Another Saturday Evening.

You could build cities on her collarbones. they stood out like elegant reminders that there was strength under her delicate skin. You offered to crush your own hands if you could bathe yourself in the pools of sweat which sometimes gathered there.
Rhythm was born in her hips. What her lips refused to say her hips screamed out into the stale night, reviving the dead and killing grandmothers with the aftershocks of a million swaying particles of muscle and bone.
She whispered lies that fell like truths upon the ground at her feet. You stumbled over yourself to gather them up, but then you saw her ankles. they were perfect and you thought ankles should become the new currency--more valuable than gold, but she would be the only one with any real wealth. and you offered to burn down her house and change the meaning of time if she would let you possess just one of her tears. if she would tell you just one agonizing truth about herself if she would only reveal some weakness upon which you could sieze if you could only own some bit of her...but she laughs and with her eyes that stab your heart eighteen times between every perfect blink she tells you she doesn't exist in the present and never has. she'll always be a memory or a prophecy but she can't offer you any reality because you've already dismissed such a posssibility with your worship of her . As she hands you your cigarettes and change, her green and yellow uniform hanging off her slender frame like a conspicuous profanity, you realize you fall in love too easily.

How To Find Yourself a Stalker

So, you'd like a stalker of your very own, eh? Well, I now offer you tips on stalker shopping.

I've tried to break it down along age and attractiveness lines, so you can narrow your search.

Age: 22-35, Pretty: Mixed. Graduate students. I am one. Not a stalker. But a graduate student. Well, kind of a stalker. I mean, I think that in one situation, I would have qualified as a stalker. But this should not frighten you now. I've already noted I have no interest in dating you; in fact, this post is a bit like a good-hearted and reformed criminal telling you how to keep your house safe. Or how to get robbed for the insurance money. However you'd like to take that.

anyway, back to graduate students. We make excellent stalkers. We have no money and a lot of time on our hands. Oh, and we have access to the internet. And we're all a bit socially retarded. Oh, and we get paid to research the crap out of the inane, the esoteric, the trivial, the minute, etc. So, in a nutshell, we're a bit like detectives for things that don't matter. You do the math.

Age: 18-34. Pretty: High Actors/Actresses. Oh, so you thought all stalkers were ugly, huh? Nope. Now, these individuals don't become stalkers because they're socially retarded, they're just really, really good at playing pretend. So, they may play pretend that they're in a relationship with you. My not-so-pretty guy friend had a hot hot hot actress stalker. She not only pretended he was hot, she pretended he was into her, and from time to time, that she was Australian. But I suppose that's beside the point.

Age: 30-70. Pretty: Low. Professors. All of my stalkers have been professors--generally from the math or science departments. I think they all had Aspy's, too (a mild form of autism --clinical social retardation). Grown up grad students. It just makes perfect sense.

Age: 15-23. Pretty: Real Low. Renaissance Fairs. Some of my male friends' stalkers have been the undergrad girls who are a little awkward, etc. They don't get a lot of social attention in general. These girls flock to renaissance fairs like geese to an open-air bread factory. And if you'd like to wait until they mature into more effective stalkers, wait util they hit grad. school.

More on me and my pal, Music.

My brain is constantly running. Can't help it. As I commuted today, trusty ipod companion in tow, my brain started running about Invisible Man. There's a passage on page 379 that says "but things are so unreal for them normally that they believe that to call a thing by name is to make it so." And I started

WHAP

Stevie Wonder's "As" came on. That song doesn't allow you to think about other things when it's on. It demands to be positive space.

What do you mean, Slick?

