March 30, 2011
These Days
9:31 PM | Posted by
jenniy
My windows are rolled partway down while I drive home this evening. The warm, humid air ruffling my bangs hasn’t really affected the heavy aroma of slow-boiled cabbage permeating every inch of air space in my car; I just can’t shake the smell.
I’m on the way home after work. It’s a 45 mile drive. Some people tell me they couldn’t commute so far day in and day out, but I love my time on the road with my favorite bands cranked up to speaking-blowing volumes. Today with the breeze forcefully caressing my skin and the beauty of the sunset before me, I couldn't ask for a better time. This must be why the song “These Days” by the Black Keys sucker punches me straight on, no holds barred.
Dan Auerbach’s soulful croon makes me smirk with the line “Men come in different shades. That’s how we’re made” and its universal truth. But in the next moment, his sorrow surrounds me like a blanket. “that little house on Ellis drive is where I felt most alive. The oak tree covered that old Ford. I miss it, Lord. I miss it, Lord.” All his emotion spills through my speakers and threatens to spill from my eyes. I am completely overtaken.
And in that same moment I realize how much I love everything I have and everything I am.
I have that small house. That simple life. My existence is surrounded by the beauty of Spanish Moss covered trees and punctuated by pink sunsets not violent colors so obscene. The minutes spent hand turning the earth for the garden in my front yard or sitting around the room laughing with friends will never be seen as wasted times. Even as Auerbach fills my ears with his melancholy regrets, I realize more than ever that my choice to live this life instead of making the choice for something more glitzy has made me a better person.
Georgia, despite popular opinion, has not and will not ruin me. And, here is Dan Auerbach to attest to this truth.
My car is filled with the scent of cabbage because the woman who delivers medicines at the pharmacy where I work cooked a meal today. She woke up early. 5 a.m. early. She labored in her kitchen, this 65 year old fairy godmother of mine who can tell the dirtiest of jokes. The ham baked to tender, juicy deliciousness in the oven while she cut cabbage and let it boil then simmer its way to perfection. She cooked rice with neck bones added for flavor and whipped up a batch of Jiffy cornbread muffins. And she did all this before coming to work at a place where she is often taken for granted. We enjoyed the meal at lunch cracking jokes and complaining about the natives, and when the day was done, she offered the entire batch of leftovers to me to take home for myself and my roommates. Her giving nature never ceases.
I had to leave a kidney as collateral that I’d actually bring her dishes back this time.
The Southern Sunday dinner smells only add to my appreciation of these days. My days. And it makes me embrace the woeful nature of this song even more intensely. I realize how many regrets I would have if I left my life behind to chase after greener grass; that realization makes me understand the sadness in this song all the more. And a tear rolls down one cheek.
I may look back at this time one day and miss it, but for now, there is nothing wrong with living in my little corner of the world.
Dan Auerbach’s soulful croon makes me smirk with the line “Men come in different shades. That’s how we’re made” and its universal truth. But in the next moment, his sorrow surrounds me like a blanket. “that little house on Ellis drive is where I felt most alive. The oak tree covered that old Ford. I miss it, Lord. I miss it, Lord.” All his emotion spills through my speakers and threatens to spill from my eyes. I am completely overtaken.
And in that same moment I realize how much I love everything I have and everything I am.
I have that small house. That simple life. My existence is surrounded by the beauty of Spanish Moss covered trees and punctuated by pink sunsets not violent colors so obscene. The minutes spent hand turning the earth for the garden in my front yard or sitting around the room laughing with friends will never be seen as wasted times. Even as Auerbach fills my ears with his melancholy regrets, I realize more than ever that my choice to live this life instead of making the choice for something more glitzy has made me a better person.
Georgia, despite popular opinion, has not and will not ruin me. And, here is Dan Auerbach to attest to this truth.
My car is filled with the scent of cabbage because the woman who delivers medicines at the pharmacy where I work cooked a meal today. She woke up early. 5 a.m. early. She labored in her kitchen, this 65 year old fairy godmother of mine who can tell the dirtiest of jokes. The ham baked to tender, juicy deliciousness in the oven while she cut cabbage and let it boil then simmer its way to perfection. She cooked rice with neck bones added for flavor and whipped up a batch of Jiffy cornbread muffins. And she did all this before coming to work at a place where she is often taken for granted. We enjoyed the meal at lunch cracking jokes and complaining about the natives, and when the day was done, she offered the entire batch of leftovers to me to take home for myself and my roommates. Her giving nature never ceases.
I had to leave a kidney as collateral that I’d actually bring her dishes back this time.
The Southern Sunday dinner smells only add to my appreciation of these days. My days. And it makes me embrace the woeful nature of this song even more intensely. I realize how many regrets I would have if I left my life behind to chase after greener grass; that realization makes me understand the sadness in this song all the more. And a tear rolls down one cheek.
I may look back at this time one day and miss it, but for now, there is nothing wrong with living in my little corner of the world.
My hand to God
I didn't mean to
After all
That we've been through
Men come in different shapes
That's how we're made
The little house on Ellis drive
Is where I felt most alive
The oak tree covered that old Ford
I miss it, Lord. I miss it, Lord
These blood red eyes
Don't see so good
But, what's worse is if they could
Would I change my ways?
Wasted times and broken dreams
Violent colors so obscene
It's all I see these days
These days
Watch what you say
The devil is listenin'
He's got ears that you
Wouldn't believe
And brother, once you go to him
It's your soul you can never retrieve
These blood red eyes
Don't see so good
But whats worse is if they could?
Would I change my ways?
Wasted times and broken dreams
Violent colors so obscene
It's all I see these days
These days
February 4, 2011
Isn't It Ironic?
12:46 AM | Posted by
jenniy
So I’m standing around at a NOFX concert…
Yeah, I know. I should have thought this through a little better.
Anyway, I’m standing at this concert and I have a total Final Destination moment. This happens due to the summation of several factors.
1. I am on the second floor of a bar/club and I can feel the vibrations of the double bass drum from the band playing on the ground floor.
2. The entire building seems to be made completely of wood.
3. There are numerous men who are much too big to be jumping around like kids who are, indeed, jumping around and punching at each other like children. Hereafter these men shall be referred to as fatties, huge bitches, or big ass motherfuckers.
4. These huge bitches are making the floor bounce like a fucking trampoline right underneath my feet.
1 + 2 + 3 + 4 = death trap.
In my mind, I see these fatties causing the floor to give way beneath us. It would splinter like a frozen sheet of ice covering a lake and start to break away. The stage would begin to collapse, sparks would fly, and all this wood would begin to burn. With all the alcohol spillage, it would ignite quickly and the entire place would be engulfed in flames. After suffering a broken ankle in the fall , I would be trampled while trying to make my way to the exit and I would die while the fat cells of some of those big ass motherfuckers who fell on top of me dripped onto my skin.
Sounds like a good time, huh? I probably had marginally more fun than that in real life since I didn’t live out a scene from Final Destination 17. In fact, before the night was even over, I walked out and left the person I accompanied there while I waited not so patiently in the car. My last text read:
I am ready to fucking go. It is freezing. I have beer everywhere. I don’t care who you talked to. I am not going to wait out here another hour while you chat people up.
I don’t understand the point of throwing a ham sandwich at a Jewish guy. That is the theme of the evening. I don’t think I’ve ever been in a worse crowd in all the many concerts I’ve been to in my lifetime and I’ve been in some rough ones. It doesn’t take much when you’re 5’4 and have a vagina. Unless I’m there with a guy as a pretty, tattooed accessory, I’m in the way. But still, Metalheads seem to have nothing when it comes to the sheer unadulterated ignorance of a collective punker crowd.
