Singles Going Steady: Puccini's "Nessun Dorma"

Fibonacci's dad gave him a watch for Christmas. A very fancy antique watch, that Fibonacci's dad had engraved with a lovely, sentimental message about our wedding. It's a beautiful watch and deserved better than the cheap metal band that someone put on it some years before, so we went to Evanston to find a jeweler to replace the band.

The first place we went was all wrong: Full of gaudy-looking but expensive necklaces and rings. It smelled heavily of incense and cheap cologne. The guy wanted to put a yellow, faux-Ostrich band on the watch, which, along with his plum-colored polyester tracksuit, was also all wrong. We left.

The second place we went was a total time warp. As evidenced by the style of jewelry in the and the thin layer of dust covering some of the cases, it didn't look as though it got much traffic. It was way Spartan in décor, and on every available flat surface there were handwritten notes along the lines of:

Please Be Patient! When It Is Your Turn, You Will Get THE SAME EXCELLENT SERVICE AS THE PEOPLE AHEAD OF YOU. Thanks. Mgmt. May 1975

CASH AND CARRY—ONLY. NO Credit Cards. Thanks.

As Of Today, We Will NO LONGER Provide Free Appraisals Of Items NOT PURCHASED IN OUR STORE. It Takes Valuable TIME To Examine Jewelry AND WE CANNOT AFFORD To Offer This Service For FREE. YOU Would Not Give An HOUR OF YOUR TIME FREE To Your Employer, Would You? Thanks. Mgmt. June 1980

It was perfect. And I was glad I'd read that first sign first because sure enough, there was another couple there—looking for wedding bands—and the jeweler, a cute grandpa type, with a bowtie, didn't say anything to us beyond "Hello" for the first 15 minutes we were inside. I didn't mind; there were plenty of things to look at. Old ID bracelets just aching to be on the wrist of Johnny Jock, Anytown, USA, High School Quarterback of the Year, 1955. Delicate silver crosses destined for some young girl's First Communion, circa 1968. "Mother's Rings," with an assortment of birthstones from which to choose to commemorate a first or third or sixth child. An endless assortment of things to engrave—key fobs, coins, charms, pins, pendants, and so on.

And, fittingly, the local classical music station was playing fuzzily in the background. I recognized "Nessun Dorma" from Puccini's Turandot straightaway, as it's one of my most favorite arias ever in the world, period, no question. It's just spectacular. This wasn't the Pavarotti version, which was nice, because usually when you hear "Nessun Dorma," it's all him, all the time. I think it may have been Corelli, but I'm not sure. Whoever it is, it blows my mind every time. I was happily humming along—it's difficult for me not to bust out singing—when the jeweler, having completed a successful sale with the other couple, came over to us and asked what we needed. Fibonacci handed him the watch box and the jeweler inspected it with his loupe, adjusting and readjusting it, and then said, "Wow! This is the real thing! Where did you get it?" Fibonacci explained where it came from, why his dad had given it to him for Christmas. The jeweler whistled, "Well, you've got a heck of a dad!" (which is true, as Fibonacci's dad is one of the best people on the planet) and set about helping Fibonacci pick out just the right band.

The jeweler, Mr. A, went to work hammering and fixing and chatted with us. He asked if Fibonacci's dad had been in the service. He had been in the reserves, Fibonacci told him. Mr. A said he'd been in World War II. I asked him where he was stationed and he got quiet for a minute. I feared that I'd put my foot in my mouth, guessing that, like a lot of people who'd been in the war, he didn't necessarily want to talk about it. Mr. A said, "No, it's okay. I can talk about it now," and proceeded to tell us these amazing tales of the war and his travels, adventures, sorrows, triumphs, and injuries, which he showed us: shrapnel to the knee, a mortar to the elbow, more shrapnel to the head, and another mortar to his left foot. He said, "I'm in pretty good shape, for being 87." He kept fussing with the watchband, "But a lot of my comrades, friends, they didn't come back." He turned around and hunched over his desk. "Each time we have a reunion, the lot of us gets smaller and smaller. I took care of my men, we took care of each other, like family. You don't have anyone else when you're out there, you know. That's your family." Mr. A asked if Fibonacci was in the service. He shook his head no. Mr. A said, "Well, if you ever have to go, go to the Navy." He went on, "Soldiers today, those ones in Iraq, they don't know how easy they have it. And some of them complain about having to stay over there for a year? We were there for a lot longer. A lot longer..."

Mr. A finished working and handed the watch back to Fibonacci. The band he put on it was perfect, like it had been made especially for that watch. Fibonacci isn't used to having something so nice, so he was afraid to wear it. He put it back in the box. Mr. A wrote up the receipt and asked us questions: how we met, where we were from, when we got married. We told him the whole story and he smiled at us, "That's great! You should have long life and happiness together!" Fibonacci paid him we and thanked him for his time, his stories. Mr. A said he'd enjoyed talking to us "kids," shook each of our hands and said, "You know, this is a great country. You have to take care of it. It's the best place in the whole world, all right? Take care of it."

Puccini, "Nessun Dorma," from the opera Turandot
Heard on a recent Saturday afternoon
Mr. A's jewelry shop, Evanston, Illinois

Soundtrack of Our Lives: Magnetic Fields, 69 Love Songs

Editor's note: This is the third of a three-part story. Read Part One and Part Two.

A week or so went by, and Elton did his best to apologize, in his own way. I mean, he never actually verbalized the words "I'm sorry," but he e-mailed me mp3s he thought I might like, he burned CDs for me to listen to, he stopped by my cube to chat and to ask me to give him another chance. He was quite charming and I felt my resolve cracking because he seemed sincere and I was still attracted to him. Sure, the drinking thing bothered me, but it wasn't like I expected this to turn into a relationship and I had to give him points for persistence. He was obviously used to working his charms to get his way. I thought, Hey, why not? and decided to go out with him the coming Saturday.

We went to the unfortunately named Earwax Cafe in Wicker Park for dinner. "See," Elton said. "I even picked a place that doesn't serve alcohol. You know—to lessen the chance that I'll get drunk again and say something stupid."
"That's…very thoughtful of you." I hated the way the restaurant smelled liked dirty hippies—feet and patchouli. It was distracting. "You really like this place?"
"Yeah. It's good for breakfast." He leaned over the table and gave me a kiss. "Maybe you'll let me bring you tomorrow morning."
"That's awfully optimistic of you," I laughed.
He grinned, "You know, I've never worked this hard in my entire life to get a girl to like me."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah. I've never had to." He drank his water. "Girls usually pursue me."
As if to prove this, two hipster girls wearing skirts and legwarmers walked by our table and checked him out, smiling and giggling. One of them mouthed, "Hi." Elton waved back, but, to his credit, he looked uncomfortable. I had to admit, it was somewhat exhilarating to be keeping company with such an attractive guy.
"Did you plan that?"
He laughed, "Of course not."

We finished eating and went back to his place. This time, I was the one who felt like drinking. He brought out some beers and we sat on the couch and talked.
"So girls usually pursue you, huh?"
"Yeah. Usually."
"How many?" I'd been wondering since Little Man said that thing about Elton hitting on everyone at work.
"Oh. The numbers question."
"Sure. I mean," I pounded my beer. "If I'm going to be having breakfast with you, I'd like to know."
He raised an expertly groomed eyebrow and smiled, "Well. Okay, then." He leaned back, "But I don't want you to freak out."
"Well, how many are we talking, here? Thirty?" Elton shook his head. "More or fewer?"
He took a drink, "More."
"Oh," I said and finished my drink. "I think I'll have another."

We moved over to the futon and started making out. "Wait," he got up and clicked around on his computer. "Have you heard this?" It sounded kind of folksy, a little like Simon & Garfunkel, if Simon & Garfunkel were less earnest and more funny.
I leaned over the edge of the futon. "No. But I like it. What is it?"
"Magnetic Fields. 69 Love Songs." He came back to the futon and lay next to me. "I burned you a copy. It's on the table by the door so you won't forget it."
"That's sweet of you. Thanks." And it was, but curiosity was getting the better of me, and so was he. I wanted to sleep with him, but first I wanted that number. "Fifty? Sixty?"
"We're back to that? Okay, you're closer."
"Closer?"
"Yeah…keep going."
My beer-addled brain was spinning just a little bit. I tried to decide what number would freak me out. What number would keep me from having sex with him? Sixty-something was a lot of people, though, to me, but I wanted to know what it was like to sleep with someone who'd had that much experience.
"Does that freak you out?" He looked concerned.
"No. Not really, I mean, you're clean, right? You've been tested?"
"Yeah. Every six months." He kissed my back. "So how about you?"
"Have I been tested?"
"No—your number."
"Uh, four."
He looked amused. "Four. That's cute."
"Cute? Are you making fun of me?"
"No!" He rolled over on top of me, "Nothing like that. I just thought it would be more. I mean, you're what, 25 or something?"
"Yes. And?"
"And—it's just that most girls I know have been with a lot more people."
"Well I'm not most girls, now, am I?" I felt kind of defensive.
"Hey," he kept kissing me. "It's just a number, right? It's not a big deal."
And, in a way, he was right. I was in no position to judge anyone on their sexual history.

