Tag Archives: music

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

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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.

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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.

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I Can Sleep When I’m Dead


It would make sense that after a gruelling week at work, a person would want to go home and unwind, perhaps with a bottle of Pinot Grigio or some other uppity foofoo swill. However, it seems I have a very different way of unwinding.

I am pleased to report that after putting in 52 hours in four days as a Pizza Slut last week, I was still able to rush home and make myself excessively presentable on Friday night in order to take my Rockstar out to see L.A. Guns perform.

It matters not that L.A. Guns first got together as a band when I was yet entertaining myself with My Little Pony and Sesame Street. It is true that my when thinking of the music of my youth, my reminiscing first goes to New Kids on the Block and Michael Jackson. That being said, this is one of those times when I wish that I were ten years older, so that I may properly recall fondly the days of 80’s hair bands in the style of my Rockstar and my much-older brother.

Because of their passion for all things 80’s rock, my brother and my Rockstar both have instilled in me the love of hair and heavy metal bands, shirtless lead singers, and heroin-hooked bass players who don’t necessarily recognize the groupies they banged back stage. While I don’t necessarily remember popping a top at a high school party to the high-pitched voice of Vince Neil singing Ten Seconds to Love, my ears perk up when tunes of such ilk make their way through the radio to my aural devices. Oh, to have such energy as Dee Snider when he announces the House of Hair on Sunday mornings. You certainly don’t see that sort of reaction when Ryan Seacrest mentions Justin Bieber’s Girlfriend song.

Anyhoo, I found out that L.A. Guns was coming to town, and I knew my Rockstar very much liked them, so I stated that we must go, no matter how tiring my work schedule has been. So I donned my new teal and purple heels, and off we went to the Red Carpet.

The Red Carpet is a historical nightclub in downtown St. Cloud that is best known to me as a magical money-sucking machine. As in, I will enter the front door with $100 and within four hours, have nothing to show for it except an excessive buzz and empty pockets. The decor is hideous and in need of an update; the stage is miniscule and hardly large enough to support a stack of Marshall amps; and the bartender girls are deliciously adorable and adept at taking dollars from your hands. It’s great.

Being set in a college town, the Red Carpet is usually filled with the over-educated and underpaid younglings of St. Cloud. Happily on Friday night, I was pleased to find that for the first time since I became of legal age, I was the youngest in a crowd of mullet-sporting, stuck-in-the-80’s group of people. With my Peach Schnapps and water in one hand, and my own middle-aged Rocker in the other, I prowled the many floors of the Red Carpet intent on scoping out any hot chics that were present and awaiting the arrival of the Guns.

By the time the show started, my Rockstar was sufficiently drunk enough that he could no longer hide the child-like enthusiasm he felt at being able to see a band from his youth. He rambled on about the demise of the band he’d put together in high school, and about how frustrated he was when they hadn’t wanted to rock out to L.A. Guns. I assured him that when we finally start our band, we will jam to whatever floats his boat. Then the show started.

One of the disappointing things about a band that’s been touring off and on for some 20 odd years is that generally not all the original members are usually present. This is not necessarily a huge issue, as long as the lead singer is still around. I can say with fair certainty that though I never witnessed L.A. Guns in their heyday, I believe that Phil Lewis (the lead singer) was the heart and soul of the band. Strutting around in his bedazzled un-buttoned shirt, his performance lacked nothing despite the fact that his younger and obviously much-prettier days were past. In my inebriated state, I even noticed that he most certainly was making eyes at me during The Ballad of Jayne. Too, I was amazed to see that he had the power to make every fan there scream in ecstasy just by yelling, “Hey! Hey! Hey! HEY!” and pumping his arm in the air.

As I walked precariously back to my car while berating myself for stupidly wearing gorgeous heels to a rock concert, I thought to myself, “I’ m so glad I didn’t decide to stay home and sleep.”

P.S. I also decided I need to become a Rockstar.

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Musical Distraction


So HR Nightmare gave me a blog post idea because he didn’t think I’d be able to do anything with it. The idea was to write about music in relation to moods and the way it changes a person’s moods. This may veer a little off course, but here you go.

