May 6,
2004
Today is the day to change the name, but not the quality service.
***ORDER MY BOOK!-NOW AVAILABLE ON POWELLS!***
I'm going to be in Washington DC this weekend, reading here, so please come see me. This means I will be off tomorrow. You got issues, email me or the Budding Young Theologian, but please, keep your pants on.
Think of all your favorite songs and why you love them. Then think of the songs you hate the most. You don't think you always hate them arbitrarily, do you?
The Song, Ruined
It started in July when I was six years old, living in Des Moines, Iowa. My babysitter, Jan, ran into her house for five minutes, while my little brother and I waited in the car. It was hot outside, and I was feeling a bit woozy. She left the AC and the radio on for us. "Wake Me Up Before You Go Go" started to play. Until that time, I had no feelings about Wham!. I was, probably, completely unaware of them until that day. But the song had me, from the first bleat of the word "Jitterbug," until I poured myself from the car and ran for Jan's front door. The song was my entire world. And my entire world was about trying not to vomit. Unfortunately, as soon as I got into Jan's house, I immediately threw up purple grape juice all over her floor. Though I should have blamed the heat and my six-year old carsick stomach, I blamed Wham! and the grape juice. I avoided both George Michael and grape juice for the next fourteen years.
In college, when most people's experimentation was with drugs and alcohol, mine was with George Michael and grape juice. The latter came easily, in the school cafeterias, and I quickly learned that it is both tasty and, now, clear! No more purple! The former, though, was a bit tougher, and once again, involved stomach illness. One night while "studying abroad" in London, I decided to go to a club with a bunch of friends despite a)having a paper due the next day, b)having to work the next day, and c)having extremely bad stomach cramps, brought on by what I later discovered was a nasty bit of food poisoning. I went because I had a crush on a certain girl, and she told me she was going. After waiting in line for over an hour, we got inside the club to discover that the DJ had an interesting gimmick: every thirty minutes, he selected a member of the crowd to spin a large wheel. The wheel was divided into wedges with different music styles, and whichever style the pointer indicated, was what he'd play for the next half hour. One of the wedges, though, was clearly labelled "GEORGE MICHAEL." No other musician had their own wedge. My stomach lurched each time I saw his name in glitter, so I stopped looking.
Over the course of the night, my stomach cinched tighter and tighter, as did the curl of my posture. After a few hours of dancing, I was doubled over, pretending as best I could to not be sick. Nobody was fooled, and surely they'd all rather that I left. I hadn't looked up from my feet in at least an hour, except when the wheel was being spun (each time, I crossed my fingers to ward off Wham!), when I glanced up next to me to discover that most of my friends had scattered, except for two: Shirley and Amanda. And between Shirley and me was Seal. Yes, big, soulful, amazing-voiced, facial scarred, "Kiss From a Rose," Batman soundtrack, Seal. And he's huge. I mouthed to Shirley, "Hey, it's Seal!" She mouthed back, "No shit, he's been dancing next to us for an hour!"
And then the wheel was spun. And as it slowed near to a stop, I knew I was about to face my fears: the pointer landed in the dead center of the George Michael wedge, and within five seconds, as if the DJ had looked straight into my food-poisoned, Seal-awed soul, WHAM!: "Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go" cut through everything between my ears and my stomach.
The "WHAM!" is just so very appropriate.
ALTERNATE ENDING #1 (true version): I scrambled left, then right. I turned in place, looking for the bathroom. I wasn't going to make it to the toilet. I was nearer the side door. Which I barelled through, giving up my right to re-admittance, celebrity-basking, or even saying goodbye to the girl (which I'm sure is for the best, given my state). I settled my stomach in the alley.
ALTERNATE ENDING #2 (fantasy version): I puked all over Seal.
In 1993, I pulled a king-geek move and imported a date for my junior prom.
Two months before the dance, I met a girl from California named Clarissa at a regional leadership retreat. I thought she was smokin' hot, and she didn't think I was entirely repulsive, so she let me feel her up in the backseat of her advisor's station wagon while we listened to the first side of Cherry Pie by Warrant.
