Hey baby, what’s your song?

But I’m a creep
I’m a weirdo
What the hell am I doing here?
I don’t belong here
–Radiohead/Creep

Music is evocative. Like Proust’s madeleine, a few notes of a song take you back in time and space. Anyone who has read the blog more than a few times can’t help but see by the copious use of song lyric quotes in my posts that music and lyrics are important to me. That’s only reinforced by how much of my life has always been spent singing.

Rod Stewart reminds me of my Ma.
REO Speedwagon? Neighbor Bryan..
Bob Marley, or at least “No Woman No Cry” belongs to a sweet little guy named Maher.
Marc Bolan and Elton? Brenda
Siouxie and the Banshees and X? Bill H.
Anything by the Bay City Rollers, Billy Squier or the Knack? Sharon.
Michael Jackson? Shawqi, Adel, Raoof, Ali, and Waheeb. And a host of Mohammeds and Abdullahs. (Note that Host of Mohammeds would be a great band name)
Steely Dan? Mark
Elvis Costello, James Taylor, much of the Beatles catalogue? Right. Reminders. All of them. They might as well be marked up with a Sharpie.

Isn’t it great that we don’t have to give away the songs when we stop seeing the people they belong to? It’s bad enough when a song gets so firmly tied to a person that it’s painful to hear it (I’m looking at you, “You’ve Got A Friend”) it would really suck if you physically lost custody of the song too.

Anyone who’s at all musically oriented probably has the same issue. How many songs or artists could I do this with before you were all asleep? One..two…three..four…Four. The answer is four. I have exceeded that, so please wake up now.

Today while I was washing the dishes, listening to Elvis Crespo (who doesn’t remind me of anyone in particular, except…oh…wait…he does kind of remind me of a Turkish guy I met at this Venezuelan dance party in Boston) and noticing what each song reminded me of. Then I found myself wondering what songs remind other people of me. Then I wondered which songs remind me of myself.

Silly, yes? Well, it’s Sunday. I’ve been watching “Pride and Prejudice” and scribbling all day. There may have been some mental atrophy.

There are a few songs that I get tagged with by default–after all, I grew up in the 60’s and 70’s, have brown eyes and my name is Michelle.
I’m going to have “Michelle” and “Brown Eyed Girl” thrown at me with some frequency. It can’t be helped.

There are worse songs to have associated with me, I suppose.

Coming up with songs that I identify with, or that remind me of myself was a little harder.

One of those is “Morning Song” by the Lumineers. You could probably insert any Lumineers song here. I’m pretty sure they go through my diary and steal my thoughts and write songs about them. Bastards. I don’t get any of the royalties, either.

“I Think It’s Going To Rain Today”–Randy Newman. Always a sucker for a sad lyric. I had trouble with people in the 90’s. Yes, I still do, but it isn’t quite as bad.

Lonely, lonely
Tin can at my feet
Think I’ll kick it down the street
That’s the way to treat a friend

“And She Was”–Talking Heads Because…because…I’m always floating away, or trying to.

She was glad about it… no doubt about it
She isn’t sure where she’s gone
No time to think about what to tell them
No time to think about what she’s done
And she was

“Comfortably Numb”–Pink Floyd
Totally me at a certain time in my life. A very long time of my life. There might not been much me there for a few decades. A common problem, I understand.

“Creep”–Radiohead. OK. This is probably my song. If I was a 90’s kid, instead of a 70’s kid, I’d have worn out several copies of it. I’m a creep, I’m a weirdo? Right. Me. Me and every other angst-ridden teenager ever. Except that I was an adult when it came out. Adults can be angst-ridden teenagers too, you know.

“We Walk The Same Line”–Everything But The Girl. Mid 90’s me.

And that big old moon
Lights every corner of the room
Your back aches from lying
And your head aches from crying

Brief pause to jump around while “Been Caught Stealing” played.
Brief pause to listen to X.
Brief pause to sing along to some Bette Midler songs.
Brief pause to wonder if we should tell people our songs when we’re introduced like we used to do with our astrological signs.

Hi, my name is Michelle. I’m a Scorpio, and Creep.