So, in the parlance of teenage girls' diaries the world over, things were getting hot and heavy. And we were at that point where you either stop or go forward. Liquid courage had made me physically ready, but my pesky brain! Why did I want to know the number so badly? "Seventy?" "No…"
"Eighty?"
"Yeah, around there. Give or take 10."
My eyes were bugging out of my head, "And you know all of their names?"
"Well," he paused. "No … Well, at least their first names."
"Wow…" That was quite a number. Still, it was entirely possible that he'd been safe and was clean and that this could end up being quite a good experience for me. It's just the fear of the new, that's all, I thought. It's been ages since you've seen a new person naked. Stop thinking.
"So do you—"
Stop thinking. Stop thinking. This could be the best sex of your life. Don't pass it up just because of some stupid number! "Yes…"

He tore open a condom and we went at it. And …

And Elton was very, very, very bad in bed. It was terrible! I don't know how to describe it. It was just…awful. He was graceless. Awkward. Corny. Rushed. Lots of "You like that, don't you?" and "Yeah, this is good." He had this stupid expression on his face: eyes half-closed, pouty lips. He didn't even notice that my arms were at my sides. I wasn't even touching him. He was right about the number not making a difference; he'd slept with more than 8o women and had obviously learned nothing. How could someone who was so good at everything else be such a lousy fuck? I was mystified at his ineptitude. To make things worse, the song in the background was something like:

I pretended you were Jesus/
you were just dying to save me /
I stood beneath your window /
with my ukulele …

It was all just so silly. And finally, after about 10 or 15 minutes of this, I couldn't take it anymore. It was ridiculous and embarrassing. I started laughing.
"Wait. Stop. I can't…" I pushed him off of me.
He was all flushed and out of breath, "Why? What's wrong? Did the condom break?"
"No," I tried to stifle my laughing, but I couldn't. "It's just … I'm not into it. I'm sorry."
"What?" He squinted at me, "But I'm so close!"
He tried to get back on top of me, but I rolled away and tried not to giggle, "I've got to go. I'm sorry." I sat up and looked for my clothes.
Elton was furious. "You can't do that! You can't just get up in—in the fucking middle! I'm about to come! This is bullshit!"
"Look, it's just not … fun."
He glared at me, "Well the least you could do is offer to finish me off!"
I stopped laughing.
Elton stood up, "Un-fucking-believable! Now I'm going to have to jerk off! This is bullshit," and he stomped off to the bathroom.

I made my way to the door. I'd bolted down the stairs and to the sidewalk when I remembered. "Damn!" I thought for a second about leaving them there, but I decided, Fuck it, and ran back up and opened his door. Elton was still in the bathroom, thankfully. I grabbed the pile of CDs on the side table and ran back out.

To this day, I can't listen to the Magnetic Fields without cracking up.

Magnetic Fields, 69 Love Songs
Gift of Elton, Fall 2000

Mixtape: The First

The first mixtape I ever got was in sixth grade from a guy whose nickname was "Rat." I knew nothing of boys, was sort of freaked out by them, so I didn't realize that he gave me the tape because he liked me--not because he wanted to talk music with me. (I think he also gave me the tab from a soda can, but I didn't know what that meant, either.)

It was a Maxell tape with pink and green paint splashes on it. The songs were as follows:

"She Drives Me Crazy" -- Fine Young Cannibals
"Shot Down in Flames" -- AC/DC
"D'Yer Ma'ker" -- Led Zeppelin
"Bringin' on the Heartbreak" -- Def Leppard

The second side of the tape was blank; I ended up using it to record the Cure's "Just Like Heaven," every. single. time. it came on the radio.

What was on yours?

Slept On: Polyrhythm Addicts, Rhyme Related

Editor's note: This is the second of a three-part story. Read Part One here.

Before we met up with Ruby and Pimento, Elton and I went to eat at Stanley's. We talked more about music, our jobs, past relationships. He talked a lot about himself, which was fine since I'm a better listener than talker. He'd offered it up before I'd even thought to ask: "Yeah, I'm single right now. Just getting over someone."
"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that."
"No, it's cool." He finished his drink, his fourth. "But it was the longest relationship I've ever had."
"How long?"
"Three months."
"Oh..." My shortest relationship was two years.

I don't remember too much about the show except that (1) Justine was just as hot as I'd hoped she'd be; and (2) I thought Elton might have a drinking problem. The show was short, yet he managed to have four more drinks while we were there, making his total eight drinks in like, two hours, but he didn't seem at all affected. Meanwhile, I'd had my third beer and was all, "Wooooo! Rock and roll!" and when we left the Park West, I was all stumbly. Elton suggested we go to a bar, but my apartment was nearby so I said we could all just hang out there. "Have any beer?" Elton asked. I did and so he said he was down. Ruby, Pimento, Elton, and I sat around and listened to music and talked and Elton drank almost everything I had in the fridge. Ruby and Pimento left around one, not interested in keeping up with him. And still, Elton didn't seem drunk—a little looser, maybe—but nowhere near as drunk as any normal person would have been.

After they left, of course, we started making out. He was a very good kisser; it had been so long since I'd made out with anyone, I forgot how much fun it could be.
"I had a great time tonight," he lounged back against my futon.
"Me, too..."
The next time I looked at the clock, it was three. And as much as I was enjoying myself, I was beat. I sat up, "Hey…it's really late and I'm kind of tired—"
"So you want me to spend the night?"
"Uh…" I mean, I wasn't a Rules girl or anything even close, but I wasn't there yet. "No, not tonight."
He sat up. "Wait—nobody's ever told me 'no' before." He seemed kind of confused.
"Yeah, well, maybe next time—"
He looked at me with this expression of utter disbelief, "But it seemed like you were having a good time there."
"I was, but I've got to get some sleep."
"Okay." He got himself together and used the bathroom. "Well, I'll see you later?"
"Yeah."
He walked out, looking very, very surprised.

The next morning, Elton stopped by my desk. "Let's get a coffee." On the way to Dunkin' Donuts, he asked, "Do you have plans on Friday?"
"No, but I don't usually go out on Fridays."
"You don't? What do you do?"
"I like to rent movies, eat takeout. That kind of thing."
He laughed, "You're turning down a date with me to fucking rent movies instead? What the hell is that?"
"Look, I just want to come home at the end of the week and do nothing."
"I can't believe this," he shook his head and seemed kind of pissed. "Okay, how about Saturday night?"
"That sounds good."
"Fine. We'll go out for drinks."
We got back to the building and made out in the elevator.

On Saturday, we went to Danny's. I'd never been before and liked it right away. Good music, good beer selection. When we walked in, the bartender said, "Elton! Didn't I see your drunk ass here just last night?"
Elton went to the bar and did that guy handshake thing with the bartender, "I pay your bills, man." He turned to me, "Schmitty, this is Iseult."
Schmitty gave me the "What's up" head nod. "What are you drinking? Usual?"
"Yeah, and whatever she's having."
"I'll have a Bass."
We got our drinks (double bourbon for him) and made our way from the bar to a crowded sitting area. I noticed that at least one out of every three girls there said "hello" to Elton as we walked back. We sat down but it was too noisy and too packed to have a conversation, and I felt weird that so many people knew him and were staring at us. A skinny blonde with long hair and smoky eyeliner slid next to Elton on the banquette and handed him a drink, "Double bourbon, right?"
"Thanks," he downed his first drink and started on this one.
"You never called me back," she breathed into his ear. "Didn't we have a good time?" She ran her hand along his knee.
He scooted over. "Oh, hey, Rachel. This is Iseult."
Rachel looked at me like I was a piece of shit on her shoe. "Oh. Hi." I half smiled and waved. She peeled herself off the seat and said to Elton, "You still have my number." We both watched her slink away.
Elton leaned over, "I'm sorry about that. She's … just a friend."
"Okay," I sipped my beer and looked around the room, wondering how many more Rachels were in the house. And the thing of it was that I didn't much care. I wasn't upset or insulted. I actually felt kind of bad for Rachel. Especially since it was becoming increasingly clearer that Elton was not much more than a pretty face. But I wasn't immune to the charms of a pretty face, so when he asked if I wanted to go back to his place, I actually said, "Yes."

His apartment was sparse. The only furniture in the main room was a ratty couch, a wooden armchair, a computer desk, and a futon. Empty beer bottles littered a warped kitchen table and surrounded the trashcan. He wasn't a CD or album person; he kept all his music on his computer and when he came back from getting beers from the fridge, he played something I'd never heard before. "What is this?" I asked. The track was funky. A bass line shimmied down into a deep thump. The sound was a little like Digable Planets, but more raw, less jazzy. He came over and sat next to me on the couch, started kissing my neck, "It's the Polyrhythm Addicts. Came out last year, but nobody really got into them." It was a good album to make out to, which we did—in between Elton's drinking. This time he seemed kind of drunk. But the kissing was still good and the super chunky beat definitely made you want to bob your head.

After a while, Elton wanted me to bob my head in the direction of his crotch, however, and I wasn't interested.
"What are you doing?" I sat back against the arm of the couch.
"Sorry," he slurred. "I thought you wanted to—"
"What? No, I don't. When a girl wants to, she'll definitely let you know. You don't need to push anyone's head around."
"Okay, okay!" He laid back on the couch. "Man, you're like, a total tease."
I laughed, "Oh, so not going down on you makes me a tease? Give me a fucking break." I got my stuff together.
"Wait, wait, wait," he grabbed my arm. "I'm sorry. That was a stupid thing to say. I think I'm a little drunk—not that that excuses anything, but—"
"You're damn right."
"Right, but I'm sorry. You don't have to go."
"You said it yourself: You're drunk. So I'm going to take off."
"Okay." He got up and had to steady himself against the couch. "I'll wait with you until you get a cab."

Polyrhythm Addicts, Rhyme Related
Eventually purchased at Virgin Megastore, Michigan Avenue, Chicago, sometime in 2001.

Soundtrack of Our Lives: Elastica, The Menace

Editor's note: This is the first of a three-part story.

The computer training room was warm and it was after lunch, so I was having a difficult time trying to stay awake. I kept pinching the skin between my thumb and index finger hoping the pain would keep me from nodding off. This was day two of my new job and I was supposed to be learning how to use the company's Intranet, though I couldn't imagine what was so fancy about it that I needed training. Everyone else in the room looked just as bored, and it was like in movies where the ticking of the wall clock sounds like thunder. We were waiting for the IT guy, who was running late. I imagined he was busy trying to figure out how to write some hack to get his Sims people to have sex or something. I guessed he was fat, his shirt barely able to stay tucked into his greasy jeans, patches of pale, hairy belly poking out from the hem. He probably had a ponytail. He definitely would have glasses. And he would talk to us like we were total idiots.

"Hey." We all turned around and this crazy-tall, indie-rock-looking guy comes to the front of the room. "I'm Elton. I'm sorry I'm late." And he started fussing around with the projector and the monitor in front of him. My brain experienced a disconnect: This was the IT guy? No way! This guy was hip! He was neither greasy nor fat. If anything, brother could have used a sandwich or something. He had messy-on-purpose brown hair and twinkly blue eyes and was basketball-player tall. No glasses. And very, very attractive. I glanced around and noticed that all of a sudden, the other women in the room looked very much awake. Two girls sitting behind me were whispering:
"That's him. That's the guy my friend from marketing was talking about!"
"You're right; he is really cute."
"Yep, but she said he's, like, the office slut or something."
"Yeah, but that doesn't make him less cute …"

I don't remember very much from the class except that at the end, he told us that if we needed any help, his number was XXXX, and all the girls made a big show of scrambling for pens to write it down. Instead, I watched him unhook the cables from the projector and his laptop and noticed that he had a mod bullseye sticker on the cover. I wondered what bands he was into, if he rode a Vespa. He caught me staring at him and smiled, but I quickly slipped out of my chair, got my stuff and left. On the train home that night, I wondered if I'd ever have the chance to talk to him.

