I have had the same guitar for 16 years, which implies that I am good at playing the guitar. I am not. I kind of suck. While I have owned a guitar for a decade and a half, I haven’t played it that much, even though I toted it around the globe with me. It was there when I lived in Tokyo, there when I worked in Belgium, and now stands proudly in my living room in DC.
I remember sitting in my parents’ backyard with other choir dorks belting out “Uncle John’s Band,” while I strummed away on the guitar in high school. If I had just kept up that act, I bet I would be pretty good and have mastered doing a B chord without grimacing from pain. But I didn’t. In fact, the number one thing that has kept me from being good at the guitar has been vanity. I just hate chopping off all my nails so I can strum away. Isn’t that sad? It’s like a girl not wanting to be a ballerina so she can have beautiful feet. Or not reading because you don’t want to strain your eyes. Basically, I am a narcissistic gal who plays bad guitar.
But that’s all going to change. I’m turning 30 in 19 days and I think it’s time I can embrace short nails and strum my days away. Or at least a few minutes a week. Maybe I can increase my repertoire from three Indigo Girls songs and a Joni Mitchell tune I sang at camp, to well, a whole Indigo Girls album. I’ll finally become the folk guitarist I should have blossomed into in 1995. It’s never too late!
Here I am looking rather horrific with my prize guitar. I stink at playing it but man do I love it!
Why did I spend many hours last night jamming on my couch to “Set Adrift on Memory Bliss?” Like many hours. Then I followed it up with PM Dawn’s “Die Without You,” and then a lot of Boyz II Men ballads. Then I had to practice my junior high slow dance, the kind where you sway back and forth with your arms extended and randomly mash your pelvises together at strange moments.
It turns out that two of the bands I slow danced with passion to from 11 to 13, aren’t half bad. I mean the guys from PM Dawn and Boyz II Men actually have good voices. If they went on Saturday Night Live they could croon it out with no thoughts of pulling an Ashlee Simpson. Plus, they wore matching hats.
I did so much slow dancing to “End of the Road,” in Junior High, I’m surprised I can’t recite every single word on demand. And “Set a Drift on Memory Bliss,” still resonates with coolness. I’m pretty sure my brother introduced me to that gem. Some of the music I listened to from 1991 to 1993 is just darn embarrassing. Like I owned a cassette with “Baby got Back,” on one side and “Baby got Back, the remix,” on the other. I also had a thing for Stone Temple Pilots and ironed on an STP patch to my backpack. Vomit. Vomit. But! after YouTubing the crap out of PM Dawn, I wear that 12-year-old memory with pride. Ummmm dah dah! Set a drift on memory bliss…
Man do I miss the ridiculous clothes of the early 90s. PM Dawn sure could dress the part!
This seems to be my weekend for rekindling my love affair with the television. While we haven’t had much quality time together in the past two years, we really hit it hard and heavy together the last couple days. Tonight, after a thrilling viewing of the “Bodyguard” (Whitney Houston, you were so pretty before the crack), I topped it off with some “Say yes to the dress,” and then took in a rerun of “Saturday Night Live,” with musical guest Eddie Vedder from Pearl Jam.
I actually saw Eddie V at the Kennedy Center Honors this year and didn’t recognize him. My friend Cynthia had to point him out and remind me of his hotness before I made some comment about an overgrown skateboarder crashing the Honors.
While all the gals from my junior high in Bethesda were drooling down their shortalls for Eddie, he never really got my 13-year-old blood boiling. No, no, I was into a less cute, less famous guy. I was hot for Evan Dando.
Who is Evan Dando you ask? Well he is (was?) the frontman of the Lemonheads, which happened to be my first concert sans parents. Clad in my flannel shirt and some nice markered up converse all-stars, I rocked my tiny ass off to the musical stylings of songs like “Big Gay Heart,” and “The Jello Fund.” Now, the fact that I was in love with a man who sang a song called “Big Gay Heart,” probably was God’s way of telling me I would have lots of homosexual friends in my future, but I didn’t think a thing of it at the time. I just embraced my love for Evan and flannel and rocked it out in suburban Maryland. The memories my TV brings out! I will have to court it more often.