I love music. I could spend all day singing along to songs I know, and trying to emulate the people that sing them. I attempt with all that is in me to hit the perfect pitch of squealing when singing “Hee-Hoo!” like Michael Jackson. Celtic Woman is a bit harder, but I straighten my back and stick out my boobies to maintain perfect singing posture when belting out, She Moved Through the Fair. I grow increasingly irritated when, after repeated attempts, I fail to reach the notes sung by Martina Mcbride in A Broken Wing.

The reaction my father has to music that cannot be played in churches is quite humorous and ridiculous. I seem to recall at my wedding to my ex, the strains of Alan Jackson’s “It Must Be” love filtered out of the DJ’s speakers and into my father’s ears. His reaction was to cover his ears and shake uncontrollably as though the devil had possessed him. Incidentally, I used to have the same reaction when I was younger and forced to listen to the shrieking operatic voices of church ladies who THOUGHT they could sing.

80’s Heavy Metal seems to get the biggest reaction out of my Rockstar. Play a little Black-N-Blue or Ratt, and he immediately starts banging out a drum rythym on whatever hard surface  is available. (Please note: He has had no formal drum training) We like to crank the tunes when downing brandy and playing darts, (which I usually win) and it seems that this causes a general horniness to come over us, as we have on various occassions bumped uglies to the musical interluding of Lita Ford and Motley Crue. Good times.

At work, I have found that my co-workers’ tastes are very ecclectic.

My fellow co-manager, while choosing tiresome elevator music for our customers, can, during closing hours, be heard emitting an other-worldly growl while listening to death metal on his Ipod. Luckily, this music gets his butt moving, so we don’t have to be at work til 2 AM.

One of my drivers, despite being 38 and 320 lbs, twitters prettily to the young people music of the day. He is especially loud when it comes to any Adele song, or that song with the girl who squeaks her voice in the very beginning of the song. It matters not that the radio we have at work is old and static-y- he continues to crank it loudly enough that a messy, staic-y sound reached my poor ears. This makes me quite perturbed.

There are too, those songs that bring tears to my eyes. Most of them have to do with my ex-husband, such as Tesla’s We’re No Good Together. Still others make me cry simply because of their lack of musical inclination. Case in point, any Taylor Swift or Miley Cyrus song. Miley Cyrus, to you I have one thing to say- “sometimes you gotta climb that mountain”, just so I can push you off that cliff.

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You Disappoint Me, Carrie Underwood


Dear Miss Carrie Underwood,

I shall begin my letter by saying that I had high hopes for you. I was one of the several million people who voted for you on the finale of American Idol, even though Bo Bice had that whole sexy Southern Rock thing going on. At that time, I was certain that anything you touched would turn to gold.

I find you to be completely gorgeous. In fact, the only thing that has kept you from replacing Angelina in my spank bank is your blonde hair. While it suits you perfectly, I cannot get over the fact that I despise blondes. Kudos to your hairstylist, however, for making it look as good as it can look. I am a bit concerned, however, about your weight. When you first caught our attention on Idol, you were a perfectly healthy-looking girl from Oklahoma. I realize the pressure to look good in all those free designer clothes is hard to deal with, but, girl, you need to eat a sammich. A whole buffet of them.

It is true that you have become one of the top-selling musical artists in the country. I would like to have a little chat with you about that.

No one can deny that your singing voice is stellar, and any remakes you do sound better than the originals. So why the hell don’t you pick some songs to record that showcase your voice?! I believe you are suffering from Mariah Carey Syndrome- you are so focused on picking catchy tunes that people want to sing along with that you do not remember that your musical talents far surpass the average karaoke singer, and that you owe it to the world to sing those songs that no one else is able to. The well-sung songs from your first album are long forgotten in the wake of more “popular” hits such as Before He Cheats, Cowboy Casanova, (that song suck balls by the way), and The More Guys I Meet. I cannot deny that your wardrobe in these music videos is admirable, which somewhat takes away from the harsh reality that you suck at making song choices. I just can’t talk about this anymore.

