i obsess.

musically challenged.

Yeah, boy.  I'm putting it on wax.  Well, technically, not really, because my record player's still on the skidz (less yeahhh, more wahhh), and I'm slipping all of today's playlist over the hot eye of the cd player that hangs about in my kitchen or dining room, depending on how kold-krazee shit's getting around here.  (iow, I listen to music in the kitchen when I'm cooking, and in the dining room when we be MAD entertaining the poppin'-off gentry in our lokal, or, you know, Jack's friends' parents from school - we're just insane/wack that way.)

But here's today's playlist, including my badass mommy skillz-on-the-tablez (kitchen *and* dining).

(I had to go downstairs and shift the laundry and wound up digging through the boxes of cds we still haven't relocated since we moved LAST FUCKING SUMMER, and heaved a load of 'em upstairs.  Who KNEW I had such -- moldy taste in music?  But, to me, still awesome, and that's all that fuckin matters, yooooo.)

(now ya have to picture me with my lips all screwed up in a wicked-killah pout, one eye squeezed shut, throwing signs.)

(or you can just picture me sitting quietly, working, as the music gyrates wildly in the background, and makes me look ancient as I spin, hunched, over the keys, the loom spindling rapidly in the other room - er, alright, the embroidery machine.

yeah.)

Oh, also, if you really like music, and are into reading about peoples' personal musical journeys, which I totally am (i.e., I'm a nosy fucker), especially super-ruling types like Feral Mom, then you will dig, but DIG, her fascinatingly cool tour of the hinterlands of sound during her growin'-up years.  Start with her introduction to The Beatles, or her awesome cover of love for the kick-ass (and Northwest natives!) band Heart.  I heart Heart.  And you should, too.  And then you should read the rest of her adventures, musically and non-musically related.  She's a funny betch, that one.  Hell.  Ya might even learn somethin'.  (I'm personally holding out on declaring my favorite in the series until she reaches Superchunk.  Ahhhh.  Superchunk.  That good, old Chapel-Hill sound.  Laura, the hotness, on bass.  Driveway to driveway, it's the same old cracks, you slack motherfucker.  Total bastardization of a few of their songs' lyrics, but I can, and, as has been previously noted 'round here, I WILL.  Gee.  I'm such a badass.  *  sigh  *)

Beastie Boys * Licensed to Ill
Superchunk * No Pocky for Kitty
Sloan * One Chord to Another
The Apples in Stereo * Tone Soul Evolution
Simon and Garfunkel * The Concert in Central Park
Cat Stevens * Footsteps in the Dark
Patsy Cline * 12 Greatest Hits
Beulah * The Coast is Never Clear
The Kinks * The Kink Kontroversy
James Taylor * Greatest Hits
Hepcat * Scientific
The Promise Ring * Wood/Water
Harry Connick, Jr. * We Are in Love
Stand By Me * The Soundtrack
Joni Mitchell * Blue
Hall & Oates * Greatest Hits
David Frishberg * Live at Vine Street
Stan Getz/ Joao Gilberto (featuring Antonio Carlos Jobim) * Getz/Gilberto
Stevie Wonder * Talking Book
Led Zeppelin * II
The Beatles * Revolver
The Best of Parliament * Give up the Funk
Hot Snakes * Automatic Midnight
Beach Boys * Greatest Surfing Songs!
Spoon * Girls Can Tell
Miles Davis * Porgy and Bess
The Smiths * Louder than Bombs
Billie Holiday * Fine and Mellow (1935 - 1941)
Eric Dolphy in Europe, Vol. 2
Ben Webster * The Soul of Ben Webster
Rolling Stones * Some Girls
Michael Jackson * Off the Wall
Os Mutantes * Everything is Possible!
Operation Ivy * Operation Ivy
Peter Tosh * The Toughest
The American Analog Set * Know By Heart
The And/Ors * Will Self-Destruct

What's on your list today?  (jesus.  that sounds just like a fricking grocery store commercial.  which is why i'm leaving it.)

japanese girl bands named SPooKEY that earn my (quasi-middle-aged, flat-pasty-ass) respect.

Dude.  This song, Super Jet Shoes, starts out honky-tonk and proceeds into some kind of country-disco melange that reminded me of having my ears filled with tangerine-cream meringue pie while watching Rhinestone Cowboy. 

