Alley" or something cool like that but I never did.
So yeah, I was loitering at Record Swap and browsing when I heard them talking about me.
"Dude, does she ever buy anything?"
"Sometimes."
"Don't think I've ever seen it. It's weird."
"She usually gets like stuff like my dad likes."
"She's like always here."
"I think she works next door."
"Oh." There's a pause, and I pretend to be fascinated by the back cover of something, glowing that I am the topic of their conversation. Do they think I can hear them? Probably not. "I think she just comes here because you make her wet."
Okay, that is...the fuck? I crack my jaw a couple of times while he giggles at himself.
"Dude." Other guy drops his voice. "I hope not."
My arms tighten up and I lock my knees, just staring straight ahead at the wall, while "dude I hope not" echoes over and over and over again in my mind. I knew it. I fucking knew it. I am repulsive. I blame my mother. Now I am FURIOUS. I take a few deep breaths squeeze my fists, which is counterproductive but whatever, and decide I'm going to say something. I am going to go over there and let them know I can hear them. I'm going to give them a fucking lashing.
With a devil grip on whatever's in my hand and the resolve of carpet-stain remover, I make my way towards the register, head high. I glare at both of them. They are just...so...fucking...hot. We could have been friends, I think. We really could. I was sure they were different. I was sure that they would recognize we had a common interest in music that would last us years in conversations and banter, I was sure that one of them was about to say to the other, "but she's kind of cute, you know?" and I was sure I would get near them and they would laugh and call me over and say, "Come on, we know you heard us. We've been trying to get your attention for months" and I was sure one of them would say "but my girlfriend would kill me if I talked to another girl" and I was sure I could go over there all coy and smile at them and say, " Just this please. Doesn't-" I look down at whatever I'm holding "-Bob Dylan get you all wet?" Bob Dylan? Where did I pick this up? Shit. Come on boys. Give me something. Please. Just help me. Just a little. Please.
Please?
Nothing, they just pretend they don't see me and I pretend I don't see them and that I'm not buying anything today and I walk right out the door clutching this fucking album that I pulled from the Classics section. Stolen album.
It's much easier to be brave on behalf of others than on behalf of myself.
Looking back I don't think I could have stolen anything better. After that I started scooping up Mr. Zimmerman like candy, and I would feel small and I would cry and I would feel overwhelmed and I would laugh. Sometimes people give me shit for being a huge Bob Dylan fan. Inevitably, someone will just tell me about how much he sucks live, as if seeing an icon growl and sputter at 70 years old (a) makes them an expert on anything and (b) will convince me to reject a musical catalog spanning a full fifty years.
Not gonna lie though, all I want to do after listening to this song is stroll down a sunny street on a weekday, fantasize about guys that don't return my affections, smoke too many cigarettes and throw bottles at abandoned houses, thankful to be alive.
...
Picking my favorite album isn't very hard. Freewheelin' Bob Dylan, easy peasy lemon squeezy. Makes me pissed at the world, giddy because I get the joke, longing for romance, relieved at my self-sufficiency, cheated out of peace, serenely relaxed, embarrassed by my capriciousness, guilty for being selfish, impressed by my personal complexity, and giggling at the ridiculousness of everything. It spoke to me at what, sixteen? Yeah. I'm still a bit shocked every time I hear it.
I was loitering at Record Swap, listening in on those music guys talking music. Back then, in high school, I was in love with up to seventeen boys simultaneously and most of them never spoke to me, but half of them hung out at Record Swap and I would go there after work at Cock Robin or Bookzellers or wherever I worked that day and just meander and listen to them talk about music. Then I would walk over towards them with my purchase, and one of them would slip off the counter and ring me up on the register. We never made eye contact. They never showed any recognition, not here or at school, and neither did I.
My shift would end and I would decide to walk over there, thinking, Today. Today I'm going to talk to them. And I'm going to say, "Hey, I heard (some band) is playing (somewhere) on Sunday. I think I saw you at their last show at Off the Alley" or something cool like that but I never did.
So yeah, I was loitering at Record Swap and browsing when I heard them talking about me.
"Dude, does she ever buy anything?"
"Sometimes."
"Don't think I've ever seen it. It's weird."
"She usually gets like stuff like my dad likes."
"She's like always here."
"I think she works next door."
"Oh." There's a pause, and I pretend to be fascinated by the back cover of something, glowing that I am the topic of their conversation. Do they think I can hear them? Probably not. "I think she just comes here because you make her wet."
Okay, that is...the fuck? I crack my jaw a couple of times while he giggles at himself.
"Dude." Other guy drops his voice. "I hope not."
My arms tighten up and I lock my knees, just staring straight ahead at the wall, while "dude I hope not" echoes over and over and over again in my mind. I knew it. I fucking knew it. I am repulsive. I blame my mother. Now I am FURIOUS. I take a few deep breaths squeeze my fists, which is counterproductive but whatever, and decide I'm going to say something. I am going to go over there and let them know I can hear them. I'm going to give them a fucking lashing.
With a devil grip on whatever's in my hand and the resolve of carpet-stain remover, I make my way towards the register, head high. I glare at both of them. They are just...so...fucking...hot. We could have been friends, I think. We really could. I was sure they were different. I was sure that they would recognize we had a common interest in music that would last us years in conversations and banter, I was sure that one of them was about to say to the other, "but she's kind of cute, you know?" and I was sure I would get near them and they would laugh and call me over and say, "Come on, we know you heard us. We've been trying to get your attention for months" and I was sure one of them would say "but my girlfriend would kill me if I talked to another girl" and I was sure I could go over there all coy and smile at them and say, " Just this please. Doesn't-" I look down at whatever I'm holding "-Bob Dylan get you all wet?" Bob Dylan? Where did I pick this up? Shit. Come on boys. Give me something. Please. Just help me. Just a little. Please.
Please?
Nothing, they just pretend they don't see me and I pretend I don't see them and that I'm not buying anything today and I walk right out the door clutching this fucking album that I pulled from the Classics section. Stolen album.
It's much easier to be brave on behalf of others than on behalf of myself.
Looking back I don't think I could have stolen anything better. After that I started scooping up Mr. Zimmerman like candy, and I would feel small and I would cry and I would feel overwhelmed and I would laugh. Sometimes people give me shit for being a huge Bob Dylan fan. Inevitably, someone will just tell me about how much he sucks live, as if seeing an icon growl and sputter at 70 years old (a) makes them an expert on anything and (b) will convince me to reject a musical catalog spanning a full fifty years.
Not gonna lie though, all I want to do after listening to this song is stroll down a sunny street on a weekday, fantasize about guys that don't return my affections, smoke too many cigarettes and throw bottles at abandoned houses, thankful to be alive.
...
Thursday, May 5, 2011
no wall
I wrote this last night and found it just now. I had been drinking. I love it.
day 18 - a song that you wish you heard on the radio
Originally I couldn't think of what song I should put here, because I don't listen to the radio so I never know what's on there. Fact is, it's a school night and I've been drinking because I cut six or seven inches off of my hair and I haven't gotten the chance to show it off yet and all I want to do is listen to the Beastie Boys because let's face it: they're my favorite.
