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Archive for the ‘music’ Category

Last night I asked Delia which song of the eighties she thinks is more brilliant: Van Halen’s “Panama” or Duran Duran’s “Rio”. I’d love to hear which you prefer or respond to most and why:

I personally don’t want to live in a world without either one of these songs. I fucking LOVE them. I grew up more of a Duran Duran fan, but I didn’t actually appreciate Rio until I grew up.

Maybe I’ll tell you which one I like best after I read some comments comparing and contrasting and singing their praises.

Dim light coming through skylight in my cabin's loft.

I don’t know how many nights and days Delia’s boyfriend has been here now. How many nights I’ve slept by myself in the cabin. How many times we’ve fucked. In what variations. How many times we’ve come. How many hours of sleep lost. How much work left undone.

Watching Worf leading a Tai Chi class on Star Trek: Next Gen

I’m surprised and confused by liking so much of this as much as I do. I’m distressed by the vulnerability of wanting more of it / not wanting Delia’s boyfriend aka The Hunter to leave yet.

But he went grocery shopping and made lasagna and says I should let him clean my toilet. And Delia loves him. And he’s a big Star Trek: The Next Generation fan, too. And made me feel better after this by saying what a good Captain he thinks Kathryn Janeway is.

The Hunter serving up lasagna he made.

All of the talking and phone noises and not-knowing-what-next tires me out. Or maybe all of the not-sleeping tires me out. And worry over not getting “enough” done. And being totally overstimulated.

But when we were all in bed talking about ST: Voyager and The Hunter changed the subject from an argument over our diverging opinions of Chakotay by asking, “can you imagine being able to hold it together after finding your little ship thrown however-many parsecs or light years away from home and not knowing if you’ll ever get back?” It reminded me of  one of my coping tools:

Sometimes when my eyeballs feel like they’re about to pop out of my head from the force of my frustration and I start hyperventilating and looking around for things to throw out the window (or AT the window while it’s still closed so they’ll both make satisfyingly loud shattering sounds), I try to calm down by asking myself, “what would I do if I were an Officer on the Starship Enterprise? I certainly wouldn’t behave like this, even if WebWhore Headquarters were about to blow up in forty-five seconds!” Patience! Faith in one’s own problem-solving abilities! Barely a sense of urgency: just a confident, one-step-at-a-time pursuit of a solution with nary a raise in my heart rate.

If our lives right now were an episode of Star Trek, it would be one of my all-time favorites. With me as a cross between Quark, Barclay, and a special busty guest who loves cock.

*****

There is a loving, guiding friend in our (especially Delia’s and now The Hunter’s) lives who says something about salvation being a word that actually means homecoming. To be welcomed home into a family of people who know and love you at a fundamental level . . . to FIND your home, or make a new right one. We long for salvation, to be embraced by people who recognize us as a child of good no matter what mistakes we’ve made or how broken and fucked up we are.

*****

I started weeping when Delia played the Jerry Garcia Band cover of The Maker and couldn’t finish eating my lasagna in bed.

After so so much talking, we parked under the trees with him still not knowing what was going on.

I asked him about music and he showed me a cd folder filled with things he’d gotten for free or found because he has no money and he gave away everything he owned. I picked out a disc with music I had on vinyl as a kid and loved in the seventies: the Clockwork Orange-y Disney Electrical Parade music.

He put the disc in to play and noticed everything was weird, and we were parked and “it seemed like we should be making out.”

Then I said, “well actually . . . ”

And then BLAH BLAH BLAH consent talk consent then I was on him and we were kissing and groping and grinding and the next 90 minutes were awesome and surreal, and not just because of this music which played the whole entire time:

It really made hearing a guy talking about fucking me so deep I’d feel it in my ribs / throat / skull even more fantastically absurd and mind-altered than it usually is. And by “usual” I mean that I usually only hear that in phone sex or camshows. Maybe I’ve heard it in real life once or twice? Not sure.

The next day he asked me if I liked that particular line of dirty talking. He said it was a girl who told him to talk like that once, because “it’s just so visceral“. I just told him that I do love hearing dirty talk.

I’m sure I will never ever again use that music as a sex tape, but just this once it made it an extra-magical event.

*****

For three days in a row he told me he really only wants to have sex in a relationship, and since we can’t have (his kind of) a relationship, I guess we can’t fuck or something?

The trouble is that when he says he wants to be friends, he REALLY REALLY MEANS IT. He says he has to think about what this is/I am doing FOR him, versus what I am doing TO him.

I guess I’ve now officially entered the realm of predatorial cougarhood.

*****

So I talked to (let’s call him) my spiritual advisor about this situation. My spiritual advisor told me there is a rule (number 13!) in our fellowship not to fuck certain people, and this particular guy is certain people. So I should not fuck him.

My spiritual advisor also told me “HE IS NOT A MACHINE, TRIXIE!” And the guy has complained over and over about being objectified. Which I guess somehow made me objectify him more? I don’t know. I thought I was being really loving and sensitive about it.

I knew this might be messy, but I didn’t plan on it being so confusing for me.

I’m so torn between not wanting to be a horrible person and REALLY WANTING THE COCK. And the kissing. And to get him to make porn with me.

And a tonic to ease my fear of death, as my spiritual advisor also pointed out.

I’m almost forty, you know.

*****

More trippy music, this time with 80’s strippers, thanks to Kat:

We took a walk tonight. Sand came in through the air-holes in the tops of my new shoes. I’d anticipated that, so I didn’t wear them for the beach part of the walk, but then there was unexpected sand.

We saw a Komfort branded travel trailer and decided if we ever took to the road in comfort, we would call it our “CumFort”. At the time it seemed really funny.