The only things missing were glitter, bubbles and adorable, ivory hot-pants made out of an expensive woolen -- wait.  They *were* present.  And thank heaven (the woolen-trouser aspect really lends color to the "hot" in hot pants, huh). 

Damn.  I need a completely bland cup of tea now as chaser.

Thanks, man, for introducing me to your heroin-y music selection.

*****

Updated because I much prefer this (though that isn't to say I don't also love the silly/adorable quality of Perfume, just -- I'm a rawk chick at heart, yo).  It's pretty rad.  It's the cup of tea I needed, though not bland at all.  It's pretty good contrast.

And then I found this!  Which I also want to hug and color with.  (Japanese girl bands like Pizzicato Five and Cibo Matto used to be my go-tos, so, yeah.)

smashing.

New favorite songs (well, except that I've been loving the Decemberists' number since last fall's show, and yeah, it's gotten enough radio airtime that I've even heard it when at a local family-friendly dinner joint, but still, despite that, the goodness cannot be defined, and I would vomit over this statement because it reveals so clearly my fear of appearing remotely unaware, despite being in fact ABSOLUTELY CULTURALLY IGNORANT ON EVERY EXISTING LEVEL, but I haven't eaten anything yet today, and I'd only have bile to work with, so I'll ditch that option and revert to loving these songs and pretending blithely that I didn't just show you all my hand and now you could mock me more than ever if you so chose and you may, go ahead, I don't care, I LOVE to be mocked.  Yeah, now it's not fun anymore, see?  Ha.  Um, I'm insane.):

two memes and an anti-depressant walk into a bar.

Jenny, who has a soft spot in her brain b/c she actually thinks that if she were dating Lily Allen, she wouldn't be the cute one, and the super-happenin' Motherbumper both requested that I participate in the seven songs meme.  And the no-one-looks-snappier-in-safety-goggles-than-PDX Mama put me up to the real-moms meme (invented originally by the ever-brilliant Kristen). 

I'm gonna mash 'em together.  Because real moms like real music, whatever the hell that means.

(Keep in mind that I no longer listen to music, ever, because when I have the opportunity to play the radio, I cannot stray from feeding my political obsession with Air America - I have a mad crush on Sam Seder.  This translates to my being utterly dismal in the hip-modern-aural-treasures dept.  What?  Like I care about being hip.  I'm a fracking mom.  I ain't got that kinda time, people.  I've ditched my urbn/insound fetishes because I have to spend the extra cheddar on 0ld N4vy threads for the kidlet.  It's how it has to be.  *shrug*)

Bad Mama Jama - Stevie Wonder.
One Cup of Coffee - Bob Marley.
If You Wanna Sing Out - Cat Stevens.
Love Will Keep Us Together - Capt. and Tenille.
A Boy Named Sue - Johnny Cash
Black Eyed Dog - Nick Drake
Hey Nineteen - Steely Dan

Slouching Mom, Jenn, Pundit Mom, the new girl, Nina, Mignon, Jennifer, Ruth, Dodo, Gwen and Cristina?  Consider yourselves tagged.  Feel free to mesh the two memes together, or separate them for more punch.  Whatevs.

you've got to work hard.

I used to be a music snob.  I was ridiculous.  I only listened to music that no one had ever heard of (or, because I was so triple-post-ironic, the extreme opposite, like Barry Manilow - oh, sighhhh, Barry.  I loves the Man-ilow 4evah).  I was one of those people who - oh, god, gag-reflex-sound, I can't stand even thinking about it.  I was overtly obnoxious in my snobbery, is what I'm trying to say.  As any true snob is, I suppose. 

Guess why I'm not a music snob anymore?

Yeah.  It's sorta tough to be a snob when you ain't got no duckets to replenish your stash.  And that's the thing that pisses me off; I still love music, but I can't afford to buy any new records, and I've recently become irrelevant within my (yeah, narrow, but still existing) ranks of friends during conversations that revolve around the topic of bands and shows and records.

So I listen to my mp2s ('cause the man won't give me the extra digit).  The ones I lifted before it got scary-illegal to do so.  And I pretend I don't care.

Most days, I don't.  Today just happens to be not one of those days. 

(And for those of you who get to go to SXSW because you have a primo speaking gig, please don't flaunt.  It's not nice.  It's cruel.  It's heartless.  And it makes me weep.  Because I'm a giant weenie.)

