Triple Play : Incongruous Songs Which Have Made Me Cry

1. "Doin' It" - LL Cool J. Note: My tears were in no way related to the Doin' of It, the fabled act of which has rarely reduced me to tears. Yes, there was one incident involving gallons of rum, unfortunate angles and an alarming inability to urinate for the next eight hours, but that was an exception, damn it.

I was sitting in the DecrepiCivic, gritting my teeth through a midsummer traffic jam. My fuel gauge had dipped from "sort of empty" to "hell yes, I'm empty" to "miss, please hook a Honda up with some Iraqi Black, PLEASE, I just need a TASTE!" In the interests of conserving my last few dregs of fuel, I'd turned off the air conditioner. Car horns and exhaust fumes drifted in through my open windows. The former shredded my nerves like a Microplane, the latter mingled with my sweat and oozed down the back of my neck. Harried and headachey, I'd forsaken the AM traffic report in favor of Top 40. At its best, Top 40 is the Cookie Crisp of the airwaves - delicious, sugary crap.

I was hoping for light entertainment. My FM dial, however, had other plans. For "Throwback Thursday", the local Top 40 station had unearthed "Doin' It", LL's paean to skillful sexin'. While the lyrics made me snicker ("Baby I wanna hit it in the worst way / Schemin' on that ass since the first day"), the rush of memories the song invoked made me choke up. "Doin' It" had thrust its way to the top of the pop charts while I was in junior high. The era - like the song - had been simpler, sillier, brasher than anything which followed. Sex - along with love, life, adventure, and everything else - was a purer concept back in tha proverbial day. Lack of context is a better lubricant than anything the KY corporation can conjure up. It's not "Doin' It (And Crying In the Bathroom Afterwards)", or "Doin' It (With Someone Who Will Never Understand You on a Deeper Level". It's doin' it, and doin' it, and doin' it well. I represent Queens, she was raised out in Brooklyn. It represented time - heavier even than Biggie Smalls - and I was rubbing my eyes with my sleeve, giggling, praying that my fellow motorists' eyes were trained on less-ridiculous spectacles.

2. "When the Levee Breaks" - Led Zeppelin. This ditty is notable for a fantastic Jimmy Page guitar solo, for being name-checked in a thousand hamfisted Hurricane Katrina articles... and for being the first-ever song that made me cry. I was slouched in the back of my parents' rusty Crown Vic, a surly pre-teen with a Walkman permanently welded to her head. My musical tastes were proudly iconoclastic. While my peers were exploring the plagiariffic pleasures of Vanilla Ice, I was rocking out to the 60's greats: Zeppelin, Hendrix and the like. Led Zep IV was a perennial favorite; it's a wonder the damned thing didn't melt from the combined force of my love and my auto-reverse button. I'd listened to "When the Levee Breaks" hundreds of times before, but that afternoon, it was subtly different. The lull before the break ("Don't it make you feel bad / when you're tryin' to find your way home / You don't know which way to go?") was a moment of high-voltage calm; the break itself pure bluesy bombast. The wetness unexpectedly dribbling down my face was a drop in the bucket, a harbinger of the rough weather ahead. There's no AccuWeather for one's teenage years, and thank Jehova for that... I couldn't have anticipated the hormones which would batter my body and mind, the depression which would periodically blot out the sun, the alt-rock snarls and emo sighs. I was also unaware that this was the birth of a tradition. Music would be a constant in my life, and so would my emotional connection to it... I'd sob along to Springsteen, bawl with Bad Religion. Which brings us to...

3. "Infected" - Bad Religion. I should've joined stage crew. I should've been on the newspaper staff. I should've teased my hair, slathered on the glitter gloss and lettered in intramural fellatio.

Anything - ANYTHING - but drama club.

It was a dumping ground for histrionic bitches of both genders, a boot camp for those constitutionally unsuited to army duty. Every fall and spring, they formed a dysfunctional, incestuous family. They held court in cramped classrooms which reeked of ambition and Aqua Net. And lo, the showtunes echoed from the walls... along with the fake tears, shrill laughter and vicious rumors.

The knives may've been props, but the backstabbing was all too real.

I have never been more out of place in my life.

I'm the quintessential introvert. I'm a bit shy, a little slow to warm up in social situations. Calling attention to myself is anathema to my nature. Other people jump in front of TV cameras... I duck behind the nearest immobile object, hoping to remain inconspicuous. My sense of humor prevents me from being a total social pariah - never underestimate the power of a good dick joke! - but "character actor" would be a stretch, let alone "leading lady".