Maybe I should just listen and sing and not analyze so much.
Done.

Well, at least until I get in my car for the ride to work. My morning Mis-guided Meditation will be set to music as always.

Start singing, everyone.
You pick the song!

An argument about mind reading

Do you want to get together later?
Yes.


Yes, and?


Yes, I want to get together later.


Shall I read your mind to divine where you would like to meet and where you would like to go?
Could you?
Ass.
It would be really convenient.
Oh, please. You’d fucking hate it if I knew what you wanted all the time.
You wouldn’t have to ask me questions all the time.
Unless you could read *my* mind, I’d still have to talk to you though.
Don’t you like talking to me?
It is a challenge.
Doing things that are a challenge is good for you.
If you don’t tell me what you want to do tonight, one thing I will *not* be doing is you.
You can be kind of humorless sometimes, you know?
I don’t know what to do with you.
Meet me at my place. I’ll let you do me. Without talking.
I hate you.
I love you.
Shut up.
That’s why I don’t talk. It always ends with you telling me to shut up.
You’re doing it wrong.
When I do *you* it will be right.
Does that mean you want to stay in?
Read my mind…
Hmmm. Your mind tells me you want to go ice skating? How surprising. I had no idea you like it.
Do I?
You do!
Huh. You’re always teaching me things about myself.
It’s my pleasure.
You’re such a…
That’s not nice!
What?
I heard what you were thinking.
Alright, Tonya Harding. Ready to go skating?
Maybe we should stay in.
You read my mind.

Imaginary boyfriends

Imaginary lovers never disagree
They always care
They’re always there when you need
Satisfaction guaranteed
–Atlanta Rhythm Section/Imaginary Lover

One evening several years ago, out for drinks with a group of girlfriends (we referred to ourselves as the CLITS, which is a story unto itself) we got to discussing other women we found attractive. I had kind of a thing for a girl at the coffee shop across the street from work (never acted upon), but when forced to pick someone famous I went with Salma Hayek. If I were into women, I’d like dark skin and curves. I still think she’s hot. I’d also like Penelope Cruz, if someone would buy her a sammich or two. I’m also very fond of Helena Bonham Carter, but consider her more of a psychic soul sister. Messy hair, disheveled clothes and all.

When our men joined us at the martini bar later that night, we badgered them into picking their ideal men. Straight men are much less willing to imagine themselves in a same sex relationship than women are. The women had no trouble at all. The men absolutely did not want to admit that they could possibly find another man attractive. I find that fascinating. Why is that so threatening to men, but not to women? My man picked Benicio Del Toro, who has not stood up to the passage of time very well. Another friend picked Toby McGuire, who is still adorable. Of course at the time his wife gave him a very hard time about cradle robbing, which was hypocritical since her dream girl was then-teenage Brittany Spears.

We then moved into the safer territory of who our “freebies” would be–the people we could fuck without our spouses being mad. My main imaginary squeeze was, and still is Johnny Depp, but I have imaginary boyfriends in several categories.

Imaginary boyfriend #2, rock star division: Dave Grohl. A man of such awesomeness that he didn’t even have to brush his hair when he went to the White House. I am not the biggest Foo Fighter fan in the world, but I do love Dave Grohl in a purely unplatonic way.

Imaginary boyfriend #3, writer division: Neil Gaiman. A man who has apparently never brushed his hair. Ever. Wrote a couple of my favorite books. “American Gods” for one. He is also one of the best readers aloud anywhere. Get his audiobook of “The Graveyard Book.” It’s wonderful. Or his short story “A Study in Emerald.” Reading aloud is a tricky thing, and he is very good at it. And the hair…oh…it’s so gloriously messy. When he married Amanda Fucking Palmer, it only made him an even better imaginary boyfriend. They are an eminently fuckable pair.

What all of my imaginary boyfriends share, aside from dark, wavy, messy hair is talent, quirkiness and creativity. Qualities which I also appreciate in real life men, in addition to brains and the ability to make me laugh. If you can make me laugh and make me think, there is a good chance that you can…well….let’s just say “be successful.”

If you’re an imaginary girlfriend? Well, it might help to be a guy. I am not really into women.

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