Sexless in the City


Sometimes reading romance novels doesn’t quite prepare you for a love life...

For this 30-year-old urbanite, love is always a misadventure: The Harvard Lickwit, Hippie the Groper, the 5% Man, and the Ad Weasel. These and many other men wander in and out of her life — but never her bed.

Tuesday, October 07, 2008

Beating loneliness and evil could start with a movie ticket

Regardless of the scale of publication, one of the interesting things about making and sharing any kind of art is the reaction you get from your audience. Sometimes the difference between an artist’s espoused intent and viewers’ perceptions has led to conflict (I think of Serrano or, more recently, Renee Cox). Other times, it can provide illumination of certain themes the artist him- or herself may have overlooked. Thus, in my case, a friend’s observation that Sexless is a book about the search for community. It’s not exactly how I have been describing the book, but once she put it that way, I saw her point.

If your experience is anything like mine, one of the reasons you long for relationship and/or marriage may be a desire to put down roots and establish some kind of solidity in your community. Since not even most of our job commitments last more than a few years, marriage is probably one of the last remaining relational contracts we enter with the expectation — or at least hope — of relative permanence. Lacking such agreements, one’s social life can feel as stable as several unconnected buoys sharing little more than proximity. If the water gets choppy, they can’t provide any ballast to each other. Personally, I find that rather stressful — one of the reasons I try to maintain relationships with more than just my fellow single professionals.

Thankfully, I attend a church made up of many young families, couples and students. While we’re still working on the gray-haired contingent, at least we have some relational diversity. In the interest of trying to foster more community among we single folk, though, a few of us have also started organizing monthly socials that aim to foster more community than romance. We find that by keeping things open to both single folks and young married couples, and providing a low-key structure for each event, it provides a safe place to interact with those in a similar life stage, without things slipping into a yucky “meet market” atmosphere.

It’s also been a great way to come together for a purpose greater than just our own relational needs. One month the event was a beer benefit for cancer research; next month we hope to find a venue for holiday-related service of some sort. While all these events have been based on the local calendar, this month the cause is human trafficking, and the event that we’re supporting is the release of a movie you too can attend, if you live in Atlanta, Austin, Boston, Chicago, Dallas, Denver, Los Angeles, Minneapolis, Nashville, Orange County, Portland, Redwood City, San Diego, San Francisco, San Jose, Seattle or Washington, DC.

That movie is Call+Response, a groundbreaking rockumentary that uses songs by musicians such as Moby, Matisyahu, Imogen Heap, Natasha Bedingfield and others — as well as interviews with the likes of Cornel West and Madeline Albright — to expose the world’s multi-billion dollar human trafficking industry.



Personally, I’ve found the numbers a little overwhelming until recently, when I read an excellent four-part series from the San Francisco Chronicle, that followed one young Korean woman’s journey into debt and then prostitution in Los Angeles and San Francisco, after she was trafficked. You Mi’s story — set in city blocks I walk near or through almost every day — really made this issue real for me.



If you live in one of those cities, and go see Call+Response this weekend, your ticket could help propel the film to a deal for national distribution. If you don’t live in one of those cities, tell friends who do about it. And no matter where you live, visit notforsalecampaign.org to learn how you can join the 21st abolitionist movement.

For unmarried people in the church, the shape of relational life and commitments may look a bit different than it does for married people, but our call to lives of service and self-sacrifice is no different. If we focused more of our energy on the needs of others than on the sex and intimacy we’re lacking at present, who knows how much such service could do for our loneliness and longing for community? Whether it’s doing your part to fight human trafficking, or volunteering to babysit for friends who won’t be able to have a date night without you, a role for you is out there. Find it, and you may receive far more than you give.

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Tuesday, April 15, 2008

Sexless in stores today!

I'll be picking the winner of the contest after a good night’s sleep to recover from doing my taxes, so if you haven’t blogged yet, you can take advantage of the extended submission deadline. Entries accepted until I first check email tomorrow morning.

Already entered? Then take a look around the book’s brand-new website, www.sexlessinthecity.net.

In other news, I discovered during a.m. resucitation attempts today that Starbucks has launched another free music promotion (woohoo!). This time they’re giving away a new free song every Tuesday; today’s is one by Counting Crows.

Finally, if you’re a blogger who wants to post your email address online more securely, my friend and fabulous web designer, Joe, tipped me off to this email-encoding resource. (Not that I’ve started using it, mind you, but it’s nice to know about.)

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Monday, April 14, 2008

Anna on the Jay Thomas show

And quite a rollicking interview it was. Not sure you can find clips anywhere online, but the show website says the program’s rebroadcast at midnight Pacific/3 a.m. Eastern, if you get Sirius satellite radio. It’s on Channel 102.

The Sexless soundtrack
If you happened to hear the Jay Thomas clip and/or have followed my recent blog-about-Sexless contest, you’ve probably heard me mention a soundtrack to the book. There is one, thanks to the kindness of artists like David Wilcox, Barenaked Ladies, Jonatha Brooke, Aimee Mann, Tal Bachman and Beck, all of whom let me quote a portion of their lyrics in the book.

To hear the songs quoted, and more tunes (including Etta James’ classic torch song, “I Just Want to Make Love to You”), buy the soundtrack on iTunes. You can also get all the CDs these songs were taken from, in a special Amazon store for the book.

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Tuesday, July 10, 2007

For your off-beach summer reading ...

Updated Thursday night, July 12

A couple quick things (though, hopefully, soon enough I shall return to the blogging of old — or something like that).
Enjoy!

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Thursday, May 17, 2007

What I’m reading/thinking lately

Those are two more noteworthy sources of input or entertainment, but in terms of stuff I’ve been thinking just as I process stuff, here’s part of a recent email to a few girlfriends (bear with me if you’re outside the church; this gets a little bit spiritual):

  • Earlier this year, I came across a really great 5-part sermon series from my old pastor in Phoenix, called “The Towering Reality of the Father’s Love” (parts 3-5 online here, but email me if you want all five mp3s). One of the things that struck me most was his distinction between the objective reality of God’s love, vs. our subjective experience of it. As I was thinking through some stuff last night, this question kept coming up: Am I living out of my recent pain and letting that define how I relate to people, or out of the objective reality of God’s love?

  • The other thing that’s dawned on me is a recent shift in my outlook. For most of my life I tied purpose to the marriage I hoped would happen, which led to a ceaseless string of crushes that had almost no gap in between. Lately, though, I find myself in perhaps my longest sojourn through romantic wilderness, with no guy to buoy my hopes or anchor affection. Always before, this would have launched a spiral into despair as I judged God’s “goodness” by present circumstance and its seeming implications for my future.


  • This time, though, I’m learning to anchor my hope in the reality of God’s character, to trust that if marriage is part of the best He could have in store for me, I need not judge His goodness by the presence or absence of “prospects” among the guys around. In other words, I can endure what once seemed like the worst — a persistent man drought — and still find water for my soul in the ever-present love of God. Most importantly, I can have a hopeful outlook on the future not because of the “materials” at hand, but the goodness of the God who made a whole world out of nothing, and loved us enough to die so He could maintain justice while showing kindness to the “ungrateful and wicked.”

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Tuesday, May 01, 2007

Will fees kill the radio sites?

