The Anthropologist Formerly Known as Prince

I remember thinking once,

“I’d never want him to produce my music.”

Fool that I was.

I didn’t realize then

that the sound I had mistaken for

messiness and chaos

was actually the character of mankind

caught on tape.

It was,

truly,

anthropology at its finest.

You entangled each one of us

in the snare of your guitar strings;

furiously jotted endless lyrical notes,

and then released us back

into the wild with a song.

You were an incomparable teacher;

you taught us to Gett Off,

what doves sound like when they cry,

and that not everything that glitters is Gold.

At times,

it seemed as though you even

controlled the weather-

it rained Purple;

it snowed in April.

A lesser man would have agonized over

such a petite figure;

but you strutted yours.

Ruffled, tailored, Purpled.

You masqueraded as a sex object,

and no one ever realized you were

preaching the Gospel while you did it.

You told us of a Park

where life won’t be so bad;

it was in our hearts,

but now we can tour the frickin’ place

for a hundred bucks.

I guess it’s just a Sign O’ the Times,

isn’t it?

“The Beautiful Ones you always seem to lose.”

….and I’m back.

Other than possessing a belly that is growing at an alarming rate, and deciding this Christmas sucks, I’ve not been up to to much. I know. Sad.

I did spend several days last week seething inwardly as my Rockstar insisted on stopping at every store in sight just to window shop after my monthly checkup and other things. I seemed to have forgotten that I’m living with another woman. One who loves to shop. But never actually buy anything. I don’t know if it’s my raging hormones or my distended stomach, but I find myself having much less patience than normal. As evidenced by my unrestrained bickering Saturday night with my Rockstar’s Daughter. Let us just say, it’s the first time in five years I’ve given in to the urge to act exactly the same age as she.

As far as Christmas sucking, I know it’s not about the presents, (unless you’re a little kid), but I am a bit saddened that I’ve not been able to afford even gifts for my Beloved and his daughter. And honestly, I’m kinda too tired to give a shit. At least,  a lot of shit. Maybe a little poo I give. But I too, have considered forgoing Christmas at my Rockstar’s parents and vegging out in front of Netflix with a delicious box of creamy Kraft macaroni and cheese.

Is it because he got fired from his job a month ago and I need a little alone time? I’m not sure. So many months had gone by without me seeing him hardly at all when he was working because of our opposite schedules, and it’s been nice to see him for a change. But I think I got used to all that alone time. So now I’m just fucked up.

Once again today, we ventured to town to indulge in half-priced burritos at our favorite Mexican restaurant, and our trip turned into an all-day finish-his-Christmas-shopping outing. My Rockstar clearly did not find me to be perturbed enough, for when I mentioned that I did not desire to battle the masses all day, he said, “Well, you’d probably just go home and take a nap anyway.” It wasn’t because it was an untrue statement, but the fact that he was inferring my general laziness that irked me so. I refrained from releasing my pregnant-woman rage on him though, and sucked it up as we spent another hour in Macy’s looking at cookware for his mother.

I went to work tonight, and soooooo did not want to be there, even though the lack of dollars in my wallet should have given me a different perspective. So I convinced a coworker to close for me, and I arrived home to find the house filled with the calming sounds of Motley Crue. My Rockstar has been downstairs banging away on the drums, oblivious to my being home. As much as he irritated me today, I cannot help but smile when I listen to the over-played band. After all, he is still my Rockstar….

The Business of Lullabies

I do not fancy myself a superb singer. I will never be that girl who sends chills down people’s spines when I hit that one note, because it’s pretty damn certain I won’t ever hit that one note. Believe me, I’ve tried. No crowds will ever fill Madison Square Garden just because I’m there to sing; although I have no doubt that my Rockstar, my brother, and I will fill it when we finally start our band. I can carry a tune, and sound better than about half the people you hear attempting to sing, including Taylor Swift. Nevertheless, I fully intend to sing to my baby once he gets here. I just hope my doing so will not cause more tears than are normally expected from a baby.