I have heartburn right now which is really annoying because I haven’t eaten anything deliciously bad for me today. It doesn’t actually burn, it’s just like a heavy lump of mild pain in between my back and the middle of my chest. Like if you could swallow it down it would turn into an ass-ripping turd the size and shape of a small cannonball.

Then it was dusk and we heard music and decided to investigate. There was only one number left so they let us in for free. We were exactly where I like to be: on the periphery, behind the partitions, peering through little windows. The stage was full of men with their instruments, and when they started playing them I felt like crying (don’t worry; I feel like crying about everything I like sometimes). They all took turns making their math sounds with their mouths and breaths and hands and hammers, and I could move around a little without being obnoxious because of where we were, on the edge in the back. It was beautiful and every voice was different and “special” and all of that shit, like the little guy with the silk pants and baritone sax got the most cheers next to the guy playing vibes. That made me want to play vibes too, not because he got the most cheers but because I’ve always wanted to if always means for the past 16 years. But there’s not even room for my piano in the new house and I hardly ever play it anyway so whatever.

When Delia found a ten dollar bill in the pocket of her vest she hasn’t worn in awhile, I immediately thought ICE CREAM CONES, but then I remembered I’m not eating that kind of thing. At least not today. Now that I have heartburn I resent not having the ice cream. Found money in my head LOOKS like a plate of mashed potatoes and gravy with some salty bloody meat on the side or ice cream or salt ‘n vinegar chips in bed plus chocolate cake and three different beverages.

There were 10, 20, 30 . . . probably 40 people on that stage. Every single one of them was a man, talking their math language to each other, showing off their chops. I loved it, but I get sick and tired of people not giving a shit about how obvious it is that something’s wrong and acting like we’re assholes for noticing it. That isn’t why I felt like crying, though. I felt like crying because I loved it/them. It just would have been nice if there were even ONE FUCKING WOMAN up there. I would like to see more stages filled with ten, twenty, thirty women or more. But I guess then they’d all start talking at once and smiling and hugging and ruining the whole thing? I don’t know what the problem is, I just know that there is one. And it has something to do with Amy Winehouse . . .

Maybe it’s silly, but I’m totally crying over the thoroughly unsurprising news of her death. Looks like she secured her place in the tragic 27 club.

I dedicate this beautiful song (You Were Drunk) by one of my favorite singer-songwriters (Rose Polenzani) to Don Draper’s secretary in season four of Mad Men:

I’m super excited that Netflix bought the rights to stream Mad Men so we’ll soon be able to watch everything over and over again on demand. Peggy and Joan are my fave characters, of course, but I would also like to spend time on Don’s lap.

*****

The first Rose Polenzani song I ever heard was Olga’s Birthday; I think everyone should listen to it and buy all of her cd’s and be blown the fuck away.

While we drove towards the woods along the water, that song came into my head and I started singing it:

Know Where to Run To, Baby

Know Where to Hide . . . .

It’s not a favorite song of mine and nobody I grew up around was “into” that sixties Motown girl group music. I don’t know any of the rest of the words . . . none of them. Even though I’m sure I’ve heard that song all the way through a bunch of times. And my whole life until three days ago I completely mistook the meaning of the words I thought I heard. It was just on that drive, randomly singing it to myself, that I realized she’s saying “NOWHERE to run to, baby . . . NOWHERE to hide.”

All of this time I thought she was a very savvy woman, entreating me and other girls to always know how to get away from someone, to always have a secret place to lay low the way she does. I thought she was smugly proclaiming her wily escape artistry. Like, “you should know where to run to, baby . . . I sure as fuck do.”

I feel depressed now. Oh well. I guess the snow chain percussion threw me . . .

The curious part to me is why all of a sudden I should be able to hear the difference between “know where” and NOWHERE. Why did it dawn on me now? And the amazing/hopeful part to me is that it can take years, but people really can learn things you thought they were incapable of understanding.

Now if someone would just write and sing the song I thought I was hearing all along . . .

As a nod to the full moon and solstice, here’s a song I like very much with some stars and moon action:

I love big hairy guys singing in way-high voices; as such a person, I’ve masturbated to this video even though he’s totally flat in it. It almost makes it hotter and sweatier and sadder when wincing for a variety of reasons.

This song kills me:

So yeah. I don’t think Band of Horses is “brilliant”, but Ben Bridwell’s voice makes me feel gooey all over. And the songs are smartly constructed to tug at the heart strings.

Speaking of loving high voices, I’ve always loved this song and will never ever stop; it’s like the edging theme song or something:

I loved this song when I was, what, eleven years old? I loved the sound of it and the message was alluring, too, even if most of the words and allusions were beyond my ken. The invisible man in drag?

The video really doesn’t look familiar to me watching it now as a grown-up so I doubt it played a role in my developing appreciation for fetish (EDIT: actually I’ll bet I *did* see it on Night Tracks; we didn’t have MTV until years later), but the eighties seemed so much more fertile for that kind of thing than the 90’s and now the unsubtle yet even more repressed new century. Spandex! Stepping on toothpaste tubes in heels! Upskirts! Aggressive arm waving! Women shaving their faces! GLOVES!!

Guys in 80’s music videos seemed to want to wear makeup like us and be dominated by us and liked it when we were all weird and bossy and mercurial. And had strong prominent jawlines above their shoulder-padded triangular torsos. In that respect, it was a magical time to grow up. There were no lesbians depicted on tv yet, but there was Jo on Facts of Life and VIDEOS made it seem like being grown-up would be fun in a dramatic minor key with razor sharp cheekbones everywhere.