Although it is an unprecedented addition, savvy readers might notice a first-ever ad on the blog today. That’s because, without a major intervention, internet radio stations will have to cease operations, when a new ruling takes effect May 15 that retroactively introduces royalty rates so high it will put them out of business (and as I understand, these rates are higher than those paid by other media and traditional radio).

I don’t know about you, but that would be a tragic end to one of the best things I’ve found on the internet. It’s maybe been two years since I first discovered my favorite station, MVY, which broadcasts from Martha’s Vineyard. Since then they’ve introduced me to countless new acts and great songs, not to mention “The Blues at Eight,” a fabulous hour of blues that’s on five nights a week. Since MVY has a Massachusetts dial signal in addition to their internet stream, and covers a lot of new artists and great festivals, I took seriously their concern about the impact of this ruling on stations like theirs.

Despite this threat to one of the most encouraging trends in radio I’ve seen in recent years, there is some hope. Two representatives recently introduced H.R. 2060, the Internet Radio Equality Act. To learn more, visit savenetradio.org, or just call your representatives and ask them to support the bill. I’ve never actually taken such a step before, but internet radio’s filled my living room with too many hours of joy to sit by and watch it end.

Update
Having been challenged by a musician friend that the Copyright Royalty Board’s decision is merely a crackdown on stations failing to appropriately remunerate artists, I wanted to add a little more background:

On March 2, 2007 the Copyright Royalty Board (CRB), which oversees sound recording royalties paid by Internet radio services, increased Internet radio’s royalty burden between 300 and 1200 percent and thereby jeopardized the industry’s future.

At the request of the Recording Industry Association of America, the CRB ignored the fact that Internet radio royalties were already double what satellite radio pays, and multiplied the royalties even further. The 2005 royalty rate was 7/100 of a penny per song streamed; the 2010 rate will be 19/100 of a penny per song streamed. And for small webcasters that were able to calculate royalties as a percentage of revenue in 2005 – that option was quashed by the CRB, so small webcasters’ royalties will grow exponentially!

Before this ruling was handed down, the vast majority of webcasters were barely making ends meet as Internet radio advertising revenue is just beginning to develop. Without a doubt most Internet radio services will go bankrupt and cease webcasting if this royalty rate is not reversed by the Congress, and webcasters’ demise will mean a great loss of creative and diverse radio. Surviving webcasters will need sweetheart licenses that major record labels will be only too happy to offer, so long as the webcaster permits the major label to control the programming and playlist.
Read more at savenetradio.org, or check out coverage on how the ruling affects NPR, and the basic provisions of the Internet Radio Equality Act.

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Thursday, February 08, 2007

Things I’m digging lately

Kumquats, tea and NPR’s fab online archive of concerts. Check out shows from Calexico, Ray LaMontagne, OK Go, Paul Simon, Wilco and more.

Meanwhile, as to this site, I have a reader question I’d like to throw out to you all first. A reader writes that she and her fairly new boyfriend (both follow Jesus) are wrestling with the ethics of their “intellectual dirty talk” — candid conversations about their struggles with certain sexual sins, that she says don’t feel very chaste in the end.

Is this a problem you’ve struggled with, or a situation you’ve faced? How does one balance accountability with not indulging an unhealthy preoccupation? I’ll try to post my own thoughts early next week, but thought I’d start by getting yours.

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Wednesday, October 04, 2006

Don’t hate me ’cause I’m swamped ...

But since I’m madly dashing to meet my deadline (11 days and counting!), no time to blog this week, except to share my soundtrack for the fortnight or so. Yeah for MySpace!

soulful stuff
  • Starting us off with some white-boy soul: Jamie Lidell. Check out “Multiply.”
  • Then see also Ray LaMontagne — American, but that growl says he’s seen his share of pain (a possible prerequisite for getting soul right). Check out “Three More Days.”
  • And now that I know they’re not some crummy rap band from L.A. ... Hooray for British hip-hop! That is to say (per reader correction) Americans making hip-hop across the Atlantic: Gnarls Barkley. Throw up your hands for “Crazy.” (OK, so I’m getting populist.)
when you’re mellow yellow
  • Nifty Oregon folk-rock with a blues tinge: M. Ward (courtesy, Paste sampler, September ’06). Check out “Chinese Translation.”
  • And to show I like more than one band outta S.F., Vienna Teng. Paste pick I liked was “Whatever You Want,” but it’s not online right now
  • Getting the “Funny name, great songs” award: Old Crow Medicine Show. Paste pick I liked was “My Good Gal,” but it’s not online right now ... Can you tell whose samplers I took on my recent NoCaro trip?!!
romp-stompin’ good fun
  • New York fans, keep an ear out — this band’s local! Ollabelle. Pastepick I liked was “Fall Back” but it’s not online presently, so check out some of their other stuff.
  • Elvis Costello & Allen Toussaint — their “Tears Tears and More Tears” makes most excellent driving music (courtesy, Paste, as always).
Back in a bit, dahlings. Thanks for your patience!!!!!

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Wednesday, September 06, 2006

Classics pt. 5: Spooning Fork returns!

Since so many of my “you might want to check out _______” tips tend to be music-related, I thought it was time to recap an old Spooning Fork — and who better for it, than my favorite camp artist, Tom Jones?
Originally posted Sept. 24, 2004.

I wanted to use the Tom Jones’ classic “Not Responsible” (in keeping with certain themes from the current Sexless BOTtoM) but alas, it’s not available on iTunes. As a second choice, we’re going to assess the similary themed “Help Yourself”:

Help yourself ‘Help Yourself’ from Greatest Hits
Ah, yes. The passive-aggressive male-fantasy theme song:
Love is like candy on a shelf —
You want to taste and help yourself.
The sweetest things are there for you
Help yourself, take a few,
That’s what I want you to do.
Love, in other words, is self-encouraged shoplifting. Raid my body! Rob my treasures! Tom, are you sure you aren’t trying a little too hard for supposed role-reversal here?

Ah, but further listening reveals he’s talking about that economic wonder, the totally-subsidized candy store!
We’re always told repeatedly
The very best in life is free.
And if you want to prove it’s true
Baby I’m telling you
This is what you should do:
Just help yourself to my lips
To my arms — just say the word, and they are yours
I have to say, I want to know where he heard that the best in life is free. ’Cause I’ve been struggling lately with my frequent desire for things that are merely better* ... and I certainly don’t find them free. And what do we learn from economics? There’s no such thing as a free lunch. It may not cost you monetarily, but it will cost you in something — time, energy, love, sex, whatever.

In fact, a comedy show I attended last Thursday night advised using sex for its economic value very deliberately. “You wanna have a nice, two-hundred-dollah dinnah?” the women intoned in great, eccentric cheapskate persona, “be my guest.” She then went on to describe how strategic payment in sex could accomplish this end without depleting one’s funds.

By far my favorite money-saving tip of her sketch, however, was how to have lots of sex both safely and cheaply. Why spend all that money on condoms? She claimed a year’s supply could cost upward of $500. But as a far more affordable alternative, our expert suggested using a combination of leftover Gristedes grocery bags and duck sauce (a ubiquitous Chinese-food condiment here in the city; my friend the comedian allegedly has a stash in the upper three-figures range). And of course you already know about the low-budget option for women ...

But where we?

Tom and free love
I guess he really was a hippie! Although he always seemed more posh-disco-lounge in his threads and ’dos. But what do I know? Like I was around then.
The greatest wealth that exists in the world,
Could never buy what I can give
Just help yourself to my lips
To my arms, and then let’s really start to live
I think what he’s tryin’ to say is ... he’s not in general a ho (or whatever the male equiv. might be) but for this girl he’s easy, er, money.