The more I think about it, the more I realize that the songs I use as lullabies may very well be the songs my baby uses as lullabies to his own children someday, if he has any. (The continued use of male pronouns in reference to my baby are my way of using osmosis to decide his gender for him. He has no legs yet, so there is no way he has yet sprouted a teeny tiny penis. But I will continue to try to sway him.) Or, if nothing else, they will be songs he fondly remembers as ones his crazy mother sang to him because she loved him. Either way, this is not business that should be taken lightly. Music is the poetry of sound. So instilling in my baby a vast library of musical genres is a must. So far, here is my lullaby list:

For standards, I’ve only yet come up with two:

1. Over the Rainbow

2. Baby Mine from Dumbo

Moving along to somewhat newer music:

3. Let It Be by The Beetles

4. You’re Beautiful by James Blunt (Sidenote: As this James Blunt song is about a girl who is addicted to drugs, I feel that I may only sing the chorus so as not to introduce my babe to such evility prematurely.)

5. Jesus Loves Me

6. Give Me Love by Jasmine Cain (a mostly-independent artist, but a great song)

7. I’ll Be There by The Jackson 5 (or Mariah Carey, if you prefer)

8. True Colors by Cyndi Lauper

9. The Rainbow Connection by Kermit the Frog (a song my uncle used to sing to me when I was small)

10. Silent Night (a Christmas song, sure, but what better to sing about than the night I hope to have?)

11. Love is Forever by Slaughter

12. Unconditionally by Katy Perry

13. Unchained Melody by the Righteous Brothers

This is only a start, so I open my lullaby list to those of you in blogland, so speak now. Just know that Rob Zombie and Iron Maiden will have to wait just a year or two.

Dance, Baby, Dance

And I’ll still stay, to have thee still forget,
Forgetting any other home but this.

Like Romeo, I’ve been making an effort to have my Rockstar forget any other home than ours; sadly, I work completely opposite hours from him, and so see him (if I’m lucky) a total of about eight hours a week. I have feared that leaving him to his own devices so regularly should cause a rift between us that cannot be repaired.

Fortunately, the both of us wish our home to be ripe with bright colors and pleasant comforts, so neither of us has a chance really to become bored and listless. While my days at home with the dog are filled to bursting with painting of walls, and thinkings of painting of murals, his nights are filled with thoughts of luscious fertilized grass without bald spots. Our little time that is spent together is spent these days at Home Depot and Menards, where we have spent unmentionable sums of money.

This past weekend, we hurried to Menards for their Memorial Day sales and spent a goodly part of our morning navigating the aisles for things to make our house a castle. While I had the intention only of buying a few color-changing solar lights to brighten our sidewalk, my Rockstar insisted on buying a little bit of everything. $400 later, we exited the store with a lovely flower rug (which was his choice), 20 solar lights, garden edging, yard soil, and an outdoor swing. Sadly, I had to rush off to work for the day, so I was to enjoy none of our purchases immediately.

After spending a lovely day with my Auntie on Sunday, I arrived home to my Rockstar and his Daughter, who had decided that we must grill steaks on our new adorable grill. He approved of my mixing of alcoholic beverages for the two of us, and while his Daughter ran around with our Pup and her friends, we proceeded to get happily tipsy.

No drunk evening would be complete without a little Rock-N-Roll, which was filtered through our walk-out screen door. R and his Daughter have this little dance they’ve been working on since long before I was around, and I watched from our beautiful swing as they spun and twirled.

“You’re turn! Dance with dad!” His Daughter urged when the song ended.

I arose from my swinging, and it didn’t take long for R to realized that Phil Collins stole his song title I Can’t Dance from me.

“You’re so stiff! Loosen up! Yeah, you’re not graceful.” His responses to my awkward gamboling just made me giggle. Well, that, and his forceful grip on my drunken ass.

A dancer I may not be, but hey. I cannot be perfect all the time. I do, however, know the steps to the waltz (because I am very cultured) and also the snake-like arm movements of bellydancing, so I coached R and his Daughter on these finer points of dancing. I chose to don a pair of my taller heels to better match R’s height, only to have him say I was better at my own height, because my belly more perfectly bumped up against his man-parts. (This too made me giggle.) When he tired of my unfluid movements, I danced with myself among my many rainbow solar lights, pretending that I was in an enchanted forest.

