All kinds of awesome.

Thanks to Abigail for pointing this one out. She rocks.

Awww! Even the sweetest boys still get shit wrong!

My dear friend Grad School Reject has written up a report of our first in-person meeting. Most of it is lovely and complimentary. Some of it needs a beat-down. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I've enjoyed replying. GSR in regular text; JW in italics.


Hello readers of Jill Writes. I apologize for interrupting your regularly scheduled posting, but I promised Jill I would report on our first meeting. As a long time reader, commenter, and “chatter” I was very excited to meet Jill in person. Some of you readers have had this pleasure already. Others of you will undoubtedly have a chance sometime in the future. Here are a few things that I learned in my brief, 6 hour, meeting.

Needless to say, I learned a lot.

1. Jill Likes Ice Cream
I know, I know. You all who have been reading for a while think you already knew this. Jill talks about ice cream almost as much as she talks about se…..um, her iPod. But still, until you meet her in person I don’t think you can understand the depths of her passion. Case in point: She showed up for our dinner meeting with an ice cream cone. Mind you, we had never met in person before. Her first words to me were the following:

"Yeah, I got an ice cream cone. And I’m still going to order dinner."

After that I knew we were in for a good night, and my respect for her grew by leaps and bounds when she ordered a cheeseburger. You gotta love a woman who orders red meat with cheese AFTER finishing her ice cream.

There are women who don't? Glad I don't hang out with them.


2. Jill Likes To Win
Shortly after we got seated we noticed that there was a DJ playing songs from the mid-late 90’s.

It went back a tad further than that. And I'm only making that point because I clearly remember the songs that freaked me out the most.

This led the two of us to place some bets on what artists and songs we would hear. Every song that came on that had not been “called” by either of us was followed by the following statement from Jill:

“I was totally going to call that one. I thought that, and now they are playing it.”

I do not dispute that I am a tad over-competitive at times; however, in this particular situation it was not the "wanting to win" that was driving my statements. It was the fact that DJ Jock Rock had apparently lifted some mixed CDs from my brother's college baseball team. Seriously. I mean, did you think I pulled "Blinded by the Light" out of my rear? "Centerfield"? I still assert that if we had stayed until closing, we would have heard "Dust in the Wind". You know that Schlock Jockey was getting to that.

As a gentleman and a scholar I rejected these overtures and called bullshit. This happened 8 times, and each time I lost the battle. I am still pretty certain that I won.

No, of course I'm the winner.
*batting eyelashes*
Because I get you to be my friend.
*sigh*

(Barf.)


3. Jill Likes Cider….But Not as Much As I Like Beer
So we were out for a while (5 hours?) and I learned that Jill likes her cider. I think she had 3 pints (respectable), but at the end of the night I realized I had consumed 6 pints of beer. I honestly don’t think I made an ass out of myself, but Jill gets the opportunity to respond/disagree. Regardless, I was impressed by her 3 ciders.

While I appreciate the sentiment here, as you know I am a tad competitive. And "brewed beverages" are honestly not my game of choice. I mean, yeah. Cider. Yum. For breakfast. Bring it. (SERIOUSLY, bring it. If there is a man out there who will happily bring me cider for breakfast in bed, let. me. know.) But... my stomach gets full, dammit! Ice cream cone, cheeseburger, fries, three ciders. I can't fit anymore! It wasn't the alcohol content holding back my happy place... and I like my happy place! Next time, it's stuff I can consume in mass quantities... rum and fruit. Guaranteed I compete far and away above my weight class. (ALSO, a man who is willing to bring me rum and fruit for breakfast in bed? Sign me up in perpetuity.)

4. Jill Likes My Wife And It Freaks Me Out
Did I mention that I am married? My wife was with me in NYC and she decided to meet Jill and me for at least an hour of our dinner. After meeting my wife, Jill very politely pointed out that she is attractive and fun.

I believe what I said sounded more like hot bubbly brilliant and damn, she'd be fun to go out with. I believe I also mentioned if I didn't value our friendship so much I'd be trying to borrow her. But that's okay. I'm a patient woman. I can wait until Literary Elysium. That eternal ménage à trois with Hamlet is going to be hot.

I translated this as: How in the world did someone as ugly and boring as you end up with someone like her?

Uh, yeah. Whatever. I see through the self-deprecation act, Mr. "I'm the cute-funny-charming one".

Still, I took it as a compliment.

Gosh, GSR, have I mentioned how cute-funny-charming you are?

5. Jill Is Awesome
Getting to meet Jill in person was a lot of fun. She schlepped from Staten Island to Manhattan

It's not that bad. I do it nearly every day. A few hundred thousand people do as well.

to meet for a few hours on a random Thursday,

Isn't Thursday party night? And, um, really, do I have anything better to do? (Heh. I meant... of course... you're my friend, dammit! If I'm not hanging out with my friends, what the hell kind of social life do I have?)

and she was a very gracious host.
Aw, thanks!

We talked music, life, and bullshit the entire time and it was like sitting down with someone I had known forever. I hope she and will get to do it again (despite her gross inability to get to D.C.),

Can I blame that on Kat? Every time I try to schedule a trip to DC...

and if you have wondered if she is as cool in person as she is on her blog….she is, of course, cooler.

Okay, I really can't beat that. Let me just say, GSR is a fantastic person and the type of friend I wish for all of you. He's helped me through some seriously crappy stuff. Plus, he makes me laugh every day. Plus plus, his musical recommendations are killer. Plus plus plus, in the middle of deadly serious audiophilia, he will totally let me go off on a tangent about how much the lead singer's vocal delivery gets me all hot and bothered. It's gonna break my heart when I have to steal his wife in the afterlife.

Randomosity, the likes of which this blog has never known.

Hey... Wassup... How's it going. So, yeah... I... um... Yeah, I know I haven't called in a while. I've been, you know... running around and stuff... No. Of course it's not you! It's me. It's me, it's me! Trust me, it's always me.

Oh wait. I wasn't going to open my old baggage anymore.

SCRATCH THAT!

