If you thought the Slacker Hacker didn’t have any more Unposted Blathers From Lord Knows When left to post, well, you’d be wrong, wouldn’t you?
I was sorting through some old links in my Favorites file. There’s way too much crap there, and half of it doesn’t exist any more. Pages of grammar shit for my students’ handouts when I was teaching. Too many sites for purchasing hard-to-find books. Every site that ever had a link to C’est Cheese. Various message boards that I just don’t have the time to read, much less post to anymore. And that was where, deep in the bowels, I found a years-old thread from Pamie’s now-defunct boards at Squishy. Subject? Musical Love Affairs!
I re-read it, and naturally thought it might make for a fun Blather! And here ‘tis!
Duran in San Jose, 2005. Play that fuckin’ bass, John!
Duran Duran and I have a long, torrid, extremely dysfunctional relationship....
They started off as the cute, unattainable, much older guy you see at the local coffeehouse or bookstore when you're still a giggling teen. Then you find out he writes something -- poetry, articles, something -- and you horde copies of everything he's ever written and memorize it and marvel that this beautiful, older, unattainable boy is so SMART, so BRILLIANT, so SENSITIVE, so WONDERFUL! Secretly, you write his name in your journal over and over, write your name with his last name, make lists of children's names, and know that someday, when you're ready, you'll approach him and he'll be bowled over with love for you because you love HIM soooooo much. Chastely, you imagine kissing him, and just the thought makes your face hot and your breath shallow and-
Ooh! …is that your first tingling Down There?
Then you go away to college for a year and come back and realize that, yeah, he's still cute... and a good writer and all... but he's human, man. Your old journal entries make you blush. You pick up his latest poem in the local literary journal and plot to meet him, ask him all sorts of Deep and Intellectual Questions... and then hopefully fuck him silly.
All your friends think you're a total dork to still be crushing on him, but you don't care. His new haircut looks dumb and his latest poem is trying too hard, but you still think he's hot. Even if he doesn't know you exist.
Then you finally meet him. And discover he's a total tool. You find out that he chews his toenails and scratches his ass in public and calls his mother "Ma!" like it has three syllables. But you still like his stuff. And he's still REALLY pretty. He makes you laugh. His attitudes challenge you and you like arguing with him. The way his eyes crinkle when he smiles can get you every time... and then he'll say something stupid and you'll slug him on the arm and tell him he's a moron.
And, after years of knowing him, it finally happens. No one else is around, so he flirts with you for five minutes, knows he has you, and proceeds to maul you, kneading your breasts like they're those squeezy-anti-stress balls, and jams his tongue down your throat while dry-humping you. And you figure "what the heck, I've always been curious" so you reach for his junk- and he slams your head down, groaning "Oh yeah, baby," comes in 30 seconds, zips up and announces "Good, huh? Well, I gotta go." And you're feeling all cheapened and disillusioned and you're hopelessly depressed for a little while... but despite yourself, you can’t help thinking about him sometimes.
So you slip into something comfy and casual (but still take extra care with your makeup), go with a couple of your friends to his latest reading to laugh at what a dink this guy is, admire the writing, and pretend not to notice if he tries really hard to get your attention. That's the fun part. But if he cuts you first... oh, it still hurts deep down. It really does.
Luckily, there are other musical friends and playmates to hang out with.
a-ha comes over at night with a bottle of inexpensive but surprisingly good wine, and we have exhilarating, intellectual and philosophical discussions. Once or twice we’ve driven to the beach to build sand castles in the dark.
Sometimes late at night, Leonard Cohen approaches slowly and caresses my neck with his fingertips. That's all he has to do.
Every so often, I hop in my 6th-hand lime green VW and go around to pick up all my New Wave friends. Wham! insists on playing switchies with the radio and tape deck, which sometimes drives me just batty (Funny that I don’t mind as much when The B-52s do it though). Culture Club plays with their hair in the rearview mirror and makes bitchy comments about everyone else. A Flock of Seagulls just titters nervously. Echo and the Bunnymen mumble; I’m not sure what all they’re saying, but I betcha it’d amuse me if I could make it out. New Order smokes a lot. So does Spandau Ballet, when they aren’t singing along with the radio (they’re usually a leetle tipsy). Oingo Boingo rolls down the car windows and shouts weird stuff at other people. The Bangles, Blondie, Devo and I just roll our eyes at each other and fall about in giggle fits. Sometimes I flirt with Tears for Fears if they aren’t in one of their moods. Adam Ant usually bitches about traffic. We all cruise around LA, hang out at Amoeba Records, stop in at Y-Que and usually get kicked out when Erasure starts getting obnoxiously snippy with the salespeople or Soft Cell shoplifts something. We wind up eating deep fried mac & cheese balls at Fred 62 or guzzling Dark Angels at O-Bar or sharing plates of brisket at Canter’s. We gab for ages, and delight in sighing that kids today just ain't as cool as when WE were in high school. OMD always manages to spill something before we leave, and Haircut 100 destroys the bathrooms. But Pet Shop Boys leave a nice tip to make up for it.
Roxy Music asked me out once back in the day, but I got a little freaked and said no. I was just too darned young and they scared me a bit because they were so… soooo sophisticated compared to me! Same thing happened with Bowie, Japan, Siouxsie, DeadKennedys, and The Cure. We all get on great now, though. We can laugh about my naiveté. I invite them to play with me and my New Wave buds. Some of them pretend they’re too good for Dark Angels or Y-Que, but I know they have fun.