We’re going to hurl crushed, mostly empty beer cans at a band we paid 30 bucks to see. We’re going to ironically insult them by tossing processed pork. We will smoke pot in the middle of the crowd because we’re rebels, baby. We don’t have any rules. It’s anarchy, bitches. Fuck yeah. And we’re going to run around a room in a circle punching and kicking other people in a mass of sweat and stink and cigarette smoke. It’s ironic dancing. Everything we do is ironic. And that’s how we fight the system to take it down, doll face. We do drugs that people have negative opinions about then act in completely inane, violent ways. It’s okay though. It’s all irony, you see.
What? What’s that you say? That doesn’t seem like a sensible approach to accomplishing a single fucking thing? Yeah, you’re probably right.
NOFX, though not exactly my thing, put on a great show. But as I’m standing there frozen to the spot in midst of my Final Destination montage with beer drying on my Chucks and jeans, sore, possibly bruised and bleeding, makeup ruined from the water that had been splashed in my face from a hurtling plastic bottle, I realize this is really not how I would like to spend the last few moments of my life. There’s no value in this experience to say the least. So I squeeze through the crowd and go sit in my car to work on my book. I’d rather have been mugged and murdered sitting in my car in the middle of Atlanta than drown in adipose while flames lick my toes and creep up the legs of my beer soaked jeans. In fact, after measuring my options, the risk of getting mugged and murdered on my way to the car or while in the car seemed trivial in comparison to sharing one more moment of my time with such a negative entity.
Tips for Punkers (and anyone else who acts like a fucktard at concerts):
1. I don’t care how hot it is--do not take off your shirt in a crowd. Your armpits always smell and you look like a dick. Keeping the shirt on minimizes the amount of sweat you insist on depositing on someone else when you rub against them on your way to do more punching.
2. A band will likely not come back if you throw lunchmeat at them. I know this is hard to process, but I would never lie to you.
3. Learn phrases like “pardon me” and “my bad.” When you trample someone a foot shorter than you, he or she may be less likely to elbow the fuck out of your ribs on your way by if you simple use such a phrase.
4. It’s probably a bad idea to pound 8 beers while participating in the equivalent of the Running of the Bulls.
5. Having a standard look is the same as a uniform. Uniforms are, ironically, a symbol of oppression. This leads me to think you are, likely, oppressing not liberating yourselves. Being a “punker” is not a way of dress. It’s supposed to be a way of life.
6. Respect the fact that some people came to actually watch the band. It’s tough to understand right now, I know, but it’s true. Just think about it for a while. There are people in these crowds who have no less right to be there than you who absolutely do not have any desire to run around all crazy like and get punched or knocked down onto a hard concrete floor.
7. Some of you are way too big to be running around like that. You’re going to kill someone or possibly have a heart attack. You should slowly work up to that amount of aerobic exercise. Also, some of you come to these events just for the punching. I know you got made fun of when you were younger, but let it go. Between fight dancing and Call of Duty addiction, you’re all becoming pretty scary and you will never get laid.
8. Not wearing deodorant is not a form of rebellion. It’s fucking stupid.
9. Those guys at the front of the crowd who work for the venue get tired of picking your drunk asses up and redistributing you when you’re having a “blast” crowd surfing. They’re doing it for a reason. If one of you happened to fall and break your neck while this was allowed to go on, your pathetic ass would sue the shit out of said venue. This rule has a reason. No one wants to pick up 30 people over the course of 4 hours because you all persist in your stupidity.
10. If 1-9 are still giving you some trouble, perhaps you should stick to something simple. Use some common fucking sense.
Yeah, I know. I should have thought this through a little better.
Anyway, I’m standing at this concert and I have a total Final Destination moment. This happens due to the summation of several factors.
1. I am on the second floor of a bar/club and I can feel the vibrations of the double bass drum from the band playing on the ground floor.
2. The entire building seems to be made completely of wood.
3. There are numerous men who are much too big to be jumping around like kids who are, indeed, jumping around and punching at each other like children. Hereafter these men shall be referred to as fatties, huge bitches, or big ass motherfuckers.
4. These huge bitches are making the floor bounce like a fucking trampoline right underneath my feet.
1 + 2 + 3 + 4 = death trap.
In my mind, I see these fatties causing the floor to give way beneath us. It would splinter like a frozen sheet of ice covering a lake and start to break away. The stage would begin to collapse, sparks would fly, and all this wood would begin to burn. With all the alcohol spillage, it would ignite quickly and the entire place would be engulfed in flames. After suffering a broken ankle in the fall , I would be trampled while trying to make my way to the exit and I would die while the fat cells of some of those big ass motherfuckers who fell on top of me dripped onto my skin.
Sounds like a good time, huh? I probably had marginally more fun than that in real life since I didn’t live out a scene from Final Destination 17. In fact, before the night was even over, I walked out and left the person I accompanied there while I waited not so patiently in the car. My last text read:
I am ready to fucking go. It is freezing. I have beer everywhere. I don’t care who you talked to. I am not going to wait out here another hour while you chat people up.
I don’t understand the point of throwing a ham sandwich at a Jewish guy. That is the theme of the evening. I don’t think I’ve ever been in a worse crowd in all the many concerts I’ve been to in my lifetime and I’ve been in some rough ones. It doesn’t take much when you’re 5’4 and have a vagina. Unless I’m there with a guy as a pretty, tattooed accessory, I’m in the way. But still, Metalheads seem to have nothing when it comes to the sheer unadulterated ignorance of a collective punker crowd.
We’re going to hurl crushed, mostly empty beer cans at a band we paid 30 bucks to see. We’re going to ironically insult them by tossing processed pork. We will smoke pot in the middle of the crowd because we’re rebels, baby. We don’t have any rules. It’s anarchy, bitches. Fuck yeah. And we’re going to run around a room in a circle punching and kicking other people in a mass of sweat and stink and cigarette smoke. It’s ironic dancing. Everything we do is ironic. And that’s how we fight the system to take it down, doll face. We do drugs that people have negative opinions about then act in completely inane, violent ways. It’s okay though. It’s all irony, you see.
What? What’s that you say? That doesn’t seem like a sensible approach to accomplishing a single fucking thing? Yeah, you’re probably right.
NOFX, though not exactly my thing, put on a great show. But as I’m standing there frozen to the spot in midst of my Final Destination montage with beer drying on my Chucks and jeans, sore, possibly bruised and bleeding, makeup ruined from the water that had been splashed in my face from a hurtling plastic bottle, I realize this is really not how I would like to spend the last few moments of my life. There’s no value in this experience to say the least. So I squeeze through the crowd and go sit in my car to work on my book. I’d rather have been mugged and murdered sitting in my car in the middle of Atlanta than drown in adipose while flames lick my toes and creep up the legs of my beer soaked jeans. In fact, after measuring my options, the risk of getting mugged and murdered on my way to the car or while in the car seemed trivial in comparison to sharing one more moment of my time with such a negative entity.
Tips for Punkers (and anyone else who acts like a fucktard at concerts):
1. I don’t care how hot it is--do not take off your shirt in a crowd. Your armpits always smell and you look like a dick. Keeping the shirt on minimizes the amount of sweat you insist on depositing on someone else when you rub against them on your way to do more punching.
2. A band will likely not come back if you throw lunchmeat at them. I know this is hard to process, but I would never lie to you.
3. Learn phrases like “pardon me” and “my bad.” When you trample someone a foot shorter than you, he or she may be less likely to elbow the fuck out of your ribs on your way by if you simple use such a phrase.
4. It’s probably a bad idea to pound 8 beers while participating in the equivalent of the Running of the Bulls.
5. Having a standard look is the same as a uniform. Uniforms are, ironically, a symbol of oppression. This leads me to think you are, likely, oppressing not liberating yourselves. Being a “punker” is not a way of dress. It’s supposed to be a way of life.
6. Respect the fact that some people came to actually watch the band. It’s tough to understand right now, I know, but it’s true. Just think about it for a while. There are people in these crowds who have no less right to be there than you who absolutely do not have any desire to run around all crazy like and get punched or knocked down onto a hard concrete floor.