As luck would have it, my chance came the very next day. Little Man, my new boss, was a first-time manager and eager to show off his managerial badassed-ness. Now that my training was over, he was chomping at the bit to order me around; when I came in that morning, he practically pounced on me and gave me an assignment. I wasn't able to get started, however, because there was something wrong with my network connection. Little Man came over and started pounding on my keyboard, clicking around, trying to figure out what was wrong. It was quite clear that he didn't know what the fuck he was doing, mumbling something about, "If I had admin access, I could totally fix this." After 10-plus minutes of pounding and clicking, I said, "Maybe you should call the help desk?" He looked pissed and stomped over to his desk to call.

A few minutes later, I heard Little Man say, "Oh great. They fucking sent him." I looked up and saw Elton strolling down our aisle.
"Hey, Little Man. Whose computer is it?"
"It's hers," he pointed to my desk. "Iseult, this is Elton."
"Hi. You were in my class yesterday, right?"
I felt my cheeks heat up, "Yeah. It was … very helpful."
He smiled, "You don't have to lie. I know how stupid that class is—"
"We don't have all day to spend fixing this," Little Man butted in. "How long is it going to take?"
Elton chuckled, "Well, I'm not gonna know until I take a look, now am I?"
Little Man frowned, "Just … Tell me when you're done, okay?"
"How about I don't tell you and then it can be a surprise?"
Little Man glared up at Elton and then walked away. It was only day three of working there, but already I could tell that Little Man was going to be a problem. He was the worst kind of boss: He could never admit when he was wrong or didn't know something, as evidenced by the day's earlier events, and because of his (lack of) height, he was palpably insecure about himself and tried to make up for it by being extremely bossy.
"God, that guy is such a dick," Elton sat in my chair and started tapping at the keys. "I don't envy you."

I sat on the desk and watched as Elton tapped and clicked, "I'm going to install some virus software upgrades. Should only take a few minutes." He typed something then swiveled around in the chair and faced me. "So. What's your story?"
"My story?"
"You know: Where are you from, where did you go to school, how long have you lived here?"
"Oh. Ohio. Ohio State. Just over a year—a year and 10 days, to be exact."
"You like it here?"
"Yeah. It's okay. I still don't really know my way around, though. I have a terrible sense of direction. You?"
"Nah. My sense of direction is pretty good."
"No—your story."
"Oh. Right. Houston. Dropped out. Five years."
"Do you like it here?"
"Yeah. Met some cool people, been to some cool bars. Good music scene."
"Yeah, I've been to some good shows here. Nothing came to Ohio."
He tap-tapped for a second then turned back around. "You have some good CDs," he pointed to the pile on my desk. "Looks like we have similar taste in music."
For some reason, that made me blush. "Oh yeah? What do you like?"
And then we got into an hour-long conversation about music the likes of which I hadn't had since college. Every now and again I looked over the cube wall and saw Little Man watching us and scowling, but I didn't care. It had been ages since I'd met a new guy, what with all the long, slow deaths I'd died with my exes. It was the first time in almost a decade that I'd been officially single. The flirting came easy, to my relief. Elton was opinionated, one of these "Stephin Merritt is a genius and Stereophonics are shit" sort of people. It got kind of old—I'd put up with plenty of overbearing music geeks in college and wasn't looking to go there again—but still, it was refreshing to talk to someone who was on equal musical footing. I liked him.

He held up my copy of Elastica's The Menace. "New Elastica?" He'd said earlier that he liked Wire, so I expected him to say something about Elastica having ripped them off. "That first album was pretty good. What ever happened to them?"
A good sign. "Actually, they're playing tonight at the Park West."
"Oh yeah? Sounds fun," he turned around and tap-tapped. "You going?"
"Yeah … with my friends." Ruby, Pimento, and I were going. I had been looking forward to it for weeks. I mean, back in the day, Justine Frischmann and Damon Albarn were the Britney Spears and Justin Timberlake of the Britpop set. I totally copied Justine's haircut, even. She just oozed cool. She was confident and sexy, smart and talented. It was her band that broke big in the U.S., while both her current boyfriend's (Blur's Albarn) and ex-boyfriend's (Suede's Brett Anderson) bands didn't come close. During the frenzied "girl power" climate of the mid-1990s, this was a Big Deal. And while Britpop's heyday had long since passed, and The Menace wasn't as good as their debut album, I was plenty excited to see Elastica play.

Elton was clicking and typing, his back to me. Had I heard a note of interest in his voice? I was bad at this. I'd never asked out a guy before. I happened to glance over at a coworker who was wearing one of those WWJD bracelets. I smiled to myself, WWJD. What Would Justine Do? She'd fucking ask him out, that's what, "You want to come with? I know there are tickets still available…"
He click-clicked, "Yeah. Sure."
I stood there, heart pounding, "Great. You can—"
Little Man interrupted me, "Elton, seriously, are you done? What the hell is taking so long?"
"Good timing," Elton tap-clicked. "I just finished."
Little Man grabbed my mouse and clicked around, trying to look authoritative, "Everything works, right? I'm not going to have to call you, like, two seconds from now to fix it, am I?"
"Relax. Yes, it works, it works, okay?" Elton turned toward me and rolled his eyes.
"Good," Little Man said. "Now you can finally get started on something."
"Great," I said.
"Well, let me know if you have problems," Elton said to me.
"She will," Little Man stood there with his arms folded.
Elton and I looked at Little Man, hoping he would go away but he didn't. "Okay … so … I'll see you later." Elton strode off down the hall, and I willed the floor to open up and swallow Little Man.
"That guy is a total prick, isn't he?" Little Man was frowning. "I bet he totally hit on you, didn't he? He hits on all the new people."
"Uh, no," I felt kind of squicked out, remembering what I'd overheard about Elton the day before. Was it true? "He was … nice."
He sputtered, "Nice? Yeah, if you're a girl, I guess." He shook his head and leaned his elbows on the cube wall. "If he starts bothering you, let me know. I have friends in HR."
"Sure. Thanks."
The Little Man gave me my assignment and waddled away on his stubby legs.

I sat back down at my desk and the phone rang. It was Elton. "Sorry about that. Little Man was freaking me out."
"Me, too. He's kind of weird."
"And a dick."
"Yeah. Well. Thanks for taking all that time to fix my computer. It must have been jacked."
He laughed, "I fixed it the first two minutes I was up there."
"Well what were doing the rest of the time? You were up here forever."
"I wanted to keep talking to you."
"Oh," my face was hot.
"Anyway, what time tonight?"
"At the Park West, around 7:30?"
"Great. Wait. What are you doing for dinner?"
"Nothing."
"Let's leave here around 5:30 and eat."
"Okay."
"Meet me at the front desk?"
"Okay."
"Later."
"Bye."

I turned and stared at my computer. Dinner. Had this turned into a date? It had been so long since I'd been on a date, I didn't know. I thought it best to not overthink it, but it was getting hard to concentrate on work and Little Man kept coming over to check on me. The day couldn't go by any slower. Finally, at 5:28 I couldn't take it any longer, and I grabbed my stuff and bolted for the elevator. The Little Man said, "Wait! Did you get that copy done?" but I suddenly felt brazen and pretended not to hear. Elton was already in the lobby when I got there. "Let's get the hell out of here," he grabbed my hand and we ran for the train.

Elastica, The Menace
Purchased at Tower Records, Clark Street, Chicago
Fall 2000

The Racket Friday FAQ: Volume 1

It's Friday and I feel sick of words, but some of you folks have had questions about my fledgling blog, so I'm introducing a feature called "Friday FAQ." Original, no? Here's where you can ask me anything you want—as long as it's related somehow to what you've read here—and I'll answer it in the next installment. Easy, breezy, beautiful. So let's dip into the e-mailbag and see what's there.

Q: Damn, dude! Why are all your stories so depressing? And why so much about the drinking and the getting drunk? Do you have a drinking problem?

A: Misery sells! You need only to look at your local TV listings and see how many spinoffs there are of Law and Order and CSI to know that. It's a universal truth that we feel best about our life when we can verify how miserable in comparison someone else's life is. But the bottom line is that these stories are true; I'm just reporting them as I recall them. Now, the drinking part? Well, if you grew up where I did, you'd have drunk just as much, if not more, to combat the soul-crushing boredom of living there. There's nothing else to do in Small Town America except drink or have sex. It just happens that, so far, I've written more about the drinking. And no, I don't have a drinking problem.

Q: Are you sure?
A: Positive.
Q: You could be in denial.
A: I'm not.

Q: Well, I'm going to keep my eye on you just in case. Let's go back to what you said about these stories being "true." How do we know that you're not making all this up?

A: You don't, but I assure you that every story is based on a real event. For the sake of brevity, I may have combined a few events into one story, but it all happened. See, I've been keeping a journal for the better part of my 20-something years; even if it's not an objective retelling, I've at least got the facts right.

Q: So the people you've written about, do they know you're telling the world all their business? I mean, aren't you worried that they're gonna find out and be really, really pissed?

A: No and no. Though if he ever found this site, Ross might be mad. But then again, he's a tool so I don't give a shit. Still, I have changed all the names and some identifying information, so unless they're like, Encyclopedia Brown or something, I'm not concerned with anyone being upset. Besides, I don't even know who's reading this stuff anyway, let alone someone in any of the stories.

Q: Oh yeah, speaking of Ross, do you think that anything ever happened between him and his sisters?

A: I don't. I hope not! Although about three years ago, I was out somewhere and saw his one sister, Shallow, and when I ran into Ross shortly after that, I mentioned that I'd seen her:

Ross: Oh yeah? What was she wearing?
Me: Uh, I don't remember, really. A miniskirt? Green? Sandals?
Ross: That was definitely her. She looked sexy, didn't she?
Me: *blank stare*

Q: That's fucking nasty. So hey, one last question. The site, why is it called "The Racket"?