Well, most of the time for most people, music is negative space; part of the background, the props, the context, etc. It's not a demanding active participant. It's structuring some part of the periphery, but never deigns to step into the forefront of experience.
I think most of the music I've been listening to the last 20 years has been of this sort. Turn it on, tune it out. Odd, but true. Oh, but there's more. When music became background, I sought out music for its ability to provide ambience. Sooo, Edith Piaf, you know your place. I turn you on, and I feel I'm in 1950's Italy (not Paris--I don't know why), and red wine and academic gossip with other ladies is the proper activity. So, I turn it on when I have the ladies over for afternoon brunch and drinks. I pull out Edith as a prop. Miles Davis, I love you. But Kind of Blue makes me kind of pretentious. I should be reading a book, curled up in my chair, a cat in my lap (I don't even own a goddamn cat). Oooh, and if I had a smoking jacket (Lord knows I've had the cigarettes), then Love Supreme. And that's exactly what I put on the turntable when that's what I want to do.

Anyway. Now that my musical library has grown exponentially, there are quite a few selections which have disrupted this habit of mine. Miles Davis, Jack Johnson. How do you listen to that first heartbreaking solo, just filled with anxiety and gravity and grit, as background music?? You can't.

And when Nina asks for someone to Save her, well, hell, I'm putting on my cape, Nina, and flying out to heed your call. Well, not really. But I'm absolutely arrested. No other thoughts are intruding into our time together.

Now, maybe Kelly Clarkson touches your soul and pierces into the forefront of your consciousness, and if so, God Bless you (or God Save you). whatever. I'm not trying to tell you what music to listen to. Just wondering if other people have ever noticed this distinction.

But It Never Came To This

New favorite Nina Simone Song: "Save Me".

Onto my 'writing assignment'...I'll claim it as mine even though I don't have the official nerd girl club t-shirt.

Why You Should Love Me:

You shouldn't. I'll break your heart and steal your carkeys and laugh all the way home.
No, I won't. I'll say things like that, wishing I could be *that* girl. and you'll never know when I'm speaking the truth or when I'm wishing it. And that will be beautiful.

You shouldn't. I'll squeeze a million truths out of every lie we'll tell each other and i'll believe every single one with all of my heart. I'll deconstruct your reality and build you back up as my own private fantasy and you'll never know whether you're a man or a dream. And that will be beautiful.

You shouldn't. I'm strong when I desperately want to be weak, but you'll see my clenched jaw and know that in an infinity of a moment it longs to quiver and you're the only one who ever sees because you're the only one who ever really looked and when I finger my scars you'll know that I wish the wind never blew and when I hold my head up you'll know that I'm fragile and you could break me with a harsh whisper and when I walk through the world you'll know that the only grace I ever had I spat into the alley that night and replaced with wild laughter. And we will be beautiful.

I'm running out of whiskey

my brother and i are fighting over who gets to sit in the front seat--we're on our way to visit our mother who is staying at the institution again. that word sounds so ugly later but i am 5 years old and that word is synonymous with vacation and flowers and crafts and the funny smell that lingers in those halls. our father will be more quiet and will hug us frequently and we'll probably stop somewhere for McDonald's on the way home and right now my brother and i are secretly thrilled that she's in That Place because now the front seat in the car is open and we get to pretend to be grownups.

my brother and i are fighting over who has to take care of things--we're grown up and busy and our mother is staying at the institution again. that word used to mean leather belts with printed seashells and strange fragile smiles from our mother who was trying very hard, our father told us. but now it means screaming strangers and vacant eyes and the torrent of words which will fall from my mother's mouth like a tsunami of hate--and that funny smell that lingers in those halls. she'll be bloated and hoarse--her stomach was pumped--and right now my brother and i are secretly crushed that she's in That Place because that means she failed and we have to be grownups.

A Gulp of Air and a Shot of Whiskey...

I frequently think about the way objects soak up meaning--sometimes i want to lock away all of my possessions so nothing can ever destroy my encrypted memory books; sometimes i want to hold a bonfire so I'll never have to remember again.

My clothes.
that outfit I wore when I was 6 years old; it was lavender with pinstripes, matching top and pants and his hands were all over me mostly where they shouldn't have been and i just wanted a hug. that outfit was hanging there in my closet, threatening to tell my secret and my mom wanted me to wear it to church, but i never wanted to wear that outfit again.