The Tom Sawyer twist
And you gotta admire his spin, after all. I mean, the way he tells, he’s being the generous, sacrificial one ... all while getting the girl to initiate what he probably wants more keenly than she does (at least at that stage). Pretty clever ...

It almost reminds me of certain whitewashing fences scheme. Or, ahem, like that modern racket about a certain exclusive email address. But I wouldn’t know anything like that; I try to stick to things I’m expert on: sex and music.


... I’m Anna Broadway, and I do believe we’re almost back to old form! Thanks for stopping by and check back soon to hear me crack myself up again.

*Made more naked, now I don’t have the money to just impulsively sate such whims.


By-the-Buy
Sexless BOTtoM

Taking Sex Differences Seriously
Taking Sex Differences Seriously
Adventures of Tom Sawyer
Adventures of Tom Sawyer
Click-worthy just for the cover shot

Best of Tom Jones
[Rebound]


Download iTunes

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Friday, June 23, 2006

Taking a risk on jazz

For how particular I can be about music, you’d think it’s the last thing I’d take risks on. But somehow, most times I buy something yet unheard or make a similar gamble, I make out just fine. When, for instance, a friend offered to take me to hear this new singer called Norah, it turned out my girlfriends’ insistence I should go was dead on.

A similar thing happened maybe two or three weeks ago, at the post office. I know, doesn’t; sound like a glam meeting place, right? And the catchiest soundtrack you’re likely to hear is the ring tone of someone who’s secretly fond of salsa. But that night I was in luck.

I’d stopped by after hours to mail a CD from my barter bin swap, but someone was already stationed at the AutoPost center. Not until he offered to let me go ahead did I realize how much he was mailing. Piles and piles of Uline bags, all strangely close in shape to mine. And when I saw he was mailing some to people in Palo Alto, it was all I could do not to swoon right there on the spot (fond memories of falling down stairs, and all that).

Somehow or other, I managed to dredge up an opening line. Yes, he was in a band.

I rattled on about band friends about of mine — none of whom he’d heard of.

Then something inspired me to drop another kind of name — my editor friend at Paste magazine. “I’d be happy to send your CD to him,” I offered. Which, truthfully, was not the pick-up line it might have sounded like — despite the chance to hand off one of my business cards. Even that sometime, sorta-prospect Tall Drink o’ Water ain’t made it out of reply-to hell yet. He emailed me two months ago, but I still haven’t written back though he now brings it up every Sunday. (Can a girl tastefully mention she’s trying to break her habit of simply using men for attention?)

This time, however, my motives were strictly generous — and dependent on a stranger’s uncertain promise to send me his album. When you’ve been under- or unemployed nearly two years and mingle in several different social scenes, you give out a lot of business cards. But unless you email the people you meet yourself, the response rate is usually pretty dismal.

Off I went, Band Guy soon forgotten, and my card probably fated much the same. Or so I thought.

But then a few days later, what should I find in my mail but a package with two CDs — one for me, one for Friend-at-Paste. Band Guy had better follow-through than I’d figured on. So what about the music?

He’d said it was some kind of “boogaloo” jazz, which could be good or mean nothing. His band isn’t with any label, but the CD jacket had a snazzy design. And if phone voices tend to indicate looks, I like to think product design can sometimes portend well of the contents. Flip open the jacket. Nothing much inside the one-fold card, but a picture of the band, somewhat badly photographed on a staircase. Huh. Guess boogaloo takes lots of folks to make!

But just as I’m starting to refold the liner, I notice a female face in the crowd. Wait a minute ... Is that ... Flip to backside again.

And that’s when I notice a credit for El Madmo. While I can’t promise you said “punk” act will show up at the CD release party, which is tomorrow night at Detour ($5 cover), I can tell you the CD is great. Check out several tracks on MySpace, or just risk it and buy the dang album. Or come out to Detour and give the band a listen live! You won’t be disappointed.

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Friday, December 02, 2005

Tunes for the rueful and wiser

Last night my soon-to-be former roommate and I were discussing men and music. “You need to be listening to the blues,” I advised. She looked dubious for a moment. “Not the ‘throw myself on the train-tracks’ blues,” I hastened to clarify. Then she nodded and remarked that actually, yes, she had been listening to the blues a lot at work — and enjoying them.

There’s something about that music form that strips away a lot of the crap that wraps our heads in cotton, leaving hearts all naked and blind (in love). Which is a contrast to jazz, I’ve realized. Not all jazz — not the sense in which Blue Train yesterday made me long for a larger living room so I could turn up the volume and fill the place with such purity of sound. That other jazz, the songbook kind. The too-short (maybe too vast?) catalog of odes and paeons to love and the beloved. Some people pull it off so you don’t gag — sometimes I’m really quite smitten, and it taps embarrassing longings. Diana Krall mostly makes it work: she’s just pulling a lounge-singer act, see, and doing her job quite well.

But others ... Well, let’s just say a night not long ago I was trying to do my work at the coffee shop when this jazz-songbook album started. The woman was no Nina and while it wasn’t as bad as Kenny G or Josh Groban I realized by the third or fourth song she’d pretty much cobbled together Krall’s repertoire, though singing it closer to the earnest heart of romantic mysticism. Not that the singing was so bad, but hearing such songs sung like that I almost felt continued listening could further damage my soul. This is what got me in this fix to begin with!

If such jazz gets you there — to wistful, inchoate longings for the one relationship you’re secretly sure will eclipse any pleasures a heaven could offer — it’s blues that take you back. The blues of Etta James, Robert Cray, B.B. King and countless others who strip the crap away right down to rejected love and foolish lust and fickle folly in general. Today’s Spooning Fork though musically closer to jazz has more of the wisdom of such blues.

Stitched Up’ from Possibilities
John’s got a problem, it seems — the club from which he’s singing is full of beautiful women, one of whom he woulda made a play for, back in the day. Seems she wasn’t at all opposed to it — may have even said his name, implying interest. But he can’t be sure.

And in any case, our boy’s not the same chap who once would have fallen for such a “flawless” girl. He had to walk away. Given her beauty, “Who’s to say she’s single, who’s to say she’s on her own? Girls like that don’t sleep alone.” He’s sure not the first one to think that. And if he’s not the first, he “sure won’t be the last” to spend his whole life lookin’ behind his back. And he don’t think he’s up for that.

No, a woman like that would stitch him up, string him out, trap him in, lock him down — basically, deprive him of his mind.

I reckon I know the type men have in mind when they sing a song like that. For women it’s the musicians, the artists, the men of charm, of wit, charisma ... We can spend years falling and falling and falling again for the many-splendored men slightly out of our league but close enough (or kind enough) we imagine the love-drug fix they would supply is attainable, sustainable. “Love drug” is my cousin’s phrase, actually. We were talking about the sort of comes-with-jumper-cables man each of us has spent many a long year pining for. Which she described as providing an almost-chemical fix.

