For the first time in recent memory, I am home alone on a Friday night. There are a series of events that led to this, having to do with Biker Boy’s work load and crazy digestive system, but I’m going to spend my Friday night writing about what songs are on my playlist right now. I love, love, love reading about the music real people listen to. I’ll admit it – I’m not cool enough for The Current, the local alternative music station – and you won’t find any of the songs I’m going to talk about being played there. I’ve been on a bit of a kick with female singers, so you won’t find a lot of male artists here, but I’ve tried to diversify it a little bit.
“Men Don’t Change” – Amy Dalley
This chick is pretty awesome. She has released a few singles and this is one of them. Apparently she has a record deal with Curb Records. Anyway, this song is about how men are men and they will never stop with their own elusive brand of weird. County cool.
Cupid works for the devil
Be suspicious if he cries
You know sex is usually good
Yeah, but it ain't always right
Chocolate is a band-aid and no matter what they say
Shoes don't stretch and men don't change
“We All Sleep Alone” – Cher
I love Cher. Sometimes we will be alone, sleeping or otherwise. It’s an anthem of independence.
You got to be strong
When you’re out on your own
‘cause sooner or later
We all sleep alone
“No Regrets Yet” – Sonya Isaacs
This has been Sonya Isaacs only single that I have ever heard. Apparently she has an entire album out (produced by Vince Gill), but she hasn’t been hugely successful to my knowledge. This song makes me laugh because I have dated men named Mike and Joe and I feel like it describes my experience about four years ago to a tee.
“Before He Cheats” – Carrie Underwood
I’m with Katie here, I listen to this song a lot (and like it a lot). I think I probably feel more guilty than she does, however, because when I listen to this song, I can’t help but think about the number of crimes she is committing. When I watch the video, she actually does carve her name into the seat – “CARRIE” – in huge capital letters. I think, every single time, “damn, that girl is so going to get arrested. She is freaking leaving PROOF that it’s her.” Clearly this is what court monitoring and watching “Juvies” on MTV gets me.
Oh, and I love the line about dabbing on all three dollars worth of that bathroom Polo. There seems to be some debate on the lyric pages I looked at whether she says “Polo” or “cologne,” but I have always assumed it to be Polo, so that’s what I’m going to go with. Polo is the most disgusting cologne ever (followed closely by Gucci pour Homme, but Biker Boy’s obsession with finding the perfect scent that included me almost puking at the hideous smell that is Gucci is an entirely different post). Oh, and can anyone explain to me why there are so many shoutouts to other musicians in country music these days? There’s a song called “Tim McGraw” by Taylor Swift that’s popular right now. Dude, you shouldn’t be allowed a shoutout until you’re eligible for the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.
Right now, she's probably up singing
some white-trash version of Shania karoke
“Operator (That’s Not the Way it Feels)” – Jim Croce
What can I say? This is a classic denial song. Jim and I go way back. Once on a trip to Iowa, I tried to get Biker Boy to listen to my Jim Croce CD. We got through about four songs before I couldn’t take the mockery and we put in a They Might Be Giants CD. I’m sorry I didn’t defend you better, Jim (I guess he’s dead and doesn’t care, but still, I’m sorry).
“Forgive” – Rebecca Lynn Howard
Pretty much I just love this song because she says “that’s a mighty big word for such a small man.” This is the only Rebecca Lynn Howard song that I know. She toured with Scotty Emerick and Toby Keith in 2005, though, so I am not sure if I can really like her. But I like this song, so just like the fact that I like a song by Carrie Underwood, I’ll have to forgive myself for this.
And just expect me to forgive...
Well that's a mighty big word for such a small man
And I'm not sure I can
Cause I don't even know now who I am
It's too soon for me to say...forgive
“Men & Mascara” – Julie Roberts
Julie Roberts had a hit last year with “Breakdown Here.” I want to hate her because she’s blonde and beautiful and there were lots of joke made about how you shouldn't confuse her with Julia Roberts because they are both beautiful, but I enjoy both of these songs. This one has the line “men and mascara always run.” This made me laugh and laugh when I first heard it. Then sob a little. Just kidding. Maybe.