My table.
my kitchen table is small and intimate and dark and intricate. it captured our conversations in its woodgrains and remembers the times we drank red wine and spoke about time and meaning and laughter spilled down our shirtfronts--the stain is in the corner--and we both leaned our elbows in on that strong table so that we could better see one another's eyes and i sit at that table now and finger its grains, remembering you.

My bed.
i've had my bed since i was three years old. it has four posters and is only a full-sized bed but looked so enormous when i was small--i had to have stairs to climb up into it. and it reminds me that i was important and that things are important and your house should look nice so that when old people come to visit they understand that you are doing better than them. it reminds me that i never jumped on it but got away with so much underneath it our breath quick and nervous, discovering. i hid crayons in its secret cavities, the yellow wax is still there but no one knows where to look unless i tell them.

Listing Myself

1. I am fond of numbered lists
2. I have been the 'new kid', the outsider, so many times that I would probably feel uncomfortable if I were to belong
3. Despite all the talk about pride in my intelligence, my accomplishments, my artistic talents, I would probably be willing to trade it all to believe I was beautiful for one whole day.
4. Some days I see so much beauty around me I burst, and tears just stream out
5. Other days I march through time completely unaware of all that surround me
6. I cannot stand orange juice with pulp
7. I desperately wish #6 counted as a quirk as I feel I'm lacking in that area
8. My frequent laughter is often misunderstood
9. I used to be embarrassed about all of my scars; now I wear them with fierce pride
10. I stopped shopping in thrift stores because it saddened me that people had paid full price for so much at one point in their lives, and then threw it away knowing it would be sold for a dollar.
11. I like owning books more than I like reading them; I like libraries more than I like bookstores
12. I need to get back to work.

Brilliant!

Today I provide a list of 'dumb ideas' and the length of time for which they were entertained:

Me:
***A skirt coat: 3 days
-I really thought I was onto something here--I mean, my legs were really cold in St. Louis and Chicago winters. And then a friend of mine reminded me about full-length coats

***I'll lock my backpack to my bike while I'm at the farmer's market: 15 minutes
-sounded like a good idea-and then I remembered that thieves could just unzip the bag and remove my laptop, leaving my bag safely chained to my bike.

***I'll get a dog to keep my grumpy 12-year old shih tzu company: 4 months
-got the dog, knowing full well my dog hates other animals. had to give other dog away.

***menthol cigarettes when you're sick: 5 minutes
-I used to be a pack/pack and a half a day smoker; my friend came up this one--his "menthol-will-help-your-sore-throat" argument was quite persuasive. the menthol cigarette was not.

***doing a cartwheel off the sandtire will be *cool*: 30 minutes
-it was cool, until I landed. I then had a broken arm for two weeks before my dad finally took me to the hospital (he insisted I was just being "dramatic").

My pal Mary:
***Buying an Akita in Japan will be cheaper than buying one in the US: 1 month
-She had already been planning a trip to Japan (she's first-gen Japanese), and was seriously excited about this idea--I guess she thought she'd save on import taxes or something--I gently reminded her that they actually breed them here on American soil...they do not ship them over on cargo boats.

I'll have to think a bit for a few more; Lord knows I've had lots of "epiphanes"...which turn out to be brain burps in the end.

The Best News This Month

Breakin' 2: Electric Boogaloo is playing on the big screen in a local moviehouse.

I am just *tingling* with excitement.

It's no instructional break dance movie, but a classic nonetheless.

No, You're a Slut!

My friend, I'll call him "Rico", has had sex with lots of ladies. I find that unworthy of comment, but what is worthy is the change in his perception of the term "slut." You see, when he'd slept with about ten people, we'd converse on the subject, and he would judiciously state, "Yeah, but I'm not sleeping with sluts--I mean none of them have slept with like, 20 people!"

Then, he slept with 20 people. The conversation changed to: "Yeah, but I'm not a slut--I mean it's not like I've slept with, like, 30 people!"