Oh, and here's a little something for the lo-impact crowd (and if you find it too exhausting to lift air, a la the Amy Poehler "Donna M" character, don't forget that you can work your fingers).  I lost teeth laughing over this sketch.  Drew Barrymore is a genius, but Amy Poehler is my personal jesus for the week.  (Whee!  Wouldn't she be excited to know that!)

if the mood fits, swear.

Today's anti-nationally-televised-sports playlist (to which I should really not be anti, since I digitized the logo that all those peeps wearing white polos will be rocking today on the behind-the-scenes, etc., action on the network displaying said action, but I am, still, because I've never acquired the taste for jockstraps - heh):

All Girl Summer Fun Band :: Lipsmacker Kiss
Spoon :: Jealousy
Death Cab :: Champagne from a Paper Cup
Film School :: 700 Club
Radiohead :: Karma Police
Neutral Milk Hotel :: In the Aeroplane over the Sea
Echo and the Bunnymen :: Sugar Kisses
Cupid Car Club :: Grape Juice Plus
Belle and Sebastian :: If You're Feeling Sinister
Elliott Smith :: Between the Bars
Hot Water Music :: Driving Home
Promise Ring :: Make me a Mix Tape
Modest Mouse :: Baby Blue Sedan
Flin Flon :: Black Bear
The Hives :: Outsmarted
Unrest :: Make Out Club
American Analog Set :: Weather Report
Yo La Tengo :: Did I Tell You
Karate :: Small Fires
The Moldy Peaches :: Nothing Came Out
Nomeansno :: I Can't Stop Talking
(and, okay, one minor tribute to the day) American Football :: I'll See You When We're Both Not So Emo

(I didn't think I could top the awesomeness of my "mommy-blogger!!" declaration the other day, but I just did, with this list, the list that screams "Aging-Hipster/Mommy-Blogger."  I think I ought to formally turn in my "with-it" badge, and assign myself the one with the little black, jagged line resembling a hill, with a stick figure perched slightly on the anti-climactic tip.)

dancing queen. minus the queen, sub toddler.

Baby loves disco, indeed.

Things did not begin well for us on the day that we attended the party (to which we were super-graciously invited, shout, Andy!), because of a confluence of very-not-good items of business, such as

• a nap that ended with poo and please don't make me explain or I will quit writing this post and turn this car around RIGHT NOW, and we are going STRAIGHT HOME, with no cookies when we get there -- do you understand me?
• a very cold day - I think I saw a polar bear wearing a sweater on our drive to the Crystal - and we were all wearing our spring jackets.  (And by "we all" I mean Caleb and me.  Because our son was bundled up like the kid in The Christmas Story.  The younger brother.  The one who can't put his arms down.)  As we drove up to the venue where the dance was being held, we noted the unduly snake-y line that signified standing around outside, holding an impatient toddler, in frigid weather, wearing spring jackets and t-shirts.  TOTALLY AWESOME.  Our mood went from so-so to "argh."
• a fight that started because, apparently, I cannot properly operate a motor vehicle.  It may have something to do with my physical make-up ("I'm a chick"), but I swear that I've always managed somehow, and granted, said managing used to involve speeding tickets (more than I can count, because I deliberately didn't keep track, and am so glad I'm currently reliving that idiocy - shut up, please, memory banks), but they're all off my record now (um, well, okay, I think they're almost all off and SERIOUSLY, NOW, MEMORY, REMEMBER WHAT I SAID ABOUT TURNING THE CAR AROUND, I WAS NOT JUST WHISTLING DIXIE, ESPECIALLY ABOUT THE COOKIES, SO SHUT!! UP!! about my ancient traffic violations!!), and given that I am often, if not always, relied upon to find our way to events, seeing that I have the mental map affixed, since Caleb has never bothered to learn the back routes ('cause he's from Cali, yeah, I said it) since he's got mental-map-girlfriend, and now-wife, all hooked up, why bother, right?, I would suggest that anyone who thinks my desire to drive over a curb (a really, really tiny, inoffensive one; seriously, I think it was all of two inches, although it may have also been as much as a few feet in height but THAT IS NOT MY POINT, HERE, PEOPLE, stop side-tracking me already, geez!) in order to nail a parking spot that was as Doris-Day as we were gonna get on that cold-ass afternoon from hell, is insane and REALLY BANANAS, as was inferred on several levels, needs to shut their cakehole.