I don't listen to the radio is because it's annoying. Just is. Sure, sometimes it's fun to blast B96, but only when I'm driving and only when Gyna is in the car, and she lives in Germany now so fuck that. Gyna? Move back here. You have to see my haircut. Then sometimes I'll flip on NPR, but everything on NPR is loaded with seriously brainwashed entitled smuggery (people who listen to NPR think that people who don't listen to NPR are automatically uneducated for not using alternate news sources but they never stray from NPR themselves, ergo, people who listen to NPR are fucking idiots. Plus, I like Fox News. Geraldo is like a South Park character), so that usually lasts about three minutes.
Anyway, I'd rather write or philosophize than listen to other people talk about things I don't care about.
I wish I heard every song from this album on the radio:
because Funhouse is about fucking.
I know what you're thinking: Rassles, what would you know about fucking? Okay, so, not much jerkface. Thanks. But we've met. I'd recognize that sound anywhere, and this album is just a whole bunch of instruments having dirty-ass sex with each other and it should be on the radio all the time. Just to make things interesting. If I were a stripper, I'd dance to this. I bet MCA is a huge fan of this. Poor MCA. Man, fuck you, cancer.
...
day 18 - a song that you wish you heard on the radio
Originally I couldn't think of what song I should put here, because I don't listen to the radio so I never know what's on there. Fact is, it's a school night and I've been drinking because I cut six or seven inches off of my hair and I haven't gotten the chance to show it off yet and all I want to do is listen to the Beastie Boys because let's face it: they're my favorite.
I don't listen to the radio is because it's annoying. Just is. Sure, sometimes it's fun to blast B96, but only when I'm driving and only when Gyna is in the car, and she lives in Germany now so fuck that. Gyna? Move back here. You have to see my haircut. Then sometimes I'll flip on NPR, but everything on NPR is loaded with seriously brainwashed entitled smuggery (people who listen to NPR think that people who don't listen to NPR are automatically uneducated for not using alternate news sources but they never stray from NPR themselves, ergo, people who listen to NPR are fucking idiots. Plus, I like Fox News. Geraldo is like a South Park character), so that usually lasts about three minutes.
Anyway, I'd rather write or philosophize than listen to other people talk about things I don't care about.
I wish I heard every song from this album on the radio:
because Funhouse is about fucking.
I know what you're thinking: Rassles, what would you know about fucking? Okay, so, not much jerkface. Thanks. But we've met. I'd recognize that sound anywhere, and this album is just a whole bunch of instruments having dirty-ass sex with each other and it should be on the radio all the time. Just to make things interesting. If I were a stripper, I'd dance to this. I bet MCA is a huge fan of this. Poor MCA. Man, fuck you, cancer.
...
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Bang Bang Shoot 'Em Up Destiny
Day 15, a song that describes you, also meems are for lamewads
If "Rainbow Connection" is spring, "Spaceman" is September. Not in a Sinatra kind of way, of course, or at least my thirties better not be my September years because that would be like drinking beer before it ferments. So like, barley dipped in water. This better be the motherfucking May of my years, with blooming and getting drunk on porches and Red Rover, Red Rover, send Rassles right over.
It's not that the lyrics necessarily describe what's going on in my life like a Zack Snyder movie but this is just another one of my favorite songs, and it's what plays in my head when I'm going through the motions of waking up in the morning.
Okay. Press play.
If I'm ever the star of a morning preparatory montage this is the fucking song I want to play in the background, and not some bullshit Sheryl Crowe cover that the director had recorded or something just because I'm a girl so a girl has to be singing when I drag open the blinds to welcome the sun. I have a wide, glorious window covering the front wall of my apartment, and it sucks in the cold and owns in the sun.
Whatever, so when I'm shaving my legs I don't want a fucking leg stand-in, okay? You will watch me shave my turtle legs and you'll like it, especially when I knick my ankle like a fucking amateur. You'll like it hard. Just like you liked it when I alternated hitting snooze on my dual alarm clocks for half an hour and then dutch-ovened myself, because it's a good way to get me to scramble out of bed and I like to fucking party.
After I shower, I brush my teeth, dribbling toothpaste down my cleavage. I don't notice it until I change clothes after work ten hours into the future (BABOOM! Time travel). Then I oggle, but ultimately dismiss, the dental floss.
Cut to me standing in front of my closet just wearing an ill-fitting bra and a pair of polar bear boxer shorts that have a prominent hole tattering across one creamy ass cheek (no ass stand-ins, either, not in my fucking house). You'll be able to see an unfortunate tan line over my chest and shoulders, which I forgot about until I looked down just now.
Because you see, in this hypothetical montage, I got home from vacation in LA just last week with a wicked bad sunburn and sore calves from wearing goddamn high heels at a Beverly Hills wedding (told you I liked to party) and since then I've turned sort of...golden and freckled. I alternate pasty, freckled, and golden.
So I take a shirt from a hanger that I haven't worn in over a year and slip it on, but it buttons tightly across my boobs and I look like a fat freak. I consider duct tape and then stomp and rip the shirt off, flinging clinking button shards across the floor. From now on all important and wearable shirts will have snaps, and I turn to look for the fallen button and see that shit my blinds are open.
I drop quick, crouching low because the window ledge hits my knees, and creep over to the window to lower the blinds speedily and discreetly, but I am not an expert blind-lowerer and I always accidentally pull it wrong because you have to do that thing, you know, where you pull the string horizontally, but if you don't get it just right then shit, those motherfuckers snap up like a rat trap and you're left standing in your ladyknickers in front of an open window.
Of course I live across the street from an old Ukrainian church full of old Ukrainian people and why didn't you put on a nicer bra this morning, you dirty underwear hag? More importantly, why didn't you just flip the blinds open with the little plastic stick thing earlier? Ever think of that? No, you didn't, because you don't think. You know what happens when you let your guard down? Tony Soprano gets shot, that's what happens, and why are you just standing in front of your open window like a fucking retard? (Don't say retard, you have to stop doing that, you were doing so well!) Shit. Pay attention. Get down. NOW. .
I snap myself shut faster than the blinds snapped open and wonder if anyone saw me, but I realize that I was too busy thinking about myself to notice that there are other people in the world who like, you know. Exist. People are always walking their dogs right now, going to the bus, those kids that get high in the alley over there before school.
I decide to own it, rising, fists akimbo, lording over the sidewalk just ten feet below. I glare around the street so I can stare down my audience with the pride and the fury of the half-naked bourgeois, like an empress with no clothes, but there's no one there, no old ladies or dogs or stoned high schoolers or nothing. I'm slightly disappointed. And very cold.
Quit fucking around.
Sure, now the blinds close easily.
...
If "Rainbow Connection" is spring, "Spaceman" is September. Not in a Sinatra kind of way, of course, or at least my thirties better not be my September years because that would be like drinking beer before it ferments. So like, barley dipped in water. This better be the motherfucking May of my years, with blooming and getting drunk on porches and Red Rover, Red Rover, send Rassles right over.
It's not that the lyrics necessarily describe what's going on in my life like a Zack Snyder movie but this is just another one of my favorite songs, and it's what plays in my head when I'm going through the motions of waking up in the morning.
Okay. Press play.
If I'm ever the star of a morning preparatory montage this is the fucking song I want to play in the background, and not some bullshit Sheryl Crowe cover that the director had recorded or something just because I'm a girl so a girl has to be singing when I drag open the blinds to welcome the sun. I have a wide, glorious window covering the front wall of my apartment, and it sucks in the cold and owns in the sun.