I really loved a long-haired emo rocker back then. Especially in a corduroy jacket. Rrrrrr.
On this day, Tuesday April 27th, 2010 AD, Peter of Peter Paul and Mary fame serenaded me in my boss’ kitchen. He also kissed my hands when they were in the prayer position and asked me if I attended summer camp. This all sounds a tad insane, so it might be easier if I give you a narrative:
SCENE: Sitting in CEO’s backyard talking about serious things and counting down the hours till 6 pm.
CEO: Puff the magic dragon
ME: Excuse me? (Here I was pretty sure he was covertly offering me pot).
CEO: Do you want to hear Puff the magic dragon?
ME: Err…(still pretty sure he is going to slip me some shwag).
CEO: Peter Yarrow from Peter, Paul, and Mary is in our kitchen. Do you think the editorial team wants him to sing Puff the magic dragon?
ME: Well…(I can pretty much see our exhausted editorial team not going for this feel good moment.)
CEO: How about you meet him?
ME: Okay!
This is when we enter the kitchen and Peter Yarrow is helping my CEO’s wife, who is also our Editor in Chief, cut up a roasted chicken and serve salad. That’s when my CEO suggests he sing to us all upstairs. Peter comes over to me, holds my hands that are folded in the prayer position, kisses them, then holds them individually and starts singing “Leaving on a jet plane,” while dancing back and forth with me. I of course start singing along, mentioning that his famous tune was our farewell song at my summer camp. While still singing, he asks if I still go to summer camp, to which I reply no, though I would absolutely love to trade in my job as a magazine journalist for professional creepy old camper.
Then of course, while Peter is twirling me around, my CEO and Editor in Chief chime in and I’m pretty sure their baby garbled something too. It was like the Newport Folk Festival 2010 had a love child with my workday.
Perhaps not everyone’s jobs include a serenade from a folk star. Mine don’t usually. But I must say, it made a boring old Tuesday a heck of a lot more interesting!
I have this on vinyl. Blowin’ in the wind still reminds me of being 14 and peeved that I couldn’t run around in bellbottoms in the mud because I came of age in the boring old ’90s rather than the flower power “clothing optional” era.
This is Peter today. He's a hell of a serenader, so if you're having a tough day, I recommend requesting a ditty. From what I could tell about his lunch plate, he likes chicken.
I’m in Charlottesville gearing up for my marathon which I have now been told twice is “nothing but hills.” Help! Oh well, it actually takes a little pressure off as I am less worried about my time now. It also makes me thankful for the “I am a warrior” playlist I spent hours putting together this morning. And what does a warrior listen to you wonder? ABBA!
I googled “marathon playlists” for a good 30 minutes and many women recommended the timeless ballad, “Dancing Queen.” Brilliant! Running to the sound of perky Swedish people vocalizing in the 70s seems like a wonderful idea. So I immediately downloaded the cast of Mamma Mia the movie singing brilliant little ditties like “Money, Money, Money.”
I of course loved my fellow Vassar alum Meryl Streep in the movie but I also adored Amanda Seyfried who had me at “I can tell the weather with my breasts,” in Mean Girls. She actually looked hot in a one piece bathing suit and sang “Honey Honey” as well as any rhinestone-encrusted Swede. And don’t even get me started on her in the romcom “Dear John.” Boy am I a sucker for chick flicks.
It’s 8:57 pm and I’m off to bed in 33 minutes. Can’t wait to listen to Amanda sing “Fernando” as I crawl up hills in historic Virginia. Here’s to 26.2, woot woot!
Ah the ABBA fest that was Mamma Mia! For some reason I have been inspired to run a chunk of tomorrow's marathon to the sounds of the 70s legends.
I loved that Amanda Seyfried's name in Mean Girls was Karen. An underused name in film. And the weather boob thing was amazing too.