7. Some of you are way too big to be running around like that. You’re going to kill someone or possibly have a heart attack. You should slowly work up to that amount of aerobic exercise. Also, some of you come to these events just for the punching. I know you got made fun of when you were younger, but let it go. Between fight dancing and Call of Duty addiction, you’re all becoming pretty scary and you will never get laid.
8. Not wearing deodorant is not a form of rebellion. It’s fucking stupid.
9. Those guys at the front of the crowd who work for the venue get tired of picking your drunk asses up and redistributing you when you’re having a “blast” crowd surfing. They’re doing it for a reason. If one of you happened to fall and break your neck while this was allowed to go on, your pathetic ass would sue the shit out of said venue. This rule has a reason. No one wants to pick up 30 people over the course of 4 hours because you all persist in your stupidity.
10. If 1-9 are still giving you some trouble, perhaps you should stick to something simple. Use some common fucking sense.
January 6, 2011
Smells Like Sweet Nostalgia
11:48 PM | Posted by
jenniy
A: I am not a gamer. I’ve never even personally seen World of Warcraft. I’d rather let someone shoot me in the arm (in the style of Simon from Go) than really have to dedicate any time whatsoever to video games. Mario does not count.
B: I can’t play an instrument (skin flute excluded). This, now, is a bitter disappointment. I’d like to play bass guitar in the styles of music that bring me joy. Think grunge princess in a torn dress with a Schecter 5 string Stargazer bass in crimson ghost. Alas, it’s just not in the cards for me no matter how much I’d like it to be.
A + B = I’m not great at Guitar Hero but I still attempt it. I can get a 90+% on the easy setting and that’s alright by me. As I said, I’m not a gamer. I don’t mind having to play on the easiest setting because even then…for just a few slight moments in the songs I love playing….the room fades back and I can see myself onstage. Dress, ruined tights, boots, shiny lips, hot pink streaks in my tresses…the whole 9 yards of it. Those fleeting moments are addictive which is exactly why Guitar Hero is fucking genius.
I want to be a rockstar when I grow up.
That’s what my song, age 5, tells me now. He sucks at Guitar Hero even more than me but he doesn’t care. Even in the living room, he has awesome stage presence. He’s the Sid Vicious of GH and he rocks that plastic instrument because he loves music and wants, badly, to be a part it all. I don’t have the heart to tell him that realistically his dream is “I want to play an instrument in a band, even if talented, will likely never make it past playing small bars and whose members will all have day jobs at records stores and construction companies.” He’s 5. I’ll let him hold on to his dreams and in fact, for our Guitar Hero nights, I’ll join in the dreaming.
We have Guitar Hero 5 for now which has not only made me envision myself in full rock garb onstage in some Seattle hole-in-the-wall, half forgotten bar but it has also made me nostalgic for the days when grunge rained supreme. It includes bands like Nirvana, Bush, the Screaming Trees and the Smashing Pumpkins, Spacehog and even Garbage (oh whoa Shirley Manson). There’s a couple others as well. It’s taken me back in time. Who knew that all you needed for time travel was the right play list?
I play those songs smiling even as I fuck up from trying to sing along, eyes closed, game momentarily forgotten. They take me back much like the Allman Brothers used to do for my dad. If I could bottle the exact chemicals created by my reaction, I am fairly certain I could make Prozac obsolete. On top of A and B listed above, I’m also not a chemist. I can, however, make a musical collage aka A MixTape.
It would be impossible for myself and everyone I know to make an album compilation featuring all the songs each of us loved or had fond memories tied to even from just the 90s, but we’ve made our best faith effort to recapture our youth for a few hours. A MixTape for time traveling on antidepressants.
If you feel you’re in need, I’ll be happy to share a copy. Just contact me with your address. Don’t ask for a digital copy…MixTapes only come in tangible forms…in this case, a 3 disc, handcrafted-with-love set of cds.
B: I can’t play an instrument (skin flute excluded). This, now, is a bitter disappointment. I’d like to play bass guitar in the styles of music that bring me joy. Think grunge princess in a torn dress with a Schecter 5 string Stargazer bass in crimson ghost. Alas, it’s just not in the cards for me no matter how much I’d like it to be.
A + B = I’m not great at Guitar Hero but I still attempt it. I can get a 90+% on the easy setting and that’s alright by me. As I said, I’m not a gamer. I don’t mind having to play on the easiest setting because even then…for just a few slight moments in the songs I love playing….the room fades back and I can see myself onstage. Dress, ruined tights, boots, shiny lips, hot pink streaks in my tresses…the whole 9 yards of it. Those fleeting moments are addictive which is exactly why Guitar Hero is fucking genius.
I want to be a rockstar when I grow up.
That’s what my song, age 5, tells me now. He sucks at Guitar Hero even more than me but he doesn’t care. Even in the living room, he has awesome stage presence. He’s the Sid Vicious of GH and he rocks that plastic instrument because he loves music and wants, badly, to be a part it all. I don’t have the heart to tell him that realistically his dream is “I want to play an instrument in a band, even if talented, will likely never make it past playing small bars and whose members will all have day jobs at records stores and construction companies.” He’s 5. I’ll let him hold on to his dreams and in fact, for our Guitar Hero nights, I’ll join in the dreaming.
We have Guitar Hero 5 for now which has not only made me envision myself in full rock garb onstage in some Seattle hole-in-the-wall, half forgotten bar but it has also made me nostalgic for the days when grunge rained supreme. It includes bands like Nirvana, Bush, the Screaming Trees and the Smashing Pumpkins, Spacehog and even Garbage (oh whoa Shirley Manson). There’s a couple others as well. It’s taken me back in time. Who knew that all you needed for time travel was the right play list?
I play those songs smiling even as I fuck up from trying to sing along, eyes closed, game momentarily forgotten. They take me back much like the Allman Brothers used to do for my dad. If I could bottle the exact chemicals created by my reaction, I am fairly certain I could make Prozac obsolete. On top of A and B listed above, I’m also not a chemist. I can, however, make a musical collage aka A MixTape.
It would be impossible for myself and everyone I know to make an album compilation featuring all the songs each of us loved or had fond memories tied to even from just the 90s, but we’ve made our best faith effort to recapture our youth for a few hours. A MixTape for time traveling on antidepressants.
If you feel you’re in need, I’ll be happy to share a copy. Just contact me with your address. Don’t ask for a digital copy…MixTapes only come in tangible forms…in this case, a 3 disc, handcrafted-with-love set of cds.
September 21, 2010
For Sale: Sofa, Almost New, Very Little Wear
12:55 AM | Posted by
jenniy
You win some; you lose some, she says to herself as she pulls out of the parking garage. There is 2 years worth of office clutter packed into a couple bins in the back of her car. She drives a royal blue Mini Cooper so those couple bins are crammed in tightly. She packed those bins a few hours ago. Today was her last day at work. She was fired only yesterday. It wasn't really a shock. She'd known it was coming for some time now. She'd been on a collision course headed straight for disaster and never bothered to even tap the breaks.
Well, we were having too much fun to even consider stopping, she thinks. Fired for fucking on company time...if there's a way to go out, she guesses that's probably the best.
She wonders what sort of snide remarks are coming out of the sharp-tongued mouths of the women in the office. They've never really cared for her nor her for them. They made it clear on Day 1 that she would never be welcomed into their little circle and that's just as well. She knew nothing about filing, spreadsheets, tupperware parties, or American Idol nor did she want to.
She thinks again of the boxes in the back. Her red Swingline stapler like the one in Office Space. That's what started all this really. That stapler and trading movie lines. They'd laughed that afternoon until they were near tears. It must have been her 3rd day there. Those old hags had hated her even more. Their misery and jealousy would make them hate every woman who'd taken the time to make something more of themselves and their pettiness could not be rivaled.
