Last June, John and I were lucky enough to go see the amazing Flight of the Conchords. They now have a show on HBO. And it's pretty awesome. The songs have all been slightly altered from the versions that I'm used to, making some funnier and some less funny, but still good.

The most recent episode might be my favorite so far. Here's part of the reason why:



Yeah, I love that.

Labels: music., tv.

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John wasn't feeling so hot this morning, so instead of going to church I spent my morning finishing Somewhere in Time. It's the first book I've ever read that wasn't better than it's movie adaptation. The movie is actually quite a bit better. Not that the book is bad, exactly, but the writing is a little too sappy, a little too contrived. Plus, the movie has such fantastic music.

If you haven't seen the movie version of Somewhere in Time, you should. It's just one of those movies everyone should see, even if they don't like it. Like Sunset Blvd. or the first Indiana Jones.

There are a few differences between the book and the movie that don't really effect the plot. For example, the book takes place at the Hotel del Coronado in San Diego (the hotel from Some Like It Hot--another movie everyone should see, even if they don't like it) and the movie centers around the Grand Hotel on Mackinac Island. When I got done reading, I googled "Somewhere in Time" because it's been a while since I've seen the movie and I was curious about what other differences there might be. I found the website for INSITE, the International Network of Somewhere In Time Enthusiasts. These people mean business!

Yesterday John and I were listening to a popcast of Spy Vs. Pie, a show done by some guys John knows, and they were talking about the idea of owning a portrait or piece of artwork from a movie. (John would pick Vigo from Ghostbusters II, which I think is super creepy.) I couldn't really think of anything. I couldn't think of any portrait or art from a movie at all, much less one that I'd actually want. And then today I found this: the portrait of Elise. Seriously? Is there anything creepier than that? I mean, if someone hadn't seen the movie and didn't recognize Jane Seymour, it'd just look like an old picture of a relative. Which makes it creepier, right?

One thing I don't think is creepy (partly because I've owned a Phantom of the Opera monkey music box for years) is the Grand Hotel music box. In fact, it would make the perfect birthday present for my sister...except that it's $500.

My favorite thing about the INSITE website? The "back" button is a penny.

So awesome!

Labels: books., movies., music.

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Okay, I'm sure I've said so before, but just to recap:

Yes. Sadly. I. Like. No Doubt.

This has become embarrassing. Their last real album, "Rock Steady," which pretty much universally hated by, like, everyone I know...and loved by tons of people who like hip hop and probably don't care about No Doubt up to then being a ska band. I thought it was okay. Okay enough that I bought Gwen Stefani's first solo album...which I hated. But not at first. I tried oh-so-very hard to like it. But I couldn't. Even now, I'm trying to think of any and all redeeming factors--so much do I not want to hate anything my once-beloved Gwen could create. But, you see. Spelling out the word "bananas" is just annoying.

But it's true that at one point in my life (when I was a senior in high school, to be exact) I thought Gwen Stefani was the most beautiful woman alive. That was back when she had the pink hair I coveted way too much and looked like this:



I never did dye my hair pink. The closest I got was a brassy red that made my mom half-smile and say things like, "Maybe you should go back to the strawberry blonde. That looked nice." I even had to work up to the brassy red by going to strawberry blonde first! I have no courage. It's not surprising, really, that I went to a couple of parties in college with my hair all sticky with pink pomade:



A lot has changed since then. I finished college, got married, moved to California, and slowly began to broaden my musical horizon. Gwen got married, had a baby, stopped whining about not being married or having a baby, and started spelling "bananas" on stage.

So when I was Christmas shopping in the Burbank mall last month and saw Gwen's face the size of a spin wheel on a Hummer, plastered onto the window of the Sam Goody... I guess it was a bit like seeing an old friend that you haven't spoken to since high school...only it was on purpose. Oh, yeah, and she doesn't care and has a lot more friends now.

I stopped walking and just stared at her. I said, "I used to think she was so beautiful." And then John said, "Until everyone else thought she was." It isn't that she's more famous. It's that I liked the way she was before.

Today I ran across a link to her new video (for "Sweet Escape") and I thought it was cute. Poppy. Fun. Not obnoxious. But those pictures... They're awful! She looks like one of the Bee Gees! And then, the more I looked at them, the more familiar they looked. And then I made the connection and this realization:

Jill Greenberg creeps me out.