*****

I used to blog. I blogged. I was a blogger. Are you still a blogger if you don't blog? What if you re-design your blog and don't write anything? What if you re-design your blog and then party for a fortnight, but you're getting older, so you can't party like you used to, but that's okay, that's cool, cuz you really don't wanna party like you used to, you maybe just want to catch up with some friends now and then, but prefer to spend more evenings on the sofa with the sci-fi?

And concerts. Shows are always cool, live music, live music rocks, literally, and wouldn't it be cool to just see a lot of live music, but not so much party afterwards anymore, maybe just, you know, come home and lie on the sofa with the sci-fi? Yeah.

Because that whole "find a way to get your friends, who incidentally, are trippin' ba!!s, home, in one piece and preferably alive, at sunrise, from a secluded warehouse in the middle of fuck-all-I-don't-know-she-was-the-one-who-drove (who? her? that her? the one making out with her water bottle in the back seat?) industri-burbia" thing? Is so 1995. SOMEBODY HYDRATE HER. THAT SHIT WILL MAKE YOU SWEAT TO DEATH.

Oh, I'm not ruling out the.. uh... live action, you know action is always good, action, play, nookie, lovin', that's some good stuff--well, if it's good. If, you know, the dude has a clue. If the dude has a clue even when he's not... um... SCRATCH THAT.

NO, DON'T LICK THE BOTTLE.
DRINK IT.
DRINK IT!
DRINK THE FUCKING WATER!

Yes. Lovely. Lovely I think, live music, good music, good live music, an uneventful trip home, the sofa, the remote, the sci-fi... and good live action. Am I getting old? And if I were, would that necessarily be a bad thing? How about mature? Mature, not old. Yes. I like that.

Here's to maturity, people. Rock on.

This is "American Music", take 1.

How much do I love that song, you ask?
Let me count the ways.

Or...
You could just watch me make a total idiot of myself here.

Hilary had asked for another video. You can thank her for motivating this insane degree of silly.

Yes, I really am this much of a dumbass.
And you know what?
I'm totally okay with that.

Saturday in the car with my parents.

I've had a craptastic fortnight. Today I woke up at the hiney crack of dawn after only five hours of sleep, most of which were ridden by freakish dreams. My mother (Our Lady of the Lentils) discovered me staring at the laptop an inch or two down from dawn's butt dimple and decided I would be accompanying her and my father (Pretty Boy) to Brooklyn to run some errands. Then she offered to buy me a puppy.

On the way to the bank:
Pretty Boy and I sing rockin' duet of "Living Loving Maid". By word association, this leads us to a discussion of Iron Maiden. Our Lady of the Lentils also believes no one should have to hear Pretty Boy and Jill discuss heavy metal. She offers to get me a manicure.

On the way to Brooklyn:
Pretty Boy and I sing trippy duet of "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Heart Club Band". As the radio station is now on a two-play kick, Jill bops through "With A Little Help From My Friends" alone. As Pretty Boy announces that he feels the imminent need to purchase that red Corvette he's been eying. Our Lady of the Lentils offers to buy Jill a puppy.

On the way to my aunt's house:
Pretty Boy and I perform spoken word interpretation of "Space Oddity".
Our Lady of the Lentils offers to buy me a puppy.
Twice.

On the way home:
Pretty Boy and I belt "Wish You Were Here".
A red Corvette, he concludes, would make life decidedly un-fishbowl-like.
Our Lady of the Lentils offers to buy me two puppies.

quick flashback

Day 232: Thursday, April 19, 2007. I don't wear baseball caps often, but I'm attached to this one. In my first job after college, I was a Page at CBS, which basically boils down to spending four afternoons a week in audience services at the Late Show with David Letterman. Every day is crazy and hectic, and for all the time pages spend answering questions out on Broadway, the audience of nearly 500 is always moved from the street to their seats in approximately 12 minutes. It's not as easy as it sounds.

Anyway, this hat is authentic "Late Show" straight from the Christmas party memorabilia. It doesn't say "with David Letterman" on it because CBS sells the merchandise with his name on it. Therefore, stuff that comes straight from Dave and staff doesn't have his name on it. Like all jobs, there are days you just want to run and hide, but looking back almost a decade later, I can't say that I didn't have a damn good time.

For the most part, the rest of the pages I worked with were awesome, impressive, amazingly competent people. Dave was always cool with me whenever I ran into him. And I saw a lot of musical acts perform up close and personal. I was there the day that 53rd Street was closed for the Smashing Pumpkins to perform outside. Unfortunately, the city stopped the show before they could finish the hour set they'd planned. It was awesome while it lasted.

And you thought Christmas around here was an experience.

I was sent to a 24 hour grocery store near midnight to buy five more pounds of flour.

I woke up the the digital cable TV Classic R&B station blasting from the living room. Which is right below my bedroom.

I came downstairs and there were five dozen eggs on the kitchen table.

And nine pounds of cured sliced pork products.

...

At least my parents have good taste in music. Or this day could be much, much worse.

Dear Potential American "Idol" s

Don't attempt:

Dusty Springfield. Unless you can belt. I mean, really. Belt. That's all I'm going to say on the matter because those who mess with the Dusty Springfield make me want to cry. And claw.

The Zombies. Unless you've got the world-weary naughty in your voice. And the grit. "She's Not There"? NOT a song for you to go trotting through the audience high-fiving people. She lied! People cried! Can you possibly NOT be so very Barenaked Ladies about the whole thing? For freak's sake, SHE'S! NOT! THERE!

The Stones. First of all, "Paint It Black" probably shouldn't be covered. Ever. By anyone. But overlooking that, here's what I've got for you, Miss Wishing-You-Were-Pat-Benatar:

You're not.

Nor are you Mick.

You can't cover the Stones unless you can rock. And wearing carefully-shredded black does NOT magically a rocker make.

The Kinks. Unless you've actually...

you know...

had sex.

That's right, I'm looking at you, Silly Virgin Boy.

"You Really Got Me" is a seminal song. That riff is historical. That distortion is historical.

And! There is sex dripping from every apparently simple but deceptive "Oh yeah" in there. She really got him goin'. Do you know what that means? Better yet, do you know how that feels? I'm thinking that's a big fat "no".