There's an odd mix of uneasiness and lust curling around her midsection. She's not sure what the fuck she's really going to do. This kind of thing gets around. Two situations are probably. 1) She won't get hired in another law firm because of the rumors--rumors which will assuredly be worse than the truth 2) If she does get hired, it will be under the expectation that she will fuck the boss to get anywhere. She grimaces in disgust. That was never what this was about.
She pulls into her driveway and realizes she can't remember any of the drive home. She's lucky she didn't wreck on top of everything else. She also realizes she'll probably end up moving. She won't be able to stand in court and seek justice for her clients in a trial if She feels she's wearing a big scarlet "A" on her blazer. Every skirt will be too short. Every blouse too tight or too revealing. The affair was over now anyway, much to her dismay, so she may as well start over somewhere else. It'll work out. She has enough money saved to last her a good bit until she can make all the arrangements and start sending in resumes.
She opens the back and takes out one of the boxes. She wraps both arms around it and walks towards the house. Right on top is the Initech mug she was given her second week in the firm. She'd had it sitting on her desk as a pencil cup ever since. It forged a friendship and the two went out for drinks soon after that. At the time, she'd thought nothing of it. Adults all across the globe went out for drinks after a long day at the office. It's not like they intentionally excluded anyone else; no one else wanted to go. It quickly became a weekly ritual. Thursday nights they'd hit the pub a couple blocks down from work. That place had a killer Cuban sandwich and a pretty decent martini. They both liked them with vodka not gin, extra dry.
She sits the box on her sofa. Memories were created on this thing which still make her blush a little. She thinks it would be best to get rid of it but it probably isn't sanitary. She colors even more at the thought of some unsuspecting child laying around on it watching Saturday morning cartoons and eating the piece of PopTart he just dropped between the cushions. She could never own used furniture.
She retrieves the other box. Calendars, planners, odds and ends from her desk, and the window planter full of fresh herbs--an inside joke about their shared longing for their stoner days. That one hurts a little as she thinks back to the night the conversation took place. They'd gone out for drinks as usual and decided to come back here to her place for whatever reason. A movie? Yes! It was...True Romance. They'd had some dispute over whether or not Christian Slater tries too hard in everything he's ever been in to act like Jack Nicholson. True Romance was supposed to prove he doesn't but this was an awful example as the movie proved.
The kiss came out of nowhere. She hadn't expected it especially while her smirk of triumph over the Slater debate was still stretched in its half-mast position. The kiss caught her off guard and confused the fuck out of her at first. But, she'd opened a bottle of pinot grigio and poured them both a glass. That on top of the martinis meant she didn't really care too much after the initial shock wore off...was it really a year and a half ago? Yeah. She guesses it was. The drug conversation took place in the afterglow of the post-kiss fucking they did. They almost simultaneously wished aloud for some weed which had sent them into a fit of laughter, more kissing, and more sex.
She puts the second box on the sofa not knowing what she'll do with any of it. Most likely it will all go straight to the trash save the stapler. It's gotten her laid more than once now which is funny. It's odd how much having similar tastes in something like films and humor can bridge the gap and bring people into a more intimate spot.
Her cell phone rings. It's not who she wants it to be but what can she expect from fucking someone who's married with 2 kids, a house, a dog, and 3 goldfish? She was kidding herself with all the love business. How could she possibly love someone like that--someone who'd just cut contact with her after this past year and a half?
The phone rings again. It's her best friend, Stephen, who knows her all too well and knows she's ignoring the phone. She continues to let it ring, though. She's not in the mood for all his questions and I-told-you-so's. She'll call him back eventually but now is just not the time.
She looks into the boxes beside her seeing each item her eyes land on in its place in her office. It's tough to imagine that just yesterday she was escorted out of that office after one of the partners walked in to ask her about a case and caught her with her face buried in his wife's snatch. She's never been yanked around by her hair before but just like she said the first night she fucked Marla, the wife, there's a first time for everything.
She sighs and pours herself a glass of wine. Her hair falls in her eyes and for a moment, she almost cries. She pulls herself together in a breath though and reminds herself how much she's missed dick.
Well, we were having too much fun to even consider stopping, she thinks. Fired for fucking on company time...if there's a way to go out, she guesses that's probably the best.
She wonders what sort of snide remarks are coming out of the sharp-tongued mouths of the women in the office. They've never really cared for her nor her for them. They made it clear on Day 1 that she would never be welcomed into their little circle and that's just as well. She knew nothing about filing, spreadsheets, tupperware parties, or American Idol nor did she want to.
She thinks again of the boxes in the back. Her red Swingline stapler like the one in Office Space. That's what started all this really. That stapler and trading movie lines. They'd laughed that afternoon until they were near tears. It must have been her 3rd day there. Those old hags had hated her even more. Their misery and jealousy would make them hate every woman who'd taken the time to make something more of themselves and their pettiness could not be rivaled.
There's an odd mix of uneasiness and lust curling around her midsection. She's not sure what the fuck she's really going to do. This kind of thing gets around. Two situations are probably. 1) She won't get hired in another law firm because of the rumors--rumors which will assuredly be worse than the truth 2) If she does get hired, it will be under the expectation that she will fuck the boss to get anywhere. She grimaces in disgust. That was never what this was about.
She pulls into her driveway and realizes she can't remember any of the drive home. She's lucky she didn't wreck on top of everything else. She also realizes she'll probably end up moving. She won't be able to stand in court and seek justice for her clients in a trial if She feels she's wearing a big scarlet "A" on her blazer. Every skirt will be too short. Every blouse too tight or too revealing. The affair was over now anyway, much to her dismay, so she may as well start over somewhere else. It'll work out. She has enough money saved to last her a good bit until she can make all the arrangements and start sending in resumes.
She opens the back and takes out one of the boxes. She wraps both arms around it and walks towards the house. Right on top is the Initech mug she was given her second week in the firm. She'd had it sitting on her desk as a pencil cup ever since. It forged a friendship and the two went out for drinks soon after that. At the time, she'd thought nothing of it. Adults all across the globe went out for drinks after a long day at the office. It's not like they intentionally excluded anyone else; no one else wanted to go. It quickly became a weekly ritual. Thursday nights they'd hit the pub a couple blocks down from work. That place had a killer Cuban sandwich and a pretty decent martini. They both liked them with vodka not gin, extra dry.
She sits the box on her sofa. Memories were created on this thing which still make her blush a little. She thinks it would be best to get rid of it but it probably isn't sanitary. She colors even more at the thought of some unsuspecting child laying around on it watching Saturday morning cartoons and eating the piece of PopTart he just dropped between the cushions. She could never own used furniture.
She retrieves the other box. Calendars, planners, odds and ends from her desk, and the window planter full of fresh herbs--an inside joke about their shared longing for their stoner days. That one hurts a little as she thinks back to the night the conversation took place. They'd gone out for drinks as usual and decided to come back here to her place for whatever reason. A movie? Yes! It was...True Romance. They'd had some dispute over whether or not Christian Slater tries too hard in everything he's ever been in to act like Jack Nicholson. True Romance was supposed to prove he doesn't but this was an awful example as the movie proved.
The kiss came out of nowhere. She hadn't expected it especially while her smirk of triumph over the Slater debate was still stretched in its half-mast position. The kiss caught her off guard and confused the fuck out of her at first. But, she'd opened a bottle of pinot grigio and poured them both a glass. That on top of the martinis meant she didn't really care too much after the initial shock wore off...was it really a year and a half ago? Yeah. She guesses it was. The drug conversation took place in the afterglow of the post-kiss fucking they did. They almost simultaneously wished aloud for some weed which had sent them into a fit of laughter, more kissing, and more sex.
She puts the second box on the sofa not knowing what she'll do with any of it. Most likely it will all go straight to the trash save the stapler. It's gotten her laid more than once now which is funny. It's odd how much having similar tastes in something like films and humor can bridge the gap and bring people into a more intimate spot.