Of course there are millions of fans wanting to pay the exhorbitant prices for your concerts; why wouldn’t they, when you insist on wearing skirts short enough that we can see what color panties you are sporting? The cameraman at those awards shows knows just the right angle to get from offstage to have filled us in quite well on your panty wardrobe. I suppose that I cannot really judge, after all, I market myself as a bookwhore. However, do not for one second think you have fooled anyone into thinking you are a nice girl. Your numerous ass flashes prove otherwise.

And what is this cross-over business? I find it deplorable that you pose as a country cutie, when you clearly long to be a Rockstar. Shame on you for taking the money of all those ignorant hicks who cannot tell the difference!

All that being said, if you would have someone else choose your songs for you, I’m sure you would have a whole nother group of fans.

XOXO,

Sparklebumps

 

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I Am A Green-Eyed Monster


So you all know that I’m a happy girl who loves everybody and is extremely self-confident, right? Boy, have I fooled the shit outta you.

I embody the first two qualities perfectly, yes. However, I will tell you something now that you might not know yet- I go through life with a Jealousy Monkey fucking me in the ass every single moment. That being said, it may come as no surprise when I tell you that the constant butt-drilling I get leads to Jealousy becoming my dominant personality trait.

One of the things that makes my jealousy acceptable is the fact that I do not begrudge people for whatever happiness they receive from whatever it is that makes me jealous of them. I am jealous of those in perfect relationships, but I would never wish them to NOT have a perfect relationship just because I don’t. They say Misery loves company; the truth is- I prefer solitude.

I will give you just a few examples of the things that I am jealous of:

I am jealous of Carrie Underwood and her perfect face and her perfect voice, and the fact that she gets endless commercial deals despite the fact that she has the inability to choose good songs to sing with her perfect voice.

I am jealous of my friend Delightful, and the fact that she possesses one of those tiny bodies that make you want to stick her in your back pocket. She also has amazing sparkly eyes that are not poop colored, like mine are.

I am jealous of the people that own Mustangs, because I haven’t one; and I am jealous of the fact that these people have the dollars to afford the Mustangs in the first place.

I am jealous that deceased celebrities such as Michael Jackson and Whitney Houston are talked about more than I am. Why can they not have the decency to share the fame they no longer need?

I am jealous of all the excessively talented pianists on Youtube who can play Chopin’s Fantasie Impromptu, because no matter how much I try to practice it, my timing is off and my fingers do not carry enough dexterity and speed to play it properly.

I am jealous of Nicole Kidman and her porcelain white skin, because though I possess the exact paleness she does, I just look pasty and all my veins show.

I am jealous that  untalented writers such as Stephanie Meyer have become household names because they had the gall to write about such ridiculous things as sparkly vampires and werewolves falling in love with infants.

I am jealous of the fact that my Rockstar’s Daughter received cuddling so much more easily from my Rockstar than I ever will.

I am jealous of Taylor Swift and the fact that her unimaginitive choices of subject matter for her songs has made her rich enough to buy a castle if she so chooses.

I am jealous of the fact that my douchebag of a former boss gets to continue working in MY bookstore, despite the fact that he hates books, and hates customers, and ogles young women, and sexually harrasses his underlings, while I slave away as a Pizza Slut.

I get jealous of people flirting with other people when I am readily available to be flirted with. This one is a bit confusing, because yes, I get jealous of the girls who are getting flirted with by men I don’t even find attractive. It IS all about me, you know.

I am jealous of those people that go around being happy all the goddamn time. I try that and find it utterly exhausting.

I am jealous of people that live in all the places that aren’t here. Sadly, if I were to move to any of those places, I would probably be jealous of the people that remained here.

I am jealous of those women (and men) who have perfect straight hair that can just wake up, run a brush through their hair, and go about their day. The fact that they can run a brush through their hair without creating an afro irks me most of all.

I am jealous of the fact that no matter how good of a writer I become, I will never be able to write lyrics as excellently as the band Black Stone Cherry.

I am jealous of Chris Meloni’s wife, and the fact that she gets to booby squish him whenever she wants.

I am jealous of women with babies, and pregnant women, and babies, and little children that are still adorable and not evil spawn from Hell.

One of the things that you all can be jealous of, though, is the fact that I have awesome readers who actually want to read this shit. 😉 XOXO

 

 

 

 

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