Whatever, so when I'm shaving my legs I don't want a fucking leg stand-in, okay? You will watch me shave my turtle legs and you'll like it, especially when I knick my ankle like a fucking amateur. You'll like it hard. Just like you liked it when I alternated hitting snooze on my dual alarm clocks for half an hour and then dutch-ovened myself, because it's a good way to get me to scramble out of bed and I like to fucking party.
After I shower, I brush my teeth, dribbling toothpaste down my cleavage. I don't notice it until I change clothes after work ten hours into the future (BABOOM! Time travel). Then I oggle, but ultimately dismiss, the dental floss.
Cut to me standing in front of my closet just wearing an ill-fitting bra and a pair of polar bear boxer shorts that have a prominent hole tattering across one creamy ass cheek (no ass stand-ins, either, not in my fucking house). You'll be able to see an unfortunate tan line over my chest and shoulders, which I forgot about until I looked down just now.
Because you see, in this hypothetical montage, I got home from vacation in LA just last week with a wicked bad sunburn and sore calves from wearing goddamn high heels at a Beverly Hills wedding (told you I liked to party) and since then I've turned sort of...golden and freckled. I alternate pasty, freckled, and golden.
So I take a shirt from a hanger that I haven't worn in over a year and slip it on, but it buttons tightly across my boobs and I look like a fat freak. I consider duct tape and then stomp and rip the shirt off, flinging clinking button shards across the floor. From now on all important and wearable shirts will have snaps, and I turn to look for the fallen button and see that shit my blinds are open.
I drop quick, crouching low because the window ledge hits my knees, and creep over to the window to lower the blinds speedily and discreetly, but I am not an expert blind-lowerer and I always accidentally pull it wrong because you have to do that thing, you know, where you pull the string horizontally, but if you don't get it just right then shit, those motherfuckers snap up like a rat trap and you're left standing in your ladyknickers in front of an open window.
Of course I live across the street from an old Ukrainian church full of old Ukrainian people and why didn't you put on a nicer bra this morning, you dirty underwear hag? More importantly, why didn't you just flip the blinds open with the little plastic stick thing earlier? Ever think of that? No, you didn't, because you don't think. You know what happens when you let your guard down? Tony Soprano gets shot, that's what happens, and why are you just standing in front of your open window like a fucking retard? (Don't say retard, you have to stop doing that, you were doing so well!) Shit. Pay attention. Get down. NOW. .
I snap myself shut faster than the blinds snapped open and wonder if anyone saw me, but I realize that I was too busy thinking about myself to notice that there are other people in the world who like, you know. Exist. People are always walking their dogs right now, going to the bus, those kids that get high in the alley over there before school.
I decide to own it, rising, fists akimbo, lording over the sidewalk just ten feet below. I glare around the street so I can stare down my audience with the pride and the fury of the half-naked bourgeois, like an empress with no clothes, but there's no one there, no old ladies or dogs or stoned high schoolers or nothing. I'm slightly disappointed. And very cold.
Quit fucking around.
Sure, now the blinds close easily.
...
Friday, April 8, 2011
unless you step out into the light
Day 14 - a song that no one would expect you to love
I guess I picked the wrong day for Luda, eh? Hello? Is this thing on?
Apparently Luda love is limited. That's so sad. I celebrate the man's entire catalog.
A song no one would expect me to love...I'm not sure. It depends on who you talk to, you know? Some people are surprised about Luda, some are surprised about Bob Dylan. Some focus on my unrelenting addiction to Foreigner, and lately KISS' Dynasty, mostly because it sounds like they goddamn wish they were Foreigner. I love Elvis when he screws up then mumblegrowls and giggles to himself, I love how Joe Strummer plays likes he's fucking the shit out of his guitar, I love it when Stevie Wonder breaks it down just at the end of a song.
So let's just delve into the sadly hopeful and sentimental.
My favorite Daniel Johnston songs are easily "Story of an Artist" and "I Live My Broken Dreams" which is predictable if you know me, and doesn't everyone who reads this regularly know me well enough, by now? But I also love, love, love the one you all know, the one he's most known for writing, and it's the one that's hardest to admit. So honestly, I should have posted this song yesterday and then just slammed you bastards with Luda today, and I would say more but I really just want to hear the song right now.
And if you've never seen The Devil and Daniel Johnston, well, go educate yourself.
...
I guess I picked the wrong day for Luda, eh? Hello? Is this thing on?
Apparently Luda love is limited. That's so sad. I celebrate the man's entire catalog.
A song no one would expect me to love...I'm not sure. It depends on who you talk to, you know? Some people are surprised about Luda, some are surprised about Bob Dylan. Some focus on my unrelenting addiction to Foreigner, and lately KISS' Dynasty, mostly because it sounds like they goddamn wish they were Foreigner. I love Elvis when he screws up then mumblegrowls and giggles to himself, I love how Joe Strummer plays likes he's fucking the shit out of his guitar, I love it when Stevie Wonder breaks it down just at the end of a song.
So let's just delve into the sadly hopeful and sentimental.
My favorite Daniel Johnston songs are easily "Story of an Artist" and "I Live My Broken Dreams" which is predictable if you know me, and doesn't everyone who reads this regularly know me well enough, by now? But I also love, love, love the one you all know, the one he's most known for writing, and it's the one that's hardest to admit. So honestly, I should have posted this song yesterday and then just slammed you bastards with Luda today, and I would say more but I really just want to hear the song right now.
And if you've never seen The Devil and Daniel Johnston, well, go educate yourself.
...
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Who them girls you be with when you be ridin through?
Day 13, a song that is a guilty pleasure
First things first. I love Ludacris. I don't feel guilty about this at all, so does it count? Let's say yes, because someone is always surprised. I'm really not embarrassed by my love for Luda, but I'm not embarrassed by anything I love so fuck it. He's in a movie, I watch it. He does a song, I get it. Did you know if you go low enough, Ludacris will appear in your mirror? True story. I got lower than I ever really thought I could. Yeah, I practiced in front of that mirror. Just in case.
I have no story, no background, no explanation. Only joy and love.
I wish I could post the "dirty" version. How asinine is life when you can only watch a fucking Luda video with all those words glocked out? Also, I'm about 500% sure Luda and the Beastie Boys have better music videos than basically everyone ever, just for sheer ridiculousness.
...
First things first. I love Ludacris. I don't feel guilty about this at all, so does it count? Let's say yes, because someone is always surprised. I'm really not embarrassed by my love for Luda, but I'm not embarrassed by anything I love so fuck it. He's in a movie, I watch it. He does a song, I get it. Did you know if you go low enough, Ludacris will appear in your mirror? True story. I got lower than I ever really thought I could. Yeah, I practiced in front of that mirror. Just in case.
I have no story, no background, no explanation. Only joy and love.
I wish I could post the "dirty" version. How asinine is life when you can only watch a fucking Luda video with all those words glocked out? Also, I'm about 500% sure Luda and the Beastie Boys have better music videos than basically everyone ever, just for sheer ridiculousness.
...