And yet at fifteen, my confused little soul hungered for the stage. I wanted to prance across weathered floorboards, belt out Rogers & Hammerstein lyrics, feel the warmth of the house lights beaming down on my theatrical greatness.

It was not to be. Everyone knew it. My family knew it. My friends knew it. My drama teacher (enamored of Anne Taylor suits, sycophantic seniors and high-pitched psychological meltdowns) damned well knew it. "It's okay... you don't have to sing it again," she informed me after my halting, atonal rendition of "Getting to Know You". It was the closest she'd ever come to kindness... sparing us both 03:26 of misery by cutting my audition short.

I wasn't surprised, exactly, when the list of roles was posted in the auditorium. Our teacher had a coterie of favorites; the leads were a sure thing, the supporting roles relatively certain. I was a chubby, unpopular sophomore, incapable of singing "Happy Birthday" on-key. This put me at the bottom of the drama club hierarchy... which meant that I was an extra. No lines, no love. Back page of the program, baby.

I wasn't surprised. I was enraged.

I stormed out of the building, throat constricting, eyes burning. It was totally fair and completely expected. It was, within the warped little universe of Drama Club, right and just.

So why did it still hurt so MOTHERFUCKING BAD? WHY?! JESUS FUCKING CHRIST, WHY?

It was a four-mile walk from my school to my house. I must've kicked every single rock, mushroom and discarded soda bottle along the way.

I still remember what I was wearing (a much-beloved sage thermal and paint-stained jeans). I remember what the weather was like (unseasonably warm; when I wasn't sobbing, I was wishing I'd worn a t-shirt). And I remember exactly what I was listening to.

Bad Religion will always occupy a special spot in my heart... an obnoxious, pissed-off little spot. They've rocked their way through three decades, and have not once deviated from formula... a handful of chords, an abundance of adjectives and a heaping helping of fury ("They've only got one song," explained my sister Junket, "But that song fucking rocks!"). Organized faith? Fuck you! Societal convention? Fuck you! A corrupt power structure's willful blindness regarding the catastrophic effects of climate change? Fuck! You!

Getting a taste of exactly how embarrassing and agonizing a seemingly-petty rejection can feel? FUUUUUUUUUUUUCK YOOOOOOOOOOOOOU!

Stop. Rewind. Play-it-again. Stop. Rewind. Play-it-again.

My batteries were fresh. My "Turbo Bass" button (in reality, a "muddy the shit out of the lower end" switch) was firmly engaged. Music and misery mingled freely in my frontal cortex. Like all great pairings - rhythm and lead, Jagger and Richards, warmish bourbon and unfiltered Camels - each one rendered the other a bit rawer, more intense.

I haven't set foot on a stage in years, and gladly so. "Infected" has been with me for over a decade... from cassette to CD to MP3, from high school to college and beyond, as Bad Religion and I both grew older and wiser (although thankfully no less snotty).

It's almost enough to make one tear up.

"She mouthed the words along to 'Running Up That Hill' / that song got scratched into her soul."
- The Hold Steady, "Hornets! Hornets!"

Stone Groove

The time: this evening.
The place: Anonymous-For-Obvious-Reasons Friend's domicile.

Jul sits at the dining room table, jabbing ineffectually at AnonyFriend's laptop with a series of increasingly tiny and useless screwdrivers.

AnonyFriend jabs at a well-loved pipe with somewhat more success, extracting a fluffy brown pile of resin.

Jul, after dislodging 3,000th microscopic screw: "So... don't have any ACTUAL pot, huh?"

AnonyFriend [dejected]: "I left my pot in the mountains this weekend! I forgot it in the laundry room."

Jul: [immediately spaces out and begins writing next smash hit. From that point forward, responds to all inquiries - from "What in the holy hell are you DOING to that poor laptop?" to "What is your opinion regarding the ideological differences between the Sunni and Shi'ites?" - with a far-away, "Huh... would it be okay to rhyme 'kibosh' with 'Peter Tosh', do you think?"]

And thus, I present: "You Left Your Pot In the Mountains".