Then he slept with 30 people. The conversation changed to: "You know, I used to think that sleeping with this many people was slutty. Now I just think that term is judgemental."

Agreed, Rico. Agreed.

African-American is Beautiful

My friend teaches an intro course to comparative politics. This quarter, the class has focused a lot on political protests in South Africa.

my friend: "Yeah, these poor kids want to be PC, so they don't want to say 'Blacks' when discussing the protests in Johannesburg."

me: "Oh, wow, this must drive them crazy--don't want to say 'Black,' but can't say African-American!"

my friend: "Oh, yes, they can. And did."

More on Intro v Extro...

For those of you not enjoying Dagger Aleph's blog (and the by the way, why aren't you reading it?? good stuff. good stuff), we've been discussing Rauch's article on introversion. Which got me to thinking about my relationships with my relatives.

I really, really love my Dad. He is an introvert like me. We talk on the phone every Sunday, and once we've exchanged content, we hang up--it is not awkward, we do not force conversations, or struggle to find pleasantries to exchange with one another. Neither of us enjoy phone conversations, per se, but we enjoy each other, so we ritually fill each other in/rant/talk about politics/my advisor/his congregation, etc. for about 45 minutes, and then it's done.

My mother really really tires me. She is an extrovert. She calls at least 4 times/week, and well, we have no content to exchange. How can we? She's calling more than every other day! She doesn't have a job any longer, isn't interested in my work (more than the superficial how-can-I-brag-to-my-friends-about-what-you're-doing information), doesn't have the memory to remember the names of characters in my life (or the last sentence I spoke in a given conversation), etc. So, she resorts to chatter--"You've always had such pretty eyes. Did I tell you what McKenna (my neice) said? She's so cute. How's your dog? Is he sleeping? Have you done anything fun lately? What'd you eat for dinner tonight? Did I tell you what I made for dinner last night? Boy, it was really good. I had a baked potato and a piece of chicken. I'm trying to watch my weight, you know. How are you wearing your hair these days? I bet it looks cute. Well, you don't seem very talkative tonight. Are you okay? Are you mad at me?" etc.

It's a form of torture which is quite exquisite in the amount of pain it brings me. And I simply can't make her understand: I'm okay, we're okay. I just have no content to exchange with you. So I don't want to talk any longer.

Going down South with her relatives is the above experience to the sixth power. Since that side of the family is full of extroverts, and they seem to feed on one another's energy, I am simply overwhelmed with attempts to chat about nothing. I am frequently cast as a snob, a mute, a cold Northerner (we Yankees simply don't know how to be warm), a weirdo. And it would be fine if they would just leave me alone. But these "awful flaws" of mine don't seem to dissuade any of them from swarming me.

This is one reason I started smoking. Although smoking isn't exactly encouraged, it's more socially acceptable than introversion. Sooo, by smoking, I had a socially acceptable reason to excuse myself from the family for treasured moments of silence and alone time.

I've since chosen to quit smoking, though I notice that I go to the bathroom an awful lot these days to flee the hob-knobbing at academic conferences, the barrage of small-talk questions at family reunions, the parties full of meaningless interaction. It's only a matter of time before people start to ask me about that, too...

Perfume Should Be Banned.

I'm not a rude person. Really. I try to let the rows of people ahead of me on the shuttle exit first. I usually wait politely while they tug at their bags, which squeezed into the footspace easily enough, but will not, for some reason, pull out. I always wait for the wizened old woman who seems to share my schedule and her quarter-steps to the stairs while forming a human barrier between her and the other anxious commuter cattle, eager for a stampede.

Today, I bolted.

You see, I had been held captive for half an hour in some girl's radius of perfumed hell. All the seats but one on the shuttle had been filled when she stepped on, bringing with her a flowery stench which immediately assaulted my nose. I panicked. The only empty seat left was right in front of me.

I tried in vain to distract myself. I focused intently on my book. I turned up my ipod--maybe music would affect my sense of smell as it does my sense of sight. I even tried breathing through my polyester sweater.