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
I'm about to ruin Sucker Punch for EVERYONE and I don't even care because I sympathized with the dragons
Days 11 and 12, a song from your favorite band and a song from a band you hate and I'm sorry for reviewing a movie but I'm very angry because this movie was horrible
You know, whenever I want to escape my horrible real life where John Hamm is hammering an icepick into my heavily lined-eye, I like to escape to a magical Sailor Moony realm in my head where I'm a whore in a whorehouse where the whores aren't even proper whores with sexual providence and snappy comebacks and drug addictions, they're all weepy angelic ballet dancers who are blondely baffled that one keeps knives in kitchens (they are women, and whores at that, so illogical stupidity is forgivable), because kitchens are mysterious and vile just like potatoes and fat people. Apparently no one keeps knives in drawers or in wooden countertop knife holsters but everyone has shimmery tactical shotguns and thigh-highs and soldiers bleed steam (PUNK!) and it's totally okay to go around slitting the throats of adorable baby dragons napping on beds of bones hidden in the bowels of Mordor, and then the whores all kill terminators with their samurai swords on the train that's going to contaminate all of the water in Gotham and throw Molotov cocktail tantrums elbow-first like sex pansydolls with ginormous blinky-eyes. And then Don Draper is all, "I'm starting to think lobotomies are old hat, this is my last one I swear, and then I'm going into advertising" and all the rapey people simultaneously arrive at the enlightening realization that rape is wrong, and hey guys, I don't think this is a good idea because she has the golden sacrificial face of an ANGEL and that urinal hasn't been cleaned since the first time we raped someone in here back in the good ole days o' rapin' but lately they bitches been gettin' stabby.
So there were pretty okay fight scenes sometimes, although I never got the impression that these girls were kicking ass so much as they had really easy targets (you trained your men to fight in 300, do us a favor and make your women do the same, asshole), and I'm glad Zack Snyder at least tried, embarrassingly so, but you know what Snyder? Shut the fuck up. The best part of your movie was when you started killing whores because you couldn't think of anything else to do with them. It was hilarious.
Back to the meme.
So I couldn't decide if I should post the hand-painted original video, which is awesome, but a little too ADD and seizury for me right now after a night of Sucker Punch.
And I'm not going to post a video from a band I hate, because right now the thing I hate most is the soundtrack of Sucker Punch and its literal lyrical narration with grrrrl power covers of songs that were perfect to begin with. So I'm going to post a Beastie Boys video because they make me happy.
...
Apparently it's Emily Browning singing the covers, and she's the main actress. That makes things a little bit okay-er since she utters two sentences in total. You should have just made it a battle musical escapist world and nixed the whorehouse. Poorly done, Snyder. Call me next time and I will Tim Gunn things for you.
...
You know, whenever I want to escape my horrible real life where John Hamm is hammering an icepick into my heavily lined-eye, I like to escape to a magical Sailor Moony realm in my head where I'm a whore in a whorehouse where the whores aren't even proper whores with sexual providence and snappy comebacks and drug addictions, they're all weepy angelic ballet dancers who are blondely baffled that one keeps knives in kitchens (they are women, and whores at that, so illogical stupidity is forgivable), because kitchens are mysterious and vile just like potatoes and fat people. Apparently no one keeps knives in drawers or in wooden countertop knife holsters but everyone has shimmery tactical shotguns and thigh-highs and soldiers bleed steam (PUNK!) and it's totally okay to go around slitting the throats of adorable baby dragons napping on beds of bones hidden in the bowels of Mordor, and then the whores all kill terminators with their samurai swords on the train that's going to contaminate all of the water in Gotham and throw Molotov cocktail tantrums elbow-first like sex pansydolls with ginormous blinky-eyes. And then Don Draper is all, "I'm starting to think lobotomies are old hat, this is my last one I swear, and then I'm going into advertising" and all the rapey people simultaneously arrive at the enlightening realization that rape is wrong, and hey guys, I don't think this is a good idea because she has the golden sacrificial face of an ANGEL and that urinal hasn't been cleaned since the first time we raped someone in here back in the good ole days o' rapin' but lately they bitches been gettin' stabby.
So there were pretty okay fight scenes sometimes, although I never got the impression that these girls were kicking ass so much as they had really easy targets (you trained your men to fight in 300, do us a favor and make your women do the same, asshole), and I'm glad Zack Snyder at least tried, embarrassingly so, but you know what Snyder? Shut the fuck up. The best part of your movie was when you started killing whores because you couldn't think of anything else to do with them. It was hilarious.
Back to the meme.
So I couldn't decide if I should post the hand-painted original video, which is awesome, but a little too ADD and seizury for me right now after a night of Sucker Punch.
And I'm not going to post a video from a band I hate, because right now the thing I hate most is the soundtrack of Sucker Punch and its literal lyrical narration with grrrrl power covers of songs that were perfect to begin with. So I'm going to post a Beastie Boys video because they make me happy.
...
Apparently it's Emily Browning singing the covers, and she's the main actress. That makes things a little bit okay-er since she utters two sentences in total. You should have just made it a battle musical escapist world and nixed the whorehouse. Poorly done, Snyder. Call me next time and I will Tim Gunn things for you.
...
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Lord, I Can't Even Live In Peace
The reason I never do stupid meme shit is not just because usually it's stupid meme shit (even though I'm trying to use it as a vehicle to tell stories instead of just like, you know, because I think you care about songs I've heard at one point in my life, as if I'm the only person ever to hear ELO ever, like I'm enlightening anyone or swelling their musical knowledge as I swell their Rassical knowledge, like I matter to anyone but me but really this train is all about me. Dammit, use your words, Rass, do not ramble on so) but it's because I just don't have the gumption to post every day just because some intangible rule tells me to do it.
This, of course, is the exact same reason I had problems in school. Fuck your timetable, you'll get my homework when it's ready. Fuck your timetable, I'll send my resume when it's ready. I'll call you back when I'm ready, I'll do that report when I'm ready, I'll come over when I'm ready, I'll stand up when I'm ready.
Days 9 and 10, bullshit categories
The other big problem, of course, is that I don't like what your idea is. Who wrote this stupid ass list? A song that I can dance to? I will dance to anything, really, as long as I feel like dancing. A song that makes me fall asleep? Why would I listen to a song that makes me fall asleep? This is retarded. Don't say retarded. Shit.
Instead, I've decided to include my favorite song to sing in the shower provided there is no one else in my apartment, immediately followed by my favorite cover of my favorite song to sing in the shower provided there is no one else in my apartment.
I'm a big Chicago blues fan, so of course I've gotta hollaback to Willie Dixon, and Koko Taylor is just fucking growling and bonkers, and really? Go sing this song in the shower. It will change your life.
The Detroit Cobras are one of my favorites, even though they're strictly a cover band. But if I could sing like anyone I'd want to sing like Rachel Nagy.
My ideas are better than your ideas.
...
This, of course, is the exact same reason I had problems in school. Fuck your timetable, you'll get my homework when it's ready. Fuck your timetable, I'll send my resume when it's ready. I'll call you back when I'm ready, I'll do that report when I'm ready, I'll come over when I'm ready, I'll stand up when I'm ready.
Days 9 and 10, bullshit categories
The other big problem, of course, is that I don't like what your idea is. Who wrote this stupid ass list? A song that I can dance to? I will dance to anything, really, as long as I feel like dancing. A song that makes me fall asleep? Why would I listen to a song that makes me fall asleep? This is retarded. Don't say retarded. Shit.
Instead, I've decided to include my favorite song to sing in the shower provided there is no one else in my apartment, immediately followed by my favorite cover of my favorite song to sing in the shower provided there is no one else in my apartment.
I'm a big Chicago blues fan, so of course I've gotta hollaback to Willie Dixon, and Koko Taylor is just fucking growling and bonkers, and really? Go sing this song in the shower. It will change your life.