(Chorus)
You left your pot in the mountains
And it left your heart feeling blue
Instead of packing a nice bowl
You're puffing on resinous goo


Mid-weekend you were forced to hide
That baggie by the box of Tide
Couldn't make it back to that room
Of whiter whites, it was your doom

A diversion you'll sorely miss
That precious pouch of cannabis
By whom will this delight be sparked?
Anthropomorphic lights and darks?

(Chorus)

Nay, it's useless there: who would dare
Roll a blunt for the Snuggle Bear?
Instead, bong archaeology:
Search not for bones, but THC

It sits now by the dry-bleach cup
Not getting you nicely fucked up
No FunYuns or urge to revel
Oh! Heartbreak above sea level

(Chorus)

With pipe in hand, you're scraping by
'Til next you scale Mt. Wicked High
Go forth! Up that peak proudly climb
Conquer boredom and stubborn grime!

(Chorus, Hacking, Dorito-Consumption)

Sir Mix-a-Lot I'm Not

Following my last post, the fantabulous Doctor Mama quipped that I should send off some of my deeply silly old-school rhymes.

"How does one get a job writing rap lyrics?" I wondered, "Dear Sirs: The Inuit have over seventy words for snow. I myself have over eighty for desirable female buttocks."

"You should see if you COULD do eighty for the buttocks," replied Doc M. Because she's a sadist. "First do no harm"? Yeah, RIGHT. How about the irreparable harm my brain has suffered as a result of actually compiling such a list?

And so, without further ado: The Assified Eighty. I'm going to go lie down. On my stomach, of course.

Alright, okay, let's get this started, hon… here's eighty synonyms for buns
There are some Gentiles that like to call 'em hams
Keepin' Kosher? Then how 'bout servin' up two helpings of mac 'n DAMN!
And for dessert, a sweet, sweet bon bon
Or if that don't make ya moan, perhaps you'd be tempted by a double-dip without the cone?
If it's fly, it's called callipygian
Or if that's causin' confusion, do the medical thang and call it a sub-sacral protrusion
You can pound, you can thump, you can shimmy that rump
You can boom, you can zoom, you can float those balloons
If you're a shortie, young 'n whiny, you just call that thing a heinie
Sir Mix-a-Lot informed us that she gotta pack much back
Was he lookin' in a crystal ball with a big ol' crack?
Alone, he stood and shouted out about the juicy double
Today, everyone's runnin', hustlin', tryin' to pop that bubble
He knew it takes a special woman to wave that round thing in your face
Ain't nothin' knockin' her over when she got that solid base
It's like Epcot center, with a big ol' indent-er
It's soft and it's cute, like the Georgia state fruit
All over the world, makin' men go, "Whoa!": if you're a Latino, get a load of that culo
If G-d's chosen people happen to be the look-ahs, you better believe it'll be a tuchus
And 'though Brit-speak is damned hard to parse, we all understand when they're talkin' arse
Mad props to the English; they're versatile like that, god bless the queen and all hail the prat
Thought the UK was done? Not unless we mention bum
Firm or squishy, in thong or not, it's a double-shot of 80-proof hot
There's always room for Jell-O; that shit don't get old, so let's call it a jiggler cause it don't fit no mold
That thing's out of bounds, so talkin' 'bout sweetness, let's just call them mounds
If it's barrelin' right towards you, call it a caboose
It's small and it's playful? Well, then turn them puppies loose!
If you're into disco, you can shake your groove thing
Into hip-hop? Then check out them nuggets of bling
To get poetic, it's a dewdrop the male eye absorbs
Getting' celestial, they're a pair of high-gravity orbs
A small constellation that makes fellas swoon; although they're red-hot, they're still known as the moon
If you're staying on this planet, try the Southern hemisphere
Hell, go to Antarctica, so long as it's got rear
But take some provisions, perhaps in a can
Some rolls
and some muffins of hotness (not bran)
In the Alps? You can slide down those double-diamond slopes
Fly to Cali, get an taste of some flesh cantaloupes
It's over, it's done, time to head on homes, to your houses, your trailers, your geodesic domes
Squares are for squares; when a nice round booty appears
Just give up that key and we'll unlock them spheres
A'ight, okay, so fullerenes ain't quite the norm...
You can still build your mansion on an adipose platform
'Cause everybody's cravin' a nice, firm fundament
Straight-up sexy shelter, just like a two-room tent
Even lookin' towards the future, you gotta look at the behind
Goin' all Nostradamus on an apocalyptic hind
Gotta get down to the bottom of things
Get a handle on that sexy sack
Brace your eyes and groin for that dual-pronged attack
Cause she's got a moneymaker and is ready to shake 'er
Wigglin' that derriere from here to there
Puttin' some skin-tight clothes on them marshmallows
Gotta love the XX gender, from those headlights to that rear fender
Sleek and sexy, with all that junk in the trunk
It's a stone-cold, rock-solid gluteal chunk
It's the illustrious J. Lo's claim to fame
Even the WNBA girls got some back-court game
At the risk of soundin' crass, you gotta, gotta love that ass
Round or flat, narrow or wide, ain't nothin wrong with some backside
Ain't gotta be Secretary of the Interior, to go wild for the posterior
Ain't gotta be the Army, settin' off mortars, to wanna deploy troops to the hindquarters
On MST3K (if you need a reminder), those lil' robots called it a hinder
Funny, Girl, how it's called a fanny though without the Brice
And how mamas use tushie when tryin' to be nice
They're more than nice, they're golden, those squishy globes
Anatomically perfect, that's those dorsal lobes
Essentially, potentially pinchable cheeks
Scalable, impalable southernly peaks
Can't go wrong with butt
Or for those that it shocks, the tame, the clinical, the ol'-fashioned buttocks
You'd best have a seat
We're drawin' to an end
We're guessin' you learned a little 'bout Tag Team's best friend
Whoomp! There Is Is, so don't go turnin' tail
C'mon and run your fingers over the letter "C" in Braille
Golly, heck and gee, sir, there ain't nothin' like the keister
Time to sail, mateys, hope we helped you learn, 'bout the timber-shiverin' wonders of buoys astern