Over Christmas, the store where I work sold tons of her book, Monkey Portraits, which I thought was cute. Then today it was drawn to my attention that she's the same photographer that made the news over her exhibit made up entirely of photos of tear-soaked children.

What's really disturbing (you know, aside from wondering why all those babies were screaming) is that all the pictures, although incredibly dynamic, all look the same...which was why I started to think Gwen looked like a monkey.




And, now that it's been brought to my attention, a crying child...




I find both a little unnerving.

I kinda always knew I'd end up your ex-girlfriend /
I hope I hold a special place with the rest of them / And you know it makes me sick to be on that list / But I should have thought of that before we kissed



You are "Return of Saturn" Gwen!
Take this quiz!

Labels: music.

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Okay, so John Mayer has a new CD out. And this isn't big news, by any means, but I'm mentioning it because I'm hit with a weird sense of...I don't know exactly...whenever I think about maybe buying it.

Because when I first started listening to John Mayer I was hanging out with Carrie a lot, taking ice skating lessons at the Sportsplex in Nashville on Thursday nights, while I was in college. And I guess hearing his voice makes me homesick for Carrie.

Because I was friends with this sweet/funny/smart guy Derrick in college who also liked John Mayer, but we didn't know that about each other until we were back in KY after a study abroad program we were both involved in (in London, studying Austen, Shakespeare, Chaucer, etc.) and taking the same Hemingway and Faulkner class. Derrick made me a mix CD of several John Mayer singles, some of which didn't make it onto "Room for Squares." And I guess hearing his voice makes me miss being in school and feeling like I'm involved in an intellectual community.

Because when John Mayer's second album came out it coincided with me working on my thesis at break-neck speed. I'd stay in my apartment in Bowling Green, sometimes over the weekend (alone), and dissect poetry with that CD on repeat. And I guess his voice makes me miss that feeling, that drive to accomplish something no one else will ever really appreciate in the way I do--to do something for the sake of my mind.

Because his second album was widely regarded as not as good as his first, which I didn't totally agree with, I was often a little defensive about it being my CD of choice for a while. And now... I don't know. I hear Damien Rice on the radio sometimes and think, haven't you written anything new lately? And, in fact, he has. A new CD is expected later this year. But that isn't the point. The music that I listened to during my senior year of college is some of the last music I felt truly connected to. Sheila Nicholls, Damien Rice, John Mayer, Jimmy Eat World, Dashboard Confessional. They all have their respective merits, but I just don't feel moved by them anymore. Or much of anyone else for that matter. Yes, I like The Like, The Decemberists, Eliot Smith, etc., but it's not the same. It's just pretty sounds strung together with interesting words. I think I'm officially an adult. Not that I was ever one of those "music is my life" teenagers, but I definitely felt attached. And I don't anymore. And I guess hearing John Mayer's voice reminds me of what that used to feel like.

What makes it even weirder is that he touring with Sheryl Crow...so as to totally shatter any remaining illusions that he was ever cool. Seriously. Mrs. Tourdefrance? Come on! It's been at least 10 years since she wrote a song that didn't annoy me. (Sample lyrics from a song off her newest album: "Good is good and bad is bad. You don’t know which one you had." I'm not kidding.)

Deep down though, I know that what I have never outgrown is the desire to have musical tastes that people I think are cool would consider to be cool. That sentence doesn't make sense. But neither does the feeling. And I know John Mayer isn't cool anymore. And I guess hearing his voice makes me remember how I felt when he was and I was and everything was new. And I guess I'm afraid his new CD will just be terrible and embarrassing for both of us.

Labels: music.

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When I'm at work, I feel anxious. Ready to leave. My life exists outside of my job. I sometimes don't even feel connected to it. I think about how much fun I can have...as soon as I drive away.

Last Saturday evening, John and I went to a neat restaurant in Glendale called Damon's. It's a Polynesian, tiki, fake-palm-tree decorated steak house. We met some of my coworkers from my old job. It was a sort of a strange night. They were all so funny and great to be around and I had a fantastic time. We exchanged old "war stories" about how bad the job got toward the end--two of them were laid off on Christmas Eve.