The Detroit Cobras are one of my favorites, even though they're strictly a cover band. But if I could sing like anyone I'd want to sing like Rachel Nagy.
My ideas are better than your ideas.
...
Friday, April 1, 2011
Hielten sich für Captain Kirk
Day 8: a song that you know all the words to
December 30, 2010. I walk up to a DJ at a bar. "Hey. Can I ask you a question?"
He looks down, raises his eyebrows. Slides the bridge of his shades down his nose and back up again. "Bitch, if you ask me to play Chumbawumba or Baha Men you can just go sit yo' ass back down."
Joey Lawrence whoa. I just start laughing. "Dude. Turn down your shitty Soulja Boy/UB40 remix. No one's dancing and I want to have a conversation with my friends." I walk back to my booth, cackling. "Dick."
I sit down at the table and scoff the story back to my friends. "It's just horseshit. Do I look like the type of person who listens to goddamn Chumbawumba?"
"Well, when you get knocked down you do get back up again," Sean says.
I narrow my eyes at him. "Sean. I expect better from you."
He giggles and shrugs. "Well, you're wearing a shirt from 1997. That guy reads people like you read the liner notes for Tubthumping."
"Better."
"Wait. Is your shirt really from 1997?" Meatball pipes in.
"I can't keep track of these things. But do I dress the same way I did in high school? Yes. Basically. Still, I mean come on. I never listened to Chumbawumba."
"Yes you did," MoLinder inserts herself. "You know all the words! I've heard you sing it in the bathroom. You know you cruised to Tubthumping in high school. Don't lie."
"That was when I was drunk by myself, ass," I glare at MoLinder. "Besides, that was hilarious. I kept myself entertained for hours."
There's a pause, and Meatball bites. "What were you--"
"Pissing. The night away."
"HA!" Sean freaks out. "You do know all the words. That DJ was right about you. Don't fight it. It's a song that reminds you of the good times."
"It's a song that reminds me of the better times."
And the sing-a-long began.
That's basically just a story that I wanted to tell. I really don't want to subject anyone to "Tubthumping." I know the words to a shitload of songs. I know all the words to basically all of the songs I know. I can hear a song once, twice, and repeat it back to you if I'm actually listening to it.
So I sang this at a wedding once.
Honestly, I used to know all the words, aber Deutscher ist schwierig so I basically just make up words that sound like the lyrics and no one can tell the difference because I am amazing. Once I sang it for ze Germans. They thought it was funny.
...
December 30, 2010. I walk up to a DJ at a bar. "Hey. Can I ask you a question?"
He looks down, raises his eyebrows. Slides the bridge of his shades down his nose and back up again. "Bitch, if you ask me to play Chumbawumba or Baha Men you can just go sit yo' ass back down."
Joey Lawrence whoa. I just start laughing. "Dude. Turn down your shitty Soulja Boy/UB40 remix. No one's dancing and I want to have a conversation with my friends." I walk back to my booth, cackling. "Dick."
I sit down at the table and scoff the story back to my friends. "It's just horseshit. Do I look like the type of person who listens to goddamn Chumbawumba?"
"Well, when you get knocked down you do get back up again," Sean says.
I narrow my eyes at him. "Sean. I expect better from you."
He giggles and shrugs. "Well, you're wearing a shirt from 1997. That guy reads people like you read the liner notes for Tubthumping."
"Better."
"Wait. Is your shirt really from 1997?" Meatball pipes in.
"I can't keep track of these things. But do I dress the same way I did in high school? Yes. Basically. Still, I mean come on. I never listened to Chumbawumba."
"Yes you did," MoLinder inserts herself. "You know all the words! I've heard you sing it in the bathroom. You know you cruised to Tubthumping in high school. Don't lie."
"That was when I was drunk by myself, ass," I glare at MoLinder. "Besides, that was hilarious. I kept myself entertained for hours."
There's a pause, and Meatball bites. "What were you--"
"Pissing. The night away."
"HA!" Sean freaks out. "You do know all the words. That DJ was right about you. Don't fight it. It's a song that reminds you of the good times."
"It's a song that reminds me of the better times."
And the sing-a-long began.
That's basically just a story that I wanted to tell. I really don't want to subject anyone to "Tubthumping." I know the words to a shitload of songs. I know all the words to basically all of the songs I know. I can hear a song once, twice, and repeat it back to you if I'm actually listening to it.
So I sang this at a wedding once.
Honestly, I used to know all the words, aber Deutscher ist schwierig so I basically just make up words that sound like the lyrics and no one can tell the difference because I am amazing. Once I sang it for ze Germans. They thought it was funny.
...
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Before this, did you really know what live was?
Day 7: a song that reminds you of a certain event
Muffy was the first friend I made in college in 1999, and she stuck, surprisingly. She was cool. She listened to Alkaline Trio and the Pixies and other bands I don't remember or give a shit about, but music was her thing. She introduced me to Modest Mouse and Promise Ring (of course, this was before everyone became a fucking sell out. Muffy was very anti-selling out. I think I learned to care about that from her as well, although I had a similar mindset towards certain filmmakers). I forced her into a more in-depth understanding of Stevie Wonder, Led Zeppelin, and the Kinks (at 18, I was a musical traditionalist). She smoked a shitload of weed, dyed her hair weekly and housed everyone at Goldeneye. I think. She could have been horrible, but she was the only one with an N64. I grew up playing Sega.
So one day, some time into freshman year, we're stuffing towels under the door of her dorm room so no smoke gets in the hallway. There's about six of us in there, including some extremely cute boys that I had never met that terrified me down to my girl parts, but Muffy was friends with like, every cute boy ever so I wasn't surprised. I didn't smoke weed at all, I was just there to play Goldeneye.
"Music, Rass," Muffy yells while she packs the bowl. Dudes are talking and doing that dude laugh. I am very nervous. Everyone in the room is so cool and attractive, and they aren't freaking out about getting caught and sweating uncontrollably - we need to open a window - no, nevermind, they're open - this is like being in a movie, and I'm hanging out with the cool people, and these guys would have definitely have ignored me in high school.
My hands shake as I pop in People's Instinctive Travels and the Paths of Rhythm and skip to track 8, because hip hop is a genre Muffy and I have yet to cover, and she snaps to attention, because what white girls from the suburbs listen to Tribe Called Quest?
"YES." Muffy exhales. "This is the shit." She passes the bowl to a dark-haired young man with insane eyelashes and white teeth. I decide that I love him.
"What, what is this?" The skinniest boy asks.
"Old school, dude," Muffy laughs. "This shit is old school."
"Tribe Called Quest," I venture and then stop talking.
I stretch out my legs and glance around, trying to look nonchalant. What would make me look nonchalant? Shit. I start singing along. "If you feel the urge to freak, do the jitterbug."
Muffy laughs and joins me, but she only knows the last few words of every line. The guys are watching us, amused. I start to get into it. Muffy gets into it. This is the first song we played, in our one-month friendship, that we both knew and loved. We jump up and bounce around, doing the best damn Q-Tip imitation we can pull together, and we're so fucking into it, we got call and response, we got synchronized moves we so didn't plan in advance, and we're awesome.
Skinny guy speaks up again during the musical break. "Yeah, but what's the like, background? I know this."
I scoff at him. "Lou Reed. 'Walk on the Wild Side.' Duh." This is the only reason I know about Tribe: because I know about Lou Reed. I don't tell them that, though. I want them to believe I am worldly and multicultural.