I had Depeche Mode following me around for years, whining, trying to convince me they loved me. They made promises they couldn’t keep, tried wooing me with trinkets like patchouli-scented candles and mix-tapes with, like, Beethoven’s Ninth and Bauhaus on them, and finally slinked away. I found them again through a friend of a friend, and dropped them a note to see how they were getting on. They cooed and gushed and begged me to meet them at this REALLY hip bar for some of the best drinks I ever had. The conversation was trying, the drinks mediocre, but I discovered if I didn’t take their twaddle so seriously, it was a lot of really silly good fun! So I decided to just put them back on my Christmas card list for the time being. Except Dave sometimes gets a little too full of himself and thinks the Christmas cards about Jesus are really birthday cards for him.
Who’d’ya think you are, Scott
Moby, No Doubt, that new kid The Shins and I pass notes to each other in the back of class and giggle. The teachers get pissed, but really, it’s WAY better than my stupid Spanish II class.
I got to know The Donnas really well when they first moved to town. Even though they recently got in with the popular crowd, we still hang out a lot at the 7-11 on boring nights. They’re amused by me. I can tell. Plus, since I’m older and have more money than them, I can buy them wine coolers and Slim-Jims.
Dwanollah’s Girlfriends + Dwanollah’s Boyfriend = All Kinds of Fun!
Whenever I see Billy Murray and Ada Jones on the street corner, I always drop all my extra change in their tin cup.
I'm still friends with the Spice Girls, even though no one else likes to hang out with them. Their antics're getting old, but every so often it's still fun to go to the mall and steal candy samples at The Sweet Factory and buy junky stuff at Hot Topic, giggling hysterically the whole time. More often then not, though, I’d rather hang out with Letters to Cleo, or even That Dog. Sure, some of our serious discussions are about lipstick and cuticle cream, but at least they’re SERIOUS discussions!
I follow Billie Holiday around and stare at her a lot. She prolly doesn't notice me, but I don't care. It's enough just to be in the same room as her. If she’s not there, I look for Janis Joplin and stare at her a lot instead.
Me and Simon & Garfunkel go to Central Park on chilly winter afternoons and warm our hands on paper cups of hot tea and compliment each other. We cuddle a lot if the wind is really cold.
I invited FischerSpooner over for a party several years back. Hardly anyone there knew who they were, but they still arrived almost two hours late, made disparaging comments about the appetizers and wine, drank way too much, snorted coke off my kitchen counter, ignored me for the most part, and then announced that they were going to a bigger, better party at this warehouse in Venice and ended up taking most of my party guests with them. Yet, no matter how cheapened and used that made me feel, I somehow loved them for it. And now I have a feeling the same thing’s about to happen with The Bravery.
Kraftwerk calls me now and then. We exchange bitchy innuendos and gossip about our mutual friends FischerSpooner and Miss Kittin and Peaches and Adult and Ladytron and all of them and snicker a lot.
I’ve been out on some nice dates with Electric Soft Parade, Idlewild, Doves and Yeah Yeah Yeahs. We go to this tapas restaurant I know, and feed each other mussels and croquetas de jamon and things with goat cheese. Sometimes we call Travis to join us. I once met Coldplay at the same restaurant, but they bored the fuck out of me, so I pretended I had to take an important call on my cell phone, and ditched them to meet Belle & Sebastian and Sleater-Kinney in the Hollywood High parking lot, where we drew obscure vulgar verses and pictures in colored chalk all over the pavement.
The Beatles’re like my protective big brothers, so my crush on them is pure and non-sexual, but deeply intense nonetheless. I like group hugs with them.
However, I’m chagrined to admit, this one time, I totally made out with the Backstreet Boys. And … and they were HOT! I just took ‘NSync out for pizza, though. They’re actually more fun than Backstreet. Not that that’s saying much. But you gotta let your inner 13-year-old get some cheap thrills sometime. And boy, did she enjoy herself!
I had AMAZING sex a couple times with Missing Persons. My loins still tingle when I think about it. GawdDAMN!
The best girlies to have over for slumber parties are The Butchies, The Gossips, The Raveonettes, The Go-Gos, Dressy Bessy, The Runaways, Bratmobile, Puffy Ami Yumiand Shonen Knife. Sure, we engage in mild vandalism around the neighborhood before ordering our sausage-and-pineapple pizzas, and usually someone calls the police and complains that we still have music blasting at 2 in the morning, but when that happens, we toilet-paper their front yard and then do doughnuts on their lawn. Then we all come back to my place and dress up my Barbies in strange outfits and make them engage in orgies, make crank calls, and then do Audience Participation Movie Watching to Showgirls.
Aimee Mann and I have a standing Sunday evening coffee date. She likes to ask me what I’m working on scholastically, and I like to ask her about what obscure 60s novellas she’s reading. We trade books; I totally got her into Flannery O’Connor, and she brings me these groovy contemporary graphic novels. A couple times, though, Aimee’s been busy, so I hang out with Poe instead.
You know what I like to do sometimes? I swing by the Old Folks’ Home and pick up Esquivel and take him out for a drink at The Dresden Room. If he can’t make it, I give Tom Jones a call. He flirts.
I really need to take Kylie Minogue off my speed-dial. And put Elliott Smith* back on again.
I got to chatting and giggling with Britney Spears once while in line at Urban Outfitters. I thought she was cute as a button, and we had all sorts of fun pawing through earring displays. But when we met up for lunch, it only took about five minutes to realize she was a total twit. I don’t think she noticed that I never called her back, though, because she has no attention span anyway.
I gotta go! I’m meeting The Ramones and Annette Funicello at this tacky little tract home they just bought together in Redondo Beach, and I promised them I’d help them wallpaper the bathroom!
*Just to give y’all an idea of how much The Slacker Hacker sucks, I wrote this Blather WHEN ELLIOTT SMITH WAS STILL ALIVE! Damn you, Bobby! *shaking fist*