Sure, liking them may have felt true to yearning and desire — may have even felt demonstrative of serious endurance — but the truth is, men who spark women’s hearts easily tend to spark many a heart that way, as John says. So fortitude or folly, which is it? Is such an explosive charge worth all the other groupies and hopeful ones in his entourage? As far as I’m concerned, the benefits of a man who sparks you deep and sure may be totally cancelled out by all the hassles of his drama with other women and the mass of them you deal with (not to mention the void when he’s in pre-spark mode with morning breath and dirty feet and underwear he should’ve changed by now). For him to be worth that trouble, he better have some other, uncommon virtue that remains when you strip away all the glamour a jazz-songbook catalog teaches foolish hearts to crave. As Susan Tedeschi sings (most recently), “I’m tired of my tears.”

That’s what the blues teach you: there’s part-of-life ache and trouble, and then there’s the tears that’re all your own (unnecessary) choosing. I may be tradin’ me out some soft-jazz recs soon, and replacing them with straight-up, honest blues. It’s gettin’ time I saved my heart for someone with more durable, stable qualities than just super-charged personality.

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Friday, October 21, 2005

Patience and my new ‘husband’

So maybe the flash action ain’t all it could be ... but here, for your viewing pleasure, proof Anna has persisted in burning down those candles. With moderate success in the one case. And meanwhile, since she’s worried I may be losing my mind, Roommate decided to make me a husband. Sure he may be a little orange of face, but since my NoCali errand to Trader Joe’s I’ve scarfed so many dried apricots it’s a wonder my skin hasn’t turned that color too — and sprouted fine hairs beside.

James Blunt is neither orange of face nor fine-haired (except in that pleasing, soulful indie Brit rocker way). And his taste in shirts, based on what I saw this July nips him barely out of Josh Groban territory. But we’re begging you, James, don’t ever cotton to who does his hair. And don’t let go that “I was a soldier” toughness. We think it’s a hit with the ladies. Well, in saying “we,” I may be presuming a bit for my erstwhile photo chum. But we both found James winning — just with his unamplified guitar and a little booze in our empty bellies. For this was still in my Ad Co. days, you see, and he played a small acoustic set there. Verra swank.

And on the strength of that three-song set, I’ve been waiting to introduce you to James — how else? — in a Spooning Fork. Yes, the music feature returns (now let that inspire you for this month’s contest!).

‘You’re Beautiful’ from Back to Bedlam
It’s not hard to see why Blunt has been such a hit with the Brits (and now with us as well). Not only is this lilting, driving single the perfect rainy-day subway-ride music, it’s also an anthem for all those lonely, fate-obsessed Craigslisters who keep Missed Connections in booming business.
I saw your face in a crowded place,
And I don’t know what to do,
’Cause I’ll never be with you.

Yeah, she caught my eye,
As we walked on by.
She could see from my face that I was,
Fucking high,
And I don’t think I’ll see her again,
But we shared a moment that will last till the end.
Now James, honey, maybe I misunderstand ... But this “high” business. Are we talking “high” on love and her rare beauty, or something else? Cause I’m thinkin’, feet right flat on the ground might be a better way to approach a lady.

I’m not sayin’ I don’t sympathize, oh no. Not that I’ve had such moments with men I didn’t even talk to, but I know our penchant for latching onto moments divorced from all the surrounding, depressing reality. Give me a meaningful hand-to-the-head here, a brief unspoken understanding there and wrap it up with a couple jaw-to-temple contacts and my God, I’ve stitched together one helluva doomed relationship!

For really, in this age of Web-increased options and decreased permanence, sometimes we romantics do better to pine about the haunting, dead-end moments here and there than endure the confusing not-quite-relationships that so often are.
There must be an angel with a smile on her face,
When she thought up that I should be with you.
But it’s time to face the truth,
I will never be with you.
Oh we’d like to believe in romantic fate all right. The question is, was James’ angel smiling at an idea she was powerless to produce, or because she’d thought of a great joke she could play on him?

A dark ending yet again, I fear. Sorry, ya’ll. That’s just the writing this fall compels me to. But hey, if you need some help rewriting song lyrics for this month’s contest, find a way to make James’ story less sad — or at least more cheesy. That’s my tip for today. Now get to work making love songs worse! Ten days left in this month’s contest ...

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Monday, September 19, 2005

New playlist

As you might guess from the playlist it generated, this was an interesting weekend “off.” Normally I’d make myself a nice Monday-morning latte to recover (fresh coffee beans bought yesterday, so no more using up the hotel-room grounds the roommate’s parentals left behind — yes, I really was stubborn enough to drink the horrid stuff) ... and have a new post by early afternoon. But today I’ve gotta squeeze in an appointment to sign my book contract so the advance can begin its merry way from the Random House accountant to my bank account.

And as I’m really behind on a freelance writing project that’s supposed to be occupying me nearly full-time (and paying enough to justify such demands upon my time), it may be a few hours until the “fun” writing. Sorry, dahlings. But in the meantime, sample the playlist, consider reader VJ’s lengthy response to Friday’s post (I think he underestimates the caliber of certain Jesus freak men, rare though they may be) ... and plan your entries for the September contest. Or better yet, submit them! Only 11 days left.


Links provided for albums/bands not available on iTunes. Otherwise click
here
icon for a preview.
  1. “Monkey Man” The Rolling Stones/Let It Bleed
  2. “You’re Gonna Lose That Girl” The Beatles/Help!
  3. “Give Me One Reason” Tracy Chapman/New Beginnning
  4. “I’ll Be Your Baby Tonight” Norah Jones/Come Away With Me
  5. “Undun” The Guess Who/The Best of the Guess Who
  6. “Where To Now St. Peter?” Elton John/Tumbleweed Connection
  7. “Alone Again (Naturally)” Gilbert O’Sullivan
  8. “Lost Cause” Beck/Sea Change
  9. “Sexy Sadie” The Beatles/White Album (Disc 2)
  10. “Not A Virgin” Poe/Haunted
  11. “Romanticide” Tal Bachman/Tal Bachman
  12. “Like A Rolling Stone” Bob Dylan/The Essential Bob Dylan
  13. “The Great Gig In The Sky” Pink Floyd/Dark Side of the Moon
  14. “Fools Rush In” Rosemary Clooney/Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil
  15. “Brother, Where Are You?” Oscar Brown Jr./Verve Unmixed 2
  16. “Ruler Of My Heart” Norah Jones/Come Away With Me
  17. “Cry Me A River” Harry Connick Jr./Come By Me
  18. “Salt In My Wounds” Shemekia Copeland/Three to Tango
  19. “I Will Remember You” Sarah McLachlan/Mirrorball
  20. “Let It Be” The Beatles/Let It Be
  21. “Mercy” The Clumsy Lovers/After the Flood
  22. “I Can See Clearly Now” Johnny Nash
  23. “Don’t You Worry ’Bout a Thing” Stevie Wonder/Innervisions

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Wednesday, August 24, 2005

One to daydream, two to disclose

Six summers ago, a radio station playing at the site of a temp job kept talking about “the songs of summer,” somehow reinforcing an attentiveness to the songs I was hearing then, that summer.

Ricky Martin had a hit, and all summer long my Bible study pals and I would launch spontaneous “Copa de la Vida” dance parties in someone’s bedroom. Followed, invariably, by “Son of a Preacher Man” from my Pulp Fiction soundtrack. Girlfriend #1 was dating one and I liked one, so what better way to let loose and just be silly? It was a summer mostly lacking in levity, after all. Barenaked Ladies’ Stunt was also out, featuring aptly moody anthems like “Call and Answer” (“I’m warning you, don’t ever do/those crazy, messed-up things that you do/if you ever do/I promise you I’ll be the first to crucify you”) and the even-darker “In the Car.” And since I was still obsessed with swing dancing, I bought Harry Connick Jr.’s Come By Me mostly for the infectious title track. I shared the coveted central bedroom, overlooking the back courtyard of the big house where all we project kids were housed. The room had floor space enough for me to amble across the boards pretending I had a partner to dance with.