I'm In Love With That Song - Special Feature - Sounds o' Summertime

Summer: it’s fireworks, ice pops as a food group, mosquitoes gorging on your vital fluids. It’s also driving around aimlessly at dusk, windows down and music going full-blast. Many people seem to have “summer songs” or “summer albums”; tunes which instantly conjure up the swelterin’ season. For me, it’s always been Sublime’s self-titled album. It’s seventeen tracks of bouncy, bratty machismo, intensely evocative of charred hot dogs, pilfered Coronas and vague sunburnt longing.

I doubt I'll find another disc as intensely "summery" as "Sublime", unless someone digs up Bradley Nowell's corpse, reanimates it, brushes off the maggots and shoves it into a recording studio. And I'm not advocating that, as awesome as it might be. There's still plenty of music which nicely defines each brief, bug-bitten season. This year, I wanted to experience the sounds of my hep new urban environment... the pulse of the city, as it were. Thus, I spent the summer flipping my radio between two genres I'd previously shunned: college radio and Top 40. My aural anecdotes appear below.

College Radio: WPRB (also known as "W- ummn... that was... uhhh... The Charred Hot Dogs?... yeah... you might not have heard of them... it's just one guy with a Mr. Microphone, actually... um...")

Despite my desire to strangle the on-air "talent" with their own Belle & Sebastian t-shirts, listening to 'PRB was interesting. Occasionally, out of NOWHERE, they'd play a mind-meltingly terrific song. I discovered Flin Flon and The Victoria Lucas on 'PRB; I now shake my arhythmic white booty to both on a regular basis. Howver, for each truly ass-kicking tune, I had to suffer through hours and hours and hours of shows such as...

Industrial Washing Machine Filled With Hammers and Set on “Heavily Soiled” Hour

This is exactly what it sounds like. Also know as “Are you sure you’re actually ON a station?” and “Baby Mobile as Envisioned by Glenn Danzig”. This show is wildly inconsistent; some pieces make you want to disregard Johnson & Johnson’s sage advice and insert a Q-Tip into your ear canal ALL THE WAY. Others aren’t unpleasant at all, despite being utterly random and atonal. I sometimes wonder if the "sonic recycling bin" genre has undiscovered benefits. Perhaps a lack of discernible pattern frees up one’s mind, allowing it to access obscure and deeply-hidden information.

Although in my case, it’d probably be, “Oh, fuck! I forgot to renew my car registration!”

Ululation Nation

This show is full of mystery. Are the singers African? Indian? Venezuelan? Are they happy? Sad? Being attacked by fruit bats? Are they singing about love? Death? The difficulty of removing guano from Berber carpet?

Whatever the issue may be, it's clearly one of deep importance, as they are capable of rattling their epiglottis about it for no fewer than forty-five minutes at a go.