And yet... I left feeling depressed. I guess, in part, because I don't work with them anymore. And, I think, because I know there was something about that job that was so much better than the one I have now. Of course, if I went back now it would be horrible. None of those people work there anymore, after all.

I was kind of a mess on Sunday. It's funny how I can be so full of ambition and ideas and have huge projects going all the time, but at the same time feel like I'm never productive. I'm a paradox.

On Monday, we had reservations to go to theLargo again. We were supposed to go with Anna this time, but she got a terrible sinus infection over the weekend and by Monday was skipping work to hang out at home with a kleenex box. So, John and I went alone. Oh, yes, we saw the amazing Flight of the Conchords!

If that name means nothing to you, I suggest you make them your summer project. Get to know Bret and Jemaine.

They were unbelievable. So funny my face actually hurt. I can't describe it. If I mentioned, for example, that at one point Jemaine was wearing a viking hat (I don't know the story, but it's always on top of the Largo piano) and shaking a banana, they might sound a little over the top. They might sound like prop comics. They aren't. They're brilliant. They sang songs we'd never heard before.

A couple of weeks ago, I watched a episode of the Golden Girls, it may have even been the last episode, and Dorothy quotes Freud to her ex-husband Stan, saying "Our beds are crowded." She was getting remarried and acknowledging the fact that the ghosts of her and her new husband's old marriages and past relationships would always be with them. Yes, I just used the Golden Girls to quote Freud, yes, I did it, don't judge me! By that token, our table at the FotheC show was very crowded (and not just because Anna's absence meant sharing a table with two total strangers).

Our lives in general are watermarked by the friends who aren't here. The friends we moved away from. On Monday, I felt guilty because Anna was sick and really disappointed. But that was nothing on knowing how much Jim would've loved being there.

Our table was very crowded.

Labels: disney., friends., music., work.

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Last night John and I went back to Largo to see Jill Sobule. It turned out to be a kind of strange evening.

To begin with, I started listening to Jill Sobule, sort of, when Sara and I were preparing for our trip to California in early summer 2003. Now, whenever I hear that music, some part of me thinks of Sara. Even when it's the new stuff that didn't come out until after I'd moved out here. Her voice is just that unique.

We got there really early. Stupid early. But we tend to do that. We're never sure how long things will take and tend to overcompensate. We do this so often, in fact, that I brought a book along. We sat in the car for about 45 minutes.

The book I brought, the book I've been reading, was The Member of the Wedding by Carson McCullers. I'm hoping, but am relatively certain it won't happen, to finish it tonight after dinner. One of the characters, for reasons I couldn't begin to explain (I know this because I tried to explain it to John last night and it didn't work and I regretted bringing it up), reminds me of my grandmother. I won't call her my "late" grandmother because that strange little euphemism has always irked me for some reason, so I'll be blunt: She reminds me of my dead grandmother.

Sitting there, in her old car, at dusk in a quiet neighborhood in Hollywood, a block off Fairfax, I got lost. I can see her face, imagine her smell, remember the sound of her laugh...but I struggle to string them all together. She's become a collection of disembodied half-memories and sensations. It hurts. I can't dress it up. I don't even want to. It's just pain.

Just as the sun was disappearing, we walked through the neighborhood and stood in line, waiting for the doors to open. We got the same table as last time, when we saw Jude. We ordered.

They brought us soft bread with stiff, cold butter in little foil wrappers. I held the butter over the candle in a jar on the table. Then it was partly stiff and partly liquid. Because butter doesn't melt like I want it to.

Jill Sobule, as John said later, looks like a pixie. She's tiny and the end of her nose points down. She had on a sleeveless dress and black Converse sneakers, like the ones Sara used to wear.

It takes a lot of energy to miss someone. And I miss lots of people. I'm starting to think that's why I feel like I've never gotten enough sleep.

The music was great. She was much better than I expected, actually. Then someone requested this song off her latest album called "Joey." I know the song and most of the lyrics. She didn't. So because, like I said when I talked about the last time we were there, we were practically sitting on the stage, she asked me to stand next to her and hold her little Mac laptop with the lyrics. So I stood there. On the stage. Holding a laptop.