Because if it were a "yes", you wouldn't've been skipping around on stage as if on the trail of a pretty prancing unicorn.

HE CAN'T SLEEP AT NIGHT!

You, on the other hand, obviously sleep very well after your mommy serves you your warm milk.

I am personally ready to make you a virgin sacrifice for what you did to that song.

Sweet, melodious dreams to you.



*The chicks that attempted the Shirley Bassey get a pass on my rancor for this week, as they sung their backsides off.

Perfunctory attempt at blog post. Exaggerated.

I'm still sick.

I'm overwhelmed with work.

Today is the birthday of the Guy Best Friend.

Normally, he reads the Jill Blog religiously.

Right now, he's on the west coast, male bonding.

And doing whatever the hell other kind of sordid things he does when he's in L.A.

I don't know.

I don't ask.

Even the bare minimum of details from his escapades are usually enough for me to know it's time to make the story stop.

And I'm the girl who just wrote about making out with the insane designer - instructor in front of the vomitini.

1992. The GBF, then a stranger, shows up for play rehearsal with a cassette of Creedence Clearwater Revival, Chronicle (Vol. 1), in his pocket. We compare and contrast "Have You Ever Seen the Rain?" and "Who'll Stop the Rain?" The rest is histor--

Nah, the rest is high school histrionics, and some silly self-obsessed neurotic cheerleader with a Virgin Mary complex trying to get me kicked out of school because she didn't know how to cope with the fact her life wasn't the Disney production she and her Stepford Mom were trying to make it out to be.

Oh, Pooh! Did I actually type that?

The things I do for my friends.

Happy birthday, Q.

The kind of day I'm having -- it's apparently still better than being inside the brain of Billy Joel

I was going to pick a Billy Joel tune to go along with the shot, considering that's the sheet music we have out there. But then I did a quick review of his oeuvre and realized that any song that seems remotely related to the feeling of this shot pretty much makes a person want to lock herself in a closet and never speak to another human being again. REALLY!

Poor guy. (Well, actually, he's rich.) But have you listened to his down-tempo stuff? REALLY LISTENED? No thanks, dude. I just have the flu or something. Not utter disillusionment with human relations dressed up with a tiny bow.

There's some wondering and some walls. And dog poop.

I once made a playlist that culminated with "Wonderwall" and Kat commented "[I] have recently decided that 'Wonderwall' is my favorite song of all time, which is strange, because it isn't even my favorite Oasis song."

This makes sense.

Seconds ago, I telepathically surveyed Everyone I Know Who Has Thought about Oasis Enough to Actually Have a Favorite Oasis Song and the results were, as I suspected, unilaterally in favor of, "Anyone who has thought about Oasis enough to actually have a favorite Oasis song would never pick 'Wonderwall'." And yet--"Anyone who has thought about Oasis enough to actually have a favorite Oasis song is necessarily the type of person to need, for completely unmusical reasons, a song like 'Wonderwall'." Thus, Kat's paradox. Thus, welcome to my brain.

On March 5th of last year, I wrote something. It had nothing to do with Kat. Today on March 5th, I present a guest blogger. Last year's post had nothing to do with him, either. If I weren't posting the guest post, I'd be writing about something else. Last year's post could have had nothing to do with that, either.

Last year's March 5th post has nothing to do with any of this in the very same way, or perhaps in an inverse or converse or contrapositive way--really, my logic is very fuzzy when I'm trying to act as if I'm saying something that makes sense--that "Wonderwall" has nothing to do with anyone's actual favorite Oasis song.

Oh yeah, Brandon wrote something. Here it is:

*****
Another sleep inspiring guest post.

I quit my own blog in the hope of becoming a more productive, contributing member of society. I deleted my statcounter, pared down my feedreader and did my best to ignore the daily rote of potential blog fodder that we are bombarded with daily. ("Was that a funny bowel movement?" "Did my co-worker really just order a bottle of 'bukkake'?" "OMG Y'ALL BRITNEY!" "My boyfriend did/said something moderately funny and I laughed." "I was sort of depressed last night, but thank god you all understand." "DRUNK BLOGGING TEH SUXOR." "All your base ad nauseam…").

Okay, but I can't resist dipping back into the pool after so long selling hot dogs on the dry sand. It reminds me of high school when my professional goals in life were to be a second baseman for the St. Louis Cardinals and then hawk Mr. Coffee in Canada in my golden years (Age 35+). One day before a game I decided that I didn't want to DO baseball anymore, so I showed up in my Members Only Jacket and dropped my uniform off to my coach who rolled his eyes and put some sophomore into the lineup in my traditional 3 spot, the nerve! Anyway, later on in the summer, I drove by the field during a summer league game, and the coach begged me to come play because the team was down, and they had an extra uniform and I could change in the back of his El Camino. I struck out on three pitches and muffed the only ball hit to me. I was scuttling.

What the hell, I figure I once imagined my future as a professional blogger, I might as well pull over, put on the old uniform and swing away:

"Wipeless - A Blogger's Return to Glory"

Anyway, the other day I was watching my dog do her business in the yard, and I thought, WTF. Wow. Dogs are so lucky. They never have to wipe (rarely, anyway). And then I thought, wouldn't it be cool to invent a new technique for using the restroom in a way that didn't require wiping? I'm guessing it would take a bit of studying the way dogs do it, and then mimicking those particular motions that seem so effective: down on all fours, pulling your pelvis in as close to your forearms as possible, spreading your hind legs wide, and looking very sad and vulnerable. I could do a DVD/YouTube/DailyMotion release and go all viral.

The best part is that if I got it patented, I would be paid royalties every time someone did it. I think I would call it the Wipeless (c) Method. People would be all talking, 'Have you tried Wipeless (c)?' and they'd be all, 'Yes! It's amazing! I can't imagine that I went without for sooo long!'

The next best part is all the trees that would be saved.