A: Because when I lived at home, I liked to play my music at top volume and it would drive my dad bonkers. He'd come in the room and yell, "Turn off that damn racket!"

Alright, that's it for today. Tune in next time for more FAQs. Hopefully, someone will eventually ask me about music.

Singles Going Steady: Van Halen's "Where Have All the Good Times Gone?"

Laurel invited us to her house for a sleepover. This was unusual because Laurel's mom worked the night shift at the factory and we weren't allowed to stay over at someone's house if there weren't any parents there. But Laurel's mom had switched shifts, so Laurel begged and pleaded to have a slumber party and finally her mom gave in. We were all excited because it was kind of a big deal: Nobody had ever met her mother and had never spent more time in her house than it took to borrow some pink Reebok high tops or her very dog-eared copy of Forever. In fact, Laurel herself never seemed to spend all that much time at her house.

My mom dropped me off and when I got to Laurel's door, I could hear shouting; it also sounded like someone was throwing things. I wasn't sure if I should, but I rang the doorbell anyway. The noise didn't stop. I rang again. Nothing. Finally I just started pounding on the door and her little brother Satan opened it. "Hi," I said. "Is Laurel here?" He gestured toward the stairs and yelled, "Laurel! Your stupid friend is here!" I heard a series of thumps coming from above, a "No, you shut up," and then Laurel ran down the stairs, "Asshole!" She hit Satan in the head. "She's not stupid. You're stupid!" Then a woman's voice, very raspy, "Laurel! Satan! Don't talk like that. Be nice, goddamnit." Satan and Laurel looked at each other and rolled their eyes. "She's the asshole," Satan muttered under his breath and went outside. "Who is?" I whispered. "My mom," Laurel said. "Oh," I replied. I mean, really, what else was there to say? This was definitely not like any family I'd ever been around. Ours was by no means perfect, but there was no way in hell that my parents would let me or my brother get away with that kind of language.

At the top of the steps appeared Laurel's mother. She was a tiny lady, with big, permed bangs. Tapered-leg stonewashed jeans ended at the top of pointy, black ankle boots. A tight, hot-pink sweater rounded out the ensemble. The bags under her eyes had bags. She was smoking a More and cradling a beer in her arm. I watched in fascination as this woman, this mom, crashed her way down the stairs and over to us. "This is one of your friends?" she slurred. She smelled like a perfume counter—like the smell of tampon deodorant. Being auto-programmed to be nothing but nice to adults, I extended my hand, "Hi, Mrs. H_____. I'm Iseult."
She stared blankly at me, then frowned. "Don't call me Mrs. H____. It's Mrs. T_____, now."
"Oh," I was embarrassed. "I'm sorry."
Laurel scowled. "Don't be. She isn't."
"The divorce isn't final yet," she coughed. "And it can't get final quickly enough," Mrs. T cackled. "The bastard." She took a deep drag and exhaled smoke through her nose.
Fortunately, we didn't get more into that discussion because Skatie and Gray showed up. Mrs. T didn't even talk to them.
"Okay, this is everyone, mom," Laurel said. "Are you going out or what?"
Mrs. T tottered off to the kitchen, "As soon as I finish my drink. Keep your pants on."
"Hurry up! God!" Laurel turned to us, "Let's go into the family room."

The family room blew my mind. The walls were lined with crate after crate of records, floor to ceiling—two deep, in some places. "What's all this?" I was mesmerized. "Are these your mom's?" This was more records than I'd ever seen in my life, more even than I'd seen at the record store.
Laurel plopped down in an easy chair. "No. They're mostly my dad's. He couldn't wait to get the hell out of here so he didn't take any of them."
"How many do you think there are?" Skatie asked.
Laurel shrugged, "There's more in the basement, too."
"Doesn't he want them?"
Laurel stuffed a handful of gummy bears into her mouth, "Who knows, and who cares?"
While Laurel, Skatie, and Gray watched MTV and talked, I started to thumb through the crates. A lot was old-people music: Creedence Clearwater, Three-Dog Night, Dan Fogelberg, but I saw Prince, the Go-Gos, Information Society, and Thompson Twins in there, too. All in pristine condition—many still in their shrinkwrap. It was a goldmine. I was geeking out, bouncing from crate to crate, not sure where to look next.

Mrs. T interrupted my revelry. She clomped into the family room wearing a coat that matched her jeans. "Girls. I'm going out."
"Good," Laurel said. "So go."
"Don't talk to me like that, you little brat," she snarled.
"Whatever," Laurel spat back. "What do you want?" Skatie, Gray, and I stared at each other uncomfortably. It wasn't difficult to determine why Laurel never spent much time at home.
"I'm going to the Holiday, but I'll be back in a few hours. So while I'm gone, no pay-per-view, no calling boys, and no booze. And stay out of my room, understand?" She looked around like she was missing something. "Oh, and if you see Satan? Tell him he better be in bed by 10."
"Yeah, that's really going to happen," Laurel snorted.
"Do it," Mrs. T fired up another More. "I'll see you later."
As soon as the door slammed, Laurel jumped up and said, "Have you guys ever tried Manischewitz? It tastes just like grape juice!" None of us had. "Come on! You're gonna love it."

The next few hours were spent downing juice glasses of Concord Grape Manischewitz and eating tons of gummy bears and Cheetos. I played DJ and pulled as many records as I could carry over to the record player. We danced around the living room to "Kiss" and "Heart of Glass" and "What's on Your Mind (Pure Energy)." Even Satan, who had come home no-doubt after having done something like killing the neighborhood pets with firecrackers, seemed to be having fun. When we got bored with that, we sang along to Madonna songs, "Holiday" and "La Isla Bonita." Soon, the massive sugar crash hit and the girls decided to watch TV, but I kept rooting through the records. Rick James, Dead or Alive, the Police, Van Halen, Culture Club, Donna Summer, Motley Crue, the Beatles. Laurel came over and kneeled beside me as I rifled. "What's so great about these records, anyway? Tapes are soooo much better."
I kept shuffling. "I don't know. They're just…cool. That's all."
She flipped through the crates for a while. "This is so boring."
"No it's not! It's fun … To me."
"Well, you should just take them with you if you like them so much."
My heart stopped for a second. "Wait. Did you say I could take them?"
"Sure. Who cares? It's not like my dad's even gonna notice. He doesn't even know how many he has." She looked kind of sad.
"No. I can't."
"Yes," she stood up, looking defiant, her hands on her hips. "Take as many as you want. I don't care." She plopped back in the easy chair and turned up the TV. "You guys want to watch Cinemax? Or Skinemax?" she giggled. "That's what Satan and his friends call it."

I couldn't be swayed by soft-core porn, my head was exploding at the gravity of the situation: How the hell was I supposed to pick a record out of this massive collection? I couldn't take more than one, I decided. I didn't want to be greedy. But which one? Gah! It was such a hard decision. Blondie? No, I had that on tape. Go-Gos? No, they were kind of girly. The Police? My brother had that already. What to do? The pressure was too much. I decided to sleep on it.

We had just drifted off when the door unlocked then slammed. I heard this hacking cough and the sound of keys dropping, then an, "Oh goddamnit." "Is that your mom?" Gray whispered. Laurel yawned, "She's probably drunk." Mrs. T stumbled up the stairs. We heard another door slam and then a thud. "I bet she passed out."

When I woke up again, it was morning and I could hear music coming from somewhere. I looked around and saw through the window that the guy next door was washing his car; a radio was perched on the roof. It took me a minute, but I recognized the song: Van Halen's "Where Have All the Good Times Gone?" from their Diver Down album. I knew this because my brother, Jedi, was a huge Van Halen fan and someone had loaned the album to him a while back. After school, Jedi would put it on the stereo and rock out. And I joined him, especially for "Where Have All the Good Times Gone?" because it was the perfect air-guitar song and fun to sing along to. (Jedi would get really into it; I rocked out with him through "Hang Em' High," which is, upon further reflection, a fun, quasi-punk-rock number, but once "Cathedral" came on and Jedi started going on about what a genius Eddie Van Halen was, that was where he lost me.) I hadn't heard that song in a while and forgot how much I liked it.

I was still listening when I noticed Mrs. T walking slowly down the stairs, hand on her forehead, kind of groaning softly. Laurel had just woken up, too, and when she saw her mother, she yelled, "SO! YOU HAVE A GOOD TIME LAST NIGHT, HUH MOM?" Mrs. T stopped in her tracks and glared over at us, "What did you say?" she rasped. "You heard me," Laurel replied. Gray and Skatie were awake by this point and we all sat frozen in our seats. Mrs. T scoffed, "Laurel, your friends are all sluts. Now get them the hell out of my house." And with that, she turned around and hobbled back up the stairs. We looked at Laurel, wondering what she was going to say to that, expecting her to go ballistic. Instead, she said softly, "I think you guys should go."

We took turns using the phone to call our parents to pick us up. Nobody said anything as we got our stuff together and waited for the honks. Gray and Skatie were the first to go. I was willing my mom to drive faster. Then I heard the familiar "squank" of her Mazda and I bolted for the door, mumbling something to Laurel about thanks for having me over.
"Wait! You didn't take any records."
"Uh, no, that's okay, really, I—"
Her jaw was clenched and she looked like she was going to cry. "You have to take one. Okay?"
"Okay." I stood in the family room and stared, not really looking at anything, then I remembered: The night before I'd seen that bright-red and white cover sticking out from a crate on the floor by the doorway. Sure enough, it was a brand-new copy of Diver Down. "I'll take this one."
Laurel nodded and sniffled. "I'll see you at school on Monday."

Van Halen's "Where Have All the Good Times Gone?" from the album Diver Down
Gift of Laurel H_____, Somehwere in the Steel Valley, Ohio
Spring 1988

Soundtrack of Our Lives: Lenny Kravitz, Are You Gonna Go My Way?

We were all pretty well versed in the folklore about the yearly spring choir trip to New York:
"Dude, last year? Someone told me that JR packed an entire suitcase full of liquor—and no clothes!"
"Whoa, that's nuts."
"And I heard that LK was so wasted, she totally barfed all over JP! While they were making out on the ferry!"
"Yeah, well I heard that she got busted fucking him in the pool."
"Ew! Nasty!"
"I know, right? Also? I heard that CK, JS, and JW were passed out on the floor of their hotel room while HH and JK were doing it in the bed right above them!"
"Oh yeah! And something like, J woke up and puked on H!"
"That is disgusting."
"Totally disgusting."
"I can't wait to go."
"Me too!"