No dice.

I began to feel nauseous. I started thinking about how I might finance an automobile, so that I could avoid her in the future. I glared (at the back of her head--Feel My Death Rays of Hate and Disapproval!!). I looked around--did anyone else seem affected by this offense? Am I actually a superhero in possession of super-scent powers? And if so, why in the hell did I get such a lame superpower? Don't they have dogs for that? God, why is she doing this? Did she not take a shower? Trying to hide equally offensive halitosis? Is her nose numb after years of dousing herself in this impossibly floral scent?

Always a problem-solver, I began to think of solutions.

1) Sell perfume in pre-packaged single servings. You know, like a box full of packets of oatmeal; that way, people could have some sort of guide on the acceptable use of perfume and/or cologne.

2) Invent some sort of disarming spray. It'd be a bit like fabreeze, but it would just de-scent the area...neutralize the offender without adding more offense. (By the way, this has so many applications it boggles my brain--Grandma's house, public restrooms, elevators, apartment complex hallways, New York)

3) Outright ban the shit. Who do they think they're fooling anyway? Nobody smells like that naturally--maybe at some point in human history, but the other cavemen killed them off to mask their scent with that of decaying human flesh--evolution worked. And smoking has been banned in all public spaces (including outdoors) in Calabasas, CA-->is not perfume and/or cologne equally hazardous to my health? If not physical, then obviously mental...

So, akin to my campaign to bring back the pudding pop, I believe I must write my representative and ask that perfume be banned. 'Cause if you can't play nice, you can't play at all.

Curfted

I call it a curse, you will most likely call it a gift.

I have played piano by ear since I was two and a half years old. I played Chariots of Fire first, by third grade had cracked the Nutcracker Suite, and have composed many of my own little pieces, too.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, bitch, where's the curse???

Here it is, my friends. It has ruined the way I listen to classical music. And lots of jazz. And, well, most music. Now, this is moderately related to my Radio Jingles post--but most songs are not only obvious to me, they're downright skeletal. Continuing with that analogy, pretend you had x-ray vision. Might be kinda cool, but then let's say you can't turn it off. So, now, you're walking around, and instead of seeing faces, you see guts, skeletons, muscles, tendons, etc. This is what happens to me with most music. So, I turned to vocal music through most of my life--you know, folk, indie, etc--so that I had something to focus on besides the music so that I could hear/enjoy the music instead of analyzing the music. It worked for a long time.

It's stopped working. I know all the old stuff too well, so the lyrics no longer distract me. The new stuff--well, god bless 'em, they ain't really puttin' too much music behind the lyrics. And that defeats the purpose of listening to vocal music for me.

But my ipod and I are becoming fast friends. Well, truth be told, fast lovers. No, I do not fondle my ipod, but I heart it like I've never hearted an inanimate object before. And not just because now I can carry music in my pocket, but because now I can efficiently raid my friends' music directories. Now, Mr. BK of Baltimore has some pretty good musical taste (I forgive him his fetish for Beach Boys, and he forgives mine for electric Miles). And I've now become interested in Brazilian and Latin music like it's some kind of space technology which can save my life if I only figure it out. My immense enjoyment stems from the basic fact that I speak Spanish only barely conversationally, and I don't speak Portugese at all. So, I can't understand any of the lyrics!!! But, I know enough Spanish to figure out some of the Portuguese, and, well, this gives my left brain something to do so that my right brain can listen to the music. The point: I'll be able to enjoy the music for soooo much longer--infinitely, perhaps.

whoa.

Of course, there's the fact that there's some ass-kickin' beats and instrumental work goin' on in the background of these beautiful, nonsensical-to-my-ears lyrics. Hoo-fuckin'-ray!