The other communal space for music-listening was the great, glorious kitchen full of cupboards and sunlight from the grid-like glass-paned windows (novel to a suburban Arizonan) that swung out to overlook the best coffee shop I could ever dream of living across from. In the kitchen we listened more to radio than CDs. Aside from Santana’s steamy “Smooth,” the most-memorable single of the summer was Tal Bachman’s melodic ode to resignation, “She’s So High.” It must have been playing everywhere, those familiar opening chords and Bachman’s winning falsetto. I’m sure I heard it sometimes at the defiant little Gap store jettisoned at the top of Telegraph Avenue, north of all the more Berkeley-worthy local shops.

The chorus was well-suited to listener harmony, an exercise in quasi-community making similar to the appeal of the weekly praise night that brought Poster Boy to the house (not that his presence hurt, of course). In those days I was still big on such sing-alongs since my voice was the one instrument I continued to use with some regularity. And as an inveterate sight-reader at the piano, I was always in awe of those who could improvise and read chords.

I bought Tal Bachman’s record that summer, probably on some trek down to the vast, mysterious innards of Amoeba Records — that curious East Bay amalgam of gritty record racks and sunny high ceilings. One left feeling slightly warm and dirty all at once. The record didn’t get much notice other than that single, but it’s a fairly sturdy rock album wrapped around a strange combination of generational themes (various songs seem written to an aging grandfather) and anthems of doomed love (the catchy, sarcastic “Romanticide” remains a favorite).

So I threw the album on again the other weekend, when I needed courage. And that’s about when it hit me, this trend in my Spooning Fork selections: “Do I Move You?” “You Need Love,” “Help Yourself,” “Gimme All Your Lovin’ or I Will Kill You,” “Heart of Mine” and “Let Me in Your Life.” (Clears throat.)

In the interest of spicing up the relational diversity on this blog, this week’s queries for advice will focus on the challenges when you’re actually in a relationship. And to start us off, a question from Almost Bored:
At what stage of a relationship does one relate past foibles to a prospect/significant other/mate?

Obviously “coming out,” if you will, too early to a prospect can be unnecessarily devastating. Depending on one’s denominational persuasion, you’ll have varying opinions on the obligation of human confession. On one end, it’s only fair that a person’s mate know up front what they are “getting into,” so to speak. On the other hand, not every gross detail of one’s past will be of benefit to the relationship’s future.
Well, dahling, since there can be no better position from which to answer this than mine (that is to say, ignorance), let me jump right in.

Disclosure in any relationship — unless it follows the shrink/therapist-patient relationship — calls for a sort of tennis-like approach. You want the ball to keep bouncing back and forth. It’s not some session with a ball-spitting machine so you can practice your serve. And ideally the goal is to have a good game, not blast your opponent to smithereens — how much fun can that be?

In other words, the game (that is to say, relationship) should be governed by a degree of reciprocity. A situation where one person regularly shares deeply and the other person shares almost not at all isn’t that healthy. The open person may be too inclined to talk freely and fill up the silences with chatter, and the quieter person may struggle with letting others in. These are things you need to talk through and (in your case), pray through — particularly for wisdom about when it’s appropriate to share certain things.

Also think about the goal of your sharing — Am I testing the other person to see if he/she will still love me? Am I sharing this to be hurtful? Am I sharing so as to obligate the other person to open up? Is it easier for me to talk than listen and ask questions? Am I sharing so as to control the flow of information and avoid awkward or difficult questions? Or sometimes the reverse may be true. Am I asking questions so as to control the conversation and avoid being forced to open up? Am I asking an honest question? Am I asking out of love? Am I asking because of selfishness, jealousy or some other intention to wound?

Bottom line: be honest with yourself and with each other, and take it one step at a time.

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Monday, July 11, 2005

A mantra contra Aretha

Originally I meant Spooning Fork to be a weekly feature, but with the last one sometime in late June I’m clearly not doing so well on that. And though I have recently met an interesting and increasing crop of new men, my policy is to never blog about them ... at least the first two to three weeks. ;)

Let Me In Your Life
‘Let Me In Your Life’ from Let Me In Your Life
The genius of this song is that, for a piece with only ten short lines of lyric, Aretha & Co. manage to stretch it out to a scorching three-and-a-half minutes only a man of fortitude could survive. The secret? a) Repeating the entire song, and b) breaking for significant riffs between each line — this no doubt provided so as to give the lady ample groove time in-between, should her hips prove more persuasive than her words. While you imagine Aretha dancing, I’ll intersperse commentary.

I need someone — hey, baby let me love you
Let’s just pretend I didn’t say the first part, shall we? In any case, vulnerability’s a good thing, right? Relational glue and all that. I mean, it’s not as if I’m desperate or anything! I said, baby, let me love you — this is all about you!
Please ... don’t push me away
How can you resist my love?
Let me in your life
Who doesn’t want a good woman, who can sing and dance like me? I’m offering looooove. All you have to say is, “Yes!”
I wasn’t there when she hurt you
But Lord knows, I understand how a woman-done-you-wrong could make you skeert o’ women for good.
So why should I have to pay?
That is, why should you have to pay? By resisting my love, you let her continue to control your life, baby. Let me in!
Baby, let me in your life
Let my love heal you!
I wanna share your tomorrows
And how could that be a bad thing? I’m just a simple woman, offering simple love ... all for you!
So I must pay ______ for the day
[Line hard to discern as Aretha wails to herself]
And if she’s the cause of your sorrows
OK, so maybe I don’t know you well enough to say for sure why you’re so resistant to my love...
Be glad that she’s gone away
But if my speculatin’ is right, you could take me home with you tonight. Let me in! Let me give you love!
... And so on. Now I said this post would actually be contra Aretha’s mantra (“Let me in your life!”), so let me ’splain. While we have seen many variations on this theme — from Macy Gray’s gun-waving to Etta James’ promises of better bread — I am becoming convinced it’s a bad-news business. Ain’t no man likes a woman chasin’ after him thatta way. You gotta encourage him to chase.

For instance, instead of “Yeah, I’m feeling kinda bummed tonight; wanna grab a drink after work and commiserate?” a clever woman trails strategic hints. “Yeah, I’m feeling kinda bummed tonight. I think I might have to brave the after-work mob at a [location of office] bar tonight. Which is risky business, a single woman wading into a bar and all, but sometimes you gotta do what you gotta.” (Note strategic avoidance of implying you desperately need a drink ASAP, hence might be verging on lushdom.) With any luck, an observant fellow will ask if you want a drinking partner after work. And don’t get me starting on using a blog to hint .... Ah, but I could write a book on passive flirting. Maybe I will.

Bottom line, letting the man more or less lead within the framework you’ve encouraged him to consider produces more thrills for everyone. My mantra? Don’t let ’im in your life too easy. And if that sounds old-fashioned, it’s ’cause I’m a retrosexual, damnit!