I have endured a normal amount of embarrassment in my day. I had an ex take a video of me intoxicated and snoring. That was awesome. I had a neighbor chastise me for having sex so loud that it stressed out his pregnant wife. A less than comfortable conversation to endure. And the list goes on. But one of the most mortifying experiences of my life was when I stood topless in the rather swanky DC jazz club, Blues Alley. Not in a bra, not with my hands clasped over my breasts, just completely boobs out topless. My arms were even arched back in some sort of Victoria Secret position to make things even louder and prouder.
While I have been known to encourage skinny-dipping and aspire to run naked around the Washington Monument, I did not plan on exposing my mammary glands to discerning jazz connoisseurs. It was actually a very innocent mistake. I had decided to wear a black lightweight halter top to the evening’s concert to pair along with some very respectable pants. Of course me having my boobs, I opted not to wear a bra under said top and just threw a coat on and headed to DC’s Mecca of jazz.
We were a tad late arriving at Blues Alley and when we walked in, almost all the other patrons were seated and ready for the concert to begin. Which meant of course that I was standing, almost spotlighted, in a group of seated civilized jazz fans. When my very chivalrous date stood behind me and took off my coat the hook on my shirt snagged and the whole thing fell to my waist. So with arms back and no where to hide I stood there boobs out for that little slice of jazz heaven to see.
Surprisingly, I was not heckled. No one took a picture. No YouTube videos appeared the next day. And while I proved very popular with the band that evening, I was not mortified to the point of abandoning ship. Those jazz heads are so liberal, bless their hearts. They probably see boobs and jazz as going together like vermouth and gin.
Jazz heads are just cooler. Exhibit A being this picture I found online. If my boobs had been out for all to see at a death metal concert, I'm sure the reaction would have been different.
Today when I was driving the 80s classic Journey classic, “Don’t Stop Believin’” came on. Just as I was about to switch the channel, I stopped, and decided to listen. It’s funny, this is a song I really don’t like on a typical Tuesday afternoon, but when it’s played at a wedding, I love belting out the cheesy lyrics at the top of my lungs, all the while spilling red wine down the front of my bridesmaid or cocktail dress.
Then I got thinking, isn’t that a funny phenomenon? Stuff that you only like at certain times or at certain places? Like hot dogs. I mean, I don’t have any aversion to them, but at a baseball game, geez, I could eat 20 and go back for more. There’s something about guys in knickers and jock straps spitting chew in the dirt that makes reconstituted pig parts mouth watering. Same thing with Milk Duds candy. I would never ever buy these to bring into my home, but they are must-have for every movie I see in the theaters. I can’t tell you the last time I’ve taken in a film on the big screen without that yellow box of sugar and partially hydrogenated soybean oil in hand. Likewise — I love reading “Real Simple” when I’m on planes, the only time I enjoy mass is at midnight on Christmas Eve, I usually hate board games but not on vacation…and so on.
Is it Pavlovian? Or just ritualistic? Or both? I guess I really don’t care — just give me grilled cheese and tomato soup on rainy days and ghetto rap when I go jogging!
During the last song at a recent wedding (pardon the poor quality, our friend snapped it with his Blackberry). "Don't Stop Believin'" has never sounded so good!
![[del.icio.us]](http://nakedthanks.com/wp-content/plugins/bookmarkify/delicious.png)
![[Digg]](http://nakedthanks.com/wp-content/plugins/bookmarkify/digg.png)
![[Facebook]](http://nakedthanks.com/wp-content/plugins/bookmarkify/facebook.png)
![[Google]](http://nakedthanks.com/wp-content/plugins/bookmarkify/google.png)
![[LinkedIn]](http://nakedthanks.com/wp-content/plugins/bookmarkify/linkedin.png)
![[Technorati]](http://nakedthanks.com/wp-content/plugins/bookmarkify/technorati.png)
![[Twitter]](http://nakedthanks.com/wp-content/plugins/bookmarkify/twitter.png)
![[Yahoo!]](http://nakedthanks.com/wp-content/plugins/bookmarkify/yahoo.png)
![[Email]](http://nakedthanks.com/wp-content/plugins/bookmarkify/email.png)