The next best part is being able to use both hands in an Ethiopian restaurant. (/rimshot.exe)

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

(262) Comments (15) Trackbacks (12) Diggs (4) Del.icio.us (3) Furl (2) StumbleUpon (Partridge) Pear Tree

However, I didn't do any of that. I didn't become a contributing member of society. I couldn't bring myself to ignore the daily blog fodder that with any luck an alien race will uncover in a time capsule long after the human race has shut down its last server. And the only thing I 'produced' was a list of the various ways Regina Spektor pronounces the word 'better' in her album 'Begin to Hope':

• bettum
• biddem
• burra
• bettre
• beda
• pida
• bettor
• bodhrr

The irony, of course, is that I remain hopelessly fascinated with anyone willing to put out their rote miscellany into cyberspace, anyone willing to put out their private details with accompanying photos on her flicker (tee hee), frankly, anyone willing to put out, period. To the point that I'm co-hosting a blog meetup in Portland this coming Saturday known as TequilaCon and have been consumed in the past few weeks with reading 40 blogs, 40 mirror sites into the souls of friends and strangers alike, hoping to get back into the swing of things, hoping to avoid making the unrecoverable joke, even though if there's anything I really like, it's cringing at the remembrance of things past, and by things I mean words uttered in complete disregard for the safety of those in your drinking posse. At all of these meetups, there's at least one word said that shouldn't've. One regrettable hand placed in Nether Nether Land. One stare that lasts a little too long. And of course, this is all compounded by the hours and hours of self-doubt, where you are wracked with the conviction that nobody could possibly like you in real life.

This wasn't a problem at the last TequilaCon, of course, because Jill and Kat were there, and I knew that if I were to say the wrong thing, place the wrong hand, or ogle the wrong guy, either one of them would quickly pull me aside and remind me that not every blogger likes to discuss their hoo-has so cavalierly, and then they would laugh and laugh and laugh and put another shot of tequila in my fist. And on Sunday, we would rest and pray to god the airport had free wi-fi.

Exit Curmudgeon.

Last week, I got to hang out live and in person with The Chronic Curmudgeon. He had something going on in the Times Square area, so we planned to meet at Haru, a "Modern Japanese Fusion Restaurant". Or, as I like to call it, "the sushi place across from the Yahoo sign". The food is fantastic, but the acoustics suck. One listen, and we high-tailed it to an Irish pub a few blocks east, where we drank and ate cheeseburgers. This was clearly a much better choice.

Until the woman who was pouring out of all available oddly-ruffled seams of her white blouse walked by. Then there was some indigestion.

So what's my point? Mudge has retired the Mudge Blog. He's making some career moves and sees the wisdom in not having his interior monologue fully accessible to anyone with a tin cup and a wire. Good move, dude.

I, on the other hand, am saddened that I will not have his completely random lists of musical opinions pre-written for me to argue each morning. "The Humpty Dance" on a list of top Hits of One Hit Wonders? Shaaaaaame, you.

Of course, this just means I will get to harass him more via email and other e-tools of musical ambush. And glorify opinions that I announce, at this point, purely to annoy the ever-living dissonance out of him. SURE, The Ataris had every right to cover "Boys of Summer". And "Breakfast at Tiffany's"--poetry. Absolute poetry, I tell you.

Heh. It was so easy to play devil's advocate on the Mudge blog.

Anyhoo, rumor has it, Mudge is still going to be frequenting the Jill Blog and contributing to the war of the sexes that my comments boxes normally evolve into. And I feel fortunate to have him around and call him a friend. So let's bid a fond farewell to his lil corner of cyberspace, and welcome the itinerant Curmudgeon whenever his busy-ness allows him to throw Y chromosome poo here in Jill-land.

"if I ever cease to love"

"Can
you
give
me
sanc...
tu...
ar...
y..."

New Orleans--never been there. But I'll tell you where I have been--at the center of myth, in the veins of ritual, in a swirl of Catholic mysticism and grasping, gripping, faithless faith-wanting semi-despair--yet catechized into never relinquishing the last of belief; on darkest days, the tiniest of seeds fallen out of place onto cold marble, nowhere to root in the vastest expanse of empty echoless cathedral. The undertow of emptiness is lonely lonely until you recognize other drowners in your deep--and then it is heady, foaming with recognition.

*****


Green, gold, purple;
Mardi Gras in three colors.
Faith, power, justice;
nothing more compelling than a trinity.

Carnival season, farewell to flesh, from Twelfth Night to Mardi Gras: bidding adieu with a long, hot, salty embrace; anticipating forty days and nights of penitence and denial, to become worthy.

And what of those who never felt unworthy?

*****


"I must find
a place to hide..."

I never liked costumes, wouldn't wear masks. Never cared for losing myself, even for a day. Won't wear things that don't feel like mine; can't look in the mirror at a stranger primped for a ritual I did not originate.

"...a place for
me to
hide..."

Masques, parades, beads, and baubles; masks and costumes; torch-lit processions and liquor-lit revelers: the ritualized, orgiastic losing of self. Then here are we, too vain, too proud, to ever lose our selves in the masses--charter members of a secret society not unlike the Carnival krewes who cloak the season in mystique. And yet, a paradox: never being lost makes it that much more difficult to find the self when necessary. This we know too well.

Know we also: there are better ways to dissolve the self, if only holding out for a moment of personal choosing, so as not to be a one among the all. One among one, one among two, one among few well-chosen--these we can abide.

Remember always, the re-emergence of the self-lit blinds--blinds others, as the sun-staring had first blinded the audacious into dissolution.

Audacity is not a sin.

*****



"Can
you
find
me
soft
a..
sy...
lum..."

As I sit writing, in a comfy chair, in a homey chain-cafe, the time approaching closing, the employees that I'd befriended earlier cross their tolerance threshold for cafe music and find solace in The Doors. They start with "People Are Strange", though they may as well have hit "The Soft Parade", so engrossed in the mythic and mystic is my mind.

"I can't make
it anymore..."

Say what they may of James Douglas Morrison, entering this world on the Immaculate Conception, exiting via Paris on the third of July... but he knew.

He knew.

*****



We need not end life as he did, grabbing wildly at nothings, wishing density upon vapors and hallucinations, thrashing to fill the void, succeeding only in expelling the very air that shapes the vessel. What seems a vacuum is in actuality vast potential. 'Tis the void that's an illusion.