The trip was only open to juniors and seniors, and was, ostensibly, for us small-town kids to get some culture, though everyone knew the trip was really about getting drunk. So when our junior year of high school rolled around, we spent most of the winter planning for it: Whose suitcase is the biggest? Mine is. How many t-shirts does it take to keep the bottles from clinking? I dunno, three? Try three. Who is going to be responsible for bringing the vodka? Skatie will. Who'll remember the limes for the tequila? Oh—don't forget the knife to cut the limes. Ooh, right. I'll do it. Can someone buy some extra plastic cups? Laurel? Sure. Where should we get the Boone's Farm? The store in the projects never cards. And it's the only store with that apple kind that we like. Great idea! I'll go there after school on Thursday.

I don't remember too much about the bus ride, other than that it was long and that we were fucking sick of each other by the time we got to New York. But as soon as we stepped out of the bus into the loud, busy, smelly, florescent-lit street, we Ohio kids were too overwhelmed to do anything other than stare, slack-jawed, at the crush of people and the majesty that is Madison Square Garden. Of course, the seniors were trying to act all nonchalant about it since they'd been there the year before, but you could tell that even through all their posturing, and talk about sneaking out to clubs and getting fake IDs, they were pretty awestruck, too.

The first order of business was getting our rooms. Skatie and I roomed together and I recall that we were both dismayed at our room's condition. It smelled like mold, it definitely had roaches in the bathroom. Neither of us had ever seen a roach. We just knew from books and TV that New York had roaches and that was just the way it was. So we kept on all the lights (the roaches didn't seem to like that) and unpacked, locking our "valuables" in our suitcases so that housekeeping wouldn't steal them—something we'd also been told was just the way it was in New York.

Then we quickly set about working on the second order of business: Determining whose room we'd be getting drunk in. I don't remember whose room it ended up being; all I know is that it wasn't, thankfully ours. We lugged our dime-store vodka and cranberry-juice cocktail down the hall to the party room and proceeded to get wasted, always keeping an eye on the clock. Our choir director, having organized tons of these trips over the years, knew full well that there was nothing he could do to keep us from drinking. In fact, being quite a tippler himself, I think he thought it was perfectly acceptable, but he wanted us to be responsible drunks. The last thing he needed was to have one of us stumble out into the street and get plowed over by a taxi (something that happens in New York all the time!). So in the name of keeping the more overanxious parents at ease, he instructed the chaperons (also parents) to enforce a 10:00 PM curfew: We had to be in our rooms by 10:00 PM and they would place a strip of tape on the door once we were accounted for. If that tape ripped, regardless of how it got ripped, it was assumed that we'd broken curfew and we'd be reported to our parents—no matter what time it was, our parents would get a phone call.

While we were there, through various levels of sobriety, we did manage to take in some of that culture we'd heard New York was famous for. We went to see "The Phantom of the Opera" and got to go on stage. We took the ferry to Ellis Island and hung around the Statue of Liberty. We sang in a church in Spanish Harlem. We ate a spectacular meal in Chinatown and slices from a street vendor. We walked around Times Square. I only remember most of this because of the photos I took.

One afternoon, we had some free time and literally stumbled into a Tower Records. Everyone had been buying t-shirts and key chains to commemorate the trip, but I wanted something more substantive. I wanted to buy some music so I could say, "Oh this? I got it in New York." I ended up buying two things: a techno album by a band called, no joke, Digital Orgasm, and Lenny Kravitz's Are You Gonna Go My Way?. The Digital Orgasm album was beyond terrible, but I told myself that it was cool, it was New York. Are You Gonna Go My Way?, on the other hand, was awesome. People these days hate on Lenny, call him derivative, a low-rent Jimi Hendrix. This album was before the backlash and is definitely, I think, his best. Don't get me wrong, there are absolutely some turkeys on here—"Black Girl" and "My Love," especially—but the songs that are good? Like the title track, "Believe," and "Heaven Help"? Are fucking great. I couldn't wait to listen to it on my Walkman on the trip back. I grinned as I shoved my little piece of New York into my backpack.

Our last night in town, there were rumors floating around that the adults were going to go out to dinner and wouldn't be back until late. There were also rumors that the hotel bar didn't card. I'm sure you can guess what happened next. A hint: Only one of the rumors was true. All I know is that one minute, the bar is packed with kids, and the next, the only people left were me and this football player, who was completely hammered and cried to me for over an hour about how much he loved his girlfriend, CP, who was a good friend of mine. "She means so much to me. I love her." I was all, "Dude! She totally LOVES you." And he sniffled, "You think?" "TOTALLY." "I love her." "I know, man. I know." And we're having another screwdriver ("To true love!"), and I hear someone say, "There you guys are!" Busted.

Skatie tried to cover for me when they did room checks ("She's … uh… in the shower? ShhhSshhsshhhh! That's the water, can you hear it?), but they knew what was up. My choir teacher, true to his word, called my dad. My dad was more pissed about being woken up than he was about what I had done. That was bad enough, but the worst part was that there were already rumors starting that the football player and I had fooled around. I didn't care that I'd gotten in trouble; I cared that CP knew that nothing had happened. And when we were waiting in the lobby the next morning for the bus, the girls were giving me evil looks, and the guys were like, "How you doin'?" Everyone was whispering. My head was splitting and pounding and I felt awful. Really and truly awful.

I didn't talk to anyone on the drive home. Just listened to "Heaven Help," going over and over again in my head what I was going to say to CP, to my dad. And cried until I fell asleep on Skatie's shoulder.

Lenny Kravitz, Are You Gonna Go My Way?
Purchased at a Tower Records in New York City
Spring 1993

Singles Going Steady: LL Cool J's "Doin' It"

James was Private and RA's friend. Private, RA, and I worked together at the OSU bookstore. I was just getting to know them. They were "Will & Grace" before there was a "Will & Grace"; only in this version, "Will" was a muscle-y black guy and "Grace" was an overweight farm girl. They finished each other's sentences, had a ton of inside jokes, and were really fun to be around. Anyway, James was their friend. When I first saw him, he was talking to Private, and I had to force myself to stop staring. He looked like he could have been a movie star—or at least a soap-opera star. James had a football player's build. He was a big guy, but not beefy. His skin was this smooth, beautiful, deep brown color. He smelled amazing. But the best part? Was his smile. It was big and bright and extremely high wattage. And he strongly resembled someone famous … but who? I couldn't put my finger on it.

"Hey," I whispered to RA. "Who's the guy talking to Private? His boyfriend?" RA busted up, "He wishes! No, that's James. He lived in our dorm freshman year and we've all been friends ever since." She closed her register and grabbed my arm. "Come on. I'll introduce you." She walked to the counter and bumped Private over with her hip. "You know, it's so sad watching you try so hard to will James into being a fag."
"Oh and it's so, SO sad," Private replied, pinching her ass, "watching you devour those Snackwells and willing them to make you skinny."
James laughed and said to me, "I don't know how you can stand working with these two fools."
"They're good times," I said.
"Oh goodness," RA said. "Where are my manners?" She turned to me, "Iseult, this is James." And turned to him, "James, this is Iseult."
We shook hands. He had really nice hands.
"Iseult, it's a pleasure." He hoisted his backpack up on his shoulder. "And now I have someone else to visit in between my boring business classes." And there was that Smile.
My face felt hot. "Yeah," I stuttered. "I'm here all the time."
"Excellent." James headed for the exit. He nodded toward Private and RA, "I'll see you and you tonight. And," to me, with the smile, smile, smile, "you, too, I hope." He walked down the stairs and was gone.

"Such a shame," Private shook his head. "Such a goddamn shame."
"Whatever," RA was chewing on a Twizzler. "What makes you think he'd be into you if he was gay?"
"Girl, please." Private did a little dance, "They all want to get into me, okay?"
I was still thinking about what James said about seeing me tonight. "So," I asked trying not to sound too eager, "what's tonight?"
"Oh yeah," Private said. "You want to come dancing with us?"
I didn't hesitate. "Absolutely!"

We went to the Newport for something with the unfortunate name of "Disco Inferno." It was a theme party, obviously, and there was a sea of polyester, unbuttoned shirts, Afro wigs, and platform shoes to wade through before you could get to the dance floor.
"I'm going in," Private yelled. "See you bitches later."
Across the room, someone was waving at us. It was James. He had on—what else—a white, polyester leisure suit and looked fabulous. RA and I stumbled through the crowd over to him. "Hey ladies," he kissed RA on the cheek then bent down and did the same to me. I'm sure I blushed, I'm glad it was dark. "You made it. Want to dance?" he yelled.
"Yeah," I yelled.
"Have fun," RA waved goodbye. "I'm getting a drink."

We made our way to the front of the floor. "Let's go up," he said gesturing to the stage where there were less people. Just as I expected, he was a great dancer, and a total Lothario. Close to an hour went by when I realized how dehydrated I was. "I've got to get some water," I yelled. He nodded and walked me over to where RA was sitting and got me a bottle. "You up for some more?" he pointed to the stage. I really, really wanted to, but I felt exhausted, like I'd had a lot of sex. "No," I yelled, "You go." "My loss," he said and went back into the crowd.

RA and I surveyed the scene. "You know," she yelled between sips of her amaretto sour, "there are some ugly people here tonight."
"I know," I yelled back. "Look at that girl in the red jumpsuit. Sister needs to pull that zipper waaaaay up."
"Where?" RA yelled.
I pointed, "Over by the fire exit."
"Oh damn," she said and rolled her eyes. "That's Jenna. I didn't think she'd be here tonight."
"Who's Jenna?"
She motioned for me to come closer, "Jenna is this girl that we met at some club. We hung out with her a few times and the next thing I know, she's hanging out with us, like, constantly. She dropped out of school, wants to be an actress or some bullshit. Totally slutty. A new guy every time I see her. Look at how she's dancing." She made a barfing gesture.
"Oh." I watched Jenna work the dance floor like a stripper. She had that high-maintenance-but-cheap look that dominates men's magazines. Long, big, blonde hair. Huge boobs. Lots of eyeliner. She walked over to James and gave him big hug and kiss. "She and James a thing?" I tried to not sound disappointed.
RA smirked. "Um, no. She wanted it, but he came to his senses and realized now nasty that girl is, thank God." She looked sideways at me, "Why? You have a thing for James?"
"Oh! No! I, uh, was just wondering, that's all."
"Yeah, right," she said and put down her drink. "Look, let me offer you some advice. James, he's really fucking hot and really smart and nice and the whole bag of chips. He's pretty much perfect, on paper. But trust me: You don't want to go out with him, okay?" She was totally serious. "Okay?"
I laughed, "Okay, okay, I won't!"
"Good."