"Ohhhhhhh." I hear the dark-haired guy say, "I'm so glad when people know music."
"Can I kick it? YES YOU CAN!"
"I think my older brother listens to this."
"Mine too! That has to be it. I can't believe I never realized how good this band was. Now I wanna hear that other song. The background song."
"That is a dope idea."
"What was it again?"
"That 'Wild Side' song."
"Oh yeah."
"Mr. Dinkins, would you please be my mayor?" me and Muffy shout, and giggle. I turn to the skinny guy and sing, "And all the colored girls say, 'doo doodoo. doodoo doodoodoo..."
"Oh, THAT song!" They are all really excited that I know what I'm talking about. This, by the way, was before we all officially discovered the internet and all its marvels. This was back when I just knew shit and solved people's trivia debates. I loved knowing shit and being celebrated for it.
I flop down onto Muffy's bed after the song and breathe, smiling to myself. The dark-haired boy (Matt. His name is Matt) leans over to me, and gives me the first of rare compliments I've received on my appearance. "Dude," he says, staring at my face. "You have awesome eyes." I hold my breath and just return the stare, because I'm afraid if I don't he'll forget he was talking to me and everything will fade away. "Adam!" he says, still staring. "Come check out this chick's eyes."
The skinny guy crawls over. "Whoa."
"Dude."
"Dude."
Muffy comes over and stares at me, and the other two guys who'd been interjecting randomly lean over and look. They're all squinty and high-looking. I start to laugh. I feel like an exhibit. And I know that this is my first time existing so blatantly around any drug use, because in high school I was a severe buzzkill. And I promise you, I promise that no one else in the room is nearly as effected by the events as I am.
"Whoa."
"Dude," Muffy guffaws, "your eyes are like a fucking storm right now."
"This is awesome. Muffy, I'm so glad you invited this chick over."
...
Muffy was the first friend I made in college in 1999, and she stuck, surprisingly. She was cool. She listened to Alkaline Trio and the Pixies and other bands I don't remember or give a shit about, but music was her thing. She introduced me to Modest Mouse and Promise Ring (of course, this was before everyone became a fucking sell out. Muffy was very anti-selling out. I think I learned to care about that from her as well, although I had a similar mindset towards certain filmmakers). I forced her into a more in-depth understanding of Stevie Wonder, Led Zeppelin, and the Kinks (at 18, I was a musical traditionalist). She smoked a shitload of weed, dyed her hair weekly and housed everyone at Goldeneye. I think. She could have been horrible, but she was the only one with an N64. I grew up playing Sega.
So one day, some time into freshman year, we're stuffing towels under the door of her dorm room so no smoke gets in the hallway. There's about six of us in there, including some extremely cute boys that I had never met that terrified me down to my girl parts, but Muffy was friends with like, every cute boy ever so I wasn't surprised. I didn't smoke weed at all, I was just there to play Goldeneye.
"Music, Rass," Muffy yells while she packs the bowl. Dudes are talking and doing that dude laugh. I am very nervous. Everyone in the room is so cool and attractive, and they aren't freaking out about getting caught and sweating uncontrollably - we need to open a window - no, nevermind, they're open - this is like being in a movie, and I'm hanging out with the cool people, and these guys would have definitely have ignored me in high school.
My hands shake as I pop in People's Instinctive Travels and the Paths of Rhythm and skip to track 8, because hip hop is a genre Muffy and I have yet to cover, and she snaps to attention, because what white girls from the suburbs listen to Tribe Called Quest?
"YES." Muffy exhales. "This is the shit." She passes the bowl to a dark-haired young man with insane eyelashes and white teeth. I decide that I love him.
"What, what is this?" The skinniest boy asks.
"Old school, dude," Muffy laughs. "This shit is old school."
"Tribe Called Quest," I venture and then stop talking.
I stretch out my legs and glance around, trying to look nonchalant. What would make me look nonchalant? Shit. I start singing along. "If you feel the urge to freak, do the jitterbug."
Muffy laughs and joins me, but she only knows the last few words of every line. The guys are watching us, amused. I start to get into it. Muffy gets into it. This is the first song we played, in our one-month friendship, that we both knew and loved. We jump up and bounce around, doing the best damn Q-Tip imitation we can pull together, and we're so fucking into it, we got call and response, we got synchronized moves we so didn't plan in advance, and we're awesome.
Skinny guy speaks up again during the musical break. "Yeah, but what's the like, background? I know this."
I scoff at him. "Lou Reed. 'Walk on the Wild Side.' Duh." This is the only reason I know about Tribe: because I know about Lou Reed. I don't tell them that, though. I want them to believe I am worldly and multicultural.
"Ohhhhhhh." I hear the dark-haired guy say, "I'm so glad when people know music."
"Can I kick it? YES YOU CAN!"
"I think my older brother listens to this."
"Mine too! That has to be it. I can't believe I never realized how good this band was. Now I wanna hear that other song. The background song."
"That is a dope idea."
"What was it again?"
"That 'Wild Side' song."
"Oh yeah."
"Mr. Dinkins, would you please be my mayor?" me and Muffy shout, and giggle. I turn to the skinny guy and sing, "And all the colored girls say, 'doo doodoo. doodoo doodoodoo..."
"Oh, THAT song!" They are all really excited that I know what I'm talking about. This, by the way, was before we all officially discovered the internet and all its marvels. This was back when I just knew shit and solved people's trivia debates. I loved knowing shit and being celebrated for it.
I flop down onto Muffy's bed after the song and breathe, smiling to myself. The dark-haired boy (Matt. His name is Matt) leans over to me, and gives me the first of rare compliments I've received on my appearance. "Dude," he says, staring at my face. "You have awesome eyes." I hold my breath and just return the stare, because I'm afraid if I don't he'll forget he was talking to me and everything will fade away. "Adam!" he says, still staring. "Come check out this chick's eyes."
The skinny guy crawls over. "Whoa."
"Dude."
"Dude."
Muffy comes over and stares at me, and the other two guys who'd been interjecting randomly lean over and look. They're all squinty and high-looking. I start to laugh. I feel like an exhibit. And I know that this is my first time existing so blatantly around any drug use, because in high school I was a severe buzzkill. And I promise you, I promise that no one else in the room is nearly as effected by the events as I am.
"Whoa."
"Dude," Muffy guffaws, "your eyes are like a fucking storm right now."
"This is awesome. Muffy, I'm so glad you invited this chick over."
...
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Don't You Realize the Things We Did Were All For Real, Not a Dream?
Day 6: a song that reminds you of somewhere
Once upon a time, I was unbeatable at Egyptian/European War/Rat Slap/Screw/Fuck/War.
You know. That one card game where you hit things.
Sean and I were sitting at a picnic table on a cliffside of Mount Shilthorn in Switzerland, looking down into a valley of cows and rainbows. Shit was pritty.
We played like, a fucking twelve hour game of E/E W/R S/S/F/W or something, drank no less than four bottles of wine and passed the hell out. The next morning we were both sure we'd won the previous nights game.
After a full day of bickering and a return to our hostel, Muffy demanded we play a second game to determine, once and for all, who was more bad ass at childish card games. Also, she wanted to prove herself worthy.
She was out quickly. Sean and I battled for hours, drinking mug after mug of mountaintop beer.
Things got interesting. Shit got wagered.