There comes a time when One has had enough drink, and must retire. When my time came, I crawled into my bed, intent on passing out until the morning, only to be wakened by a hard chomp on my ass. Too, no drunken night is complete without having a long-haired Rockstar whisper in your ear, “I want to hear you come.”

XOXO

Advice For Graduates

is the time when seniors everywhere are growing up and moving on with their lives. Since I am old(er), I feel it is only fair that I give them some helpful advice for their journey. I heard a soldier on the radio give a commencement speech to a senior class, using only three words- “Make your bed.” I think there is something to this, so here we go. (I may take a few liberties by combining words to stay under the three word maximum.)

1. Eat the cake.

As you go through life, some of you may worry more than others about keeping your young and lithe figures. Others may not. Whatever the case, you need to realize that there is nothing wrong with indulging in sweets and other edible goodness, for, as George Bernard Shaw once said- “The most sincere form of love is love for food.” So eat the cake when you get the chance.

2. Do whatcha want.

Three words. If you didn’t understand, that was do what makes you happy. Don’t go to college to become a lawyer if that is not what your passion is, no matter how much your parents pay you. You will be happier in the end.

3. Do stuffu hate.

Along with doing whatever you want, at times, friends, Romans, and/or countrymen may ask you to accompany them in actions that interest you not at all. (For example, stock car races.) If they ask you, just say yes, because they could have asked someone else. And you may just run into a super hot girl who gives amazing blow jobs, or experience the deep-fried goodness of racetrack cheese curds. Whatever the case, you will not regret the things you do.

4. Read more books.

HA! I didn’t have to fudge that one! Which makes it quite clear that it is very sound advice. The more you read, the more you know. Which may very well help you out if you take my afore mentioned advice and follow your friend to a hostel somewhere in Serbia.

5. Get a dog.

Maybe not right now, but someday. You will never regret having a companion who is always happy to see you, and who will never yell at you for leaving the toilet seat up.

6. See the world.

I must admit here that I’ve yet much world to see, but after I make millions on my book, the world shall be my first stop. Experience the magic of earth.

7. Do the dishes.

Because they will stink if you don’t.

And finally- the best for last.

8. Listen to music.

As much as you possibly can. Every kind that you can. Music is beauty in audio.

9. Love like crazy.

Fall in love with as many things as you can. That doesn’t mean, be a slut; it means open your eyes, and your heart, and never let go of that feeling you get when you see something beautiful for the first time.  Love. Love like it’s the last thing you’ll ever do.

 

 

Truer, Madder, Deeper

I was being my normal people-pleasing self (while secretly cursing said people) at work the other day, when I was instantly taken back to 1997 thanks to our lovely satellite radio. Here is the moment when you (at least those of you my age) will cry “I remember that song!” or “I LOVED that song!” or “I fuckin’ hated that song!”- Truly, Madly, Deeply.

I myself recall that the first time (of millions) that I heard Truly, Madly, Deeply, my friends and I were exited my older friend’s teal Dodge Neon to venture into a somewhat newly built Walmart. I told my friends to “hang on a sec! This song is totally amazing!” which sent us into a tailspin of musical assessments. Imagine my surprise many years later that the lead singer was secretly singing to another guy. Loving someone “deeply” had a whole knew meaning after that.

Anyhoo, I reminisced pleasantly while mouthing the words shamelessly at work, until I began to realize that this song was full of crap.  Let me show you:

I’ll be your dream
I’ll be your wish I’ll be your fantasy
I’ll be your hope I’ll be your love
Be everything that you need
I’ll love you more with every breath
Truly, madly, deeply do
I will be strong I will be faithful
’cause I’m counting on
A new beginning
A reason for living
A deeper meaning, yeah

[chorus:]
I want to stand with you on
a mountain
I want to bathe with you in the sea
I want to lay like this forever
Until the sky falls down on me

And when the stars are shining
brightly in the velvet sky,
I’ll make a wish send it to heaven
Then make you want to cry
The tears of joy for all the
pleasure and the certainty
That we’re surrounded by the
comfort and protection of

The highest powers
In lonely hours
The tears devour you

Seems innocent enough, right?