Her cell phone rings. It's not who she wants it to be but what can she expect from fucking someone who's married with 2 kids, a house, a dog, and 3 goldfish? She was kidding herself with all the love business. How could she possibly love someone like that--someone who'd just cut contact with her after this past year and a half?
The phone rings again. It's her best friend, Stephen, who knows her all too well and knows she's ignoring the phone. She continues to let it ring, though. She's not in the mood for all his questions and I-told-you-so's. She'll call him back eventually but now is just not the time.
She looks into the boxes beside her seeing each item her eyes land on in its place in her office. It's tough to imagine that just yesterday she was escorted out of that office after one of the partners walked in to ask her about a case and caught her with her face buried in his wife's snatch. She's never been yanked around by her hair before but just like she said the first night she fucked Marla, the wife, there's a first time for everything.
She sighs and pours herself a glass of wine. Her hair falls in her eyes and for a moment, she almost cries. She pulls herself together in a breath though and reminds herself how much she's missed dick.
September 15, 2010
Cooking With Marge
10:45 PM | Posted by
jenniy
"Fix me a chicken pot pie, wouldya? And not that frozen shit. Make one of those with the flaky crust like you do for company sometimes," he calls from the back bedroom.
"Sure, Frank," she yells out as she slowly gets up from the couch. Her knees aren't so good anymore but the extra 50 pounds she kept on after having two kids will do that over time. She turns the television off. They have to be pretty mindful of money these days since he has been out of work on disability for the better part of 2 years now. She grabs her reading glasses and waddles towards the kitchen.
She walks to the freezer and pulls out a package of boneless, skinless chicken breasts as well as 2 pre-made pie crusts. If she'd known ahead of time she would have thawed the breasts in a pan of tepid water but his whims aren't known to wait for such things even if it means the final product turns out all the better for it. As it is, she hobbles to the sink using the counter to support her weight and alleviate some of the pressure on her worn out joints. She steps over to the sink and puts the package of chicken under the tap letting hot water work on the ice crystals while she gathers the rest of the ingredients. As she moves around the kitchen, she wonders what life could have been if she'd taken the old cliche road--the one people named Less Traveled. As quickly as the thought forms, she dismisses as she's always been told there's no use crying over spilled milk.
She pulls 2 cans of mixed vegetables and 1 can of condensed cream of chicken soup from her cabinets. If she were cooking for guests, she would labor over handmade crusts and and slowly steam fresh vegetables instead of using canned ones. The condensed soup would be exchanged for chicken broth slow cooked with fresh herbs for flavor added to flour for a thicker texture. None of this is necessary tonight, of course. Even if she felt like it, he wouldn't have the patience to wait. Even though he was too sick to be much of a threat anymore, she was trained to do things to his liking and could be broken of it now.
She moves slowly around the kitchen putting the still mostly frozen chicken on to boil and preheating the oven to 375 degrees. She presses one crust into a pie pan then goes ahead and mixes the soup and vegetables in a blue glass mixing bowl. She takes down a few spices and sprinkles them in. Just as she thinks she's making good time, she hears him call from the back, "where the hell is that pie? what's your fatass up there doing? watching the idiot box as usual?"
"I had to thaw the chicken first. It'll be a little bit longer."
"You're a fucking moron, Marge. I ever tell you that?"
"I know I am, dear."
"Hurry your waddlin' ass up."
None of this particularly bothers her. She's heard worse and felt worse blows. She pays it no mind and sits down at the kitchen table to wait for the chicken to finish. Thinking back to years before he became sick, she reckons she would have been slapped around the kitchen a bit for not having the chicken in the refridgerator already. But there had been times she'd been slapped around the kitchen for not using items like that out of the fridge before they ruined. There was never any winning with Frank. She'd wasted most of her life trying and stayed miserable because she couldn't do it. Ever since her youngest moved out and left for college, she just gave up and settled into a routine. She wasn't anything close to what she thought could be happiness but she wasn't miserable anymore either.
In the midst of her thoughts she hears him again from the back, "If you'd lost some of that gut of yers, you wouldn't waste my time waddlin' around like a hog." She doesn't bother answering him and pushes herself out the chair. She walks to the stove to check on the chicken. It isn't done but it's done enough so she turns the burner off and sits the pot on a cloth pot holder on the counter. She pulls down a plate from the cabinet above her head and grabs a couple forks from the drawer in front of her. One by one she stabs the pieces of chicken and places them on the plate. They're still hot but she doesn't want to take the time to let them cool. She uses one fork to hold a breast in place and the other to shred the meat into a pile. After all 4 pieces are shredded, she mixes the pieces of chicken into the bowl with the soup and vegetables then pours it all into the pie pan. She takes the second pie crust and fits it over the top of the pie finishing up by making 4 slits in the top with a knife from the cutting block in front of her.
Having a knife in her hand always reminds her of the times he has threatened to cut her tongue out and those drunken nights when he's actually nicked her here or there in mid-threat. Since he's been sick, she has thought a time or two about stabbing him, about slitting his wrists, cutting out his awful tongue...all of it. But they're just thoughts. She could never do it. And if she hasn't slit her own wrists by now, she may as well wait it out. He'll be gone before she is, it seems.
She puts the pie in the oven and sets the timer for 45 minutes. She'll know it's down by the smell but she sets the timer anyway. She moves towards the fridge and gets herself a Diet Coke before sitting at the table again. He calls from the back, "Are you trying to starve me to death, you fat cow?!? Did you eat it all yourself??"
"It won't be too much longer."
"Better not fucking be."
She has often thought of smothering him with one of the pillows on this bed. He's gotten too weak in the last several months to fight back really. But even though she often feels the urge, she knows she can't. The kids would be devastated by the horror of the headlines and she can't do that to them. They've gone through enough in their lives growing up with Frank as their father. She absolutely won't cause them that kind of sensationalized grief. She sips her coke and gets lost in happy thoughts of her children and grandchildren. She lives for them and the days when they stop by to see how things are going. She knows both her kids worry about their mom and dad. She's only in her early 50s but has heart and blood pressure problems, diabetes, high cholesterol, and the bad knees. Frank is only a few years older than her but his health failed rapidly. Everyone thought it was cancer and most people still assume it is--just undetermined--but doctors really haven't been able to explain it at all.
The smells circulating the kitchen tell her the pie is done and she starts her slow journey to the stove. She grabs a couple pot holders from the counter and opens the oven door. Grabbing the pie with both hands is a difficult task with her knees as bad as they are but she manages alright. She doesn't fall anyway.
She's actually surprised he asked for food. He hasn't had much appetite beyond broth here and there. Mostly he's nauseated and taking medicine to keep him from vomiting all the time. It's the sort of pill chemo patients have to take to battle their nausea. But, he doesn't take anything. He just stays sick on his stomach around the clock. She really hopes this isn't a sign he's improving though taking care of him like this day in and day out hasn't been a picnic.
She cuts into the pie and dips out one portion--just one heaping portion for Frank. She places his plate on a tray and makes him a glass of ice water to wash it down with. She knows if she takes it to him this hot, he is liable to throw it in her face and demand more, so she cleans up the kitchen some while she waits on the steam rising from the middle to dissipate a bit. She throws the chicken wrapper away along with the cans. Then picks up the salt, pepper, and mixed spices bottles and starts to put them in the cabinet. She notices her concoction of spices is getting a little low and makes a mental note to pick up some more rat poison at the farm supply store on her next trip to town.
"Where's my fucking pie, you fat bitch?"
"I'm coming with it right now, Frank. Be there in a jiff," she says as she walks down the hallway smiling.
"Sure, Frank," she yells out as she slowly gets up from the couch. Her knees aren't so good anymore but the extra 50 pounds she kept on after having two kids will do that over time. She turns the television off. They have to be pretty mindful of money these days since he has been out of work on disability for the better part of 2 years now. She grabs her reading glasses and waddles towards the kitchen.