"Joey" is kind of a rock song. So there was a band for that one. A band that came on stage after I did. They sounded really good. Absent-mindedly, I mouthed the lyrics. On stage. She smiled at me.

Then came the chorus, where she grabbed the mic and leaned toward me "50's doo op" style, so I could, you know, sing with her. So I did. And the audience kind of laughed. Because I'm sure it was funny to see the girl from the audience holding the lyrics because the singer can't remember them suddenly lean in and start acting like one of the Supremes huddled around one mic.

And it was both awesome and mortifying.

I'm a little too shy and way too neurotic to have been able to just enjoy it. In my head, I've replayed the scene a hundred times, searching for the point where I must have done something ridiculous. But actually, I don't think I did anything but stand there and say "Joey" a few times into a microphone in front of a crowd of people I'll never see again. Except for John, who promises me I didn't make a fool of myself.

We got home late. And I was still wide awake. I stayed up too late and regretted it this morning.

A photographer was supposed to come to the store this morning to take pictures for a magazine. So, naturally, this morning I hated most of my clothes. I wore something I was trying to not wear for a while because I feel like I've worn it too often lately, but it's still something I really like--one of the only things anyone ever compliments.

I looked okay. I needed sleep. I was going through the morning, doing fine.

I picked up the phone to call the book buyer and go over today's order. As it was ringing, I looked up right into the face of Jake Gyllenhaal. He was walking by with a cup of coffee, on his way to the patio out back (the bookstore is inside a cafe), and he looked at me and smiled a "hello, you're on the phone, I won't bother you" smile and left.

As a married woman who is madly in love with her husband, I still have to say I nearly passed out. A shiver went down my spine and I got goosebumps all over. I'm actually glad he left because I don't think I could've handled him hanging out in the store. Imagine me screaming, "I love you, Donnie Darko," at the Jake Gyllenhaal, like the biggest hick loser ever because he smiled at me to say hi. I'm like Elly May Clampett or something.

After he left, he sat down at the table right outside our mostly-glass back door. There's a window in the children's' section that looks out onto that patio that has shelves in front of it that are covered in toys. The displays at this store are really important because we have so little room. So there are these little dolls with blue hair and butterfly wings hanging off the shelf right about eye level.

Last night, I sang on stage with Jill Sobule. This morning, I stood at work and looked out a window at Jake Gyllenhaal through dangling tiny feet and the bottoms of tulle doll dresses.

This is not my life.

Labels: books., friends., los angeles is weird., music.

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I've had a cold this week. My throat felt weird on Easter and by Monday I was in a fog. When I get colds, I tend to think they'll never go away. Like my life has changed permanently. All the people I see, I feel sorry for, because I know they're doomed. They don't have it yet, I'll think. I hope they appreciate being able to breathe.

It is going away though. I just have some lingering stuffiness.

Last Saturday, John and I saw Jude at Largo. It was a great show. We had fantastic seats. Practically on the stage.

Then there was Easter. John gave me a basket/bag full of Bath and Body Works lotion, body wash, etc. The scent is Black Raspberry Vanilla. The bag he picked out is really cute, too. It's like a straw bag with pink handles with a floral lining that extends over the top of the straw with a drawstring. We spent the afternoon at my uncle's house eating cake.

Then, I got the cold. And my life hasn't been the same since.

If there's anyone reading this that was thinking about writing a song about me, you should listen to Jude. Because if someone were to write a song for me, I would want it to sound like one of his. If you're not a song writer, or if you just don't like me, and you won't be writing a song about me, you should just check him out anyway. It'll do you good.

Labels: holiday., music.

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Last year on Oct. 20, John surprised me with tickets to see Rachael Yamagata at the El Rey. Tonight, the 26th (six days from being an exact year, which I think is a cool coincidence), we went back to the El Rey to see The Like with my friend April.

April has friends in high places when it comes to concerts in LA: a friend that, as far as I can tell, runs one of the clubs people wait in line to get into...and then might not even get in. So, April got was able to get two of us in for free. We just had to buy a ticket for John. Me? I was on the list. Oh yes. I was "And Guest." (April's real name was actually on the list.)

The show was really nice. The three girls in The Like are really talented and really young. Check them out if you're not familiar. It's good stuff.