I won, of course. Proud new owner of a small Swiss Army Knife (guess where he got that), a red Zippo emblazened with Che Guevara (lame, I know, but it was important to him so it was important to me) and the crowning jewel: a glowing, vintage ELO belt buckle.
Oh, and his belt. I totally made him wear rope for a day while we hiked up the mountain. I fluttered about the valley and sang sweet, nostalgic, doo-woppy nothings to butterflies and waterfalls and a herd of shaggy Swiss ponies while he scowled from the rocks ahead, constantly dragging up his pants.
...
Once upon a time, I was unbeatable at Egyptian/European War/Rat Slap/Screw/Fuck/War.
You know. That one card game where you hit things.
Sean and I were sitting at a picnic table on a cliffside of Mount Shilthorn in Switzerland, looking down into a valley of cows and rainbows. Shit was pritty.
We played like, a fucking twelve hour game of E/E W/R S/S/F/W or something, drank no less than four bottles of wine and passed the hell out. The next morning we were both sure we'd won the previous nights game.
After a full day of bickering and a return to our hostel, Muffy demanded we play a second game to determine, once and for all, who was more bad ass at childish card games. Also, she wanted to prove herself worthy.
She was out quickly. Sean and I battled for hours, drinking mug after mug of mountaintop beer.
Things got interesting. Shit got wagered.
I won, of course. Proud new owner of a small Swiss Army Knife (guess where he got that), a red Zippo emblazened with Che Guevara (lame, I know, but it was important to him so it was important to me) and the crowning jewel: a glowing, vintage ELO belt buckle.
Oh, and his belt. I totally made him wear rope for a day while we hiked up the mountain. I fluttered about the valley and sang sweet, nostalgic, doo-woppy nothings to butterflies and waterfalls and a herd of shaggy Swiss ponies while he scowled from the rocks ahead, constantly dragging up his pants.
...
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
We Spend Our Lives On Trial
This article just punches me in the chest, because I had to deal with that bullying shit for years (of course, I retaliated by yelling louder and pointing out how the things they loved were stupider). I still have to deal with that shit, although on a much smaller scale. I hate getting that look, that confused, oh-she's-one-of-those-girls looks. I don't have socially acceptable interests. At least not among extroverts. And by "extroverts" I mean "guys who don't live in a basement." Hey guys - GET OUT OF YOUR BASEMENT AND COME TO THE BAR.
It's easy to get addicted to being bullied after having it define you for years. Of course now I have this ridiculous arrogant air about me because yes, I was bullied for being smart and nerdy and not very feminine, so say it. Go on. Say what you're thinking.
And then it's my fucking turn.
They called me crazy because talking back, of course, is a sign of mental dysfunction. Teachers never stepped in, mostly because in high school the bullying is all sidelined and mental and pansy-assed. The smart kids (who were the biggest assholes) trap insults into class discussions during Literature of Romance and Tragedy, "I think it's commendable that Hester just bears all of the persecution with nobility. I admire that. It's always obnoxious when they fight back. Right Rassles? Wouldn't you agree?" The most neanderthal, and the rarest, hang out in the cafeteria near the quiet, greasy-haired kid in a black trenchcoat and combat boots and loudly talk shit about his clothes and music from a short distance. So I would walk over there in my little sweater vest and khakis (fuck you, mom) and call them gutless and make fun of their shoes or their hair or something and just walk away.
This did not make me popular. If anything they ignored me.
Of course, in college my behavior was a virtue. I think it's just because students didn't know me well enough to know that you're supposed to avoid me, like all those kids from kindergarten through the end of high school. Then again, in college we clung to the people we knew would have our backs, because that place was like a fucking battleground where everyone was fighting to be the most awesome.
So...now you know why I'm a fortress.
Day 5: a song that reminds you of someone
Basically every song reminds me of someone, it's just that sometimes that person is myself. I thought long and hard about this. Who would I honor with words, affection and song?
You better be reading this, asshole.
Gyna is moving to Germany in one month. This makes me very very sad. Gyna is leaving and now I'll be swimming in a sea of couples and pairs. Goddammit. Having someone like Gyna around, someone who perfectly balances the excruciatingly rational with the excruciatingly silly, is kind of nice.
You remember those guys I mentioned above, the ones who live in basements? Gyna is the girl they approach at the bar. It makes sense, she wears glasses and is roughly shaped like a superheroine. Sometimes I get eerie osmosis loiterers that stand close to me and laugh at my jokes but never say anything, just soak up my shine, but Gyna gets picked up and then they want to see her again.
That's because Gyna laughs readily, tells good jokes and engages in the ridiculous (like when she threw a Four Loko party with eight flavors of Four Loko chilling in wine coolers, plates of lavish cheeses and grapes on the vine, bowls of fruit, delicate crackers, and the 100 Sexiest Music Videos counting down on the TV), she's whipsmart and knows a lot about a lot of things. She is also very self-assured and fashionable, but the good kind of fashionable because she still hangs out with me when I wear Pumas and a t-shirt to a club (not that I go to clubs willingly but birthdays are birthdays) and she's all cleavage and fancy jackets and heeled boots with belts on them, even though she shakes her head and calls me an asshole (which is fine, because I know very well that I am being an asshole when I deliberately dress down so I don't have to talk to douchebags that hang out at fucking clubs which will let me in because my friends are hot).
I just noticed something when I was fielding through pictures: there are lots of pictures of me and Gyna going places and sitting on things, like motorcyles and barrels with saddles on them and strange hands.
Also, she rides in my sidecar. Or I am her driver. Not sure which is which.
So "Youth Gone Wild" is our official karaoke duet. There's really no reason for it other than the fact that it's a bad ass song.
...
It's easy to get addicted to being bullied after having it define you for years. Of course now I have this ridiculous arrogant air about me because yes, I was bullied for being smart and nerdy and not very feminine, so say it. Go on. Say what you're thinking.
And then it's my fucking turn.
They called me crazy because talking back, of course, is a sign of mental dysfunction. Teachers never stepped in, mostly because in high school the bullying is all sidelined and mental and pansy-assed. The smart kids (who were the biggest assholes) trap insults into class discussions during Literature of Romance and Tragedy, "I think it's commendable that Hester just bears all of the persecution with nobility. I admire that. It's always obnoxious when they fight back. Right Rassles? Wouldn't you agree?" The most neanderthal, and the rarest, hang out in the cafeteria near the quiet, greasy-haired kid in a black trenchcoat and combat boots and loudly talk shit about his clothes and music from a short distance. So I would walk over there in my little sweater vest and khakis (fuck you, mom) and call them gutless and make fun of their shoes or their hair or something and just walk away.
This did not make me popular. If anything they ignored me.
Of course, in college my behavior was a virtue. I think it's just because students didn't know me well enough to know that you're supposed to avoid me, like all those kids from kindergarten through the end of high school. Then again, in college we clung to the people we knew would have our backs, because that place was like a fucking battleground where everyone was fighting to be the most awesome.
So...now you know why I'm a fortress.
Day 5: a song that reminds you of someone
Basically every song reminds me of someone, it's just that sometimes that person is myself. I thought long and hard about this. Who would I honor with words, affection and song?
You better be reading this, asshole.
Gyna is moving to Germany in one month. This makes me very very sad. Gyna is leaving and now I'll be swimming in a sea of couples and pairs. Goddammit. Having someone like Gyna around, someone who perfectly balances the excruciatingly rational with the excruciatingly silly, is kind of nice.