“I’ll be your dream and your fantasy bla dee bla dee bla.” I understand  that- after all, am I not people’s dream and fantasy? 🙂

Here’s where my now-cynical self re-interpreted my wistful teen ideas.

“I want to stand with you on a mountain”- yeah, because he’s probably scared of heights; and the thought of freezing your ass off on Mt. Kilamanjaro is SO romantic.

“I want to bathe with you in the sea”- because salt water is so refreshing and completely non-sticky. And the threat of sharks is not a worry.

“I want to lay like this forever”- because he’s 42 and exhausted from his job?

“Until the sky falls down on me.” – because you wouldn’t wanna try to get outta the way or anything.

The second verse is just all about making his lover cry, which I’m sure might have something to due with the fact that he just told her he was gay.

I am so sad that my 31 year old self can no longer see the metaphoric beauty in this song, but instead can see how “truly” this “mad”ness “deeply” goes. To all you idealistic drippy teens, I bid you. “Save yourselves! Don’t listen to the whiney lovey-dovey pop music of today! For tomorrow, (or a few years from now) you’re going to realize that Justin Bieber and at least one member of One Direction is gay, and no amount of standing on mountains or bathing in seas is going to make up for the fact that your boyfriend is probably going to be a lazy bum that would rather have the sky fall on him than spend another minute with you. “

“Niblets in the Sun”

On occasion, my  Rockstar and I spend a goodly amount of minutes wandering through the virtual musical world of Rhapsody. Last night was one of those nights. (We also just so happened to be accompanied by Marilyn Monroe and her strawberry-flavored vodka.)

After listening to the growling of a less-than-talented death metal band, I told my Rockstar that we needed to listen to something a little more happy. He pooh-poohed George Strait’s new album (which was fine), and somehow we started listening to Madonna. My Rockstar requested Like a Virgin, me thinks because I do so make him feel as though he is touched for the very first time. This started a whole new wave of music listening- that of 80’s pop. Welcome to the land of the Eurythmics, Cyndi Lauper, Phil Collins, and Billy Joel.

To both my Rockstar and I, these musicians fall into the category of Talented-Because-of-Style, or in Phil Collins’ case, his name just happened to come up. I adore Billy Joel for his piano abilities; I have a hard time deciding if I actually like his songs. However, we chose to listen to Only the Good Die Young, and I found myself jigging along. (Yes, I jig, because I wish I was Irish.)

There was a point in the song where I sang along to my favorite lyrics: “That stained-glass window you’re hiding behind Niblets in the sun”, when my Rockstar gave me the strangest look. I sheepishly admitted that I never could understand what Billy said in that line, and Niblets seemed like an interesting enough choice to include. Now, I realize there are no Niblets in the sun, so it would be nearly impossible to hide behind them, (that is, if One could even figure out what a Niblet was in the first place) but who am I to judge Billy’s musical genius? I DID decide I had remained clueless long enough, and so I looked up the actual lyrics, which make a little more sense. (They are “the stained-glass window you’re hiding behind never lets in the sun”, in case you no longer wish to sing about Niblets either.)

We went on to listen to a plethora of other sub-standard music, when my Rockstar got caught up in John cougar Mellencamp’s web, and I discovered something. My Rockstar judges me when I get excited to hear the Backstreet Boys or the Spice Girls- John Cougar is his Spice Girls. I watched in abject horror as he plucked away on his guitar and sang to every Mellencamp song ever written. How I did wish then that I was behind some Niblets in the sun…