Labels: music.

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I have a cold. In fact, right now as I type, I'm having one of the weird, symptomatic hot flashes that having this particular cold entails. I feel like my face is going to explode. Either because I'm so freakin' hot right now or because my air has no escape, save for my mouth. Therefore, for two days I have resembled a teenage boy, mouth agape, playing Nintendo.

The good news though, is that I'm just a little less than halfway through Bee Season by Myla Goldberg. Every once in a while, I feel the need to actually finish a book, any book, and choose one and push all else aside. Bee Season just shoved everything out of my way. I was seriously considering hiding in the history section and reading one of the store's copies today. I'm really into this book.

To my surprise, Google has much to say about Myla Goldberg, including the fact that the Decemberists wrote a song about her. What was that?! That's right, the Decemberists wrote a song about Myla Goldberg (whose author photo was really the driving force behind me actually reading this book because she's sitting on a stoop in a baggy, black dress and black-and-white-striped stockings with clunky black shoes). And. Because Jim is much cooler than I am and got John and I into the Decemberists, I've heard this song repeatedly, but without making the necessary connections, and it's on my computer right now! Maybe it's the hot flashes talking (or the cold medicine), but that's so cool to me!

I'm somewhat disappointed to find out that Bee Season is already being made into a movie. First, this shows I didn't jump on this wagon quite soon enough. And, I don't really think I agree with one of the casting choices. Plus, this is only going to interfere with my own cast, inside my head, which stars the author (as seen in her back-of-book photo) as the eleven-year-old main character, one of my ex-boyfriends circa age 14 (because he can play the guitar) as the older brother (who is actually 16 or 17), and two unknowns in the parts of Saul and Miriam, the parents. Not to mention that now people will be tempted to watch the movie instead of reading the book. I know, because I would be if I hadn't already started it. At any rate, it comes out in November. You have to time to read the book first.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to blow my nose and lay down under the ceiling fan.

Labels: books., music.

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I've been driving the Purple Dream Cruiser again, now that it has a new battery and all. The other problems are not yet sorted out, but I drove to Boyle Heights last night to see my Grandmother. On the 101. And I'm alive to tell the tale. Suggests that perhaps it takes more than a long period of boredom and at least two traffic accidents to keep her down.

I don't know why I just made my car female. Not that I think it's male either.

This all amounts to three things:

1)A considerable increase in my current level of automotive spunk.

2)While the battery was dead, this newly-female set of wheels took up our one space in the garage. I don't have to look for street parking anymore.

3rd, Final, and Most Enjoyable-considering #1 suffers greatly by my being doomed to never drive above 50mph ever again apparently)A CD player that involves absolutely zero thought. Our other car has glorified walkman with a cassette tape adapter thingie. I had to plan to change the CD in that car. No more.

So I've been listening to more varied music, rather than the same CD over and over for weeks. Today I was belting out lyrics along with Sheila Nicholls, who I have greatly neglected in recent months. She's fantastic.

Yesterday I was listening to Scarlett's Walk. And then last night I saw a commercial for Tori's new CD...on TV. T.V. It was like seeing an ad for Ralph Nader. You know, everybody knows who they are, but no one expects them to pop up in People magazine any time soon.

Okay, so maybe it's nothing like seeing a Ralph Nader ad. But it was still...weird.

As I was looking at Tori's page to link it, I couldn't help noticing how much the new design looks like the design of this book I've been looking at at work called Wintering. It's a novel about Sylvia Plath. Whose poems include a lot of bee imagery because her father was a beekeeper. Oh. And Tori's new CD? It's called "The Beekeeper." Perhaps there really aren't that many graphic design paths to take with this theme.

John and I have had the stereo on and the TV off tonight. I was reading. Which felt good. Except that the book is dragging along and I got tired of it. Meanwhile, Ben Folds is singing to me. And I think tomorrow Sheila will go back in my rainbow-colored CD binder...

Labels: me and the awesome things I like., music.

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John gave me an Elliot Smith CD for Christmas, which I've been listening to this morning and yesterday. He looks a little like Alan Rickman and sounds a little like Paul McCartney. John explained to me, sitting by the tree, emptied red stocking in my lap, that he'd heard about him on NPR. That the music sounded like something I'd listen to...and that the guy killed himself last year. In fact, this album didn't come out until after his death.