A week later, I was getting ready for work, picking out my daily CDs, one of which was LL Cool J's Mr. Smith. I was obsessed with the track "Doin' It," not just because it was a sexy song, but the production was tight and the beat was very catchy. Then it hit me: The famous person I thought James resembled was LL Cool J. It was uncanny, actually, how much they looked alike. Same build, same complexion, same mannerisms. Right down to that lip-licking tic that LL had. James did it, too. I stared at the photo of LL on the CD case for a long time and thought about "Disco Inferno."

Work was really busy. Private and RA had both called off (recovering from hangovers, I later learned), so that left me and one other person to run the place. I paused to take a sip of my coffee and heard someone say, "Hey sexy lady." Pretty certain this person wasn't talking to me, I didn't even look up. Then I felt a hand on my shoulder and saw that it was James.
"Hey," I said, trying to act all cool. "What's up?"
He leaned on the counter. "Not a whole lot, school, homework, trying to stay out of trouble," Smile, smile, smile.
"Yeah. I hear that," I dorked out and noticed my boss was looking over disapprovingly, given the lines that were forming behind James.
"Listen, I know you're a busy lady, but I was hoping that maybe we could get together this weekend. Coffee? Cocktails? Your call."
"Sure," I felt rushed, my boss was walking over. "I have a lot of studying to do, but Sunday night? Coffee?"
"Coffee it is. Eight o'clock? At King Avenue?"
"Sounds great."
"Alright," Smile, smile, smile. "See you then."
Later, as I walked home, I listened to "Doin' It" on repeat the entire way.

The next night, I went over with RA to Private's apartment to watch "90210." The whole time we were watching it, I thought about how I should tell them about the date with James. Finally, at a commercial, I just blurted it out, "James asked me out for coffee on Sunday and I said yes, okay? I said yes."
RA and Private stared at me, then at each other.
"Oh, here we go," sighed Private. "I thought you told her."
"I didn't because I didn't think it was necessary," RA mumbled. She looked worried.
"Tell me what? What's going on?"
They ignored me. "You want to get it, or should I?" RA asked.
"You get it," said Private. "I'll get the drinks." He patted me on the head as he walked to the kitchen. "RA, you think this calls for something fruity?"
"But you're already here."
"Ha, ha."
"Sea Breezes," she yelled as she rooted around the entertainment center.
What was going on? "RA, what the hell are you looking for?" She didn't answer.
"Here you go." Private handed me a drink. "You just tell me when you need another, sweetie, okay? There's a whole goddamn pitcher in there. And remember: We're only doing this because we care about you."
RA came back to the couch with the remote. "Ready?"
"Roll it." Private turned off the lights.

The picture flickered on. "I'll fast-forward through the credits," said RA. Next on the screen was a shot of the interior of a house. A kind of nice-looking house, in a McMansion-y sort of way. There was some bad "lite" jazz playing in the background. Then a shot of a woman wearing a schoolgirl-type outfit. She looked kind of familiar. "Is that … Jenna?" Private and RA nodded. Jenna walked up a big staircase into a bedroom where there was a handyman working on something. She said, "I hope when you're done with that, you can do some work on me." Then she took off her clothes and they started screwing on the floor. I was totally dumbfounded. "You guys," I slurped my drink, "why are you showing this to me?" Private put a finger to his lips, "Shhhh." They finished having sex in a variety of really preposterous positions, then the handyman said something like, "Let me show you the rest of my screwdriver," and they did it again. RA and Private were cracking up but I was really confused: I was watching this because they cared about me? "Guys, okay, I get it. Jenna's nasty. Point taken." Private whispered to RA, "Fast-forward to the part."

Scenes of Jenna and the handyman in the shower zipped by. Then Jenna was lounging in a robe on the bed. "I'm so lonely. If only my husband would take care of me like you did," she said to the handyman. Then the sound of a door slamming and a male voice, "Honey? I'm home." "Oh no! Hide in the closet!" Jenna told the handyman, then she yelled, "Up here, darling." When the door opened, a big, ripped black guy wearing a tank top and jeans came in the room. "I missed you," Jenna oozed, as she put her arms around the guy's neck. "I've been thinking about you all day," she winked at the handyman watching from the closet. I snorted and almost spit out my drink. When the camera panned in, I saw the guy lick his lips. "LL Cool J?" I said. "Jenna was in a porno with LL? That's nuts!" RA and Private looked at me like I was an alien. "Sweetie," Private held my hand. "That's not LL." Of course, it wasn't. On the screen, James had Jenna on all fours on the bed and was giving it to her something fierce. Jenna was screaming, "Oh yeah! Oh you're so big!" pouting and posing directly into the camera, while James kept his head down or turned toward the wall. It was like a car wreck. After a few minutes of this, RA asked gently, "Seen enough?" I nodded and downed the rest of my drink. "I'll get you a refill," said Private.

RA told me that James had done the "movie" as a favor to Jenna. She thought this would get her a foot in the door, help start her acting career. But after he did it, he had a change of heart and made her promise that she would destroy the tape and all the copies. She told him she did, only she obviously didn't. But James didn't know that.

And we never did get that coffee.

Three years later, I was on my lunch break at Big Bear in D____, Ohio, at the salad bar, and heard, "Iseult?" It was James. Still as good looking as ever, better looking, if that's even possible. "Girl! I haven't seen you in a minute," he said. "How are you?"
"Good. I'm good."
"You look good."
"Thanks. You, too." We looked at each other, not sure what to say next.
"Well, since we both work out here, we should have lunch sometime."
"Sure. Definitely."
He gave me his card. "Call me."
I nodded, both of us knowing I wouldn't. I headed toward the checkout, then stopped. "You know, I always thought you looked a lot like LL Cool J."
He laughed. "Oh yeah? I get that a lot. People are always coming up to me, swearing that they've seen me before—they're just not sure where. It's crazy. Guess I'm a memorable guy. Must be the smile." Smile, smile, smile.
"Must be."

LL Cool J, "Doin' It," from the album Mr. Smith
Purchased at a Best Buy in the Columbus, Ohio suburbs
November 1995

Soundtrack of Our Lives: VA, Offbeat: A Red Hot Sound Trip

F was a painter and a poet, but more important, he was hot. Truth was, I didn't care much about his painting or his poetry, but let me tell you what: His body? Was art enough to make up for that, no doubt. He wasn't my type, really; I'd been more into WASP-y, preppy guys with a touch--just a touch--of is-he-or-isn't-he gayness. F was lean and lanky with tan skin, dark hair. Tallish, in good shape. His calling card, however, was his sleeves--he didn't have work down the whole of his arms, but was well on his way. It was a total turn-on. But because F was trying to get a job and wanted to look "respectable," he often wore long-sleeved shirts to cover the tattoos, so I didn't get to see as much as I would have liked.

The story on F was that he'd done some modeling on the side, but his "real passion" was writing. He'd gone to B______ G____ and gotten a degree in creative writing, had something published in a literary magazine. That encouraged him and he decided to try to get a job writing. So after he graduated, he headed for Columbus, and moved into Ross's place (he and Ross had gone to high school together and were good friends) to get his scene together and see if he could make something happen. Ross was bankrolling F's stay; he really believed in F's talent and didn't want F to have to worry about rent or bills so he could concentrate on painting and writing and looking for a job. I'd heard a lot about F over the years, and Ross kept telling me that he was sure F and I would be a good match. (Historical note: This was way before anything happened between Ross and me.)

Ross asked us to show F around, make him feel at home. On his first night in town, Skinny Marie, Rareman, Ross, and I took F out to shoot pool and have drinks. F was, in addition to the hotness, nice and funny and smart, and we talked a long time about books and bands, skateboarding, his writing, his tattoos. Particularly fixating to me was this solid-blue star on his forearm. It was perfectly formed, sharply drawn. I instantly had a huge crush on him. Ross, having observed my insipid, giggly "flirting," came over to me and whispered, "Go for it. He's a little shy around girls, so you're going to have to be kind of aggressive." Aggressive wasn't my style, but I told him I'd give it the ol' college try.

Later, we ended up at Larry's and Skinny Marie noticed a flyer that said:
Poets & Writers Wanted!
Larry's Weekly Open Mic.
Got something to say? Say it here, Monday nights. 8 'til whenever.

She tore it off the wall and handed it to F. "Hey!" he said. "If I read, do you guys promise to come?" "Sure, absolutely," we all said. I could have listened to him read the ingredients on a cereal box.

And so it came to pass that we spent a lot of Monday nights at Larry's, listening to a whole host of bad poetry, and drinking a whole host of bad liquor in the hopes that the bad poetry would get better, which, of course, never happened. F's stuff wasn't bad; it just wasn't interesting; I never paid much attention to the content—something about wind, or the sky, or the curve of someone's neck? After every reading, he wanted to talk about it, analyze it with me. I wanted to tell him, "Honey, you and I both know that your pretty, pretty ass is the only thing anyone's interested in analyzing." But he was so serious and so genuinely concerned about what I thought of his work, I ended up saying bullshit like, "Yeah, I really … uh … felt what you were saying about the, um, loneliness and the train whistle." That seemed to satisfy him.

I put in my time at Larry's, and after a few weeks, my dedication was rewarded. It happened, one Monday evening, that Skinny Marie, Rareman, and Ross all had other plans, and I was the only one who showed up to hear F read. He was first up, and when he was done, he slid into the booth next to me and I was waiting for the, "What did you think?" But instead, he said, "You want to get out of here? Go to my place?" Well, for someone who was allegedly "shy around girls," I was understandably encouraged! I ran to the ladies' room to touch up my lippy (Cherry ChapStick), check to see what underwear I had on (black, and in relatively decent shape), and see if the Offbeat CD was still in my bag (it was).