She walks to the freezer and pulls out a package of boneless, skinless chicken breasts as well as 2 pre-made pie crusts. If she'd known ahead of time she would have thawed the breasts in a pan of tepid water but his whims aren't known to wait for such things even if it means the final product turns out all the better for it. As it is, she hobbles to the sink using the counter to support her weight and alleviate some of the pressure on her worn out joints. She steps over to the sink and puts the package of chicken under the tap letting hot water work on the ice crystals while she gathers the rest of the ingredients. As she moves around the kitchen, she wonders what life could have been if she'd taken the old cliche road--the one people named Less Traveled. As quickly as the thought forms, she dismisses as she's always been told there's no use crying over spilled milk.
She pulls 2 cans of mixed vegetables and 1 can of condensed cream of chicken soup from her cabinets. If she were cooking for guests, she would labor over handmade crusts and and slowly steam fresh vegetables instead of using canned ones. The condensed soup would be exchanged for chicken broth slow cooked with fresh herbs for flavor added to flour for a thicker texture. None of this is necessary tonight, of course. Even if she felt like it, he wouldn't have the patience to wait. Even though he was too sick to be much of a threat anymore, she was trained to do things to his liking and could be broken of it now.
She moves slowly around the kitchen putting the still mostly frozen chicken on to boil and preheating the oven to 375 degrees. She presses one crust into a pie pan then goes ahead and mixes the soup and vegetables in a blue glass mixing bowl. She takes down a few spices and sprinkles them in. Just as she thinks she's making good time, she hears him call from the back, "where the hell is that pie? what's your fatass up there doing? watching the idiot box as usual?"
"I had to thaw the chicken first. It'll be a little bit longer."
"You're a fucking moron, Marge. I ever tell you that?"
"I know I am, dear."
"Hurry your waddlin' ass up."
None of this particularly bothers her. She's heard worse and felt worse blows. She pays it no mind and sits down at the kitchen table to wait for the chicken to finish. Thinking back to years before he became sick, she reckons she would have been slapped around the kitchen a bit for not having the chicken in the refridgerator already. But there had been times she'd been slapped around the kitchen for not using items like that out of the fridge before they ruined. There was never any winning with Frank. She'd wasted most of her life trying and stayed miserable because she couldn't do it. Ever since her youngest moved out and left for college, she just gave up and settled into a routine. She wasn't anything close to what she thought could be happiness but she wasn't miserable anymore either.
In the midst of her thoughts she hears him again from the back, "If you'd lost some of that gut of yers, you wouldn't waste my time waddlin' around like a hog." She doesn't bother answering him and pushes herself out the chair. She walks to the stove to check on the chicken. It isn't done but it's done enough so she turns the burner off and sits the pot on a cloth pot holder on the counter. She pulls down a plate from the cabinet above her head and grabs a couple forks from the drawer in front of her. One by one she stabs the pieces of chicken and places them on the plate. They're still hot but she doesn't want to take the time to let them cool. She uses one fork to hold a breast in place and the other to shred the meat into a pile. After all 4 pieces are shredded, she mixes the pieces of chicken into the bowl with the soup and vegetables then pours it all into the pie pan. She takes the second pie crust and fits it over the top of the pie finishing up by making 4 slits in the top with a knife from the cutting block in front of her.
Having a knife in her hand always reminds her of the times he has threatened to cut her tongue out and those drunken nights when he's actually nicked her here or there in mid-threat. Since he's been sick, she has thought a time or two about stabbing him, about slitting his wrists, cutting out his awful tongue...all of it. But they're just thoughts. She could never do it. And if she hasn't slit her own wrists by now, she may as well wait it out. He'll be gone before she is, it seems.
She puts the pie in the oven and sets the timer for 45 minutes. She'll know it's down by the smell but she sets the timer anyway. She moves towards the fridge and gets herself a Diet Coke before sitting at the table again. He calls from the back, "Are you trying to starve me to death, you fat cow?!? Did you eat it all yourself??"
"It won't be too much longer."
"Better not fucking be."
She has often thought of smothering him with one of the pillows on this bed. He's gotten too weak in the last several months to fight back really. But even though she often feels the urge, she knows she can't. The kids would be devastated by the horror of the headlines and she can't do that to them. They've gone through enough in their lives growing up with Frank as their father. She absolutely won't cause them that kind of sensationalized grief. She sips her coke and gets lost in happy thoughts of her children and grandchildren. She lives for them and the days when they stop by to see how things are going. She knows both her kids worry about their mom and dad. She's only in her early 50s but has heart and blood pressure problems, diabetes, high cholesterol, and the bad knees. Frank is only a few years older than her but his health failed rapidly. Everyone thought it was cancer and most people still assume it is--just undetermined--but doctors really haven't been able to explain it at all.
The smells circulating the kitchen tell her the pie is done and she starts her slow journey to the stove. She grabs a couple pot holders from the counter and opens the oven door. Grabbing the pie with both hands is a difficult task with her knees as bad as they are but she manages alright. She doesn't fall anyway.
She's actually surprised he asked for food. He hasn't had much appetite beyond broth here and there. Mostly he's nauseated and taking medicine to keep him from vomiting all the time. It's the sort of pill chemo patients have to take to battle their nausea. But, he doesn't take anything. He just stays sick on his stomach around the clock. She really hopes this isn't a sign he's improving though taking care of him like this day in and day out hasn't been a picnic.
She cuts into the pie and dips out one portion--just one heaping portion for Frank. She places his plate on a tray and makes him a glass of ice water to wash it down with. She knows if she takes it to him this hot, he is liable to throw it in her face and demand more, so she cleans up the kitchen some while she waits on the steam rising from the middle to dissipate a bit. She throws the chicken wrapper away along with the cans. Then picks up the salt, pepper, and mixed spices bottles and starts to put them in the cabinet. She notices her concoction of spices is getting a little low and makes a mental note to pick up some more rat poison at the farm supply store on her next trip to town.
"Where's my fucking pie, you fat bitch?"
"I'm coming with it right now, Frank. Be there in a jiff," she says as she walks down the hallway smiling.
September 2, 2010
Dancin' Days: Soundtrack Revisited
8:46 PM | Posted by
jenniy
Music, as far as I'm concerned, should be just as vital to the people I surround myself with as it is to myself. Which means it is as necessary as oxygen. When I ask someone what sort of music he or she might be into, the last thing I really want to hear is "oh I listen to a little of everything." No the fuck you don't. What kind of answer is this? You're really telling me you haven't taken the time to find something that really moves you. Chuck Klosterman totally validated my belief in his book Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs saying:
Do you know people who insist they like 'all kinds of music'? That actually means they like no kinds of music.
This is not to say that listening to a variety of music is a punishable-by-death-of-friendship offense. I listen to a varied list of bands and genres myself though most people would disagree with that statement. I'm a true music lover, though. I have taken the time. I know what I like while still keeping an open mind. My answer to the above questions might sound more like:
I grew up on Southern rock which is still a big part of my life and an influence on other styles I prefer--the Allman Brothers Band, the Marshall Tucker Band, Skynard, and the like. I enjoy a lot of what's termed 'classic' rock such as Janis, Jimi, Zeppelin, and other bands comprised mostly of dead people. For the most part, you'll find me listening to sludge/doom/stoner metal even though I hate those labels. Bands like Baroness, Alabama Thunderpussy, Howl, and Eyehategod. I'm not opposed to a little peppering of punk like Social D and Rancid (the first show I ever paid money to go to was Less Than Jake, you know), older country, and maybe Eminem but that's a guilty pleasure I really don't like admitting.
Maybe I sound pretentious.