...And I would give you directions to the location of my soul, if I thought you needed them.

a very family holiday season, recap via music

December 20


Jill boards car of the Parental Units with Our Lady of the Lentils for heavy-duty Christmas Eve grocery shopping. "I Want to Hold Your Hand" blasts from speakers immediately upon ignition. Dad (aka Pretty Boy, because... well, he's high maintenance) has been spending quality time with the recent Beatles' Love release.

Our Lady of the Lentils: Ahhh... this came out when I was fifteen... no, fourteen...
Jill: Let's see. When you were fourteen, you had the Beatles. When I was fourteen, we had New Kids on the Block. How is that fair?
Our Lady of the Lentils: No one said life was fair, Jill.

*****

December 22

Jill and Pretty Boy in the mall, an earlier-than-usual not-quite-last-ditch effort to buy Our Lady of the Lentils a Christmas present. Jill discovers Bowie t-shirt that she simply must have.

Pretty Boy: So... uh... Isn't Bowie passé?

Pretty Boy recognizes the Look of Death.

Pretty Boy: I meant... um... with your generation, no? I don't know.

Jill pulls out the poker face, ironically, as taught by Pretty Boy.

Jill: The Doors?

Stare-down.

Pretty Boy: Blasphemy!

Dramatic pause.

Jill: Sucker.

*****

December 24, Christmas Eve

Little Brother arrives to rearrange furniture to fit a score of diners. Jill gets put on Uncle Mikie Duty. Go ahead, ask what that means.

Oh, what is that, you ask? Good question!

Drive to Brooklyn. Pick up 75 year old great uncle houseguest. Be sure not to forget all relevant great uncle accoutrements, including medications, reading glasses, clean underwear, and spare clothing. Get him back to Staten Island in one piece. Mini-detour: find fresh Italian bread.

Little Brother: Random choice for a Christmas Eve outfit?
Jill: Nah.
Little Brother: So that's the game for the evening: see how many comments you get.
Jill: I believe the game's already started.
Little Brother: Difference is, I realize there's a game.
Jill: You can keep score.
Little Brother: Just refrain from playing any of your "girl power" trippy CD's with Uncle Mikie in the car.
Jill: What? "Not the kind of guy that thinks he's smart"?
Little Brother: Mmm, yeah, "the type that always looks the part..." Jackass.
Jill: Fine.
Little Brother: And he's probably not "feelin' yummy head to toe," either.

*****



Imagine anecdote that would have gone here had Jill not been delusionally ill on the bathroom floor all day December 25th.

*****

December 31, New Year's Eve


*Fill in quality time at my aunt's house, and a lot of mockery of Meatloaf and Fergie*



Jill heads out to local bar with the girl cousins (minus one, Miss Party Promoter, who was off partying at the promoted party. And losing her cell phone.) Where they plan to meet up with one of the boy cousins.



And end up drinking for free. And pouring all available small bills into the jukebox.

approximately 2:45 am
Danny: What do you want to hear now?
Allie: This is not really stuff I know.
Danny: How do you not know any of this?
Allie: I don't know. Why do you?
Danny: What do you mean, why do I? Why don't you?
Allie: Who sings that "black" song?
Danny: Uhhh... which "black" song?
Allie: Paint It Black?
Danny: Dear Lord, are you fucking kidding?
Allie: What?
Danny: Who sings Paint It Black?
Allie: Yes.
Danny: The Rolling. Fucking. Stones. That's who.
Allie: Oh... Can we play that?
Danny: Yes. Yes we can.

approximately 3:30 am
Paul Simon has just become the composer of "Me and Someone Having Oral Sex in the Schoolyard".

approximately 4 am
on the jukebox: Led Zeppelin, "Whole Lotta Love"

Tina: Bonham is soooo...

She throws her arms out widely and plays imaginary drums, ecstatically.

Tina: And other drummers are soooo...

She brings her arms in tight and plays imaginary drums, constrainedly.

Tina: He's my dream drummer.
Jill: In the dream band.
Danny: Me three.
Jill: With Page.
Danny: And Hendrix.
Tina: Goes without saying. And writing?
Danny: Dylan.
Jill: Dylan.
Tina: Dylan.

...twenty minutes later...

Jill: ...Janis Joplin. Obviously.
Tina: ...Of course, but you know who's really underrated as a vocalist?...

...ten minutes later...

Barman: There's really no band you guys can't dissect, huh?

"Penny Lane" comes on the jukebox.

Jill: Oh, oh, oh!
Tina: And probably no song lyrics, either.
Barman: So I've noticed.

Jill and Tina sing. Two verses later...

Barman: Come on. Nobody knows the lyrics to "Penny Lane".
Danny: You really don't want to dare them.

*****

January 1, New Year's Day


Aunt Ro: Nice shirt, Tom.
Tommy: You like...?
Aunt Ro: Of course. How was the party?

Tommy shakes his head sadly.

Tina: That good, huh?
Tommy: From what I've heard, I should've hung out with you guys.
Jill: It was a good time.
Aunt Ro: Must have been. He wasn't home when I woke up.
Danny: They could've had a more extensive Zeppelin collection, though.
Tina: Yeah.
Jill: For real.
Aunt Ro: I saw Zeppelin live.



Four cases of whiplash.

a repeatedly asked question.

In this installment of Ask Jill, Jill answers a question individually queried by several different cyber-entities. Given Jill's aural fixation, it is not surprising that many of the folks she regularly interacts with are aural-obsessed as well. Even less surprising, then, that they would ask this question:

Does Jill have one of those famous New York accents?

Dear God, no!

Jill went to an all-girls Catholic high school where she spent four years in competitive speech, performance, and mock trial tournaments, under the tutelage of a nun who could have been a linebacker who tortured the Brooklyn out of Jill.

Actually, we should say the Brooklyn was dialed-down. And stored away. Because a New York accent is like any other language--useful as a second language in a pinch; comes in handy in emergency situations. It is also like any other abandoned mother tongue in that it is often returned to under severe stress or the influence of excessive amounts of alcohol.