I listen to Ululation Nation in the secret hope that one day, the singer will pause, emit a series of harsh, phlegmy coughs, then chirp, "Ahem! Terribly sorry... now where were we? Ave Mariiiiiiiiiia, gratia plena, Maria, gratia plena..."

So, in summation: listening to college radio is like being in an Olympic swimming pool filled with frog intestines... but which also contains a few high-quality diamonds. Does the grossness outweigh the potential reward? It's a personal choice. Me? I'm still gritting my teeth and suffering through "Lou Reed Flicks Bottle Caps at a Stack of Marshall Amps for Three Hours, and It's Fucking GENIUS, Man".

---

Top 40: Q102

Philly's local Top 40 station is a long-lived anomaly in a market where stations change formats more often than most people do underwear. When I was a wee lass, they trafficked primarily in Vanilla Ice, MC Hammer and other borderline-novelty rap acts. At the time, I lived in a Led Zepplin t-shirt and was planning on naming my firstborn "Page-Plant Thumbscrew", so I viewed Q102 with abject disgust.

As I grew older and less-insufferable, though, I came to appreciate the populist beauty of Top 40. Plenty of artists are more talented/creative/capable of penning lyrics more eloquent than "if you no gimme the work the blue balls a erupt". Top 40 tunes, however, are urban Muzak. Despite a lack of superior artistry, these songs are enjoyed - day after day - by a huge number of people. They're not "serious" art, but art's totally subjective. If "Pullin' Me Back" is more emotionally resonant for a teenager sitting on a sun-baked stoop on Girard than, say, "Concerto in D Minor", that's not for me to demean or deny.

Since this was my first summer as a liberated (and libertine) woman, it's not terribly surprising that I gravitated towards more booty-intensive songs. Two of this summer's most pervasive tunes celebrated the sheer, raunchy glee of hittin' it unashamed-style:

Promiscuous - Nelly Furtado

This is overproduction at its finest. I wasn't a huge fan of Nelly's earlier, angst-pop offerings; "I'm Like a Bird" invariably made me snap, "Yes, in that you need to stop your freakin' cheeping." "Promiscuous" however, tosses every Top 40 trick in the book in a blender and hits "Frappe". The results are surprisingly drinkable. This song did for proud female sexuality what Ron Popeil did for spray-on hair: FORCED you to look at it, whether you wanted to or not. As a result, I can offer only two half-hearted criticisms:

1. Nelly, you are from CANADA. There's only so promiscuous you can BE when you're wearing, like, down parkas and mukluks six months of the year! Unless you have your own polar-centric seduction techniques, ala, "Is that a strip of elk jerky in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?"

2. Towards the end of the song, Nelly sings, "Hey is that the truth or are you talking trash / Is your game M.V.P. like Steve Nash?" This is a flagrant rip-off of the Beastie Boys' classic "I got mad hits like Rod Carew".

Actually, maybe I don't have a problem with that. Hip-hop lyrics are my only source of sports statistics; why not improve my Trivial Pursuit game while shaking my ass?

May I humbly suggest the following?

• "You're at the ten-yard, baby, we'll be hittin' it soon / Unless you're Offensive Player of the Year, just like Warren Moon"
  
• "I really like your style, girl, how 'bout we leave this party / and ground it into double-play like my man Ernie Lombardi?"
  
• "I'm playin' my A-game, just like Mike Krzyzewski / I really hope you like it, girl, and... um... uh.... damn."

Sexy Back - Justin Timberlake

This was basically the 2006 version of "Hot In Herre"... a novelty tune which should’ve peaked fast and died young. Instead, it hit #1 and became the auditory equivalent of beach sand: worming its way into your car, your home, your ass, your egg-salad sandwich. For awhile, it was so ubiquitous that you were surprised you didn’t hear it in MORE places… Domino’s commercials, for instance ("We're bringin' Cheesy Bread back... YEAH! Other grease-topped dough wads better watch their back... YEAH!").

Come to think of it, I’m not sure America really needs a Secretary of Sexy Restoration, no matter how determinedly Justin has campaigned for the job. We use sex to peddle everything from shampoo to cigarettes. Even fairly benign industries have capitalized on the allure of the illicit (“DICK!... Steinberg is just one of the financial experts available to help you diversify your investment portfolio!”). Objectively speaking, sexy has not left us. Sexy has not even run out to the 7-11 to get a Chipwich.