She ain't gettin' any younger
It wasn't supposed to be this way
Starin' in the mirror
With little black rivers runnin' down her face.
“He Thinks He’ll Keep Her” – Mary Chapin Carpenter
Wow. I just realized that I should call this list “NGS hates men.” It’s not true. I swear. I like some men. MCC is cool. I will forgive her for that debacle of “Shut Up and Kiss Me” since it gave her the only number one single she’s ever had, but the true MCC shines in songs like this one and “Down at the Twist and Shout.” I feel like whenever Carpenter has a crisis in her life, she writes an excellent album. She has a new album out called “The Calling” and I think we should all run out, buy it, and show Faith Hill that you don’t have to be half-naked or sing like crap to sell albums.
“Picket Fences” – Chely Wright
Once I told Biker Boy that I wanted a house with a picket fence with a dog in the yard. He rolled his eyes. “Is that what you want or what you think you want?” Then I heard this song. I played it for him, but he was unimpressed.
Tell me what's so great about picket fences
Paintin' them is such a mess
And a big back yard where kids can play
I'd probably never get a moment's rest
“Believe” – Brooks and Dunn
The video for this song made me cry when I first saw it. All right, it doesn’t take much to make me cry. But, still. Cry I did. I love how it incorporates the themes of love of God and coming of age. Look, I don’t really know about an all powerful being in charge of the universe, but I admire those who believe. It’s hard to believe. And this song sort of gets at that fact.
I raise my hands, bow my head
I'm finding more and more truth in the words written in red
They tell me that there's more to life than just what I can see
Oh I believe
“Highway Patrolman” – Bruce Springsteen
Biker Boy and I were listening to “Nebraska” because why wouldn’t you listen to it? I mean, our musical oeuvres overlap very little and you can’t go wrong with The Boss (although there is heated debate over John Mellencamp who I claim is just a better articulated Springsteen, to which Biker Boy makes claims of blasphemy). This song came on and we stopped talking and just listened. I think it’s the saddest songs of one of the saddest albums ever. Complete with the gratuitous use of the word ain’t!
I catch him when he's strayin'
Teach him how to walk that line
Man turns his back on his family
He ain't no friend of mine
Saturday, March 31, 2007
Thursday, March 22, 2007
We All Sleep Alone
It was a “handyman’s special,” a decrepit old farmhouse that would be torn down in twenty years time because of an irreparably cracked foundation. But we didn’t know that at the time. The plumbing problems, the furnace problems, the rodent problems – these were all for the future we couldn’t see. When we moved from the city to this falling down ruin in the middle of a cornfield, my sister and I were excited. And naïve. We could get a dog. We could sled down the hill in our humongous backyard. We could learn to ride bikes. We could frolic outside with no danger of getting hit by a car.
We didn’t consider the downfalls. The naïveté, I suppose. We were young. So young. My parents were young, too. Looking back at the photographs, I see two young people, still in love, still holding hands, full of hope of what this new adventure would bring.
My sister and I couldn’t see the taunts we would receive at school. The year my sister was in sixth grade, she skipped over 70 days of school. She’d pretend she was going to catch the bus, hide in the barn, wait until I went to school, mom went to bed, and dad went to work. Then she would watch television until I came home from school. She learned to love daytime television. She knows more about Pine Valley and Port Charles than anyone should ever know.
We didn’t know that the costs of just maintaining (forget improving) this piece of crap pile of bricks and wood would cause so much friction between our parents. The photographs became fewer and fewer as the years passed. The people got older, more haggard, less happy. We couldn’t foresee the fighting – the yelling, the crying, and the times we would spend huddled under the covers at night, clutched to each other, waiting for it to end. Willing our lives to stop spinning out of control.
