2001-11-07

Promises, Promises

Oh, blah. Wallowing and self-pity suck. I can barely tolerate it in others, yet I went on a royal bender last night, moping around the D-land chat-room like a cocker spaniel puppy in dire need of a head-scratch, and then writing what was, quite possibly, the most pathetic entry since....well, I don't remember when exactly it was, but I know it involved my whining about accounting, and looking to fix the problem with wine-in-a-box or some other toxic, vaguely white-trash salve.

My apologies.

I do want to pick up, though, where I left off about not really feeling comfortable with calling myself a musician. I certainly enjoy being in a band and creating my own entertainment therein. But, man, someone else's music just always fits the bill in terms of providing the ideal soundtrack to life's little grotesqueries.

Like this past Saturday; I generally spend a good two+ hours every Saturday hanging out at Hi-Fi, getting tweeked on the free coffee and generally shooting the shit with Dave and/or Deb. So, last Saturday I was pawing through the "Metal Bloody Metal" section when Deb pulled a masterful move behind the counter by playing a "Best of Morrissey" CD.

"Good fuckin' call!" I shrieked in appreciation.

Deb and I then proceeded to half-bop, half-skulk around the store, gleefully singing along with some of the more obtuse offerings: "One Novembuhhhhhh....spawned a munstuh in the shaaaape of this cheeeyii-uld....." � much to the horror of a gaggle of fifteen-year-olds wearing those awful ubiquitous Abercrombie & Fitch togs and silently commiserating amongst themselves on the lack of Limp Bizkit, dude.

What's wrong with fifteen-year-olds these days? I mean, Morrissey is quintessential music for fifteen-year-olds. A half-hour of "Viva Hate" brings out the sophomore in all of us.

Okay.

Then, the other morning as I was waiting for my first cup of coffee to take effect, the houseboy starts in with me, musing over his empty breakfast plate: "Lees? Aren't you surprised that the people over at Thomas's never thought to use that Naked Eyes song as a jingle?"

"What are you talking about?" I glared over the top of the paper, past Kev, at the percolator on the stove. It just doesn't make enough coffee. We need one of those big, avocado-green aluminum jobs like they have in church basements. I was jarred back from this reverie at the sound of Kevin singing, to the tune of "Promises, Promises" �

"You made me Thomas's, Thomas's....you knew that I would eeeat..."

"Oh, my God. I want a divorce."

"Aw, Lees. Aw."

lisamcc at 3:57 p.m.

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