Jewel’s Snaggletooth, Forgive Me

Dear diaphanous singer Jewel’s Snaggletooth,
I have decided to compose this letter of apology after witnessing your operator’s performance on the ACM’s last night.
It is true that a snaggletooth such as yourself is not always seen as a blessing or an attractive thing to have. I must admit that throughout the many years of your celebrity existence, I would wince in disgust at any glimpse of your presence during Jewel’s television performances, and think atrociously to myself, “Jesus Christ, she isn’t a homeless goat herder in Alaska anymore, why doesn’t she get that fixed.” Alas, Jewel finally collapsed under the pressure of the opinions of horrid judgemental people such as I, and I am sad to see that, Snaggletooth, you are no more.
While I had heard through celebrity gossip grapevines that you had been extracted, I had not yet witnessed it for myself until last night. In the past, when Jewel would sing about her diminutive hands, (“I know”) I would harshly be convinced that it was too bad that it was you, Jewel’s Snaggletooth, that was not small and unobtrusive. And when she would wonder, “Who will save your soul?”, I would wonder, “Who will save Jewel’s lover’s dick from the terrible shredding it will surely receive from Jewel’s blowjobs?” Perhaps that question was the one that finally persuaded Jewel to journey to the dentist.
I wanted to apologize, Snaggletooth, because as Jewel was tittering on last night about her hands and starving children, I couldn’t help but notice how aggravatingly perfect her new at-least-partial dentures were. No longer when she smiled did your beastly form stick out repulsively; no, no. Instead, a straight and perfectly whitened grill filled her smile the likes of which would rival Julia Roberts. It was then that I knew I had made a mistake.
I wax infinite on the subject of beautiful imperfection, only to realize that I falsely appraise such imperfections such as yourself. Perhaps it is because I believe celebrities are to be without flaws, or perhaps it is because I do not want their flaws to be more endearing than my own. Whatever the reason, Snaggle, I wish Jewel had never disposed of you.
I believe if you were to have made it through the bitter jabs of judgmental crowds, you would have been among the Elite of Celebrity Flaws such as Cindy Crawford’s Mole and Madonna’s Tooth Gap. However, Jewel’s Snaggletooth, I regret that you have surrendered too soon. And for that I am sorry.
Regretfully,
Sparklebumps

Sap

I have been described as excessively emotional.

I do not deny that this fact could be accurate.

It’s true that the viewing of any movie where an adorable and innocent fur person (mainly the family dog) will cause me to sob uncontrollably and sulk around for days after or that I will fly into a rage if the Guess shoes I found on clearance last week when I had no dollars are purchased by some asshole who has a higher paying job than I. Luckily, because I so often heard “Quit crying or I’ll give you something to cry about!” as I was growing up, I have succeeded in at least partially bridling my feelings long enough to run into a bathroom stall or seek solace in the cab of my yellow truck before screaming to the heavens “Shitfuckdamnpisshell!!!!!!!!!!” when I’ve once again realized the fuckin’ IRS took money out of my account without first consulting me.

Surprisingly, as tempermental (I prefer the word passionate) as I can be, I have absolutely zero tolerance for others of the same disposition. When a dead Patrick Swayze would be glowing and whisper lovingly “Ditto” to a then-adorable Demi Moore in Ghost, my ex-hubby would emit a strangled sob and pretend he had something in his eye; all the while, I would tease him mercilessly about what a sap he was, though I was secretly hoping if I ever came to an untimely death, I too would be allowed to use Whoopi Goldberg’s body at will. When my employees at work become distraught over customer relations (or relations with each other) I instantly tune them out and tell them to “shut the fuck up.” Perhaps it is the fact that they are at work, and have a job to do that makes my patience non-existant, but I cannot explain my harsh teasing of those who cry for completely valid reasons.

I was looking through Youtube today for various musical videos with which to waste my time, when I realized that music is the one thing to which I fully and definitely support emotional diahrrea. I realize not every person connects with music as I do, but no matter the language- if a musician or singer is actually talented, you can almost completely understand what it is they are meaning to get across. (Or, in Taylor Swift’s case, her lack of talent gets across that someone should pummel her in the head so she can cease thinking up lyrics that are “never ever ever never” awesome.)

‘Tis true that PMS and other uncontrollable life factors may contribute to my ever moving feelings when I listen to tunes, but just  read these lyrics and tell me YOU didn’t get at least a little misty-eyed.

I know there’s hurt I know there’s pain,
But people change lord knows I’ve been no saint
In my own way, regret choices I’ve made
How do I say I’m sorry? How do I say I’m sorry?