You'd like suggestions, wouldn't you, you little cheeky monkey? Okay. Here's a short list:

Milton Nascimiento (in particular, Geraes and Minas; though Clube de Esquina is also a good fix)
Jorge Ben
Gilberto Gil (check out their collaboration project, Gil e Jorge)
Os Mutantes
Cesaria Evora (songs which simultaneously bring tears to my eyes and a grin to my lips)
Caetano Veloso (especially in the Tropicalia sessions)
Chico Buarque
Orlando "Cachaito" Lopez--holy crap-fuck, this is some sexy Cuban jazz (extra underwear required)

Now, as with many fine musicians, the 80's led to a rough period for many of these cats. Synthesizers invaded their psyches, warping their genius, and emitting an ear-piercing sound only vaguely reminiscent of "music." So, stay away from that era, kids. It's bad. Real bad. Stick to the 70's, and then pick them up again in our decade (by the way, are we calling it the pre-teens? the 2 thousands? the double O's?). They hit the old-school "revival" then, and sound as good as every again.

See, I knew I named my blog for a reason.

Oh, yeah

And to follow up on yesterday's post; I also can't hear as well when I wear sunglasses. So I talk much more loudly to others, as I naturally assume their hearing must be affected as well. So, yes, not only are my eyes and ears mixed up in my brain, I'm also ego-centric as fuck.

I Am Not Invisible

though I must continually remind myself of this now that I have my ipod. No, my ipod has not made me crazy...almost deliriously happy, but not quite. However, now that I am listening to music on my shuttle rides, on my walks through campus and my neighborhood, and yes, even on my bikerides to the store, I have caught myself behaving as though I were invisible. I stare. Openly. Not because I've thrown in the towel on civility or humanity, but because I really feel nobody can see me. I dance in my seat on the shuttle with abandon. I let my face contort to match my interior dialogue quite freely. It's as though I think my headphones are an invisibility helmet. A wonderful, musical invisibility helmet...

Of course, there's a flaw here. I realize it once in a while--for example, when someone deigns to make eye contact with me after one of my prolonged inspections. Oh, yeah. Just because they can't hear my music doesn't mean they can't see me. Consternation. Embarrassment. Vulnerability. Oh, but then Cesaria Evora sings a heartbreaking note, and I'm invisible again.

When I'm listening to music, the outside world goes on dimmer. It's more easily digestable. I can appreciate the beauty of San Diego--it's not so loud now (aurally or visually). And I guess I just subconsciously assume that I've been dimmed to the outside world--a thought I love to entertain at length. I feel as though I'm floating through the world unobserved, untouched. And it is lovely.

Courtesy is Confusing

Why is an expression of uncertainty somehow a more courteous response than a simple yes or no?

Example: "Do you want to move your stuff out of my car now?"
"Probably not."

Somehow, this response is preferrable to a simple, "No." Maybe because it leaves a positive probability to both responses in a binary choice while still conveying your probable, natch, action.

And when one of my students is wrong in class--and I mean wrong--I always say, "Hmm, maaay-be," which isn't fooling anyone into thinking that maybe this kid doesn't have his head up his ass, but this is somehow more courteous than, "No. Incorrect, but thank you for trying."

When shopping with one of my friends in high school, I pulled out some apparently hideous raincoat which I really thought had 'character.' I asked her if she liked it and she said, "Yeah, in a not-really-kind-of-way." Again, message clearly conveyed, but uncertainty added in for effect.

And what is the courteous form of "backseat driving"?

Example: Your friend is visiting in town and driving, but knows nothing about the area (and therefore expects directions). Now I, myself, have opted for the I'll-just-confirm-what-you-already-know method of directing: "Now, you're going to make a right up there at that light. And then at that stop, you're going to veer to the left." Somehow, this seems preferrable to "Right at the light," or, "Please make a right," or "RIGHT, DAMNIT! RIGHT!!!"

Music and Me.

I've been thinking a lot lately about what makes me like music. My pal Ben cleaves preferences over music into: Fashion Statement or Genuine Enjoyment. I think this is a fine rough cleavage, but there are many nuances beyond this. However, I'm less interested in which category my preferences fit into, and more so in why such a wide array of music appeals to me (while another wide array makes me wince, clap my hands over my ears, and/or fly into fits of rage).