And John was right to get it. It does sound like something I'd listen to...though I feel barred from being a fan, per se. I've missed that boat. Like now his death is linked to his being in my brain, clouding the real view.

And there's something odd about having his music stuck in my head. Why is it different with music? I little birdie told me the new, restored version of Ariel is waiting for me to open on Wednesday (birthday). And yet, reading those poems of Sylvia Plath could there be something more personal? will not have the same feeling.

And. Of course. The question arises:

Why do I gravitate to people who killed themselves?

After all, I also got a book about Hemingway for Christmas. And we all know my weird fascination with him.

Is it their power? Their potency? Their utilization of choice?

Oh, probably not. The music is intoxicating. As are the personas of people who, for one reason or another, have become larger than life. Well, literarily speaking anyway. I'm not much interested in Kurt Cobain. Afraid I missed that boat, too.

Labels: holiday., John., music.

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So. No more Hallmark. I now work in a bookstore. And I've decided that if I were in the X-men, I'd be a shapechanger. Like Rebecca Romijn. Only overweight and, you know, not blue and naked.

I watched the American Music Awards tonight. What a bizarre waste of time. John Mayer's guitar mic was turned up louder than the one he was using to sing...so it looked like he was just strumming away and mouthing the words. The audio seemed basically off for most of the performances. I missed Gwen Stefani altogether. Still not sure how that happened. Probably just as well though. Saw Josh Groban though.

I think my least favorite celebrity is Jessica Simpson. And, frankly, the very fact that I've formulated the thought of who my least favorite celebrity is...frightens me.

I'm glad I'm working in a book store now... Intelligence by osmosis. And so on.

Labels: music., tv., work.

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The music last night was really nice. I'm listening to The Mathematicians on the laptop right now.

Last night while Lee's band was playing, I had to go to the bathroom. As I walked out of the busy dining hall and down the stairs, everything turned into an unnatural silence. And I thought, if this were a movie, something bad would happen to me now, while my husband is directly upstairs listening to Lee's band with about 60 computer geeks eating bad hotdogs and undercooked burgers. I'm going to be mugged or murdered or something during Lee's horrible stage banter.

Nothing happened.

On the way back, I found a bunch of Japanese girls hanging out and looking into the windows of the doors in the lobby at the band. They've been here all summer. They've lived down the hall from us for over a month. I don't know any of their names. I motioned for them to go in, which made them smile and giggle. They didn't come in until later though. I guess they needed to work up the courage.

They're going back to Japan today. One of them has hung out around us a lot in the past three weeks. I don't know her name. When John and I were leaving the party last night to go back to the lab, she and her friend were standing off to the side, near the door. Crying. I gave her a hug, which seemed to do nothing but make her cry harder.

We have to pack this evening because we're moving again. Going back home. Home is such a stupid word. How does it get away with being so ambiguous? I think we're going to dinner with some of the other counselors tonight. They're going home tomorrow.

When my alarm clock went off this morning, I could hear an engine idling outside, toward the main door. I imagined it as being a big charter bus like the one in which I first saw Dirty Dancing in high school on a trip to the Cincinnati Zoo with plush pink seats, waiting as tiny Japanese women pulled cumbersome luggage behind them, the cold breeze blowing their dark hair in front of their eyes.

It was probably just a garbage truck.

Labels: music., work.

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In my abundant free time, which is all the time, I've been reading Entertainment Weekly, People, and Bill Clinton's new autobiography, My Life. Two of them happened to have reviews for Rachael Yamagata's new CD, which I haven't found yet. But she sounded cool on paper, so I went out and bought her EP. It's quality stuff.

Labels: books., music.

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I’m the girl who is always in step, but on the wrong beat. You know. I was in band. Maybe you were, too. Maybe you weren’t, it doesn’t matter, the metaphor isn’t that hard to get. Everyone else seems to be on 4 and I’m still on 2. I take two more steps, but they do, too. In step, but if we were playing any music at all, it would be horribly obvious that I’m behind.