Special Bonus Feature: As It Turns Out, Maybe I Do Need a TV

[Despite the fact that I spent all summer thumping my steering wheel to this song, I somehow remained utterly deluded as to the singer’s gender. My sister clued me in while we were driving to WaWa one evening.]

“Oooh, keep this!” she said as I fiddled with the radio. The car soon filled with the familiar, guttural moans of someone who’s either deeply aroused or ruing the day they ever ate those clam strips.

“Who’s the chick singing?” I asked Junket, pulling into a parking space.

“Dude,” she said, “That’s not a chick. That’s Justin Timberlake!”

“No… no, it’s not!” I said, staring at her in horror, “That’s totally a woman!”

“Jul, haven’t you seen the video?” she asked.

“No… I don’t have a TV!” I whimpered, my brain unable to process this new information.

"This really changes your perception of the song, DOESN'T IT?" said Junket with malicious glee.

"IT CHANGES NOTHING! BECAUSE THAT IS A GIRL, GODDAMN IT!" I shrieked. Hey, if it works for high art, it can work for Top 40.

I'm In Love With That Song: "I Turn My Camera On" - Spoon

Every now and again, a song evokes such a powerful emotional response that the notes themselves feel like buckshot, rather than just the usual tympanic tickle. You're not sure what and you're not sure why, but something gets triggered and you're left grinning, weeping or yanking off your headphones and blurting, "Holy fuck!"

Spoon's "I Turn My Camera On" (the groove-a-licious tune featured in a recent Jaguar commercial) hit me like that. I began overdosing on it the second it finished downloading, repeatedly dousing my brain in breathy male whispering and memory. Memory, specifically, of junior high dances. They made me deeply miserable at the time, a pudgy walking embodiment of The Smiths' "How Soon Is Now" (I went and I stood on my own, and I left on my own, and I cried and I wanted to die). However, even then (but especially now), I reveled in the flood of fresh, giddy carnality which can only be produced by several hundred tightly-packed pre-teens, a bad DJ and entirely too many Twizzlers.

Without further ago, here's why I'm In Love With "I Turn My Camera On":

Thump, thump, thump.
Heartbeat. Bass. Sex.
A falsetto. A tease. A moan.
A New Jersey firehall, early 1990s, a swarm of junior high kids.
Potential.

Drop ceilings and flocked walls, everything the color of autumn on four packs a day: muddy yellows, oranges and browns. There was a wood-paneled bar with Hawaiian Punch on tap, a table stacked with paper-wrapped, rapidly-limpening tacos. A set of open double-doors did little to alleviate the waves of pre-adolescent heat sloshing across the linoleum; walking past them, though, was like plunging into a freshly-filled swimming pool: giddily, almost unbearably delicious.

The room was lit up with bare incandescents and yearning (more or less the same thing), fragranced by dry leaves, freshly-laundered Levis and overly-generous quantities of Designer Imposters cologne. And the taste? Cackled curses, chilly red sugar, but more than anything, the flavor which would linger so strongly on our collective palate for the next decade or more... dirty-sweet. That's GROSS, dude... and damn, I want it.

We'd filched illicit fingerfuls through the years... running along the train tracks, rifling through an older brother's under-bed magazine stash, any and everything ever sternly contradicted in a for-your-safety filmstrip. But this, THIS... glittery flurries of Wet 'n Wild eyeshadow, red-stained smiles, the warmth (of a windowless room), the pressure (of everything), the great ass-raps of the '90s... "all I wanna do is zoom-a-zoom-zoom-zoom and a boom-boom, just shake ya rump" *, indeed. Twizzlers and potential. It was an all-you-can-stuff buffet of New & Better, Next Big Thing, Will He Like My Mango Lipgloss? Potential. Huge and fantastic. When scrawling it in Sharpie on a beige metal bathroom stall, you absolutely do love him 4-EV-R, in a way inexpressible later in life with white dresses and mutual solemn promises. Some approached it head-on, swaying on sticky vinyl, a hand slid inside the HyperColor shirt, someone special (4-EV-R), their clumsy endearments and taco breath. Others (yours truly) watched from the sidelines, ever-hesitant to plunge in, looking sidelong and fearful at swimming lessons, sharks and Snoop Dogg.

