Category: Words

One of the many lists I’ve written over the years was a list of songs I would have sung to my child. Even though I didn’t intend to have one. For a long time I carried it around, written longhand on a notepad, wherever I went. I went to quite a few places. Running to or from? Texas. France. Oklahoma. Oregon. I think it may have even gone to England and Germany. I started it when I was in my twenties. Maybe after Texas. Definitely after Eugene. I don’t quite remember when “I don’t think I really want to have kids” became “I definitely do not want to.” After a wedding, probably. Not mine. After my first one, before the second.

The original list was torn and stained. Falling apart. Coffee, beer, tears. I wonder what happened to it? I know I had it in the late 90’s. The last time I looked for it was to put a Nirvana song on it.

Polly.

Or was it Ben Harper?

I couldn’t find the list. I never saw it again. Every once in a while, I hear a song I’d like to add, but it’s too late. I’d never be able to put it entirely back together. It was several pages long. Doodles in the margins.

Sometimes I think there are probably doodles in my brain. If my brain had margins, there would definitely be doodles.

Doodles and cobwebs.
Piles of dust and old bones…
The ghosts of discarded lovers.
Oh, wait–wrong list.

Ben Harper:
Forever
Waiting On An Angel
Welcome To The Cruel World

Francis Cabrel:
Petite sirène
Je t’aimais, je t’aime et je t’aimerai

Don McLean:
Vincent
American Pie (and I’d stop singing half through because it’s too long)

Cat Stevens:
Moon Shadow

Elton John:
Love song
All the Nasties
Who am I kidding, let’s just say large swaths of Honky Chateau, Yellow Brick Road and Elton John, all of Tumbleweed Connection, Madman Across The Water and Captain Fantastic.
But especially Captain Fantastic and the Brown Dirt Cowboy, Levon, and Where To Now St. Peter.

Elvis. The One True Elvis. Costello:
Alison
Angels Wanna Wear My Red Shoes
Mystery Dance
Town Cryer
Little Triggers

Peter Frampton:
Baby I Love Your Way

CCR:
Looking Out My Back Door

CSNY:
Our House

Rolling Stones:
Beast of Burden
Paint It Black

Talking Heads:
Once in a Lifetime
And She Was

Heart:
Dog and Butterfly

Billie Holiday:
Good Morning Heartache

Bob Marley:
Three Little Birds
No Woman No Cry

The Beatles:
Let It Be
Hey Jude
In My Life
Here Comes The Sun
There was a very long list of Beatles songs. Very.

Stevie Wonder:
Knocks Me Off My Feet

What would I add now? The Lumineers. Someone should sing Stubborn Love and Morning Song to a baby. P!nk, profanity and all. Noir Désir and Détroit.

Storm Large– a baby needs to know that big girls are not built to walk the straight and narrow. Especially a baby girl.

The other night, way too late, after quite a few adult beverages, RAJ was telling me a story about the Oregon Country Fair. At one point, he said:

“If you can’t trust the Kesey crowd, Jolin, who can you trust?”

Who indeed.

Does that need to be interpreted?

I guess since some of you might not have the Lane County understanding of what the Kesey crowd might be experts in aside from yogurt.

What he meant was that sometimes people are experts and anyone would acknowledge that. For instance, if Tony Dungy told me something about football I would believe him. Most anyone would. If Warren Buffet gave me advice about money, I’d listen closely.

In this case, he asked for a Kesey crowd recommendation and then didn’t follow it. With hilarious and predictable results. If you can use the word predictable about the kind of stuff the Kesey crowd would be giving advice about at the Oregon Country Fair.

If you are at the OCF, or on a bus with a fridge full of acid-laced Kool-Aid and someone from the Kesey crowd gives you advice?
Take it.

Things will go better for you.

Have I ever confessed my deep love for taking personality tests? Does that mean I’m overly analytical? Should I think about it some more?

The other day, I took an online verson of that Jungian inspired personality test that spits out the incomprehensible letters that determine who you are. Myers-Briggs.

I have taken Myers-Briggs many times.

What I am, usually, is an INFJ. Heavy on the introversion. Moderate on the intuition vs sensing and feeling vs thinking. Marginal preference for judging over perceiving Sometimes I’m an INTJ with a heavier accent on judging.

What’s that mean? Hell if I know.

The Internet says it means that I am complicated, think feelings are more important than logic and like to think about pretty much everything and make things better. It means I’m more creative than rule following and have a tendency to zone out and stare at clouds a lot. It didn’t say anything about being a pain in the ass. Huh.

It is, apparently, the rarest of personality types. So be thankful for that.
What?

Aren’t you all sitting around overthinking everything you feel?
Wull. I am.

It’s my nature. I can’t help it. According to one web site, it means I can feel it when people lie to me and it makes me difficult to love because I am sensitive and over-analytical. It also says I give great blow jobs and think the scrotum should be treated with respect. Good to know.

Here’s the problem when taking personality tests: I have a lot of trouble with the ones that talk about things I am good at vs things I actually like to do. This will sound immodest, but it’s true: I am good at a lot of things. Many of which I don’t particularly enjoy.

I am.

Math? Hate it. Not bad at it.
Managing money? Hate it, but I’m good at it.
Getting to work on time? Hate it, good at it.
I do approach problem solving at work very methodically and rationally. In my personal life not so much.

Maybe what I need are different tests for my work and personal lives.

I am a total flake masquerading as a responsible adult. I love writing, reading, knitting weird hats, daydreaming, and wandering around aimlessly either by foot or in a car. Oh, and being supine. If being supine could be a hobby, I would put it on my resume. Which, let me tell you, is the resume of a responsible adult with technical skills. Not the resume of someone who knits skull hats for babies and writes about Ewan McGregor’s penis on the Internet. Except that obviously both are true.

So introverted, yeah. I always score off the charts in introversion. I know I am willing to share pretty much anything in writing. If you put me in a party with a bunch of people I don’t know really well? I will be in the corner breathing into a paper bag. Metaphorically. I would totally stand there politely with a cocktail and look interested in whatever other people were saying. Then I would go home and have to be in social isolation for several days to recover.

On the score for Intuition vs Sensing, mostly I skew to the intuitive side, but the degree varies. I am, it is true, a little impulsive.

In Thinking vs Feeling I am all over the place in my scores. It must really depend on my mood. I like to think I am completely rational, but there is no denying that I am a big cryer which is a marker for feeling. (No score for pointing out the obvious?) If it is indicative of anything, when I went out to get the mail the other day, the mail carrier was still parked in front of the house. Normally, I’d throw the one ad that was in the mailbox straight into the recycling bin outside. Since he was still sitting there, I brought it in the house and recycled it there so I wouldn’t hurt his feelings. Yes, I am perfectly aware that the mail carrier does not care one little bit about what I do with my mail. Still. In the house.

Judging vs Perceiving? I always skew to the Judging side, but sometimes just barely.

It could be that I am just a weirdo. I’m cool with that.

I’ll take another test to find out.

I did take a test the other day that was unable to determine if I was mentally ill. I clocked in at “ambiguous personality.” Should I be concerned? Of course one of the questions was “do you wish you was a Superman to wishes you can help the world?” and I really was not sure how to answer. Mainly I wishes I can correct the grammars.

I also had a very high score I that Purity Test that everyone was required to take back in the 90’s.

Oh, by the way, Myers-Briggs doesn’t really score for blow jobs or scrotal respect. It’s a bit of a flaw.