Enough bullets.  The point is, we weren't so much on the speaking-to-each-other tip when we rolled up to the front door of the Crystal, and were doing that stupid talk-to-each-other-through-speech-directed-at-our-son thing.  Which I won't try to recapture, because the glory of it would be too much and you would be blinded and no longer capable of reading this super-glittery, super-bouncy, super-happy post about dancing with your family, and having loads of fun.

Um.

Anyway!  The thing is, you could've knocked me over with a duster if you'd told me I would be capable of having anything remotely concerned with the so-recently-referred-to word "fun" after that auspicious beginning, which I think speaks to how much real, actual fun there was to be had at the Baby Disco.

Although J didn't shake it too much, which was mostly a direct result of wanting to live in the chill-out section of the disco, because of the plethora of books, toys, tents, rugs, balls, more toys, pillows, hoola-hoops, and tennnnnnts.  Oh, the tents.  Oh, the love for the tents.  What music?  Who cares if mommy wants to dance?  For there are tents.  Duh, mom.  (I swear, swear I got a toddler-attempt at an eye-roll directed drily at me at one point, even.  Why would I lie?  He was clearly not into my "enthusiasm.")

Here is my point:  apparently, that sucker sold out either immediately upon opening, or it sold out previous to the day of the event, so if you wanna go to either of the ones being held in February or March, best be buying your tickets pronto.

(Although Caleb and I overheard some people complaining about the ticket prices, and I was a bit mystified as to why the complaining was happening, but then I read some of people's thoughts at urbanmamas yesterday and now I can kinda see the motivation for the complaints, but despite that, I still thought it was nice.)

 

Because, seriously, If it can turn the frozen hell-day into a happy-happy kinda one like it did for us, then you're bound to need medication to bring you down from the euphoria you're likely to experience if you attend without the pre-party assery bonanza.

MMMmmmm.  Medication.

flashback.

Today's playlist:

OMD :: (I'm) So in Love (With You)
The Blow Monkeys :: Diggin' Your Scene
Kraftwerk :: Tour de France
Michael Sembello :: (She's a) Maniac
Curiosity Killed The Cat :: Misfit
Cyndi :: She Bop
Chaka Khan :: I Feel For You
Flying Lizards :: Money (That's What I Want)
Run DMC :: You Be Illin'
Nina :: 99 Luftballoons
Scritti Politti :: The Word Girl
The Cars :: Magic
Tones On Tail :: Christian Says
Katrina and the Waves :: Walkin' on Sunshine (to inspire my child to boogie)
Van Halen :: Jump (yeah, it's not new-wave, so what)
The Cure :: In-Between Days
Irene Cara :: What a Feeling

and because I'm not heartless, leaving you with this cinnamon-y-delicious eighties flavor in your thoughts, but no residual aural/visual boost:

this blog weighs a ton.

In emotional terms.  Ahhh, yes.  Meta time is here.  Blogginess and blogs.  Time to worry a hole in the corner of this page.  Again.

But I'll surprise you, because I'm only gonna say one thing:  I spend WAY too much of the non-blog-related parts of my day stressing out about the various significant (and not-so-significant) aspects of my existence within this corner of the internet.  And it seems so silly, but it's real (I sound like I'm pleading with you to believe me.  And I am).  I have to wonder if I'm alone in this, or if you do it, too.  (Tell me you do, because I could use a little validation, alright?  A spoonful of it would go a long way toward making me want to not shred my computer in my central-heating-destroyed-skin hands.  Shred it to bits.  And then burn it.  Also to bits.)

In other, less barftastically obnoxious corners of my brain, I have this:  Stacy, you should still be watching the double G (Gilmore Girls, yes, sigh, I still watch it.  Even though I'm thirty-frillion.  Get off me, okay?  Well, wait, before you get off, could you scratch my -- heh.  I'm kidding.  Just go.  Before I beg - such an unattractive quality in a woman my age, begging.  Not that I'll ever let a little nuisance like age prevent me from begging openly on an occasional basis for the rest of my nauseatingly pathetic life).  Because the Gilmores (yes, I've returned to the topic) is still every tiny, morsel-scraping bit as good as it has been, ever.  Yes, the season opened a bit shufflingly, sort of like the show was trying to retire and wear its jammies to the grocery store and rock on the porch and begin drinking too early in the day before it had actually quit the career, but it's been coming back around, and has lately hit full stride.  Last week was a good example, I think.

