Um, is it just me, or is there a glaring omission in this article? I mean, jeez, how do you talk about sexual habits–let alone the sexual habits of horned-up, hyper-hormonal adolecent boys–without even mentioning “homosexuality? (I’m goddamn serious; ctrl+f search the page, Mary.) You’d think they might at least modify the title of the piece….
Introspective Sunday
(I apologize in advance if this gets maudlin.)
In our living room, there’s a cd playing that Jonno just received from a super-special secret satan admirer-type person. It’s essentially a “best of” album, with Cocteau Twins songs spanning from the mid-80s (junior high/high school) to the late 90s (semi-grownup-hood): 15 weird, wonderful years, that have taken me places I’d never have thought I’d go.
Now, my feelings on nostalgia are pretty clear: I’m uncomfortable/unwilling to go mucking around in my past just for the sake of feeling warm and fuzzy. But sometimes I can’t help myself. Now’s one of those times.
See, the problem with nostalgia is that it’s addictive–once you start down that road, it’s hard to turn back. You’re listening to a cd like this, and one song plays through, dredging up all sorts of happy memories of a younger, possibly more carefree you, drinking whiskey straight from the bottle on a cold winter night on the shores of a moonlit lake, carousing like you never thought you’d grow older and own a house and begin to settle down (just a bit). Against your better judgement, you keep listening. The songs remind you of photos, images that make you think to yourself “Well, I haven’t changed much, have I?” but when friends see them on your mantelpiece or in your photo album, they all comment on how adorable you were back then.
Hmm. Maybe that’s it in a nutshell. Maybe I’m just not willing to admit that my past is past.
Or maybe this mushiness/revulsion is specifically related to the saccharine-sweet music of the Cocteau Twins. I mean, when a certain someone recently reminded me of a RevCo album I’d almost forgotten, it didn’t have the same effect at all.
Well, I guess that’s over. Wah.
Wow. I completely forgot about this one. It’s not my best work, to be sure. But the thought of Jon Benet boo-ing like Marley’s ghost and walking through walls still makes me giggle. Tee hee….
Yet another day of writing things for other people. This time it’s a piece on New Year’s–perhaps the least interesting of all holidays to me. I’m not entirely pleased with it, although I think it paints a charming if none-too-realistic picture of my boyfriend. Read it if you like.
P.S. I’ve consumed nothing but sugar today and I feel weird.
Blech…ack…phew…sniffle…yack. I hate being sick.
Of course, no one really enjoys being sick. Some people hate feeling bad; others feel a sense of obligation to their job and that they’re somehow letting everyone in the office down by missing a day of work.
But that’s not me.
No, I hate being sick because daytime TV sucks ass–not just any ass, mind you, but primadonna informercial Susan Lucci-style ass. Yeah, Sesame Street‘s okay, and I can kinda stomach Zoom (though not as well as when I was a kid), but the bulk of daytime TV is made up of soaps, talk shows, and courtroom crap. And frankly, I’d rather suffer through simultaneous bouts of malaria, dropsy, and rubella than sit through five minutes of Jenny Jones. You think I’m joking…
I’ve always been like this. As a kid, I used to lie to my mother when I was sick just so I could go to school and hang with my friends–anything to avoid crappy reruns of Hodgepodge Lodge and Vegetable Soup. I’d be racked with chills, running a fever of 103, but I’d down some Tylenol and pretend nothing was wrong, then hop off to class.
In my previous life, I must’ve been Typhoid Mary…. Now I’m just Mary.
I’m liking Jason’s monologue/play-in-progress. The name “Harold” just kills me–no offense to any of you who might be named Harold, of course.
I’m gonna let you in on a little secret: Popeye’s has the best red beans in the world.
Back when I was a vegetarian–back when I used to think I was health-conscious, smoking over a pack a day and listening to lots of wacky music with theoretically politically correct messages–I used to thrive on Popeye’s red beans. They’re cheap, filling, and, well, cheap. And they’re tasty, too.
I eventually started in with the meat again, and my eating habits totally changed–including my fast food habits. With my self-imposed dietary restrictions gone, I had no need to schlep all the way over to Popeye’s. For me, the only draw was their red beans; you see, I’m one of those rare Southerners who doesn’t particularly care for fried chicken (except livers, which, unfortunately, not many Popeye’s carry anymore). These days I eat Popeye’s once or twice a year.
Today was one of those days. And something strange happened. As I was standing in line, the Popeye’s DJ started playing a really old radio tune, and it dawned on me that the song in question was 13 friggin’ years old. I know that because I remember riding to New Orleans with my then-girlfriend Margaret in the winter of 1987/88 with my old Mustang’s top down, the weather a nippy 40-something degrees, the car’s heater blasting from the floor panels, us laughing and smoking like crazy, listening to the be-turtlenecked hipster sing his little diddy. I particularly associate the song with a trip we made for New Years’–it was practically the only tune Meg wanted to hear.
I recalled that when we came down that time, we stayed with my friend Alice and her mom–who, as luck would have it, lived right around the corner from the very Popeye’s in which I stood today. I looked out the restaurant’s window. It’s located in a fairly poor neighborhood, so the cars and the buildings were relatively old–in all likelihood, nothing had changed much in 13 years.The clothes of the people on the street were generic cold weather things–cheap sweaters, nylon windbreakers. Almost 13 years ago, when I was a very different person, I could have been standing in the very same spot, listening to the very same music, looking at the very same cityscape.
In situations like that, I like to fantasize that I’ve been knocked unconscious and I’ve just come to. What is there in my surroundings that can tell me where and when I am? And today the answer was “nothing.”
P.S. I posted the Secret Santa participants. Snoop around if you like.
Um…could someone tell me what the HELL is going on?
Sometime between last night and right now, some weasely little program decided to screw up all my “.jpg” extensions. For example, if I had a pic named “MyFatAss.jpg”, it’s now called “MyFatAss.jpgchange atleast now to LINUX”. Not surprisingly, my PC ain’t quite swift enough to figure out what in the dangnabbit’s goin’ on, so it’s not recognizing the files for what they really are–simple little harmless ol’ jpegs.
Luckily it’s just one folder on my work computer. If it’d been my home computer….ugh, let’s not think about it.
Yes, I’m alive.
No, I’m not hiding from the mob–what makes you say that?
Yes, I’m almost finished with the Secret Santa realness goodies…
sturtle [dot] com 