Sorry for being all, "I'm so cool cuz I'm the only one who likes ELO except for some kool KXLU DJ."
That was kind of obnoxious. Out of the three and a half people who read my blog, I bet two of you love "Do Ya," and I bet the one and 1/2 don't care but somehow, in spite of that, are cooler than me.
Isn't it funny how some days, you really do think you're Mick Jagger? I mean, you honestly believe for three seconds that there is no one else on the planet that can overmatch your taste, aesthetic sensitivity, wit, spirit, style, and erotic genius? Even if nobody else gets it?
Then other days you feel like Stuart Smalley during an Oreo-fueled shame spiral: grandiosely mediocre. Physically grotesque. (BTW, you simply have to see the highly underrated "Stuart Saves His Family," by Al Franken and Harold Ramis.)
All your friends are fooling you because they feel so sorry for you. They don't really want to hang out with you but they just don't know how to get out of it.
Secretly they're having parties without you. Those nights when everyone says they just want to stay home and chill? They're really gathering at the Playboy mansion without you. They're snorting cocaine from Pablo Escobar's private stash. They're on the roof with Stephen Hawking and Michio Kaku, looking at the Milky Way through a high-powered telescope. They're playing poker with Keith Richards and they're also in the basement, having an acoustic hootenanny with Paul McCartney. They're at the piano with Cole Porter and they're eating chocolate-covered strawberries.
Everywhere, everywhere, it's chocolate-covered strawberries.
Somehow, there are no fake boobs around and that guy who owns Playboy is out of town and your friends invite the Replacements c. 1985 to do a concert on top of a giant pool table. They completely trash the place.
Ah, paranoia. It's a wilderland, ain't it?
Fact is my friends are amazingly sweet and welcoming and I feel bizarrely graced to know them.
I'm jus' riffin. Now, this was funny: the other night me and Jake went to have roommate-drinks down the street, and afterwards we stopped in at the Daily Planet gift shop. They were playing the indie band Beulah (sp?), and something about it reminded me of Brendan Benson. So I asked the shopgirl, do you know Brendan Benson?
She's all, why do you ask?
I'm all, just because this song reminds me of him.
She's like, Oh! See, I went to high school with Brendan Benson in Detroit.
So I asked her as many discreetly indiscreet questions as I could. Turns out he used to be a huge ladies' man.
I hate it when a guy writes a bunch of torch songs about the girls who don't like him, and then it turns out that he's Mr. Hot Shit Stud. It's kind of disingenuous.
I still consider him a hero, though. I'll reserve judgment till I meet him. Sometimes former sluts turn into really good men, and they're happy and wonderful because they have sown their oats so thoroughly.
PS: I remembered another song Jenny Q. played on her last show: "Deuce" by Kiss, which is such, such a ridiculous song! :)