(That or *I've* been drinking too early in the day and wearing my jammies to the store and have suddenly become too impaired by that behavior to notice other equally impaired people/inanimate objects/television shows/monkeys are not necessarily in as good shape as I'm assuming them to be.)

Ahem.

Oh.  Also, today when we were driving to the store (yes!  A trip to the store!  Something I'm sure you were praying quietly, humbly, pleadingly for me to give a full run-down about at some point in the near future; well, baby, today's your lucky day - gah, I'm so Carly-Simon-vain right now), I flipped on the radio -- which, I must explain, I never do, because I loathe all radio stations, minus the local jazz one, due to the fifteen-hour-long commercial "breaks," and I'm sure anyone who has one-eighteenth of an ear agrees with me.  So.  Yes.  Radio flipping, and while I was intent on finding a channel playing the xmas classics to scare my child and scar him for many, many years as I sang along in a warbly falsetto, I stopped short on an "old-school lunchbox show" (or whatever the hell its sorta-trying-a-little-too-hard name was).  They were playing C + C Music Factory.  You know you would've, too.  Your looks of disapproval and derision don't fool me.

So.  I'm singing, and car-dancing, which is mostly about hands and above-the-waist gyrations, and a little neck/head stuff thrown in, but I throw a little glance over my shoulder to see whether I can turn out from the corner I'm stopped at and I notice J:  hands up, gyrating slightly around the shoulders, hands shimmying in the air, feet bouncing.  He's trying to mimic my silly hand/wrist-rotate-thingy, and instead of being embarrassed, which I should, no, I should be HORRIFIED, I laugh and pat his leg while I tell him, "Good car-dancing!  What a good car-dancer you are!"  I'll be lucky if he's not dressed entirely in parachute-pantsuits and wearing his white boy red afro in a Kid N Play fade by the time he's five.  Also, I'll still be alive, because Caleb won't have a contract out on me for having persuaded his son to become a freakshow.

(I should insert the part about how the song had segued into the one I'm about to post, and I'm a' holla at Shanny, because it reminds me of -- um, 2001?  2002?   I can't find my abacus - I think J must have hidden it.  Good, old Mountain Hood -- rhymed with food -- Meadows.  Miss you.  Visit me sometime, will ya?  Thanks Easter Bunny -- bawk, bawk!)

* Had some serious trouble locating the one semi-intact version of the song, so wait for it to load before you view, then jump in at about 2:00.

i no pod.

I enjoy the chump-chump of rubber soles on institutional carpeted halls, of the

squeak of dry skin on a hand rail,

the creak of a leather bag

swinging softly, its dull

thud against a door as it narrowly

skirts through behind its wearer;

I hear the refrain of a once-popular tune playing, tinny, issuing forth from a desktop radio.  It echoes inside my head, and turns into a hum that doesn't quite reach beyond the interior of its fleshy mechanism.

I imagine hearing the song in its entirety, delivered through a set of delicate, doll-like wires and eardrop speakers, tucked discreetly away from public view, being fed by a tiny, modular electronic device, clever, chic, simple, complex.

I recognize the allure of dimming the exterior noise

of quieting the absorption of the outside world;

I see the benefit in shutting out the unwanted, bright, kaleidoscope stimulus of the too much that is exposure to social existence.

I swing my bag, its leathery voice singing in my hand.

I hear the beeps, and dings, the footsteps, the chatter -- the rain, steady and rythmic, all colliding in a din of chorusing, clashing melded melodic medley.

I listen, unimpeded, to this organic soundtrack.

fridays are but a pale shadow of their former selves, lately.

I used to always schedule a night of karaoke or dancing on Fridays -- *kind of giggles at the use of the word "schedule" in the sentence*.  Sometimes both.  It was fun.  I say this because I am in a sort of reminiscent place tonight, after Wednesday evening's Decemberists extravaganza, which was simply transcendent.  I think I may have levitated, and, given the location, it wasn't necessarily a defiance of nature/gravity.

