You guys are too nice. You need to make me work a HELL of a lot harder for your votes. Come on, make me post about something. Ask me to write about something you’ve been up nights wondering about. I’ve now moved above the grocery blog which is rad, but I’m going to lose to Dooce. Doesn’t everyone?
Because I was raised by a couple of stinking hippies, I was singing “We Shall Overcome” and “Blowin’ In The Wind” while I toddled around in my cloth diaper, occasionally being stuck by a rogue pin. I was forced to listen to both Pink Floyd and Peter, Paul and Mary by my mother, who would frequently play a record over and over ad nauseum until my ears bled. I still tremble at the thought of having to listen one more fucking time to “If I Had A Hammer.”
It probably wasn’t until after I was in college before I realized that I could listen to music and like it just because it made me feel good. Not because it had a deeper meaning or because it meant something or because it protested something. Just because it made me happy or made me want to get on the table and dance my (white girl) ass off.
In that vein, I happily dragged my husband out to get the new Britney record on the day it was released. While he wondered if his testicles had been put into a jar on a shelf in our garage somewhere, I (pathetically) bopped out to some funky fresh jams. It beat the hell out of the emo shit Dave normally plays, or as I like to call it “Suicide Rock.”
Shockingly, though, I don’t only listen to bubble gum pop. On my I’m Feeling Acutely Sorry For Myself Days (oh, like YOU don’t have those days too), I like nothing more than listening to Leonard Cohen.
I remember ages ago watching a Saturday Night Live episode with my dad late one night (perhaps on a SATURDAY NIGHT? Get it?!?) and they did a sketch on a Leonard Cohen Fan Convention. I hadn’t been introduced properly to Mr. Cohen at that point, but I do remember that everyone was wearing mournful black clothing (berets even, perhaps, if my mind serves me) and many of them committed suicide while they listened to his music.
It’s only funny if you know his music. Because it’s true.
While I’m not a big Take To My Blog To Piss And Moan kind of person, these past couple of months have been excruciatingly rough for me. I’ve honestly hit the point where I’m wondering, Hey, is this LIFE? Is life really just one stupid fucking crisis after another? Because yeah.
So, what does a person at her wits end do?
a) Consider joining a nunnery
b) Sell herself to the gypsies.
c) Pay the gypsies to take her away
d) Listen to depressing ass music.
While the other three options are great choices, I chose number d. Because I like sex and I hate moving.
And my poor daughter has now grown up on a steady diet of Leonard Cohen, which cannot possibly be good for her development. I should probably switch to Pantera if I want her not to grow up to be an emo chick, right? So now, whenever I put on some “Hallelujah,” Amelia smiles her ever-loving head off.
Guess that’s better than contemplating suicide.
See! Look! She’s trying to decide how best to get upstairs and get some black eyeliner and the new Cure album (is there a new Cure album?).