You remember those guys I mentioned above, the ones who live in basements? Gyna is the girl they approach at the bar. It makes sense, she wears glasses and is roughly shaped like a superheroine. Sometimes I get eerie osmosis loiterers that stand close to me and laugh at my jokes but never say anything, just soak up my shine, but Gyna gets picked up and then they want to see her again.
That's because Gyna laughs readily, tells good jokes and engages in the ridiculous (like when she threw a Four Loko party with eight flavors of Four Loko chilling in wine coolers, plates of lavish cheeses and grapes on the vine, bowls of fruit, delicate crackers, and the 100 Sexiest Music Videos counting down on the TV), she's whipsmart and knows a lot about a lot of things. She is also very self-assured and fashionable, but the good kind of fashionable because she still hangs out with me when I wear Pumas and a t-shirt to a club (not that I go to clubs willingly but birthdays are birthdays) and she's all cleavage and fancy jackets and heeled boots with belts on them, even though she shakes her head and calls me an asshole (which is fine, because I know very well that I am being an asshole when I deliberately dress down so I don't have to talk to douchebags that hang out at fucking clubs which will let me in because my friends are hot).
I just noticed something when I was fielding through pictures: there are lots of pictures of me and Gyna going places and sitting on things, like motorcyles and barrels with saddles on them and strange hands.
Also, she rides in my sidecar. Or I am her driver. Not sure which is which.
So "Youth Gone Wild" is our official karaoke duet. There's really no reason for it other than the fact that it's a bad ass song.
...
Monday, March 28, 2011
I Know You'll Never Get Tired of Me. I Hope It Never Ends.
Two parts in one day because yesterday was reserved for a LOST marathon.
I miss that compulsion to move closer to the TV, that "ssshhhhhh sshshhshshs it's back on" after every commercial break, I miss being dangerously invested in the characters. LOST was the best kind of addiction. It never let me down or left me disappointed. I trusted LOST more than I trusted my friends. Someday I will learn to believe I deserve to be invested in my own life instead.
Days 3 and 4, Songs that make you happy and sad, respectively.
First, the happy.
When I first moved to Chicago, my roommate and I used to sing this song to each other. I hadn't been away from home since college, and Xtine was a friend I made due to our mutual love for live band karaoke.
Xtine was (IS) a packrat. She saved everything and kept it on display, making tiny shoebox dioramas of trinkets and junk that we stapled all over the walls of the apartment. Puddle-foot army men gunning down tiny plastic horses from vending machines against a backdrop of old band fliers, a forest of metal jacks and finger monsters amidst dangling Korean key chains, a mosaic of Garbage Pail Kid cards behind a collection of dried roses, Happy Meal toys and one-hitters. Our apartment was a disaster of ashtrays, DVDs, tampons, spools of thread, half-finished glasses of wine, bras and high heels. We had a giant filing cabinet in our kitchen full of clothes and bottles of whiskey and bolts of fabric, and there were always instruments lying around. Whenever we sat down on the couch we'd have to shove over the keyboard and old bags of take-out. It always smelled like cigarettes and booze and hair dye. We spilled a jar of beads one week after I moved in and I still find them in corners, just after I'm sure I tracked down the last one.
We cleaned together about three times in two years. Usually I cleaned. It drove me bonkers, but I knew what I was getting into when I moved in. But whenever we did clean Xtine would pop on her iTunes, and we would sing.
I was so happy when she cleaned with me. Plus, you know. This song is awesome.
And now, the Sad.
THIS SONG MAKES ME FUCKING LOSE IT.
Fox and the Hound is probably the most depressing movie of all time because its message is so simple and pessimistic: you can't be friends with people who are different than you.
I can say with confidence that most of my friends are very different, but everyone is different, really. I don't believe in the mindless masses. Some people just make their differences more obvious.
In the end the things my friends all have in common are drinking, a penchant for the ridiculous, and storytelling. We tell good stories. We tell stories about shit we've done and about shit we want to do. We make boring stories sound exciting, and exciting stories sound better. We're at our best sitting around with booze and memories and the friends we make that stick around are the same.
I know this isn't a unique trait, but it's what brings us together. Some people bond over sports teams, loving their children, hating their boss, music, skiing, sex, neighborhoods, politics, fashion, LOST. We tell stories and we rarely run out of them.
And when that changes it's sad. When someone decides they've told enough stories and it's time to move on to children or work, I understand, even though I can't see anything but stories being my priority. But when their priorities shift to the extent that it pulls us apart, I think of this song and I cry.
...
I miss that compulsion to move closer to the TV, that "ssshhhhhh sshshhshshs it's back on" after every commercial break, I miss being dangerously invested in the characters. LOST was the best kind of addiction. It never let me down or left me disappointed. I trusted LOST more than I trusted my friends. Someday I will learn to believe I deserve to be invested in my own life instead.
Days 3 and 4, Songs that make you happy and sad, respectively.
First, the happy.
When I first moved to Chicago, my roommate and I used to sing this song to each other. I hadn't been away from home since college, and Xtine was a friend I made due to our mutual love for live band karaoke.
Xtine was (IS) a packrat. She saved everything and kept it on display, making tiny shoebox dioramas of trinkets and junk that we stapled all over the walls of the apartment. Puddle-foot army men gunning down tiny plastic horses from vending machines against a backdrop of old band fliers, a forest of metal jacks and finger monsters amidst dangling Korean key chains, a mosaic of Garbage Pail Kid cards behind a collection of dried roses, Happy Meal toys and one-hitters. Our apartment was a disaster of ashtrays, DVDs, tampons, spools of thread, half-finished glasses of wine, bras and high heels. We had a giant filing cabinet in our kitchen full of clothes and bottles of whiskey and bolts of fabric, and there were always instruments lying around. Whenever we sat down on the couch we'd have to shove over the keyboard and old bags of take-out. It always smelled like cigarettes and booze and hair dye. We spilled a jar of beads one week after I moved in and I still find them in corners, just after I'm sure I tracked down the last one.
We cleaned together about three times in two years. Usually I cleaned. It drove me bonkers, but I knew what I was getting into when I moved in. But whenever we did clean Xtine would pop on her iTunes, and we would sing.
I was so happy when she cleaned with me. Plus, you know. This song is awesome.
And now, the Sad.
THIS SONG MAKES ME FUCKING LOSE IT.
Fox and the Hound is probably the most depressing movie of all time because its message is so simple and pessimistic: you can't be friends with people who are different than you.
I can say with confidence that most of my friends are very different, but everyone is different, really. I don't believe in the mindless masses. Some people just make their differences more obvious.
In the end the things my friends all have in common are drinking, a penchant for the ridiculous, and storytelling. We tell good stories. We tell stories about shit we've done and about shit we want to do. We make boring stories sound exciting, and exciting stories sound better. We're at our best sitting around with booze and memories and the friends we make that stick around are the same.
I know this isn't a unique trait, but it's what brings us together. Some people bond over sports teams, loving their children, hating their boss, music, skiing, sex, neighborhoods, politics, fashion, LOST. We tell stories and we rarely run out of them.
And when that changes it's sad. When someone decides they've told enough stories and it's time to move on to children or work, I understand, even though I can't see anything but stories being my priority. But when their priorities shift to the extent that it pulls us apart, I think of this song and I cry.
...
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