I don't want to to bore anyone with the trivial bla-dee-bloo of our evening, but I did have a lovely time, and my friends are funny and delightful people who should be given hugs and brought trays to their morning reclines bearing mouth-watering food that sends up curls of steam, resting near piping-hot coffee in delicate, intricately shaped antique cups, with a perfect flower resting atop the plate, of a morning, by their mates.  Real soon.  *wink, nudge*  They're that fabulous.  And because I believe I may save, if not lives, then at least some sanity by imparting this information, that polishing off tots, two orders of 'em, post-show, is a brilliant way to wrap up a transcendent evening.  Also, the tots, they are still heady and delicious in my memory.  Oh, for those tots.  I would give something hefty and important to get a basket of those suckers delivered to my tired hands right this minute.  Oooh.  Tots.  *drools*  (did I mention that the tots were deep-fried?  oh, those deep-fried tots that beckon to me with their starchy siren's song.  I hear you, o tots of glory and wonder and deep-friedification.  I hear.  I wouldst come if I but could.)

There are many songs I'd love to share that this band has crafted so perfectly, so wonderfully; but I'm only able to give you the ones that youtube had to offer.  I'm not willing to dig around to find a better source (although there is sure to be at least one), so here are a few of the pieces in their compendium.  They're so darned nice.  In their own ways.  I can't recommend this band enough, btw.  I've been listening to their Picaresque album in my car for the last few months -- rather than growing tired of it, I've only enjoyed it more as the song list cycles back to the first track.  It's developed into such a lush, intricate soundtrack for my grocery trips and bank errands.  A lush, intricate -- for my -- gah.  I need to go shoot myself in the head, now.

(The last video was apparently filmed the night I saw them, and I think I was standing fairly near the person filming.  Watch it and tell me you wouldn't be floating slightly above the floor -- no, not because the visual provided is so great -- but the sound:  So.  Damned.  Exquisite.)

"Tots Not Shots!!!"

one of the people in my neighborhood.

There was a summer during my mid-twenties where I spent a few months couch-surfing at my friend's apartment, located along the boardwalk of one of the more popular beaches in southern California.  This particular apartment was situated on the ground floor of an old house that had been converted into a series of small, fairly economical flats (economical in comparison to some of the more expensive real estate in the area, that is, given that it was on the beach in southern California -- did I mention it was in southern Cali?  on the beach?  because it was).  It was adjacent to another building that housed a few very, very posh flats people rented for prolonged periods of time - although it was generally most popular in the summer months, I'm guessing.  There were three floors, and, therefore, three flats.  The middle flat was rented to a recently divorced man; the rest of the household included his two small daughters and their mid-twenties-aged nanny, a girl I shall call Alice, for non-truth's sake.  (Her name, of course, was something other than that.  But since I don't know her whereabouts currently, I don't want to out her in this silly tale without being able to ask her permission, and of course, there lies the dilemma, and, hence, the faux handle.)

Alice was well acquainted with my good friend, a girl I'll name Lucy Ann for the purposes of her presence in my story.  The day I first arrived, Alice stopped by and we had a long, leisurely bitch session about her employer, with whom she apparently was very smitten.  This smit had even brought about her present employment, it was so intense.  She had first fallen for him at a young, impressionable age, when she saw him on television (or maybe she'd heard him on the radio and *then* saw him on television.  or in a movie.  or both.  all three.  I don't.  really.  know.  okay??!?), and when she spied him in Chicago in a deli, and approached him for his autograph, they spoke for a long enough time to result in his engaging her as his children's nanny for the summer.  I suppose that means she has a very friendly, warm personality.  I mean, yes, of course it does.  I just don't really remember all that well.  (It was a long time ago, this story.  All of it.  And my memory is fuzzy, and drops out in parts.)

After Alice left, L.A. (Lucy Ann's nickname, which seemed quite apropos, given our location - southern California, for anyone who missed it) and I discussed Alice and her employer.  Mainly her employer, though.  Because I was mystified as to who he was.  L.A. tried to describe him, and his big, early eighties hit, but I couldn't even start to put a face to the description.  I was a little young to recall the song, and the subsequent musicals he'd starred in, etc.  (Too bad imdb.com didn't exist, at that point, or I'd have been able to place him immediately, *and* his white-boy gerry curls.)  Suffice it to say that I never displayed any fan-like attitude toward him, because I was pretty underwhelmed, not knowing who he was.  When I was in his vortex, my nonchalance left him obviously perplexed, and not a little disconcerted.