Over the next couple of weeks, we talked on the phone a few times. Finally,
I got the balls to ask her to be my date to prom. After asking her parents,
she called me back and said she could come, but I would have to come pick
her up and drive her back. Without thinking, I agreed to these terms. Visions
of upswept hair and awkward teenage sex filled
my mind. To this day, I swear I accidentally said, "I love you,"
right before I hung up the phone. She never mentioned this slipup, but I imagine
that's because she was as embarrassed about it as I was.
I made the four and a half hour drive from my house in Las Vegas to her house
in Apple Valley, California, the Friday night before the dance. After sleeping
on the couch at her parents' house (and spending most of the night fighting-off
the sandpaper-tongued advances of the family cat, Jelly, who, for whatever
reason, wouldn't stop trying to lick my face), we left the next morning. The
ride back was quiet: her trying to
think of something to ask me, me trying to catch a glimpse of her bra.
Prom night was equally uncomfortable. I quickly realized the reason more people didn't import dates is because there just isn't a lot to talk about when your date doesn't know, or give a shit about, anyone at your high school. The night ended with her sleeping, alone, in my room, and me sleeping, alone, on the couch.
The next morning as we headed back to Apple Valley, I decided to take one
last shot at salvaging our time together. I popped my Cherry Pie cassette
into the tape deck, hoping to get her in the mood for what I imagined would
be some very hot, very intense rest-stop sex. Three tracks in, the tape deck
malfunctioned. It wouldn't eject the tape or flip sides or play past the third
track. Instead of turning the stereo off and enduring four and a half hours
of unpleasant silence, we
listened to those three songs - "Cherry Pie," "Uncle Tom's
Cabin" and "I Saw Red" - over and over and over again.
I still can't listen to any of those songs without being reminded of the most horrible, sexless weekend of my young adult life.
Katy Pieters:
Pearl Jam was at the top of the play lists when I was a sophomore in college. I was struggling desperately to fit in and be cool. I was never a cool kid. I wasn't a cool teenager. I wasn't cool as a college student. I'm certainly not a cool adult, either. But I liked to "play cool" in my head. Sad I know, but true. Anyway, I was a journalism major, but in my heart, I was a rock star. While on the outside I was awkward and insecure, I could go into my head with music and transform myself into a popular, mysterious, attractive, movie-star-type persona.
I was visiting my parents for Christmas break that year. Pearl Jam ' s "
Alive " was the popular song that season. I bought the " Ten "
disc and played it over and over, pretending I was a rocker-grunge-punk chick
in my head. And yes, I was 19, not 9. Shut up. Oh God, I can ' t believe I
' m actually admitting this. So I was up in my old attic room, feeling completely
bored and already a little claustrophobic from being with my family. I thought
no one else was around, so I put my " Ten " cd on and blasted it.
I was dancing around and singing, really letting it fly. Soon, just singing
and dancing wasn't enough. I wanted to live the music.
I found an old tennis racket in my closet and I slung it around my shoulder
like a guitar, using a belt as a makeshift guitar strap. I put on the "
Alive " track because that was the one I knew best, and soon I was the
female version of Eddie Vedder. I was screaming into a fake microphone, banging
on my tennis racket/guitar, jumping on my bed, pointing to a fake crowd--just
totally making an ass of myself. But at least I was doing it in the privacy
of my own room, by myself. Or so I thought. I was mortified when I looked
over to the doorway and saw my older brother peaking through, watching me,
a maniacal grin emblazoned on his face. I threw the tennis racket down, sweat
dripping from my rock star forehead, and quickly turned down the stereo. I
glared at him angrily, but completely and totally embarrassed at the same
time.
" What are you doing? " I yelled haughtily, my privacy obviously violated.
" You have a phone call, " he said, " and I ' ve been yelling for you but I guess you couldn ' t hear me over your music, so I came in to get you. "
We never spoke of it again, which almost makes it worse. But it ' s pretty
damn funny, really, when you think about it. A tennis racket and a belt..."kill
me now," I was thinking.