Granted, Jill is lazy. Though well-trained by acting and speech instructors to articulate in Standard American English, in comfortable company she says "gonna" instead of "going to" and uses identifiable New York regionalisms that would severely displease Sister Linebacker. Let it be understood, however, that "youse" is never anywhere in the Jill Lexicon.

Also granted, there are some people in Jill's Real Life Circles who seem to think that even the soft usage of lazy regionalisms is reason to be condescended upon, especially when they believe people from their region to be superior to / classier than native outer borough New Yorkers simply by virtue of their birth or street address. (Gosh, did that sound a bit bitter?)

Jill does not agree. The full and proper articulation of every phonetic entity is rather exhausting, and actually--though not to be construed as a license to be inarticulate--Jill finds it hard to trust any person who doesn't now and again take a phonetic shortcut. Especially among friends.

Slang is a beautiful thing. Use it among friends, and--just like big words--when nothing else would say it better.

The Further Adventures of Jill and Hil

Subtitle: A Sort-of-Review of the Broadway Musical, High Fidelity
Sub-subtitle: And by God is that name perfectly ironic, because you couldn't get less fidelity if you screwed the maid of honor on the church altar shortly after kissing your new wife.



It's never a good sign when, on the way home from a musical performance, the tune running through your head is the one you heard while waiting in line for the bathroom at the bar you stopped in after the show. Even worse if you can't actually differentiate in your mind any of the songs you heard in the aforementioned musical performance, except by the classic bass-lines and occasional melodies that the creative team gang-raped in their attempt at musical allusion. And if something has to get gang-raped in any given story, in this one it sure as hell wouldn't be the chick who was shit-facedly attempting to dance all sex-kitten-like to the afore-fore-mentioned song playing at the bar you stopped in on the way home, because so reeking of desperation was she that no self-respecting would-be gang rapists could possibly get off on overpowering her. Not only that, but she probably couldn't dance sober, either.

*****

When Hilary asked if I wanted to see the show, my response was this:

TWO DATES WITH YOU IN ONE WEEK! YAY! I am so in. I loved the book, and the movie... oooooooh the movie... and I'm not even one of those Cusack-obsessed chicks. Well, that isn't even a typical Cusack character. OH, HOW I LOVE THAT CHARACTER. Apparently, I like my men overly-analytical, obsessive compulsive, self-flagellating, and bordering insanity. I'm pretty sure the musical is going to tear all that is wonderful and beautiful about him to shreds of happy-go-lucky mainstream pop crap--and will very likely consist of music that that guy would hate loathe despise and detest until the second coming of... Sid Vicious--but with you beside me, it shall be a party in a box. And, of course, Ben & Jerry's around the block.

And I could pretty much stop writing this post right there. Because I told me so. Indeed, every time I leave the house to rendezvous with Hilary, it's a blog post waiting to happen. The show sucked that much. And the $7 we spent on Ben & Jerry's was an infinitely sweeter buy than the $8 desperate-to-fill-the-house last-minute theater tickets. If you don't count the writing fodder. And so I must admit: you can never really put a price on the writing fodder.

*****

Not familiar with High Fidelity? Novel, written by Nick Hornby, published in 1995. Film adaptation, 2000, starring John Cusack. What do you need to know about the main character? His apartment is full of vinyl, organized--not alphabetically, or by genre, or by date of composition--but autobiographically. In the order he acquired the albums. He owns a record store in a location purposely chosen for its lack of foot traffic. And he would make fun of his employees and patrons--except he knows he's one of them. This is not a guy who's going to translate well to Broadway. Is he fucking awesome, or what?

*****
Let's start with a moment that actually remains spiritually faithful to the source material. Because there weren't many of them.

Scene: In the theater.

On stage: A man walks into the record store looking for "My Heart Will Go On" for his daughter.
Employee: Celine Dion? Do you even know your daughter? Oh, I'm sorry, is she in a coma?
In the audience: Jill and Hil cackle maniacally. No one else laughs.

*****

Here's a hint, o brilliant producers: the characters loathe the very tastes of the people to whom you're trying to sell tickets. Leave enough of that loathing in and you alienate your target demographic. Take enough of that out and alienate fans of the book and film. Try to encapsulate the characters' personalities via a musical genre they studiously avoid, and piss fans the fuck off.

Oh yeah: Rape music and offend everyone.

Well, maybe not everyone.

Woman sitting next to Hilary: We don't go to these things a lot, and I just don't understand. Why would something like this get such a bad review?

*****

Scene: Ben & Jerry's, after the show.

Jill: Right, so how many numbers did you count that butchered classic songs in an attempt to create musical "allusions" that would pander to the book and film fans but that were just really grating and possibly sounded worse than nails on a chalkboard?
Hilary: Uh... all of them?
Jill: And the whole "borrowing measures of music but having to change the notes so that they weren't actually infringing upon copyrights" didn't work so much, did it?
Hilary: Mmm... there's a reason why those songs weren't written that way in the first place.
Jill: Dissonance.

*****

My ears may have been bleeding, but if I were Pete Townshend, there would be a price on these people's heads.

*****

Scene: Walking along 45th Street.

Jill: But the performers were good. They did their best with what they were stuck with.
Hilary: I bet they all just really like each other.
Jill: The camaraderie of a sinking ship?
Hilary: And the leading lady was probably ecstatic to be kissing the hot understudy.

*****

Well, it's true. You didn't think I'd write a post and not mention some hot guy, especially since I'm getting threats from my regular male commenters? Ha! Ha, I say! I love you guys, but ha! By the way, there's another hottie down below.

*****

Scene: Bar on 35th Street. Jill and Hilary walk in and head straight for the bathroom. Four guys sit at the last table in the back. The ladies' room is occupied. Our heroines wait. Beastie Boys' "Intergalactic" blares out of various speakers, one of which needs to be put out of its misery. The hot guy decides it is his job. Back at the bar, shit-faced desperate girl jumps off her stool and tries to attract would-be gang rapists with moves I can only describe as indescribable

Jill: Oh, she's having a good time, huh?
Reasonably attractive guy: Yeah, she's been like that for a while. So, we wandered around for a while looking for the best place for a pint and we think we've found it. You ladies find what you're looking for tonight?
Jill: Shitty music, good ice cream, a few self-portraits, a bathroom... Wow, I wonder if I could get a picture of her. That would be great. Not enough light in here, huh?
Hilary: Nope.
Jill: I'd need the flash.
Hilary: Yep.
Jill: She probably notice?
Hilary: Probably not.