Lots of stuff happened during that several-week tenure on L.A.'s comfy divan, which is not to suggest that I spent the entire time on the couch, although I did lounge there for a lot longer than her roommate probably would've preferred (I have a feeling he would've preferred my ass to have not been there at all, in fact).  Some of the stuff included attending several soirees at the neighbor's, with really fancy booze in the liquor cabinet, and having long, excessively annoying conversations with him while sitting on the sand outside of the apartments, on the other sid eof the boardwalk, trying to journal and wishing he and his guitar and his drone about the good, old days would stop leaning over the balcony toward me and up and find something else to do.  Having a really worthless relationship with a surfer that resulted in getting a kind-of broken heart (and really, kind-of broken isn't even true; I think it was merely scratched, or even just a little bruised.  Bruises can hurt so much when first garnered, but after some time, they prove to be, not breaks, but simply roundish, purpled spots that fade quickly).  Wearing a jute-colored, macrame-like string bikini that reminded me of Farah Fawcett, and feeling like a supahstar (then seeing photos of myself in said bikini, and waking up to the knowledge that, indeed, I was many things in it, but not one of them included being a star, supah or otherwise).  Eating a lot of Big Ed's ice cream cookie sandwiches after smoking too much ganja in the early part of the day and having nothing other than wandering aimlessly to the corner market to discover fatty snacks on our daily agenda.  Well, nothing other than riding rusty beach bikes that had strips of navy and red paint dangling from the metal, to out-of-the-way, hole-in-the-wall restaurants that smelled of briny ocean and deep-fried food, for late lunches and even later suppers; and to the donut shop in the wee hours, one of us sitting on the handlebars while we careened crazily about, then tipping over in the sand, where we would open the greasy bag of pastries to eat right there with our coarsely covered fingers.  Bonfires in the dark, moist night air, sand squelched between icy toes, and early-morning wake-up calls from the surfer boys to hurry our asses up if we were gonna get the good swells.  Which we managed to do almost never, to the heightening irritation of our surfer boy buddies.  Smelling the air, salt-laden, pungent, upon waking each bright, golden-white day, and remembering where I was with a satisfied settling of my gut.

And now, so many years later, finally, I am able to recall the song my friend tried so unsuccessfully to jog my memory about, through the magic of youtube.  I am, at long last, aware of who I was living next door to, for a magically weird time.  Of all the wildly nostalgic crap that I flailed through in that sandy, scrubby, floundery summer at the beach, one of the memories that stands out is that, for a couple of months, I had  an eighties rock star for a neighbor.  Neighbor by proxy.

live - it's saturday nerd!

In order to impress upon you even further the depths to which my uncoolness runs, I will now post a video of a song I liked in high school.  (Please bear with the irritating "oldies" intro - I think it lasts about ten seconds.  Hang in there - you won't be sorry.  Er, unless you are, because you hate this song so much it makes your eyeballs dry up and fall out of your skull.  For which I apologize profusely, in advance.)

Toldja.

no one can save me; the damage is done.

Guess what song I can't get out of my head since I sewed this design out earlier today.

(And I apologize thoroughly to all of the fellow non-fans of this, erm, song's creators.  Who will now be forced to live -- may it be brief -- in the hell I built when I came up with this idea, and then placed it here for all to be stung by.  I'll put some chips out and chill some beer, so it's not quite as godawful.)

p.s. This is not to say that I hated all hair bands.  Because I would've probably been willing to admit, out loud, to being the drooling, cross-eyed Def Leppard fan that I was.  In fact, I've lately considered re-purchasing Hysteria, because I need to hear Excitable once more.  (And anyone who insists that the album prior to that one is their most artistic effort, bla bla bla, don't bother - I could care less.  That wasn't the one that included the tasty-licious, worst/best pop-rock hit released on the airwaves during that era.  Of course, I speak of Pour Some Sugar on Me.  The lyrics - so dumb, so corny, so. effing. good.  Besides, I have already declared myself the antithesis of a music snob, if you recall.) 