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Monday, April 25, 2005

Objects of domestic utility

Saturday afternoon I ventured out to run some errands in my neighborhood. One of these took me into the local dollar store, a cramped warren of aisles packed with overpriced tuna fish, lots of junk, and a few gems (also a tiny glass shard stuck to a candle that immediately dove for my finger; luckily they didn’t charge for a bandage from the First Aid kit). Surely such a place as this carried toothpicks, that baker’s friend I always forget to buy.

Sure enough, they did. But alas, the only toothpicks sold came broken out in little containers. Handy if I were running an pig-in-blanket stand or serving cheese cubes at a party, but I’m doing neither. I was ready to abandon all search for skinny spears of wood until I spied a packaging alternate: instead of 6 small containers, this boasted a modest 3, adorned with tasteful flower artwork and script lettering.

But what was this?!! What had they scrolled on the silly plastic canisters? “Objects of domestic utility.” As if this would somehow compensate for the chintziness of the plastic. Not that all objects of domestic utility are necessarily so shabby ...

Which brings us to this week’s Spooning Fork: Sammy Davis Jr. singing “She’s a Woman (W-O-M-A-N).” Courtesy of the Swingers Too soundtrack, my new favorite album and a veritable goldmine of Spooning Fork material.

‘She’s a Woman’ from Swingers Too
While this is by no means the only recording of the song, Sammy brings a certain emphasis that turns this into a paeaon to a domestic goddess.

She can wash out 40 pairs of socks and have ’em hangin’ out on the line
She can starch and iron two dozen pairs of shirts before you can count from one to nine
She can scoop up a great big dipper of lard from the dippin’ can
Throw in the skillet, go out and do ’er shopping and be back before it melts in the pan!

Cause she’s a woman, W-O-M-A-N - I’ll say it again.

She can rub and scrub till this old house shines just like a dime
Feed the baby and grease the car and powder her face at the same time
Get all dressed up and go out and swing till 4 a.m. and then -
Lay down at five and jump up at six and start all over again.

Cause she’s a woman, W-O-M-A-N.
And that’s just for starters! Mind you, I’m sure some feminists would holler like heck at the spirit of such a song ... but there ain’t many folks these days praising such retrosexual virtues. Sure, it must take some of the Stones’ “mother’s little helper” to last long with such a schedule ... but she sure sounds hot for jugglin’ all that. And I like that minding the house is for once acknowledged as a full-time job.

Sorry to be so late with today’s post; a busy day. Send me your questions for Wednesday, though, and we’ll do a little better!

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Wednesday, March 09, 2005

The end of shock-n-awe?

It happened last night, toward the end of an unusually small Tuesday-night Bible study. Turns out temperature of 20 degrees, and wind-chill factors of 5 degrees tend to correlate with low attendance. And maybe it gave me cold feet or something. There I was, in the middle of a low-grade, passing-anecdote story (as opposed to the mid-grade, beginning-middle-end kind, or the high-grade, many-dramatic-turns type). And suddenly ... I couldn’t drop the punch-line.

Not that my feet were cold literally, of course. In fact it was the stylishness of the socks with which they were very warmly clothed that got the whole thing started.

The socks were admired, then one friend asked if I made them. “No, but I made my sweater.” At this one guy remembered that another member of our group had played The Knitting Factory the night before. No one had gone to the show, but someone had a story about friends who thought TKF was literally a knitting factory, not the multi-level live-music venue that it is.

Then the Bible study leaders described their one experience at The Knitting Factory, in which “preppy” clothes evidently proved less-than-fitting attire amidst the “kids” running around (the leaders are a late-20s couple whose work attire is forcibly quite conservative, given their jobs). I opined that the place was more of a Williamsburg scene. Which somehow made me think of Urban Outfitters. And the shirt I’d recently seen there ...

But as I began describing the shirt which I had such lust for, something happened. I looked around the mostly male group. “Well ... the one next to it said, ‘Trust me, I’m a doctor,’” I said lamely. Not quite the follow-up they were expecting to my gushing about what a great, “uber-ironic” statement it would be for me to wear the prized shirt. “So what did this one say?” they demanded. “C’mon, you can tell us.”

Readers, I know you may find this shocking — and Frasier will surely be the most horrified — but Anna may have well and truly lost her balls. Which is probably not such a bad thing, really ... Women’s pants generally do seem to fit me better. ;) ... But I couldn’t tell them. I sat there mouth half-open, on the verge of a blush, then shook my head. “Naw ... sorry.” One guy vowed to go by Urban Outfitters himself and scope the window display for answers.

Who needs mood rings?
I prefer to scope music for answers. And really, don’t we all tend to do that? After all, music, as — er — a “friend” of mine has written, can be the way of figuring out your insides. Can’t determine your mood? Flip through the radio or your CDs until you find the song that feels right. And if nothing fits the mood, you’re just a head case or it’s time to get new tunes.

Yes, long-time readers may have already guessed it. It’s the return of Spooning Fork! And in honor of the recent return to playing music through my iTunes player (long, boring story unless tech woes leave you breathless), this week I turn to my one of my very first iTunes music store purchases, Norah Jones and Peter Malick’s cover of the Dylan standard “Heart of Mine.”

Heart of Mine ‘Heart of Mine’ from New York City
Compared to Dylan’s own live version on the Biograph 3 CD, Norah’s take is much more intimate and introspective. Dylan sounds like a calloused, aging man at a bar, catching sight of that waitress he’s always had a weakness for. Like he’s trying to muster the resolve to be curt and rude to her when she comes over. But Norah sings like she’s lecturing the ever-treacherous heart that always drags her into one-sided, doomed affections. Gee, I wouldn’t know anything about that ...

In many ways, Norah sounds like a friend of mine, who’s recently been complaining that in his relationships with women he just needs to be on the prowl for sex — not engage them in any way that could possibly jeopardize the safety of his heart. Unsurprisingly, he’s bummed over a recent crush-gone-wrong that’s left him way more messed up than he’d like. A little matter of too many unreturned phone calls to the girl involved ... yeah.

It’s often such a damned liability, the way our hearts get attached to things. Of course, if we couldn’t care at all, we’d never have meaningful relationships, but then because our hearts have such accursedly bad judgment we always go and get ourselves every time hurt we fall. Which for some of us is quite often. Good thing I’ve got heartguard now, good thing. Otherwise, Lord knows how I’d be doing ...

Lots of crying in the shower, blogging out my frustration with passivity (pulls stock I-could-do-no-wrong face). But I’d never do a thing like that. No way. Just musicians. You know — because they can make a quick buck that way, singing ’bout that CRAZY behavior (dramatic “jazz hands”) of people whose get outta control. Which mine never does any more ... right, Heart? Heart?

Heart ... now what’re you up to this time?!! ... I thought I told you. Not him!

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Monday, March 07, 2005

Beer drinkers in a-chord

Saturday night I ran out to purchase oat bran so I could make granola, after a mostly failed return of that spoiled milk. Man, I miss the no-questions-asked response of grocery chains like Safeway! Here in Brooklyn, try to take back milk that spoiled two days before the sell-by date, and the owner spends five minutes chewing you out for buying a whole gallon, not drinking it within three days of opening, etc.! Apparently I was the first customer with the balls to return milk of this sort.

Then because they said I’d drunk “too much” of the milk, they were only willing to give me a half-gallon in exchange — never mind that I don’t want their crummy milk anyway. Sometimes fighting these little “injustices” ain’t worth the energy, I guess.