One of the most important questions I ask someone I want to get to know better involves what x songs would you include on the soundtrack to a movie about your life where x, depending on my mood, could be 3, 5, 10, anything. The smaller the number, the harder the list should be to make theoretically. For me, all the songs in this list are placemarkers telling you where I might have been at the time. Sometimes it's the song itself or the band or the lyrics but the songs lay out a map of my life. This isn't just a list of badass jams to make me look cool. In fact, a few of them are pretty fucking embarrassing. It's been a long road full of ch-ch-changes.
1. Cyndi Lauper-Girls Just Want To Have Fun
I have maybe a couple handfuls of clear memories from my life before age 12 or so. As you may guess from such a statement, those weren't exactly easy years. My earliest memory is from age 3 or 4 dancing around the house to this song. Carefree. Innocent. It wouldn't last but those fleeting moments of utter girlish glee have stayed with me. Anytime I hear it even now, I can't help smiling and singing along.
2. Eric Clapton-Cocaine
This song is probably the best way to place those hazy years of being a young Georgia girl. It's fitting, at least, since my dad was arrested for possession of said drug. With intent to distribute. I was 3, maybe. I was also used as a sympathy inducer for the jury by being brought to court every day during his trial. Lawyer tactic. I was blonde and cute so he got off pretty light. Still, it was a common theme for growing up with a father whose nickname amongst those "sorry sumbitches" he called friends was Stormy. That old bastard loved this song, too. I can still remember times when we'd be stoned together later on in life. He'd put this song on and start fist pumpin' like a champ. She don't lie, she don't lie, she don't lie; cocaine.
 |
| Tough Enough to Bite Our Lips Til They Bleed, Girl |
3. Hangin' Tough-New Kids on the Block
Are you tough enough?
oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh
Such complexity... I was given a walkman knockoff cassette player with two cassette tapes one year for my birthday. One was NKOTB and the other Vanilla Ice. In restrospect, there are a myriad of other, much more influential, non mainstream albums I wish I would have gotten that year. I can't remember exactly how old I was but I figure 8 or 9. We're talking 1989 or '90. Both albums were released about that time. It was pop and poppy, white-guy hip-hopish stuff, but it could be worse. I could be reflecting on the importance of Garth Brooks' No Fences in my earlier years. Alright, stop. Collaborate and Listen. I don't think people who aren't from the deep South know what it's like to grow up with country, Jesus, and football being shoved down your throat all the time. To not partake in the bliss of one or all of those things is equivalent to denouncing the word of Joseph Smith in Utah. All of a sudden you're getting hate mail in your locker with crudely drawn dicks and cutout magazine letters. So, Hangin' Tough was my rebellion. My break from the hillbilly culture. It's disturbing, but yet...it still seems a step in the right direction. Considering the surroundings, I could have been singing "I'm a member of a Country Club....cuz country music is what I love" while Travis Tritt played in that walkman knockoff.
4. Nirvana-Smells Like Teen Spirit
For my generation, this makes me a walking cliche. I'm okay with that; it makes me authentic. This is the first cassette tape I ever bought myself with my own money. Side 1, track 1...Load up on guns, bring your friends. It's fun to lose and to pretend... The lyrics were ambiguous, and I still don't really know what exactly mulattos, albinos, mosquitoes, and Cobain's libido have in common and there's not enough drugs in the world to make that clear. My parents were divorced or well on their way to being divorced and my mom was already seriously dating someone else (they've been married ever since but that's beyond the point). I was maybe 12 or 13 which puts it around 1994--the year Cobain burned out and made himself a junkie, rock martyr. Apparently, I was a little late on the grunge craze. With everything going on in my life, I was really entering a brand new world and with this purchase the same became true of my musical tastes. Evolution. We're talking about a major point in my life in all sorts of ways and this tape gave the perfect ambiance to my new direction. I think it's always been even more meaningful to me because I'd never really known anything about the band when I bought the damn thing. I picked it up on a whim. I like whims. People blame jesus and fate and destiny for whims but I sometimes think our brains function on a level we can't possibly understand. I grabbed that tape off a Kmart rack because it was exactly what I needed.
5. Wonderful Tonight-Eric Clapton
Eric Clapton on here twice? I'm not even that big a fan. I mean I dig Derek and the Dominoes and Cream but twice on such a short list makes it seem like I might think this guy is some sort of god. I don't believe in gods so X that idea. The song choice following something like Smells Like Teen Spirit really does make me a cliche. Fuck it, you know? I am what I am and I know exactly why this song is on here. It's rare in life to find a friend who can accept you as you are with all your quirks and not be concerned about the possible negative consequences of associating with a social outcast back in the awesome days of high school. My family didn't have money. I wasn't a christian and didn't care in the least about football or country music. I committed social suicide early in life. It may have been genetic. I did have that sort of friend, though. She didn't much care what I listened to or believed in or how popular I wasn't. When she would come out to my dad's house, we would, invariably, listen to this song as some point in the course of the evening. And I would, invariably, make her slow dance with me. True friendship. And I still make people dance with me when it comes on to this very day. Whenever I hear it though, I think about her. We've gotten older and stay too busy to get together too often, but whenever we do, we always pick up right where we left off. She made a world of difference. I needed that kind of unconditional acceptance. Ironically, this song was written about Pattie Boyd who was married to Eric Clapton at the time he released it. However, prior to this, she was married to George Harrison, Clapton's best friend. I don't guess they had the same kind of friendship.
6. Glycerine-Bush
My first ever experience with sex happened by sexual assault. That's sad, I know, but it happened 14 years ago and I'm over it so we'll move on and not make a big deal of it. The first time I ever thought I wanted to have sex is a different story. I was introduced to this guy by a mutual friend (who ended up hating me for sleeping with him. she told my mom i was doing coke because of it. and i wasn't. i was just a pothead. that's ok, though. she never slept with him and now she's fat). He was about 4 years older than me making any sexual contact between us completely illegal. He snuck out of his house and "borrowed" his parents' car. I snuck out of my house and got in said car which we drove a quarter mile down the road and promptly fucked in while Bush's Sixteen Stone played in the background. I sang along to this song in particular. Hindsight is 20/20 as they say and I realized as I got older I really wasn't ready for such a rendezvous. I didn't love him at the time but we remained friends for years and even had more sex sporadically. Sometimes he was incarcerated making sex impossible and I realize I'm not looking any better the further I go along. I still think fondly of him even now, though. We don't really talk; he's married and I can see why his wife wouldn't approve. The whole incident is significant, not because it was great sex--I somehow doubt it could have been, but because I feel it's indicative of my view of sex. Love was never a requirement. Maybe that can, in part, be blamed on the assault. Maybe it was being around my hippy father. Either way, there you go. The first time I ever chose to have sex, I snuck out of my house to fuck in the driver's seat of a Cavalier or something shittier like an Oldsmobile with Bush on the cassette player. I'm a hopeless romantic. I still sing along sometimes to certain songs if music plays in the midst of things sex related. I do have manners though; I don't sing with a mouthful.
Kill the headlights and put it in neutral.
I was really into a lot of 90s grunge music. Stone Temple Pilots, Nirvana, Alice in Chains, Soundgarden, Bush...I listened to a lot of what was termed "alternative" at this same time, but grunge was it for me. That's why I still love all those bands now. And not their new stuff. Korn and Limp Bizkit and the whole nu-metal genre ruined grunge. I think Korn's first album--and the only decent one--signaled the end of it all. From the rise of rap-metal until the past couple of years I spent a lot of time reminiscing about good music. I was stationary. No growth to speak of. I live in rural South Georgia. I had no idea what it meant to actually dig around and find things I loved.