I just want to try to recapture that feeling of being young and overzealous and chomping at the bit of life, again.  For a second or two.  Windows rolled down, volume up much too high, the tiny bit of sweat snaking down beneath the bridge of the Vuarnets, and on the nape of the neck, the neck that you've elongated in order to appear as tall as Stephanie Seymour (even if she is totally tacky, you prefer Linda Evangelista but the boys all like Stephanie because she goes out with Axl and she has big boobs), because your hair is so long and heavy and must, must, must be worn down, at all times, because boys will notice.  And it will be the best rush of your life, when they do.  And you will believe that life will get bigger!  and better!  and more important!  and fuller!  and everything will grow to mammoth proportions of excitement!  and adventure!  and experiences will keep blowing your mind!  and the music will always carry you to that same place of pure, unadulterated joy when you are driving with the heat and the wind whipping the hair in your eyes and your heart is racing as you look forward to your life.

Yeah.  I gotta get that album again.

And listen to it on my cd player.  Because I don't own an Ipod.  And I never will.  TM.

music does not define me.

Nor does film, nor literature.  I'm a rebel against my own tastes like that. 

With that said, here are some of my favorite records, on vinyl.  (Okay, so I have a camera and some records.  And a finger.  Yeah.  I said it.)

These are sort of my pride 'n joy du jour.  Only the du jour has been more like, "du annum (I don't possess a font of french in my vocabulary, so, yeah)."  I haven't had ample opportunity to change the records out of their frames, like I did back in the day.  I used to do it every month or so, as sort of rotating art pieces.  I have had a thing for collecting funny, old records at thrift shops for a lotta years, and while some of them are weird and kitschy, some happen to represent music genres that I felt really revealed me.  I have since left that whole music snobbism behind, because it's something I realize I don't have time for anymore childish.  (If I can't do it, then I'm just going to be a haughty bitch toward those who still can.  Bastards.  Free, non-parent, freedom-mcfreepants bastards.)

Maybe I have unconsciously allowed this pairing to remain static, because it satisfies my rock-geek-beatin'-ventricles (just keep telling yourself that). There's a song (Glazed, the last track on the second side) on the RftC album that was clearly inspired by a Beatles song (specifically, the end of I am the Walrus, where they chant, "everybody smoke pot"; Rocket mimics the chant at the end of Glazed).  I get used to get all excited and wet my pants over that kind of dorky rock-geek stuff.  (To be fair, this specific Beatles album doesn't feature the Walrus song, but I don't have that record on vinyl, sadly, so I put this one up to represent.)  There's another grouping I would feature using this Beatles album, but I don't have a third record frame, nor do I own the particular Kinks or Sleater-Kinney records on vinyl in order to frame them to begin with (I have the last two on disc; they don't frame so well, those little jewel cases.)  I must explain, btw, that the Kinks and S-K albums feature photo formats that are similar to the Beatles album shown here, hence the cohesion in the desired grouping.  (Did I mention, Geek?)

   

The Ben Webster double lp is one of my hands-down favorites; it's just so DAMN fine.  Oh, how my ears yearn to hear its loveliness.  But my record needle's broken.  Again.  Sigh.  I guess that could explain my posting these beauties; if I can't listen, I can look.

I have oodles more to share, but my camera battery died as I was hooking it up to its beloved big-sister laptop, and I'm having a bitch of a time with my internet connex (the last 36 hours have been cruel, so cruel).  I'll update this post with mais e mais quando eu tenho a primera oportunidade (I read somewhere that your sexxxy quotient increases upon others' discovery that you speak a second language - is it working?  I'm willing to pull out all the stops.  Whatever it takes.  Just like me!  Find me attractive!  Without having to show you my vagina! -- Although that would probably just make you all run away, as you bleed from the eyes.  I'm sorry.  I shouldn't have said that.  Somebody should permanently disable my internet capabilities.  Please, husband, don't be reading this and think I'm serious - I'm going through withdrawals and my mouth is all loosey-goosey as a result.  Okay -- really, people, look away.  This isn't pretty.  It's getting uglier by the minute.  I have a problem).

***********

here's that update I promised -- and I hope I'm quelling the ravenous, drooling idiocy I've induced with my partially completed post, herewith.  Since all six of you like me and my vinyl that much.

Yeah.

(I have a self-confidence problem.)

(Also, I suddenly think I need ice cream therapy.  Stat.)

I have included these in no particular order, because I didn't want to demonstrate any favoritism toward the more iconic, "hip" element.  I like it all.  I don't have music cred.  I'm no snob.  I'm a mommy blogger, for cripessake.

Yeah.  I'm a nerd.  (Mel did mention to me on the phone the other day, though, that being a nerd is all the rage, lately.  Looks like I just can't get away from the cool-o-meter.  Shit.)