The woman is taking a very long time in the tiny bathroom. The hot guy has returned to his seat and has his studiously aloof look in full effect. The speaker has been disabled.

Jill: Do you think one of you guys could check out the men's room and see if it's usable for us?

Guy Number 3 has already jumped up to do so.

Reasonably Attractive Guy: I think my friend has that covered for you.

Just then the woman evacuates the bathroom and the point is moot.

On the way out, Hot Guy still utterly fascinated by his beer.

Reasonably Attractive Guy: Leaving so soon?
Jill: We have a few more shots we need to get before going home.
Reasonably Attractive Guy: I hope you get them, then.
Jill: Thanks.
Reasonably Attractive Guy: Good night.

Four steps toward the door.

Jill: Now.
Hilary: Yep.

Look over shoulder with charming smile and a "goodnight, gentlemen." Hot Guy has found an alternate point of focus that is nowhere near his beer. Studiously aloof, but not the type to look away when he's been caught staring, either.

Hot Guy: Good night, ladies.

*****

Scene: Outside on 35th Street, Hilary sets up tripod and Jill frames shot. From around the corner arrives a woman so classy and chic, she only could have picked up her style from a Whitesnake video. No New York accent, but definitely not a resident. A tourist.

Video tramp: Oh my God! You guys! Like! What is the best! Place! To get like! Fucking! A drink! Around here!
Hilary: You see that bar right over there?
Video tramp: Yeah?!?!
Hilary: There's four hot guys in the back.
Video tramp: Really!
Hilary: Yeah. They said they wanted company.
Video tramp: Awesome!

A page from the eX-Files.

Well, more like "the friends with benefits" files, but that's not quite as pithy, is it?

Warning: Flipping through XM radio stations may cause flashbacks.

The song: uber-atrocious "I Love You Always Forever".
The "artist": one-hit-wonder Donna Lewis.
The year: 1996.
The scene: Jill's car, the beach parking lot, summer.
The time: Sometime between nine pm and midnight. This I know because it was dark and we were killing time, waiting for our friends to get off work once the theater closed, and getting a head start on them by finishing off the bottle of whatever it was that I had gifted to my brother and then taken back when he wasn't home.
The cast: Jill and Drew, and I use his name only because it's relevant to the story.

Drew flips through radio stations and stops.

Drew: Listen to this.
Jill: You're not seriously playing that piece of perky pop crap in my car, are you?
Drew: Just listen. You hear that?
Jill: Yes. That would be why I'm asking if you're serious.
Drew: You hear all the you's?
Jill: That's called lazy lyric-writing.
Drew: They could be Drew's.



Drew smiles with great self-satisfaction.

Drew: "I love Drew, always forever."



Drew: And the best part: "Drew's got the most unbelievable blue eyes I've ever seen."



Drew: Come on. Admit it.
Jill: What's unbelievable is that we both fit in the car with your ego.
Drew: Ah, you love it... "Everything I will do for Drew."
Jill: You are so cut off for the night.
Drew: There's nothing left in the bottle, anyway.
Jill: Oh, I wasn't talking about the alcohol.
Donna Lewis: "Say it, say it again."
Jill: I definitely wasn't talking about the alcohol.

I pimp, therefore I am. Or: have you met my cousin Tina?

Every now and then I feel compelled to share some real-life person that actually has a name. You know, as opposed to those nameless creatures from the hazy great beyond of my personal life that I write cryptic prose-poems about? Right, yeah. Well, this is one of those posts that includes an actual, documented, living, breathing human being that I know, and whose name I will actually divulge.

And not only do I divulge them name, but I encourage you to remember it. And not only that! (This should probably be where I throw in the six extra steak knives for free.) I urge you to seek her out elsewhere in the ether of cyberspace. Find out as much as you can about her! And indeed, be her friend. Are you ready?

Tina Mancusi.

Oh yeah. And she's my cousin.

Now, if I were really a publicity pimp, I'd have written:

The name: Tina Mancusi
The CD: Rivington Hotel
Buy it now.

But how smarmy is that? And we all know how Jill hates smarmy.

Oh we don't? Well, we will soon. But that's a story for a different day. Anyway, back to Cousin Tina. She's a hottie, no?

You may recall a self-portait I took a few weeks ago, in an unfamiliar bathroom, on four hours' sleep, with possibly a bit of a hangover. Yes. That one. That's the morning after I began attempting to write publicity materials to promote Tina's new CD. Alas, there was much wine and ogling of photos of attractive internet personages and very little productivity on my part. The problem (besides how easy it is to procrastinate when there are hot guys to be perved upon) is this: I love music, but I don't regularly write about it.

Hell, I spent six years studying theater and I still bang my head against the table attempting to come up with the right words to explain that.

And also: Cousin Tina is a bit eclectic. There's the pop/rock "Man of the Year", my new dancing around the house in my undies favorite (and I'm not just saying that because she's my cousin--listen to it on GarageBand.com and tell me if you don't move some part of you). But that's not representative of the CD. In fact, her sound is a melange of Americana. Someone help me articulate it!

She gets bluesy with two Tom Waits covers (which, of course, can't be posted on the internet). The lyrics she writes are strongly visual, and her signature tracks are these driving, sultry rock ballads.

The title track, "Rivington Hotel" boasts one of my favorite song lyrics, possibly ever. Are you ready for it?

"The best part of you, baby, just ran right down my leg."

Oh yeah. How could you not love a chick who has the balls to write that?

And then perform it live all over New York City? Okay, maybe some of you boys didn't appreciate that so much. But you'll appreciate her delivery if you listen.

"Dusted" (also on Garage Band.com) calls to mind--if I may be so bold--what might happen if someone set one of my cryptic posts to music. (Listen to that one and there will be no doubt in your mind that she and I are related.)