I'd gotten Offbeat from James Pancake at the radio station a few months before. He was peeing himself because there was a rare My Bloody Valentine track on it that he'd been waiting for and knowing I was also an MBV fan, he got me a copy. I was also interested because there were some tracks from Skylab and DJ Krush, and upon first listen (downtempo, lots of good beats) it sounded kind of sexy, kind of like nighttime in the summer when you have no AC and all you do have is a box fan in the window that isn't delivering much relief and you feel a drop of sweat roll down the middle of your back. Or something. I'd recently rediscovered the CD in my collection, hence, the reason it was in my bag.

When we got to his apartment, F started acting kind of nervous and squirrelly. Remembering what Ross had told me, I suggested that we have a drink and listen to some music. He went to get beers, and I headed toward the CD player, where I put New Order's Substance (disc 1) in slot 1, Offbeat in slot 2, and Depeche Mode's 101 in slot 3. He came back and sat on one end of the couch and I sat on the other. We talked about nothing in particular. And he just stayed put! About three beers and eight New Order songs in, however, I started to get tipsy and antsy and was like, "fuck this." I reached over and skipped to the Offbeat CD and scooted closer to F. He kind of squirmed. I thought, God, I have my work cut out for me, and gave him my best "take me now" face (left eyebrow raised, lips slightly parted). He looked a little scared. DJ Krush's "Ryu-Ki" started slithering from the speakers, and I went for it; I moved closer, took his beer out of his hand, and said, "Do you want to …?"
"You know," he looked down at the floor, "I like you a lot—"
"I like you, too." I purred.
"And…well…I," he sat on the edge of the couch, "I think you're gorgeous, and—"
"And?"
"And we have a lot in common, but—"
All this talking was getting bothersome. "But?"
"But inuttleracktovoo."
The volume was up kind of high and I couldn't understand him. "I'm sorry?"
"I'm not attracted to you."

And I heard him loud and clear that time because—and I swear to Baby Jesus this is the truth—the CD stopped playing. Just like that. Just kept spinning around fruitlessly, with no chance of recovery, much like my ego.

I fucking hate those star tattoos.

Various Artists, Offbeat: A Red Hot Sound Trip
Gift of James Pancake, Fall 1996

Singles Going Steady: Prince, "Purple Rain"

When I first met A-Track, it was in fall of 2000 at a staff meeting. Her shoes were falling apart. She had these long, ridiculous fake nails and was twirling her pen across her knuckles like a baton, smacking her gum, and twirling her hair around her finger. I was mesmerized at her multitasking ability.

I'll totally cop to judging her based on her looks and demeanor, thinking she was probably in sales or was an admin, so I was quite surprised to find out that A-Track was an editor, too. What also surprised me was just how good A-Track was. When we started working together, I learned more from her in a few short weeks than I'd learned in all my previous editing jobs. She was one of those words people, a person with a complete grasp of the English language, usage, structure. She never cut corners with her writing—even her e-mails were grammatically perfect. None of that "RUOK?" "I h8 the weather," "Wnt 2 go 2 lnch?" nonsense for her. I liked that.

A-Track was definitely a little ... nuts. But nuts in the way that scary-smart people are allowed to be. Sure, it drove me bonkers that she'd show up to work wearing mismatched socks, or had her shirt on inside out. I hated how she insisted on drinking wheatgrass shots at lunch, how she was chronically late, that she was always a little dirty. She sometimes seemed to not be listening, but would surprise me by offering cogent advice or commentary on whatever we were talking about, always following up later to see if everything was okay. A-Track made even the most banal work things seem interesting. She could find art in almost anything. And she was generous and open, had no filter, told me everything—good and bad—about her, without a hint of self-consciousness. In short, we became fast friends. Insta-friends. Friends based on circumstance and locus.

Her brother was a concert promoter and was able to get us into shows for free, which was obviously awesome. The one show he couldn't get us into for free, however, was Prince. Now, when A-Track and I heard Prince was coming to town and playing at the Riviera, we lobbied hard to at least get on the list to possibly, maybe get a ticket. Her brother couldn't make us any promises, and as of the morning of the show (his Hit 'n Run Tour, for you historians), we still weren't sure if it was going to happen. Finally, at around 2:00 PM, A-Track calls me, tells me she needs $80, and that she'll be back in an hour. It was on!

We got to the Riviera as quickly as the Red Line would take us, leaving our coats and scarves at the office, opting instead for being warmed up by booze. We stood as close to the stage as was possible, which wasn't very, what with the crush of rabid Prince fans forming a wall at the front. After about 10 amazing songs, but still 10 songs of being slammed into, stepped on, and groped, we decided we'd had enough and went to stand near the back. It was too loud to talk, and our voices were hoarse anyway from all the "EEEEeeeeeee-ing" we'd been doing, so A-Track and I communicated with hand gestures: "Another smoke?" "I'm getting a beer—do you want?" "Did you see that girl's outfit?" "That guy is hot." "Too bad he's gay…" "Good point."

A-Track was pretty loaded at this point and had taken to swaying back and forth instead of dancing. She was wearing this tank-top thing with straps that wouldn't stay up. She'd been fussing at them for most of the night, but had given up on getting them to stay put and instead let the straps rest just below her shoulders. When "Purple Rain" started, she closed her eyes, started swaying with more energy, raising her arms in the air like it was a revival, totally on some other planet. I felt embarrassed watching her and looked away. Then I heard someone behind me say, "Damn, girl!" I turned around and saw people pointing toward A-Track—her top had fallen down to her waist and she was swinging her pale, slightly droopy breasts in the breeze. Mortified, I ran over to fix her shirt, but she stopped me and shrugged, "It's just gonna fall down again anyway." And topless she stayed for the rest of the song, boobs moving in time with Prince's "Oooh oooh ooh oohs," oblivious to everyone and everything around her.

Prince, "Purple Rain," from the album of the same name, June 1984

Soundtrack of Our Lives: Afghan Whigs, Gentlemen

That relationship, the one with Ross, was made up of the worst parts of him and me. And it's no exaggeration to say that he broke me. I nearly lost my mind. I definitely lost all sense of what it meant to be loved. It wasn't my friendship with Scorpio and that I'd just broken a major rule in the Girl Code that fucked me up. It wasn't the bullshit from his family about how I stole him away from Scorpio (they'd been apart for a while), or that they thought I was a basehead (that was a good one), or that they told him I was beneath him (please, the boy was from North C____, not the OC, for fuck's sake). It wasn't that what should have been a rebound relationship for us both turned into a real one. What fucked me up the most was the sex.

Near the end of my relationship with Victor, we'd stopped having sex almost altogether. If he was high, he couldn't come. If he wasn't high, he wasn't interested. After that was my short-lived legitimate relationship with Matthew, where the physical part was difficult for a whole other set of reasons that I'll explain another time. And I knew things weren't going so well in that department for Ross and Scorpio, too. I knew because Scorpio was a good friend of mine and after Ross moved out of their apartment, I'd spent many an hour consoling her, being the shoulder while she divulged deeply personal, intimate details to the girl who would soon use that information as kindling. When Ross and I first started seeing each other, we shared stories of our damaged sex lives, talked about what we wanted. And what started out as commiseration, quickly became copulation.

Over time, while the relationship part—the human, loving, real part—of our relationship failed, the physical part only deepened. And that was so fucking confusing because the more our physical relationship grew, the more I wanted the relationship part, and the more he resisted it. It was subtle; I mean, he never cheated on me, he never fought with me, he never asked anything of me. He was nice to pets and my friends. But he was so completely absent emotionally, so completely unable to express his feelings. And I began to hate him for it. I began to hate that the only time I felt close to him was while we were having sex. And he wanted to have sex more and more and more.

He was getting ready to move to C_____. I was angry, but not surprised. It was totally his style: One afternoon, we'd talked about moving in together, and the next afternoon, he told me he was taking a job transfer. I sat around his apartment on the floor surrounded by a moat of CDs, while he packed. We played this game that we always played: He'd play a song for me, and I'd have to guess who it was and what album it was from.
"Okay, here's a good one." He pushed "play":
What should I tell her?
She's going to ask
If I ignore it, it gets uncomfortable
She'll want to argue about the past
Still I think she believes me
Every word I say...

My throat got tight. "I know this song," I choked out.
"Yeah," he said. "It's such a great song, isn't it?" And from the speakers, this:
And it don't bleed, and it don't breathe
It's locked its jaws & now it's swallowing
It's in our heart, it's in our heads
It's in our love, baby, it's in our bed

And the tears stared coming.

*****
We'd been talking about our favorite albums and he'd said that one of his was the Afghan Whigs' Gentlemen. He'd been playing it a lot around that time. I liked the sound, so I got myself a copy. When I got home, I sat on the floor with a beer, and played it, only this time, I also listened to the words. It was kind of shocking, how brutal they were. And the above lyrics, from "If I Were Going," are down right pleasant compared with this from "Be Sweet":
Ladies, let me tell you about myself
I got a dick for a brain
And my brain is gonna sell my ass to you
Now I'm OK, but in time I'll find I'm stuck
'Cause she wants love, and I still want to fuck

I listened up to "When We Two Parted" (I should have seen this shit coming down the hall/ Every night I spent in that bed with you facing the wall) when I had to turn it off. I felt kind of sick.
*****

He kept shuffling around his apartment, packing all evidence of our time together in generic cardboard boxes, singing along to the CD every so often. I walked outside to the porch to smoke. Spring was on the way and the air smelled a little like mud. Across the street at the high school, two couples were walking, holding hands, laughing. I watched them walking down the sidewalk until they became spots. Exhaling a cloud of gray smoke, I turned around and looked inside. Ross, standing in the doorway, was staring back at me.

Afghan Whigs, Gentlemen
Purchased late winter 1999
Used Kids Records, Columbus, Ohio

Thanks to this site for the lyrics.

Editorial Note: More Than a Feeling

I wish I could write about music in a way that isn't cloying or turgid. (I wish I could write about anything in that way, actually.) I mean, really, when you're trying to express how something makes you feel, how can you convey that without coming off like a total candy ass?

Par example, the suburbs have had a huge influence on me. I didn't grow up in one—my 'hood was a mish-mosh of small, WWII-era homes, some in good shape, others…not so good (cars on blocks in many a backyard)—so I was always fascinated by their size, tidiness, their sameness. When I was younger, riding in the car on the way to anywhere, I'd stare out the window from the highway as we passed through the outer edges of the suburbs. One after another they'd stream by, the next one bigger than the last, all giving the illusion that inside those walls, everything was alright. Everyone had enough money, food, brand-name jeans. The subdivisions promised plenitude.