"I like the way you do your hair, UH!
I like the styles that you wear, UH!
It's just the little things you do, UH!
That make me wanna get with you..." *

Will someone want to get with me (UH!)? Can a spell be written in Sharpie? Can I set down my paper cup, unstick my Keds from the floor and MOVE?

There's always potential.


* "Rumpshaker" - Wreckx-n-Effect. You're welcome / I'm sorry. Either-or.

Keep On Rockin' Me, Baby

J.Q. does not get classical. He does not get Barney or The Wiggles or godforsaken Raffi. My boy gets ORIGINAL ARTISTIC CREATIONS! Well, that's not entirely accurate. He gets an assortment of minor pop hits from the last several decades, reworked by mama in the silliest possible manner. I am basically like an a capella bar band. Some favorite selections:

Nirvana... "In The Crib"

My boy, my boy, don't lie to me
Tell me where did you sleep last night
In the crib, in the crib, I drool so much, I need a bib
Or I will shiver the whole night through

My boy, my boy, where will you go
I'm going to where the warm milk flows
To the boob, to the boob, it is round and not a cube
And I will eaaaaat, the whole night through

Public Enemy... "Baby Food is a Joke"

Get up and get, get down
Baby food is a joke in yo town
Get up and get, get down
They feed ya squash you better throw it on the, the ground

I'm still working on another P.E. cover, "Fuck Tha Strained Peas".

The Beatles... "Norwegian Prune"

I once had a prune
Or should I say, I once had two
I put them on a spoon
You laughed like a loon
I fed them to you
Oh, isn't it gooood
Gerber baby fooood

Note: this was the LAST thing which was funny about feeding my child prunes. I have no idea why I did such a thing. I think I assumed that "prunes will make you poop" was an urban legend, like "green M&Ms are an aphrodisiac" or "Mountain Dew reduces sperm count". In this case assuming not only made an "ass" out of "u" and "me", but it also made my son's crib resemble that scene in "Dogma" where the shit-monster is killed via grenade launcher.

"Turkey and Sweet Potato Suite" (an original!)

We just had some sweet potatoes
We just had some turkey, too
They used to both live on a farm
Now they're both inside of you!

First we take the sweet potato
We dig it up out of the ground
We put it in a jar in the store
Where it is more easily found

(Chorus)

Next we've got to have some turkey
It tastes good with butter and spice
But before we can eat the turkey
We gotta do something not so nice

We've got, got, got, to kill the turkey
We'll chop, chop, chop, its neck in two
But it's okay to kill the turkey
'Cause we're omnivores and it's what we do

(Chorus)

I'm In Love With That Song : "Even Tho" - Joseph Arthur

1. This song is the perfect auditory complement to that moment in Cameron Crowe movies where the male lead, convinced he's lost the girl forever, wanders around in a montage of heart-rending mopiness, causing our collective hearts to scream, "Noooo! Don't be sad, John Cusack! I will hold you and love you and appreciate your appealingly quirky worldview!"

2. If his press photos are to be believed, in addition to being pouty and disheveled, Joseph Arthur is also a Caucasian. While this state of pigmental deprivation is nothing to write home about, dude don't SING like a honky. Throughout the course of "Even Tho", he engages in the kind of laryngeal acrobatics usually reserved for guys like Percy Sledge and Prince. It is quite cheering to hear such vocal passion in a paleface. One hopes this trend of racially uncharacteristic singing migrates to Presbyterian choir groups, who usually plow through hymns with the grim determinism of one de-gibleting a turkey.

3. Like a diamond, a Philadelphia parking violation or a shoddy tattoo, it's forever. There's probably no conclusive way to tell from the start which songs/movies/ice-cream flavors you'll enjoy for years to come, but occasionally you get a hunch. "Yes," you say to yourself, wiping away tears and snot at the conclusion of "Say Anything" or taking a big ol' chomp of Breyer's mint-chip, "I am going to be doing this for the rest of my life." "Even Tho" feels like that.

It's not a GREAT song (for god's sake, I'm pretty sure the drums came straight off of Casio's sample track), but it's a song which will hold up, and I love that. Comfort and durability are consistently undervalued in our culture, passed over in favor of brief, flaming brilliance. Call me a philistine, but I'll take the flawed and long-haul every time (not that you should heed pearls of wisdom dispensed by someone who has been listening to the same 80% of "Nevermind" for the past eleven years IN A ROW, and would still be wearing her " R.I.P. Kurt" t-shirt had it not been torn in a tragic bleacher-jumping accident in '96).