My absolute favorites, though, are "Visions" (sometimes I fall for those songs that all-but-demand you to sing along) and "High Hard Bone". Yeah, it means what you think it means. This one was actually written by a male friend of hers, and the narrator "should be" a man. Pah! "Should be", our sweet asses.

So, loyal readers and music-maniacs, what's the point here? Of course I'm asking you to check her out. (The music, dudes. Not just her legs.)

Give her a listen and rating on GarageBand.com. Say hi on her MySpace. I've already pimped the CD above. And if you have some words to help me articulate, let me know! Tina and I shall drink a toast to your assistance.

Oh, and if you know of any indie record labels searching for a downtown-rock-chick-chic type who owns her vocal poetry and can put it out there live, do us a favor and send them our way, will ya? Thanks.

And Tina? This means you can't call you-know-who and tell him you-know-what.

you can talk to me, but singing would be preferable.

I'm going to let you in on a little secret: I've been considering podcasting. I've been kicking the idea around for a few months, and picking the brains of various folks, including the awesome Drew of Evoca, the company that enabled FringeNYC's podcasting series.

Drew, having heard all about my evolving interest in audio, has just sent me what may be my gateway drug: a request to have my readers test Evoka's new in-browser recorder. Essentially, you can leave my blog voicemails. Ya'll have mics, right?

I'm excited about this because people might sing to me.

I also tend to be charmed by males with cute accents. Especially southern Americans, Brits, and Aussies.

But really, I'm equal opportunity.

So please, record me a comment! Ramble, babble, sing, cajole if you think it will get me to start podcasting, leave requests, just say hi. This could be a fun game!

Why?
1. It would make me happy.
2. It might do other things for me.
3. It will get me through this long weekend to the promised land of actual sleep.
4. It will help my awesome friend Drew and the cool folks at Evoka, who were really helpful to us at FringeNYC.

If you have comments on the utility of this recorder, you can write them here and I will send them along to Drew, or you can leave them on his post.

TALK TO ME!

Top Twelve Reasons Why Jill Is a Geek (aka, Jill's Very Own Brand of "Cool")

1.Talking about the size of your external hard drive is exciting for me. And I literally mean "external hard drive." Not the figurative interpretation of the phrase.

2. I glow with love when I talk about my cell phone. Don't touch my laptop. And if you know what's good for you, you won't even cross your eyes at my iPod.

3. Can quote Shakespeare like some people quote baseball statistics. This comes in handy for freaking out my students. Can also quote baseball statistics like some people quote baseball statistics--which comes in equally handy for freaking out students, especially the male ones.

4. You know those people who are waiting outside the theater at 11pm for the sci-fi movie whose first screening is at midnight? Yeah? Well, I've probably made friends with the theater staff and they've let me in already.

5. My books are sorted according to genre; my CD collection is alphabetized. Or does this just make me obsessive-compulsive?

6. I think geometry is fun. Mathematical induction--nearly orgasmic.

7. Standardized tests are relaxing for me.

8. I've got Grease (just about the entire movie) memorized. I memorized the Saturday Night Fever choreography before DJs started forcing entire parties to "do the John Travolta dance."

9. People who don't learn correct song lyrics irritate me.

10. I occasionally talk about Middle Earth as if I've actually been there.

11. I carry a mag light and a Swiss army knife everywhere (except in my carry-on in airplanes, because security tends not to like that so much). Even in my Coach evening clutch that I fought over at the Key West Coach Outlet. You're laughing, but the flashlight came in handy when that girl behind us at the Giants Stadium concert lost her gold bracelet, didn't it? And what about the party where the hostess couldn't find the corkscrew? We were on the second bottle of Chianti by the time she came back from the kitchen.

12. This was a list of 11 until my friend Megan pointed out that making a list of reasons why you're a geek is a pretty geeky thing to do. Thanks, Megan.

When you're in the state I'm in, you use somebody else's words to post.

Trueborn tagged me for this meme. I am to answer the following questions using only the song titles of my favorite musician/band. I have many favorites, but today I choose...

Counting Crows

Are you male or female? American Girls
Describe yourself: Hard Candy
How do some people feel about you: She Don't Want Nobody Near
How do you feel about yourself: Butterfly in Reverse
Describe your ex: Friend of the Devil
Describe your current significant other: Have You Seen Me Lately?
Describe where you want to be: New Frontier
Describe how you live: I'm Not Sleeping
Describe how you love: Mercury
What would you ask for if you had just one wish: If I Could Give All My Love
Share a few words of wisdom: All My Friends, Children in Bloom
Now say goodbye: Catapult

And because I'm an overachiever and I'm Not Sleeping, I'll do it twice. Next in my alphabetical list of favorite bands...

The Cranberries

Are you male or female? Pretty
Describe yourself: How
How do some people feel about you: Wanted
How do you feel about yourself: Not Sorry
Describe your ex: Put Me Down
Describe your current significant other: Still Can't...
Describe where you want to be: Dreams
Describe how you live: Dreaming My Dreams
Describe how you love: I Will Always
What would you ask for if you had just one wish: Everything I Said
Share a few words of wisdom: The Icicle Melts
Now say goodbye: I Can't Be With You

Here's where I get to tag people. Normally I wouldn't bother, but I desperately want to know...
Brando, does Journey even have enough songs to do this? Can you kill this one?
Mudge, I know you're Leavin' on a Jet Plane and Takin' Care of Business and All That Jazz, but perhaps while you're (not) Sleeping with the Television On? Or when you get home.
Brooke, just throw in some photos and I'll be happy. You know what kind of photos.
Amber, give it a go, okey-dokey? I wanted to tag Kendra as well, but I'll let you tag her! Start thinking, KC.
Momentary Academic, come on. I know you love music.

Everyone else is welcome to join in the fun as well. Happy weekend, all!

This is the kind of stuff we girls talk about when we're having a secret meeting.

If you got into a brawl in a bar, what song would be playing on the jukebox?

Not that... um... I or anyone I've ever known has ever... you know... gotten into a physical altercation of any kind.

The first song that popped into my head: Running with the Devil.

Your turn.