And when I was older, before I could drive, I'd put on my headphones and walk up to Market Street, cross it—the divide between my lower-middle-class existence and this wealthy one—and get lost in the subdivisions near the golf course. And when I did start driving, I'd take a variety of routes to or from school or work so that I'd find myself puttering past the cul-de-sacs, the neighborhoods with names like "Fox Chase," "Maple Hills," "Pheasant Run," looking into the windows of all those anonymous families whose lives, I was certain, were somehow better than mine.

There was, however, always a feeling of loneliness and emptiness in those neighborhoods—their antiseptic-ness, their stolidity. I believe that was what appealed to me, that these densely populated neighborhoods were lonely. And loneliness knows know socio-economic bounds. So maybe we weren't so different, these suburban kids and me.

I have plenty of music that sounds like the suburbs. And I'm trying to write about music with the same obsessive level of detail, with the same amount of attention that I've devoted to the suburbs. Make sense?

I looked out this morning and the sun was gone /
Turned on some music to start my day/
I lost myself in a familiar song/
I closed my eyes and I slipped away...

Soundtrack of Our Lives: Smashing Pumpkins, Siamese Dream

The summer of 1993 sucked. Skatie was moving away, my parents were in the middle of a messy divorce, Victor was away at school and probably cheating on me, definitely doing drugs. I'd never felt more like a tumbleweed. I spent a lot of time by myself, that summer. My friends would call and I would make up excuses as to why I wasn't able to hang out. Most of my days were filled up with driving around, listening to music, and smoking cigarettes, mostly all at one time. Oh man, was I a cliche.

School was getting ready to start, my senior year. Even though I was pretty depressed about what was going on in my life, I was excited to go back to school--more excited still to be finished so I could get out of Warren and go to college. High school was the gauntlet; college was the reward.

Zick called me one morning, about a week before classes began.
"Hey, you're still going to paint the barn?"
"Yeah, I guess so."
"Great. I'll see you there."

I dragged myself out of the house and into the car, played some Smiths or something equally rediculous, and drove to the barn. The barn was behind the school. How the tradition began, I don't know, but the incoming senior class was expected to paint something on the roof to represent its year. The previous class had been an apathetic one; they never finished their painting. It looked pretty bad. We had a lot of work to do.

When I got there, there were a few people on the roof, scraping off old paint, painting over it with a blinding white. Class President was in charge and was trying to give directions, but it was so hot out that more people were resting than working. Everyone moved like they were underwater. CP saw me drive up and came over to my car.
"Hey! I knew you'd come."
"I wouldn't have missed it." And that was the truth. It felt good to be there. She gave me a brush and told me to start working on the back side of the roof, where everyone who worked on the barn painted their initials or their name.

The afternoon passed slowly, groups of painters came and left, wiping sweat and paint off their faces and bodies as they went. And in the late afternoon, CP and I were the only ones still there. We were lying back on the roof, talking, when Zick drove up, smoking, as always. He was wearing a blue bandana in his hair, sunglasses, cutoffs that I knew had once been pants because he had been wearing them the last time I'd seen him, and combat boots. He squinted up at us, blowing smoke to the side, "Where is everyone?"
"We are everyone," CP yelled down.
"Cool." He opened his trunk and pulled out a boombox. "A little music?" The CD flashed silver in my eyes as he put it in.

The first notes of "Cherub Rock" came floating up to the roof. When the guitars kicked in, it sounded like thunder.
"What is this?" I yelled to Zick.
"New Pumpkins. I got it last week." He climed up the ladder and rested his arms on the edge of the roof. "It's fucking awesome, isn't it?"
I nodded and smiled. And I got that excited feeling I always get when I hear music that I know is truly something.

Siamese Dream is a powerful record in many ways. There's a lot of musical muscle, sure, but it's the sound. The sound was new, it was original. The record was Saying Something. Most of what it was saying, I realized in later years, was pretentious--overwrought and more than a little florid. But back then, it was the perfect background music for my burgeoning angst. (I wish I were making this up, but months later, when I was fighting with SB, I actually told him to go listen to "Mayonaise," if he wanted to know how I felt. *Cringe* That memory has runined somewhat my love for the song, but at least now I can listen to it and not roll my eyes.)

We painted the roof and listened to Siamese Dream, front to back, twice. When the sun started to look a little tired, like it does at the end of summer, and started turning the sky purple, we decided to call it a day. CP took off, told us that she'd love it if we'd come by the next day to finish. Zick and I nodded. We leaned up against his car, smoked cigarettes, and listened to crickets, as the street lights started to blink on.

Smashing Pumpkins, Siamese Dream
Purchased in August 1993
Sun TV & Audio, Niles, Ohio

Soundtrack of Our Lives: PJ Harvey, Uh Huh Her

This summer, I spent an inordinate amount of time on the Long Island Railroad, or the LIRR, as they call it, even though "railroad" is one word, so the second "R" in "LIRR" is kind of reduntant, but whatever.

Anyway, the whole reason I was spending hours of my life in Long Island and on the LIRR was because Fibonacci was living in New York City for the summer. Southwest doesn't fly into the city; they do, helpfully, fly into Islip-MacArthur Long Island Airport, and so if you don't have any cheese and you need to fly a lot, you're at the mercy of Southwest, even if that means you get dropped off more than an hour away from your final destination. It is what it is, the Greyhound of the Skies. So many a weekend in June and July, I found myself shlepping from the midwest to the east coast in this fashion:

1) Take train to work
1.5) Work all day
2) Take train to Midway
3) Take shuttle from Islip to Ronkonkoma Station to catch the LIRR (that's ron-KON-koma, not ron-kon-KO-MA, as this very helpful Carmella Soprano-type helpfully told me)
3.5) If there is track work on the LIRR, take a bus to Central Islip, THEN get on the train there
4) Enjoy the 1:20 minute trip into Penn Station
5a) Take the subway to the Upper West Side to see Fibonacci, or
5b) If you have money, take a taxi

The whole trip from Chicago to New York took about, oh, I dunno, like, 700 days--especially if there was a problem on the train, or if my plane was late, causing me to miss the train and have to wait two-and-a-half hours (!) for the next one. There is only so much people watching you can do before they start to think you're touched in the head and move their children away from the wan-looking, staring lady with the bloodshot eyes. And after your second cup of Dunkin' Donuts coffee (decaf, extra-extra), your teeth start to dissolve, leaving little bits of tooth dust on your tongue, and MY GOD was it ever boring.

Naturally, I tried to pack as many diversions as I could carry, putting the focus mostly on CDs (I can't read on the train or I will barf). Travelling music is tough to choose because who the hell knows how you're going to feel from the time you picked it out to the time you start listening to it. I have a bunch of go-to CDs I always bring knowing that at some point along the trip I'm going to feel excited (Blur, Leisure), nervous (Suede, ST), contemplative (U2, The Unforgettable Fire or Calexico, The Black Light), chill (Massive Attack, Blue Lines), like bobbing my head (A Tribe Called Quest, The Low-End Theory), or melancholy (Morrissey, anything). On this, my first trip to see Fibonacci since he moved, however, I wasn't sure what I wanted to hear. I was excited, nervous, contemplative, all of it, all at once. As I have a tendency to get away from (ahead of?)myself, he had only been gone two weeks when I started getting all squirrely and needy and was all, "Is that distance I feel? Can I really be okay by myself?" So I knew that I should look for something that sounded like...that.

Enter PJ Harvey's Uh Huh Her. The advance press for this album had been positive and I was really excited to get it. Even the impossibly hard-to-like music-eratti at Pitchfork gave it a pretty solid review, even if they did dole out a rather stingy 7.6 rating. And having been a fan of hers throughout all her incarnations, from raucous (1992's Dry), to lustful (1993's Rid of Me), and mournful and scattershot (1995's To Bring You My Love and the 1998 follow-up Is This Desire?), to jubilant (2000's Stories from the City, Stories from the Sea), I was pretty confident that Uh Huh Her would be just the sort of schizophrenic album I was seeking.

This record might just be the perfect travelling record. It soothes if you're en route somewhere, anywhere, even if you're just lying on the floor with your head between the speakers. And for me, anyway, at that moment in time, on the LIRR with no idea where I was going, it fit. It starts out with this dirty, slurring, slightly out-of-tune guitar line into a frantic, but lurching song about some guy with a bad, bad mouth ("The Life and Death of Mr. Badmouth"). Tracks 2 and 4, the excellent "Shame" and the spooky "Pocket Knife," could have been outtakes from To Bring You My Love. And of course, "Letter," which may be the like, the first song ever about the lost art of letter writing. It's total porn for editor types, like myself--just read the lyrics. I'm no naif; I know what she's getting at when she's singing about licking her envelope.

Right around track 6, "Slow Drug," we were flying by some part of deep, suburban Long Island, along a stretch of automobile graveyards and junk heaps. And there was all this detritus, difficult to make out in the coming twilight, but I could see shells of cars, cranes, and a long, uneven row of lonesome soda machines that, based on their slumped posture, must have known that their days in the sun had come to an end, unceremoniously, near these train tracks. Faded from months or years of sitting out in the elements, it was no longer possible to discern what sodas they had once proffered. That sight made me feel slumped and lonesome myself, but then track 8, "Cat on the Wall," busted into my funk and just as abruptly, the landscape changed; we were getting closer to the city, as evidenced by the sudden onslaught of graffiti.

I turned off my headphones after that; the scenery was becoming much more interesting, especially as we approached the caterwaul that is Jamaica, Queens. I couldn't listen to the CD and take in the sights, or else my head would surely have exploded.

Fibonacci met me at Penn Station and I have to tell you, it was a glorious reunion and an equally wonderful weekend. All the same, each time I went to visit him that summer, while making the journey, I still had those schizo feelings. And each time I got on the LIRR, I listened to Uh Huh Her. And round about Jamaica, I was settled. So thanks, Polly Jean, for being the soundtrack to the soda machines.

PJ Harvey, Uh Huh Her
Purchased on June 8, 2004
Virgin Megastore, Michigan Avenue, Chicago