I was scared, I was unprepared oh, for the things you said
If I could undo that I hurt you I would do anything for us to make it through
Draw me a smile, and save me tonight
I am a blank page waiting for you to bring me to life
Paint me a heart let me be your art

I am a blank page waiting for life to start
Let our hearts stop and beat as one together
Let out hearts stop and beat as one forever
How can I erase decisions I’ve made
How do I go back what more can I say
All that remains are hearts filled with shame
How do we say we’re sorry? How do we say we’re sorry

I was scared, I was unprepared oh, for the things you said
If I could undo that I hurt you I would do anything for us to make it through
Draw me a smile and save me tonight
I am a blank page waiting for you to bring me to life
Paint me a heart let me be your art

I am a blank page waiting for life to start
Let our hearts stop and beat as one together
Let out hearts stop and beat as one forever
I’d go back in time and I’ll realize
Our spirits aligned and we’d never die
Draw me a smile, and save me tonight
I’ll be your blank page waiting for you to bring me to life
Paint me a heart let me be your art
I am a blank page waiting for life to start
Let our hearts start and beat as one together
Let our hearts start and beat as one forever

P.S. It’s Christina Aguilera if you wanna look it up and bawl.

The Pianist = The Pauper

Let me tell you a little story about one of my used-to-be-heroes.

Once upon a time, there was a girl named Lorie Line who grew up in Reno. She had the unequaled talent of playing piano by ear, and dreamed of one day being a concert pianist. She also had a penchant for fashion. Anyhoo, she grew up, and went to college for music, where they told her she would never be good enough to play for the Reno City Orchestra. She was so distraught, she moved to Minnesota.

Lorie married a man and began a gig playing piano at her local Dayton’s store (which had now been sold to Macy’s). She spent her days serenading rich and snobby shoppers until one day, a customer asked her if she had a CD recorded that they may buy. And a famous person was born.

Since those days in the 80’s, Lorie Line has recorded over 30 albums, published numerous sheet music books, faithfully put on a steller annual Christmas concert tour, and built a mansion on Lake Minnetonka. I first became aware of her in the third year of my piano lesson taking, and, being a young and impressionable young girl, I was amazed at this woman who hadn’t enough “official” musical talent to make it as a musician, yet put on  more concerts than  Liberace and lived like a rockstar. I continuously bought her music books until I began to realize that, “Hey. I could arrange music like this myself, and NOT pay $35 per book.” I still admired her, though, because she has a talent that I do not- she can listen to a song once, and put it to music. Give me any Beethoven or Mozart sheet music, and I will be able to sight read it surprisingly well, but playing by ear is something I have never been able to do.

Lorie has been described as the female Liberace, and rightly so. The only difference between the two is that instead of buying Swarovski-encrusted pianos, Lorie buys Swarovski-encrusted stillettos. If you ask almost any person in  Minnesota, (or the surrounding states) they will describe her as an amazing pianist who puts on quite a show.

So imagine my surprise when a few weeks ago, my Auntie mentioned the fact that Lorie Line was selling her Meditteranean-inspired castle for only $4,000,000. I immediately went online to find it, because though I have seen several pictures in various home and garden magazines, I further wished to inspect Lorie’s homemaker style. Sadly, I was greatly disappointed.

Everything was beige and white. EVERYTHING. There was not one room that sported a fuschia dash of color or a royal purple stripe. Sure, there were fantastic wing-backed chairs- in white. No velvety green or Yamaha blue. As I paged through the online photos, I understood that Lorie was selling her house because it was depressingly boring.

A few days later, I talked to my Grammy, who told me Lorie’s house was, in fact, in foreclosure. I was unbelieving. How could a pianist who charges $35 per sheet music book, $16 per CD, and $65 per concert ticket be going into foreclosure?! I will tell you. Because she spent too much frickin’ money on beige, that’s how.

I am convinced that any person who goes through life beige and becomes complacent and accepting of that fact is destined to become a pauper. May this be a lesson to you all- you will always find success if you don a fuschia shirt.