A Tangent

In the midst of a hard drunk, my 12 year old cousin burst in and screamed at me to turn my music down.  I found this to be a soul-shattering role reversal.  It’s not like I was standing there in a smoking jacket, pipe in hand, spinning disco records or something.  I was listening to the Yeah Yeah Yeahs.  They’re up to date, aren’t they?  And I didn’t have it turned up to that level where I couldn’t concentrate on anything.  I was one little bar under that.  I was still able to acknowledge that a 12 year old girl had slammed into my personal space and then react accordingly:  Leap behind the couch with a gun and fire blindly while she stopped bullets in mid-air, leapt, froze, then delivered a blow that bent the room inward and popped it out again, sending me sprawling against the wall.

Okay, okay.  What really happened is that she had a tantrum for about three minutes while I turned the volume way down and stared in horror before I bellowed at her in my best 32 year old voice and sent her scurrying away.  Then I turned the music back up.  War!

So, anyway, the Yeah Yeah Yeahs.  I’m the first to admit that I’m not a music man.  My music life can be summed up in one defining moment, back in 99.  I forgot the chick’s name, but we dated for a couple months and she was a sex-starved fallen Catholic-cum-wiccan-cum-buddhist-cum hard.  In our final breakup stage, we were cuddled together in a drunken sort of mess on her foul smelling couch watching some fucking Elton John shit and she stopped my trailing hands, told me to listen to the lyrics, and said that there was a message being sent specifically to me.  I was well past my ability to make out the lyrics, or even the precise location of the TV set, so I just asked her to take off her pants.

Now, most of my friends are big audiophiles, so I manage okay.  I look cool because, at any given time, I have someone at my elbow who’s all buzz buzz buzz about the cool shit while I smile knowingly and feign keen understanding while drinking other people’s booze.  That’s a talent that’s paid off in the publishing business because, let’s face it, nine out of ten writers suck and that final minority is damned.  You know the damned – they’re the ones who can write.  The voices of brilliance and power.  Man, if that’s you, hang yourself now.  These first few furtive steps through the looking glass have horrified me.  Six months ago, I was starting to age out of hard drunks and late nights of self misery.  Now a book’s about to hit the shelves and I’ve worked with lawyers, agents, distributors, reviewers, and designers.  I find myself drinking at eight in the morning and inexplicably bursting into tears throughout the day.  A high class, major distributor, right?  The only thing they cared about was the cover design.  I showed that to them and they went nuts and took the book.  Then I said:  Maybe your sales team would like to read the –

No need!  No need!  The cover!  *flash flash* Da covah!

I won’t even mention how difficult it is promoting a Canadian author.  I’ve started lying.  People ask where the author’s from and, defensively, I blurt out “Up north!”  Then people reply:  “Oh, cool.  Like New England?  Like Stephen King?!?!”  If I say Canada, you can hear a pin drop.  People recoil in horror.  Not…Canada!  I spit on them! Pah!

But…what about da covah?

So, music, it’s a strange love.  I tend to set up a three day playlist and lie here on the floor all weekend staring at “To Do” lists and ignoring phone calls from my family.  When friends advise something, I grab it and listen the fuck out of it.  I’m surrounded by music on various mediums.  But I lack the sort of connection between primal enjoyment and knowledge.  (Which is, strangely, the same problem I have with women.)

Some elements, however, do make sense to me.  The Yeah Yeah Yeahs reflect my ongoing weakness for “grrl-rock.”  I strongly support the lesbian crowd – girl power, etc.  Lesbians love me to pieces and invite me to all of their little parties.  I’m seen as an ally.  The harmless goofy guy.  I can’t tell you the doors I’ve been behind or the things I’ve seen.

I’m sure they’re all aware that the single clear thought I have in my life is:  Orgy.  Some clam-slamming action, at the very least.  At the best, reverse gangbang freakout.  Fraternity school rape horror – right there!  Right there!  Smile for the camera!  Look at me while you do it!  LOOK UP!  SHOW ME YOUR EYES!

The interest in the music is honest.  The interest in sex is honest, too.  Like I say, it’s not lost on them.  Perhaps that’s the trait lesbians enjoy?  The man who doesn’t act on the primal urges?  It’s a crying shame I repulse straight women, though.  Is that a cruel twist of fate or are lesbians simply agents for a larger cosmic conspiracy aligned against me?  Do you like these tits?  You’ll never have them.

Yay!  Can you spare a xanax?

I’m sure that every single person on this planet, including my cousin, can read me like a book.  Which I find defeating.  Fortunately, I find many things defeating, so there’s no need to feel sorry for me on this point.

Approaching relationships is my big problem.  I’m the sort who doesn’t make a good first impression.  If I’m sober, I’m twitchy and weird.  If I’m drunk, I’m… Well, about as coherent and politic as I am right now.  I went up to Toronto on an important business trip and ended up trying to lick the face of someone’s panicked wife while pounding high voltage Canadian swill beer.  Some people find that endearing, others believe that I have “a problem.”

Seriously, though, if you had seen this girl.  And they just kept giving me beer!  At one point, I was under the table scooping up splinters of broken glass with my bare hands.  I don’t know what that has to do with anything but it certainly earns me a fucking place in life where 12 year olds should not burst in and tell me to turn the music down.  Why don’t you turn your…fucking whatever down whatever the fuck you do you fucking…12 year old.

Call the Childcatcher!