This band I used to hang out with did a few covers. One of Weezer's Say It Ain't So. It was mediocre. The other was Rockin' in the Free World by Neil Young. Maybe I was always stoned but I think they actually did a good job on this one. I dunno. But I'll always think about them when I hear it. I wouldn't mind having it on my soundtrack while I'm at some Dazed and Confused style party at the moontower. My life was often like those scenes from that movie back in those days except I didn't have Parker Posey yelling at me to airraid because I was talking to some ugly, nerdy guy she'd never dare to date. For a little bit, some of my stoner friends made "Loser" by Beck my theme song. I'm a loser, baby...so why don't you kill me? I was living in a rich neighborhood I hated; that was the reasoning behind the theme. I became a sellout because I lived near people we hated. I sometimes include this song on my soundtrack because I really loved the girl who used to sing it to me. She was funny and beautiful and she jerked me around. I'd also just moved back into my mom's from my dad's and I was having a tough time making the transition. I still own STP and Nirvana and Alice in Chains and Cyndi Lauper. I don't own Beck. I don't consider it. Apparently, it ain't that important.
I listened to Marilyn Manson (the first 2 albums) because of MTV2. And because I was weird and he was weird and I dug weird. I liked RHCP and POTUSA and REM and other bands easily described by capital letters. None of that ever really gripped me though. I can't even listen to the same Marilyn Manson songs now with any enjoyment. Counting Stars by Hum will always make me smile but there's no significance. I never lost touch with music but I didn't grow musically for a period of about 10 years. I was most often stuck on the same things and often felt like I was missing something. Until I heard Baroness. But, back to the list.
7. RHCP-Under the Bridge.
Yeah, yeah I know what I just said. However, this song has very little to do with me personally. When I was about 20, someone I was pretty close to when I was in school was murdered. People might use the word "senseless" in talking about it but aren't most murders really senseless? Yes. Still, I took it pretty hard. This was the first person I'd ever had phone sex with and someone I, stupidly albeit, thought I was in love with for a few years. His dying young and awfully likely affected the memories I have of him i.e. I remember him with more fondness than I would have if he were still living. Somehow I still think he'd make the cut on this list if he had lived but he didn't. He was shot and left for dead after walking in on a home invasion burglary in his apartment. His death had an impact I've never really understood the depths of. It shaped my views on the criminal justice system and has influenced some of my career goals. I still go out to the cemetery at least once a year even going on 9 years later and I'm often drawn to people who remind me of him in small ways. I think this is why I dig jerks so much. Fuck me. I'm doomed to a lifetime of caustic assholes simply because the state of Florida has a completely fucked up criminal system that allowed two recidivists to continually get worse without any help until they finally killed someone. Anyway, he loved this song and all I need is to hear the opening bars to be flooded with thoughts of him. I miss that kid.
There are 3 significant events/people in my life I don't really have songs attached to. It doesn't make them any less significant but I don't want to just attach songs to them in retrospect because it's sensible. I've done that before making this kind of list but in a way, that taints it.
The first is the first guy I ever really truly loved. I will always think of him with affection and he's the only person I ever consider to have broken my heart. It was one of those couldn't eat, couldn't sleep situations. I've never been that way about another relationship or another guy period since then. I could choose Heartbreaker by Zeppelin simply because he sings a line "Some people cry and some people die by the wicked ways of love. But I'll just keep on rollin' along with the grace of the Lord above" and in some ways I totally feel that sentiment. It's the way I've always been except the whole Lord part. I roll along with the grace of my own strength. Ultimately though, fuck this song choice. If ever there were a movie about my life, the person lucky enough to play me would convey my heartache by those two days when I cried until snot flowed. Then I fucked this guy I knew and had previously wanted to fuck and the world was right again. Sex fixes so much. No songs about being broken and moving on are really necessary no matter how much this whole episode changed me.
The second would be my marriage and separation. There's no song I attach to that guy or that time either. After he'd already left, he came over to pick up a few things and wanted to make a few cds. He ended up playing an AFI song called This Time Imperfect. I was standing in the kitchen holding our 2 year old and he came over and hugged us both sort of dancing. The three of us standing there in the kitchen slow dancing together in the face of this massive change and the sadness he and I felt about this failure is the sort of image that makes this all sound like a Lifetime movie moment and I suppose it sort of was. The lyics to that song say "I cannot stay here; I cannot leave. Forever haunted, more than afraid" and that really conveys how torn I was over choosing happiness for myself or choosing more financial stability for my son. But, I fucking hate that band overall. Have you seen that guy? Creepy. I still care a lot about my ex-husband despite the fact that he isn't necessarily doing the right thing financially right now. I don't harbor ill will about the failure of our marriage at all. I never should have gotten married in the first place. Marriage is a farce. I hate what happened and that we grew so far apart because that just makes life tougher for our son. As far as I'm concerned there's just not one song to denote every emotion I felt when all this happened. No song I knew of at that time.
The third is my son. He loves music. Okay, let me rephrase. He loves "rockin' out" and as long as it's heavy enough for him, he gets into it. And I mean he really gets into it. There's not just one song I could pick out to symbolize how music bonds us either. Sometimes we play air guitars and air drums while I sing songs in the kitchen sliding around in our socks. Sometimes we sing at the top of our lungs in the car. Sometimes we sing songs while we buy groceries. There's not really one that just stands out because we share so much. He's too awesome to pinpoint with just one song or one sound or one band. He's so much impossibly more than that and I love him even when I am aggravated beyond reason with his precociousness.
8. Baroness-Red Sky
A little over a year ago, this jerk I know told me I didn't have a clue what music is. He teased me relentlessly about what I chose to listen to and even when I bugged him relentlessly about what he defined as music, he wouldn't give in saying I'd fail to get it. It really pissed me off. He finally gave in though and told me to check on his music review blog for a band called Baroness and specifically the song Coeur which is off First, an ep released in 2004. I liked it and decided to check out some more from the band who had another ep, Second, released in 2005, and a full length album Red Album from '07 at that time. I downloaded all 3 albums, put them on a play list and hit shuffle. I was sitting with a glass of wine in an otherwise quiet house. Red Sky was the first song that played. I bobbed my head along from the start. By 38 seconds in, I suspected something great would come of this. By 1:31 of the 5:44 song, I was in a bit of lust. When the song broke into melody about 3 and a half minutes in, I closed my eyes, leaned back in the chair and enjoyed the ride. Everything seemed to fade into the background except that chair, my glass, and the sounds emanating from the computer speakers. It's been a good relationship. I dig their music and they keep making it. I saw them live for their Blue Record release party at the end of 09 in Savannah, Georgia where they originated. They played in the bar where they first started and whose basement they practiced in. Most people I know have no idea why I like this band and why they led me on a new kind of evolution and I'm okay with that. I've never been the kind of girl who followed the rest of the herd. Everyone who loves music should find something that speaks to them on a level nothing else can and for me it's Baroness. I don't think it's a matter of l o v e. Love describes something so much less pure than what I feel as I type this listening to A Horse Called Golgotha. If love ever felt as easy and wonderful as a good song, I might not mind relationships so much.
9. Rolling Stones-Can't Always Get What You Want
In a discussion on music, often you'll get a question about your preference of the Stones or the Beatles. By my inclusion of a Stones song on this list, my answer is pretty clear. Stones all the way. This song has a lot of possible interpretations with lyrics like "I saw her today at the reception, a glass of wine in her hand. I knew she would meet her connection. At her feet was her footloose man." It's funny the sorts of meanings people guess that might have including relationship bullshit going on with band members' girlfriends at the time. Or, one girlfriend at the time, Anita Pallenberg, who left Brian Jones for Keith Richards. (Whatever happened to bros before hos?) I don't care about any of that. The song is badass but for me, it's more about how life is just a little tough but that's all part of it. You keep on going and working for it. You really can't always get what you want even when you have all the financial means to do so. But, you can, when you're willing to work for it, get what you need. Whether we realize it or not, that's often more important.
here's a playlist...i had to make a substitution with the baroness track but you'll get it. you know, if i just made a soundtrack of things i liked that might represent some little part of my personality, we'd be here all night. maybe one day. i wouldn't mind an all nighter. it just might be a need.
ps i have now been informed as an american i cannot use the term 'grey'. it is gray. period. no question. thanks for reading and listening.
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