For example. I didn’t buy Tori Amos’s Little Earthquakes until I was a sophomore in college. My friends all had it when they were 14. The only thing I knew about Tori Amos in high school was that there was a picture of pig sucking her breast in the liner notes of Boys for Pele. I was friends with the A/V guys, who always managed to have stacks of CD’s that belonged to basically the entire senior class. (Minus me, of course.) So when I saw the Tori pig picture while hanging out with them, namely the-one-I-thought-was-hot, I pretended it didn’t completely gross me out. It did. I was only vaguely aware that those very A/V boys wanted to touch my own nipples. Like I said, I’m still on 2.

I got super excited last week when I “discovered” Beth Orton. I went to the mall to buy her CD simply because I wanted to have it in my possession while I told my friends (scratch that, my husband and a friend) about her. I would be on 4. Totally. Screw that, I’d be up to 6. (Which makes me feel like a geek, even more, since whatever band I’m in seems to be playing in 6/8 time. Jeez.) So I’m in the mall and I stop by to see my husband’s friend’s girlfriend, who works in Godiva. I mention I’m looking for (with the intent to buy) a Beth Orton CD.
“Don’t bother going to FYE,” she says, “They have a really bad selection and their CD’s are, like, $20.”
I reply. Whatever I said was obviously meaningless, as it has now totally left me.
“I actually found a rare CD at BestBuy,” she tells me, “It was Erin McKeown, this girl me and Jim listen to.”

And then, wham, I’m back at 2. I’m married. John and I do not have people we listen to together. We occasionally have music going while we’re together, but we don’t have anyone, not one person, that I can say is someone we listen to. He likes rap, for one. And this person, who I thought was a band, called mcchris, who produces what may be the most annoying music I’ve ever heard. Ever. And I listen to. What the hell do I listen to, anyway? Well, obviously I climbed onto the Tori Amos bandwagon somewhere along the way, even though I’m starting to think that out of the five CD’s of hers I own, Little Earthquakes was the only one I really needed. (And I think I left it at my sister’s house.) There’s John Mayer. And Sheila Nicholls. And Gordon Lightfoot, because he makes me think of my dad. That’s music that shakes me up. And the Mamas and the Papas. My CD collection is tiny because I can never come up with anything else I want. Because I don’t know where people hear about musicians.

Which brings me to the show. My friend and her brother, who live in Nashville and who are really into some local Nashville bands and go to local shows quite frequently, came to visit us while they had spring break earlier this week. They had found a show here in Atlanta. A band called Broken Social Scene. We go to Echo Lounge, which is much dirtier than I’d ever imagined, and I notice that I don’t feel incredibly out of place, like I do at Nashville shows, which all seem to be full of high school goth kids. And she says to me, “This crowd is a lot more interesting than the one in Nashville.” And suddenly I feel. Cool. Me. And then John comes back from parking the car, almost immediately telling me that the place weirds him out because he feels like he’s back in high school. Crap. I’m back at 2. I didn’t go to those shows with him, even though, by the way, he was “the-one-I-thought-was-hot” and am now married to. In fact, it is probably because of those things that I didn’t go with him.

So here I am, this college graduate with no job, hanging out in our apartment all day playing free games online instead of being intelligent and/or productive, getting fatter by the second, and still wishing I’d had more friends in high school. Perhaps I’m now totally out of step. Now, to be fair, I graduated college a semester early. With honors. Summa Cum Laude. And I did have at least eight friends in college. But isn’t there a saying somewhere about how you shouldn’t judge yourself on what you used to be? There should be. At any rate, I needed a break, I know, but this is ridiculous.

So why don’t John and I have music we listen to? Let’s think about this. We’re married. That’s a pretty big thing to have in common, I’d say. We’re both artistic, depressed, and overweight. We really don’t need to share that much more. We’re enough alike without sharing a playlist. That’s not to say that I don’t like his music, of course. I usually like everything he plays. And I think he likes my music. I really don’t know. At any rate, I think I’m just supposed to be at 2. I looked like the people at that show because I was like them. No one my age has it together. The past doesn’t matter anymore. I’m the graduate. Plastics and all that. I’m not planning on sleeping with an older woman, but I did get married. I’m hanging out at the pool. And yes, I like Simon and Garfunkel.

Labels: music.

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