Stoned into nostalgia
Fuming some after the show-down at Met Food (I did at least leave them to cope with the milk in question), I worked my way through the quiet residential streets back to my old ’hood a half-mile away, where I knew the oat bran would be cheaper. Brooklyn’s warmed up a bit lately, so the night chill was fairly comfortable — even cheering (it helps to clear the sniffles, you see). My disgruntlement eased further as the cheery strains of “19th Nervous Breakdown” wafted out of someone’s window. I’ve been stuck in a musical rut lately: lots of female empowerment, Motown-style, and Nina Simone’s broody jazz. Hearing the Stones took me back to that happy final year of grad school.

In those days I spent a shocking number of nights each week at Irish Pub, slugging decaf coffee, pitchers of water and occasionally a Guinness as I graded papers and worked on the master’s thesis (the pub was open later than Starbucks, you see, and sold their coffee cheaper; hell, sometimes they gave it to me free!).

I can’t remember which was my real hook to the bar: hitting it off with the O-zone King around my birthday, or hearing 40-something Cover Artist play on a Friday night. I haven’t blogged about him yet, I know, but hearing the Stones’ “Brown Sugar” yesterday took me back to all those times I used to hear him play.

You might say I was a regular groupie, but he was plenty fond of me too. In fact, 40-something Cover Artist is possibly the only man in my past who has shown any real longevity-of-interest where I’m concerned. There was one night we sorta hung out a little, but basically both of us seemed to realize the fun, flirty rapport we maintained for nearly a year would never lead to anything more. And it was fine that way.

I was probably his most loyal fan, coming even on the weeknight gigs or when the bar was slow. And as he liked to feature guest singers, I frequently joined him on stage to sing a little back-up harmony here and there. Our real standby, though, came to be “Stray Cat Strut” — for which I tried to pull out my best Gwen Stefani growl (my voice ain’t made for lead vocals unless it’s, well, Broadway stuff). And then there was that Madonna song he always liked to cover with a kind of private wink to me in the joke that only friends who knew why I was also sexless in Phoenix would actually get.

Ah, 40-something.

Good wit or good rhythm?
You see, though it might not be apparent from all the New Yorkers in my sidebar, I’ve long been a sucker for guitarists — which is bad news, I know. Who’s more apt to be a player (of more than just his instrument)?! Who’s more likely to be chased by hoards of women? And 40-something certainly drew his crowds and flirted madly.

He had the looks and voice to do it, too — very raspy and husky when he spoke, but a nice baritone when he sang. And when he played ... man. I mean, even though I hated the guitar when I had to learn it (something ’bout those damn uneven fingernails all classical guitarists have to have), I sure do like to hear it. Probably has something to do with falling asleep as a child to the sounds of Dad getting in a little practice.

Dad focused on the classical stuff, plus 70s/80s praise songs and occasional bits of world music (in his CD collection). But as I’ve come into grown-up guitar music taste, I tend toward the classic-rock and blues-guitar end of the spectrum, with little bits of folk thrown in. 40-something didn’t do much folk (though we would sometimes sing some Simon & Garfunkel), but boy could he do the Stones and other classic-rock acts. Sometimes it was almost better hearing his covers. He could do all the solos the way they did, but he was live. And sometimes he’d use a half-empty Guinness glass as a slide.

Whoops, is that my inner pessimist sneaking in?!! But really, I don’t think “half-empty” qualifies as a pessimistic assessment in the case of beer consumption. After all, it implies the other half of the beer is in your belly — which is really a very happy event. To call the beer glass “half-full” however implies the drinker is reluctant, even disinclined to respect a good Guinness.

And that, folks — though far from a “non-negotiable” item on my Who a man should be list — has never been a favorable reflection on any gentleman who might hope to ask me out.

I’m Anna Broadway, and I like ending these bits like a TV show sometimes. If this one seemed to have no conclusion, that’s because neither does my cold, which seems to need an awful lot of brain cells to survive ... Ta for Monday!

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Wednesday, November 17, 2004

Man-snaring 101

Updated 11-21-04, 2:11 a.m.*

Sometimes when it rains, it really soaks you ... but not in the sense of depleting your funds, of course. In this instance I’m actually getting a reverse-soaking, I guess you could say. The temp work I scored this afternoon will bring money in next week, and the outtings this evening with Geriatric Gent will augment my social capital. Confused yet? I am. Maybe it’s all the wardrobe changes required to accommodate the last-minute addition of evening entertainments with that Groovey Geezer. You see, in keeping with the Best Friend-Anna pact of consistently being the hottest women at our monthly cocktail hour, I had planned on wearing the dress that resulted in last year’s Halloween costume (Good Librarian Gone Bad). But if I’m to be holding my own against an allegedly notorious if seriously aging lothario, longer skirts are called for. Friends-of-mine-on-flickr, good news: Best Friend is bringing her digi-cam tonight, so hopefully there will be party pics posted tomorrow, by which you can judge the suitability of my attire (and possibly even spy Groovey Geezer himself!).

As for the other things I’ve promised you, lock-in musings will have to wait, but now on to this week’s Spooning Fork. While it would be tempting to go with Macy’s “Relating to a Psychopath” or “Sexual Revolution” (both fun, bouncy dance songs), I’m actually much more interested in darker musings: “Gimme All Your Lovin’ or I Will Kill You.”

‘Gimme All Your Lovin’ or I Will Kill You’ from The Id
Whew! This song alone could explain countless of those pessimistic, women-are-the-devil songs ole B.B. King loves to sing (in between all the ones on how his baby is an angel).

She starts out slow ’n lazy, mellow horns laying down a chill-kinda loungy groove. You can practically smell the martinis as your head starts bobbing. The lyrics, too, begin with the familiar tale of liking rejected ...
no matter what or how i tried
i couldn’t get the man to fall in love with me
turns out he likes the girls with long and wavy hair
mine is short and kinky
i have lost my mind
... before they move on to the alarming:
c’mon and
gimme all your lovin’
or i will kill you
put one through your head
gimme all your lovin’
or i will kill you
and cry when you’re dead
Gulp. Well then. Don’t mess with that lady! And yet ... I’ve gotta concede (Anna shuffles feet, makes faces) ... there’s something sorta familiar in her plight. And not just because this is a straight-ahead, 21st century follow-up to Nina’s sentiments in “Do I Move You?” The fact of the matter is, all women generally try to win the men we fancy, no matter how passive and unconcerned we may appear. And the more we’re thwarted, the more obsessive we get. Not of course, that I would ever tend toward the obsessive (subjects restless feet to concerted study). I’ve never ... uh ... used the pretext of phone trouble to call a suitor who hasn’t called in a week “just so he’ll know I’m note deliberately blowing him off in case he called — which I might not have gotten the message from, since my phone was acting up, you see. Cursed cell phones.”

No sirree. No such games for me. :-o I’m just a simple and honest girl, really. Who happens to swear sometimes. And give chocolate vaginas to men who piss me off. (In the background, strains of Audrey Hepburn warbling: “I’m a good girl, I yam!”) Why, every time I experience a rejection that should send me back for lengthy consultations with the Matchmaker Upstairs, don’t I do just that? Hasn’t this blog been full of such noble if rather boring stories?