The day my parents found out my sister was skipping school is so clear to me. They were yelling, of course, blaming one another, blaming her, me, the dog, anyone. No one asked her why she didn’t want to go. And she and I hid under her bed. Even now I can see us, crying, and hiding. When he screamed her name and came running up the stairs, he punched the wall. If we weren’t hiding under the bed, it would have been her face. A hole remained in the plaster for years.
That stupid house. The upstairs was “unfinished.” That’s how the realtor described it. It was little more than the skeleton structure of a house with a little plaster. No heat. No floor for most of it. It was also where my bedroom was. Wasn’t I a lucky kid? My own bedroom! Others would have done anything for their own bedroom. But that spooky old house made noises. And shadows. It was terrifying. You could hear the ghosts whispering in the attic above. With birthday money, I bought a flashlight that came with rechargeable batteries. I slept with this flashlight turned on under my covers, every night. I was scared of the dark, sure, but more than that, I was scared of the house.
She passed the sixth grade. No one ever asked her why she skipped school. Years later, he was sick. I visited, somewhat reluctantly. We were huddled together on her bed. “Why?” I asked. “They made fun of me.”
The fear of mockery was greater than the fear of the fist. She still lives with them.
I still sleep with a light on if no one else is in the room with me.
We didn’t consider the downfalls. The naïveté, I suppose. We were young. So young. My parents were young, too. Looking back at the photographs, I see two young people, still in love, still holding hands, full of hope of what this new adventure would bring.
My sister and I couldn’t see the taunts we would receive at school. The year my sister was in sixth grade, she skipped over 70 days of school. She’d pretend she was going to catch the bus, hide in the barn, wait until I went to school, mom went to bed, and dad went to work. Then she would watch television until I came home from school. She learned to love daytime television. She knows more about Pine Valley and Port Charles than anyone should ever know.
We didn’t know that the costs of just maintaining (forget improving) this piece of crap pile of bricks and wood would cause so much friction between our parents. The photographs became fewer and fewer as the years passed. The people got older, more haggard, less happy. We couldn’t foresee the fighting – the yelling, the crying, and the times we would spend huddled under the covers at night, clutched to each other, waiting for it to end. Willing our lives to stop spinning out of control.
The day my parents found out my sister was skipping school is so clear to me. They were yelling, of course, blaming one another, blaming her, me, the dog, anyone. No one asked her why she didn’t want to go. And she and I hid under her bed. Even now I can see us, crying, and hiding. When he screamed her name and came running up the stairs, he punched the wall. If we weren’t hiding under the bed, it would have been her face. A hole remained in the plaster for years.
That stupid house. The upstairs was “unfinished.” That’s how the realtor described it. It was little more than the skeleton structure of a house with a little plaster. No heat. No floor for most of it. It was also where my bedroom was. Wasn’t I a lucky kid? My own bedroom! Others would have done anything for their own bedroom. But that spooky old house made noises. And shadows. It was terrifying. You could hear the ghosts whispering in the attic above. With birthday money, I bought a flashlight that came with rechargeable batteries. I slept with this flashlight turned on under my covers, every night. I was scared of the dark, sure, but more than that, I was scared of the house.
She passed the sixth grade. No one ever asked her why she skipped school. Years later, he was sick. I visited, somewhat reluctantly. We were huddled together on her bed. “Why?” I asked. “They made fun of me.”
The fear of mockery was greater than the fear of the fist. She still lives with them.
I still sleep with a light on if no one else is in the room with me.
Saturday, March 10, 2007
Ducky and I go way back
When I was a tiny kid, my parents, both good soldiers, were stationed in Germany. This meant we had no money, but lots of cheap goods by way of the commissary. One item we had in surplus was those scratchy green Army blankets. Do you know the ones I’m talking about? They have that “nice” satin edging and the wool pills and gets in your hair while you’re sleeping? You know?
Well, one day my mom had it with me and my sister whining about how the blankets smelled and made us itch and were green. You could understand why two girls under six were almost insulted by the green. So my mom very cleverly took us to the fabric section of the commissary (man, have you guys ever been inside one of those places?), told us to pick a fabric we liked, and let us loose.