For instance, lately, I've noticed that unless I'm listening to Beethoven, Stravinsky, or electric Miles, I feel like I'm listening to radio jingles. Now, this is not to say that I cannot or do not enjoy the radio jingle music of the world, but the difference between Beethoven's 9th and Yo La Tengo, "Tears are in my Eyes" is great. But I believe the real difference (beyond mere length of composition) is plot change.

I like a good story. And some music weaves you through plot changes/changes in mood in a chronological way (Beethoven, for instance) and some explore multiple musical plots by compiling layer upon layer of instrumentation/percussion/etc simultaneously (Jack Johnson by Miles Davis, for example). And as much as I love Yo La Tengo and Afro-Cuban All-Stars, etc, they don't hit one surprising note, take one twist, or make any real plot changes. They're a bit uni-dimensional. "Tears are in My Eyes" starts sullenly, flows sullenly, and ends sullenly. Which is fine. But it just seems to flow on the radio jingle side of the musical universe rather than the Musical Manifesto's side. Lumping the two together to decide which is better is like holding up a copy of US magazine next to Lolita and asking me which is better. They just ain't the same bag of beans. Often, I just don't feel like investing much of myself in a novel--I want a bit of a diversion with nice, juicy, gossipy--perhaps tawdry?--trash.

But this leads me to a better understanding of my musical preferences. I like Mozart because of the math of it (not that I listen and think, "Ah, now that's a beautiful secant!"--it's just hyper-logical). I like the Stravinsky's Rite of Spring because it evokes a visceral reaction in its emotional upheaval (I saw/heard it at the symphony once, and could fully understand its notiously riotous effects--I quite felt like punching my neighbor, a lovely fellow I'm sure). I enjoy Yo La Tengo because they provide nice, hummable tunes, allow me to sing along, and provide sound bites of structure to my day.

Oh, and just so no one thinks, "Sure, they're manifestos, but they're also at least 60 minutes long!!!", Stevie Wonder's "As" is a manifesto to me. It builds tension, it veers back, it takes the plunge, it recedes. Okay, I have to go listen to that song a few more hundred times--thus stretching it out to at least 60 minutes of brilliance. (Does anyone know how to make your ipod just repeat something?)

Teeth are Overrated.

As I yawned in the mirror this morning, my eight fillings caught the gleam of the fluorescent bulb above me, and I smiled. Not because I'll never have to buy another radio antenna as long as I live, but because of the way in which my teeth became more metal than ivory.

You see, I was a very bright child. At three years old, I was quite aware of our financial situation. Grape juice was a luxury only enjoyed during communion at church. Toys were built from 1 part materials, 3 parts my imagination. And my teeth, well, it looked like someone with extraordinarily strong hands had grabbed my jaw and squeezed, popping out a second row on bottom, and giving me the wonderful vampirish incisors up top.

I knew we were too poor to ever afford braces, so, being the clever three-year old I was, I decided I would stop brushing my teeth, they would fall out, and I would get dentures. I didn't know, of course, that dentures had to be taken out and cleaned, interfered with one's ability to eat peanut brittle, and were not generally perceived as "awesome" by the general public. I thought you just got a brand new set of lovely and ever-so-straight teeth. (This, by the way, typifies the problem with clever children: they can do an awful lot with very incomplete information...).

I was getting cavities at an alarming rate, but I knew my parents would have to buy me new teeth when mine fell out. Braces could be considered a luxury, but chewing could not.

Then, one day I was visiting an older couple from my father's church. I had gone to the bathroom, and was washing my hands when I looked to the right of the faucet and there in a glass full of water were their teeth!! I was horrified. There was definitely a kink in this dentures plan of mine.

So now, years later, I have a mouth full of fillings as evidence of my three-year-old self's imagination, intelligence, and utter lack of information.

Ain't No Sunshine when I've Gone...

I miss Saint Louis.