Oh, I suppose it hasn’t (fumbles with lyric sheet). But back to the song anyway ... So she finishes — she finishes — with the following sly defense:
it’s amazing what a gun to the head can do
my baby loves me now as hard as he can
my methods may be suspect
but you gotta get love however you can
Which stanza for the strangest reason suggests to me that Macy is a short one. In all my experience of other women, I have never seen a gal wield quite as much power over men as those who shop in the petite section. At least, since I am nearly 5’8” — and getting skinnier on this mostly coffee diet — that’s the only reasonable explanation I can come up with for why Anna never gets the man she wants, be that by gunpower or otherwise. Something about the man being able to look me in the eye (when I’m wearing 3” heels) ... seems to help him see right through my guise, and get away. Although you’d be surprised the way a focused gal can sprint in heels ...

But then there’s always Groovey Geezer. And look what ignoring him has done! Maybe Macy just needed to regularly strut past her man (preferably in hose like tonight’s seamed fishnet stockings), head turned the other way in animated conversation ...

“I have lost my mind.” But that I blame entirely on disruption to my bloodstream caffeine levels, incurred during Sis’ visit. All these hours on end online would never contribute to that ... Not a’tall.

Update
Best Friend didn’t show, but visit Kevin McCullough’s blog for a pic nonetheless.

*Yes, that means I cheated some on my blog fast. But in principle ...

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Thursday, August 26, 2004

The age dilemma

This morning, you may be relieved to know, I finally swapped out the Mojo CD I’ve been talking about since Saturday for something else. A visit from the Committee for Music Diversification seems to have been averted.

Relative to my CD collection, however, today’s selection is probably more mainstream — even a conservative choice on my part (then again, the RNC does come to New York next week). To be giving such heavy airplay to a blues CD was playing to the outlier in my collection: based on recent analysis, the blues account for only 3-4% of my catalog. But today, I confess, it’s back to the meat ’n potatoes, er, swing music (jazz and swing account for the largest single bloc of music, about 20%).

The last of the swingers?
Of course, there had to be some way of paying homage to yesterday’s taping of Last Call with Carson Daly, which featured Big Bad Voodoo Daddy as the house band. (Anna pauses to relish a big, toothy grin of sheer glee.)

I could only attend a half-hour taping, but the band looked great and sounded better. If you don’t feel like digging out your VHS of Swingers, the episode should air Sept. 1; BBVD is the house band all week.

I have to say, it was good to see they’re still getting around. Indigo Swing folded a while ago, and I get the feeling references to Swingers or the Gap Louis Prima commercial are what separate “my” generation from the kids who follow Avril and Jonny Lang (OK, that’s wishful thinking on my part; no kid his age probably knows who Jonny is, poor genius).

As my friend and I stood in line for the taping, she remarked upon the relative youth of the other audience members. There were older fans in the crowd when Jonatha Brooke played the show last spring ... but generally we were the “geezers” in the group yesterday.

Young at heart or old of ear?
So, in the spirit of one of my all-time favorite movies (High Fidelity), I feel inclined to ask: if you are what you listen to, does the real generation-gap hurdle present itself in chronological years, or in musical years vis-a-vis the gaps between your respective catalogs? For a gal who usually likes or dates men in the 7-8 years-older range, it’s a pressing question. Someone should really find a way to calculate musical age.

I haven’t done that yet, but the closest I can come is the recent analysis of my CD collection which generated the following top-5 genre list:
  1. jazz/swing (20.3%; 23.1% if you include crooners like Sinatra, Nat King Cole and HCJ)
  2. classic rock (17%)
  3. classical music (16.5%)
  4. soundtracks & compilations (8.3%)
  5. Christian music (7.3%)
Unfortunately I didn’t think to document original release dates for all albums included ... but at 375 CD cases and 412 individual CDs, that’s a heckuva lotta work. I’m not that bored (yet). Besides, I was interested in genre analysis:
  • Jazz songs are basically like country music, only set to much better music, and generally gifted with better lyrics. The man done her wrong, but she’ll still pine forever … He met a great girl while walking his dog, and guess what? Her dog took a liking for his. Now they’re planning the wedding. Etc. (That’s the vocal stuff; instrumental tracks often make me want to dance, or pine. One of the two.)
  • Classic rock is a little more tricky. This is love seen by the car-mechanic set, for whom a loud fuck and good beer seem to equal the good life (accompanied, of course, by bluesy guitars). But then you also have the Rip Van Winkle psychedelics of Talking Heads, who wonder how they got this wife, this car, this life. In short, it’s like a barbecue with a diverse array of side dishes and marinades, but only a few basic categories: meat, booze, and meat-accessories.
  • Classical music is basically another language, but most of what I collected during junior high and high school (the prime buying-season for this genre) was drawn from the Romantic Period: heavy on the Strauss, Rossini, Tchaikovsky. It covers the full gamut of emotion and experience, but all of it is intense and vibrantly colored. Life is passion, and drama.
  • Soundtracks-n-comps is a hard one; this covers all genres. Basically I threw out all the smarmy crap purchased during a brief spate of high school sentimentality, and now have such gems as High Fidelity, Swingers and Pulp Fiction. So, basically it’s drawn from the top-two categories, augmented by some fun, campy dance sets like The Full Monty and Grease (hey, I do have a shameless-indulgence side: Tom Jones, Ricky Martin, Lou Bega).
  • Most Christian music tends to be love songs for Jesus, but when leaving Arizona I managed to weed out the worst of it. So, it tends to be either religiously themed alt./contemp. music (Sixpence, Newsboys), or Beatle-esque introspection (PFR). I don’t listen to this much anyway. Some would consider David Wilcox a part of this group because he so frequently writes about spiritual themes, but I include him with Williams, Cash and Dylan: the folk crew.
Just for you, my dear readers, I may try to follow up on the musical age conundrum. Feel free to weigh in with more efficient ideas for calculating such a number if you think of any. Meanwhile, I’m trying to think of a more-populist song for this week’s Spooning Fork. So far I’ve covered R&B/Soul (2), disco (1), jazz (2 if you count “Do I Move You?)”, blues (2 ... if you count DIMY? here). Two I have in mind are Meatloaf’s “Paradise by the Dashboard Light” and of course Nine Inch Nails’ “Closer.” Vote for your fave in the comments section below!

And finally ... a reader letter.
I am addicted to your blog. Is there anyone out there that can help me kick this habit? Eesh. Well I hope all is well Broadway.

-Overdosed on Sexless
Dear OD:
First off, thanks for reading my site so exhaustively. You didn’t learn of it on a bathroom wall somewhere, didja? Naw, I thought not.

If you’re concerned about weaning a voracious appetite, however, try checking out related links on the right, or buying some of the music I’ve discussed. That should lead you in new directions. An especially effective technique may be adding some of the Broadway soundtrack to your workout mix. If you don’t work out, start. I hear it’s a great way to cope with frustration (and we wonder why I jogged after Tuesday night’s date ... ;)).

Good luck! And don’t worry: if you only check the blog once a day, it’s really not a bad habit. These things take, what, 15 minutes a day to read? That’s only about 1% of the minutes in your day. Put it in perspective: how much time do you spend jacking off ... or, um, sitting on the can?

xoxo,
Anna

By-the-Buy

sightsound
Nine Inch Nails
Downward Spiral
SwingersDVDsoundtrack I
soundtrack II (
Swingers Too!)
High FidelityDVDsoundtrack
Pulp FictionDVDsoundtrack

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