My sister picked a light grey fabric with little itty bitty teddy bears dressed in some weird costume all over it. I picked a white fabric (was my mom on crack?) with little itty bitty ducks wearing sailor caps all over it. She took these fabric pieces and made us blankets. She simply sewed one of those damn green blankets inside of the fabric. Because she was an awesome mom, she also made us matching pillowcases. How cool is that if you’re a little kid? I mean, my sister and I were convinced we were destined to pick out fabrics for bedrooms (we didn’t know the term interior designer yet) when we grew up. Our beds looked way awesome.
The thing is, my mom thought that we’d get over the love of the blankets. But let me tell you, those blankets are the warmest blankets ever. As I was packing to leave for college, I folded Ducky and put it in the bag to take with me and my mom looked over, saw it in the bag and said (I swear this is a direct quote), “Oh, my GOD!! YOU CAN’T TAKE THAT. What will your roommate THINK?”
Because let me tell you, Ducky has been well loved. There are bloodstains on Ducky from bloody noses (as a twelve year old, I had blood pressure as high as a sixty year old four pack a day smoker), a strange pinkish stain I think is from vomit, and several holes that have been sewed inexpertly back together (by yours truly) with thread ranging in color from green (to match the blanket inside!) to black to white. My mother was appalled. She honestly thought Ducky should be trashed. But, I mean, it’s WARM. And I’ve had it since I was like three!! It doesn’t smell. And it’s DUCKY.
When I moved to Minneapolis five years later, my mother saw Ducky in the U-Haul and rolled her eyes. “What does your boyfriend think about that blanket?” she snerked at me.
Today I was making my bed (Ducky is always the first blanket on the bed and the only thing left on the bed when I kick the sheets, pillow, and other blankets to the ground) and I thought about what’s going to happen when Biker Boy and I inevitably move in together. Biker Boy better like Ducky.
Well, one day my mom had it with me and my sister whining about how the blankets smelled and made us itch and were green. You could understand why two girls under six were almost insulted by the green. So my mom very cleverly took us to the fabric section of the commissary (man, have you guys ever been inside one of those places?), told us to pick a fabric we liked, and let us loose.
My sister picked a light grey fabric with little itty bitty teddy bears dressed in some weird costume all over it. I picked a white fabric (was my mom on crack?) with little itty bitty ducks wearing sailor caps all over it. She took these fabric pieces and made us blankets. She simply sewed one of those damn green blankets inside of the fabric. Because she was an awesome mom, she also made us matching pillowcases. How cool is that if you’re a little kid? I mean, my sister and I were convinced we were destined to pick out fabrics for bedrooms (we didn’t know the term interior designer yet) when we grew up. Our beds looked way awesome.
The thing is, my mom thought that we’d get over the love of the blankets. But let me tell you, those blankets are the warmest blankets ever. As I was packing to leave for college, I folded Ducky and put it in the bag to take with me and my mom looked over, saw it in the bag and said (I swear this is a direct quote), “Oh, my GOD!! YOU CAN’T TAKE THAT. What will your roommate THINK?”
Because let me tell you, Ducky has been well loved. There are bloodstains on Ducky from bloody noses (as a twelve year old, I had blood pressure as high as a sixty year old four pack a day smoker), a strange pinkish stain I think is from vomit, and several holes that have been sewed inexpertly back together (by yours truly) with thread ranging in color from green (to match the blanket inside!) to black to white. My mother was appalled. She honestly thought Ducky should be trashed. But, I mean, it’s WARM. And I’ve had it since I was like three!! It doesn’t smell. And it’s DUCKY.
When I moved to Minneapolis five years later, my mother saw Ducky in the U-Haul and rolled her eyes. “What does your boyfriend think about that blanket?” she snerked at me.
Today I was making my bed (Ducky is always the first blanket on the bed and the only thing left on the bed when I kick the sheets, pillow, and other blankets to the ground) and I thought about what’s going to happen when Biker Boy and I inevitably move in together. Biker Boy better like Ducky.
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