Monthly Archive for October, 2005

i had lunch with ll cool j today

Published
by
Alfina the Vague
on October 22, 2005
in Vintage Imports
. Closed

Why do I keep having dreams about rappers?  At any rate, L.L. has very good taste in deli sandwiches–at least in my dream.  In real life, there’s no way that man eats white bread; I mean, have you seen his abs lately?  Momma said ‘cut carbs out.’

In other weird dream news, I have also recently won the lottery, bought an apartment in Paris, been stalked by a man in a dark suit, and given birth to a gassy love-child.  What can I say?  My unconscious has no idea what to make of the Mexican food I ate last night.

on throwing shoes in the dark

Published
by
Alfina the Vague
on October 19, 2005
in Music and Vintage Imports
. Closed

When, earlier tonight, I leveled the following insult at a very good friend, it was partially in jest–mostly a knee-jerk jocular impulse.

“All your taste is in your mouth,” I said. It’s something I’ve freely wielded at others over the years: people who were (at the moment, at least) lacking in taste both auditory and, well, soulful.

How can you not feel Stevie Wonder, I have wondered, aghast and confused. Driving a passel of girls to the bar one night, I was called upon to “play something funky.”  To this day, I remain convinced the girl in question just didn’t know what “funky” meant.    Upon choosing “Higher Ground,” I was met, incredibly, with “Oh! I didn’t know there was a jazz version of that Red Hot Chili Peppers song!”

I remember being as appalled then as I had been in college when I read in the University paper that U2 had covered “that Hendrix song,” in reference to “All Along the Watchtower.”

It’s not just that I expect (or take as given) that people have some knowledge of classic stuff such as your Stevies and Bobs of the world–and it certainly goes deeper than feeling superior to Top-40 radio-listeners.  I don’t demand that people be impeccably versed in music history or underground catalogues, either.  Hey, what I know about Opera could fit in a thimble.  As far as underground anything goes, I’ve miles of ground to cover (some puns intended, some not).

Certain things, though, I can’t help being irked by. Girls whose entire CD collections are predicated on their boyfriends’ mixes, for one.  I’ve been there, too, but I have also had to fight guys tooth and nail just for some stereo time at home.  In that situation, a person starts to appreciate that one Blake Babies tune maybe more than it deserves.

It’s an interesting subject, though.  I’ve been wooed by my share of mixed tapes (seriously, just look in the trunk of my car).  I have fallen in love across a crowded room, provided the soundtrack was right.  I have been stunned to silence, stirred to dancing in the living room with my parents, lured into one night stands (damn you “Still Crazy After All These Years!”), slapped in the face with regret, lulled to sleep, shaken.

The height of my hip, indie years has passed (some time in the mid nineties).  I don’t know from Franz Ferdinand, and alls I can tell you about Modest Mouse is I went to a show and it was the worst show I have ever seen (and that includes waiting in the parking lot for Kansas to finish before Yes went on). I am okay with this.

What I know now is that when a good enough song comes on, I can tell it is time to shut off the lights and lie in the middle of an empty room with the stereo so loud it rattles your spine, and listen to it over and over and over, and blindly throw a shoe at the wall, if necessary.

(Jeremy’s post made me start thinking about this, and the song below both made me level the above insult at my friend (who was entirely a good sport about it) as well as throw a shoe at my poor, innocent wall.)

it is probably more similar to the john wayne movie

Published
by
Alfina the Vague
on October 17, 2005
in Food and Drink and Vintage Imports
. Closed

There is a thing called an El Dorado.  It is not unlike a Cadillac, and not unlike a lost city of gold.  Yet the El Dorado is simultaneously very different from both of these things.  Those who know the El Dorado know this.  Those who don’t, don’t.  Such is the way of the El Dorado.  Further to this discussion, I would like to add:  my hair hurts.

open letter to mrs. nappington

Published
by
Alfina the Vague
on October 13, 2005
in Correspondence and Vintage Imports
. Closed

My Dear Beloved,

You are the world to me–your soft, pillowy nature lulls me into a comfort that few may ever know.  Each minute we spend togther is a dreamy, nebulous heaven floating above the pedestrian concerns of my afternoon.  Our rendez-vous–sometimes a heated, illicit post-lunch quickie, other times a lingering late-afternoon tea–are what keep me alive.

This is the way our love goes:  glasses askew, face smushed sideways into a sofa cushion, one leg dangling floorwards, General Hospital droning lowly in the background.  It is a connection removed from any pretense: insulated, pristinely distilled slumbrous wonder.

Yet still there are some who would try to keep us apart!  Never fear, my sweet, for I will die before I let this happen.  My feline roommate, jealous of the time we spend together, tries to wrench me from your tender embrace by creating loud noises throughout the apartment.  She knocks items off of shelves and counters, spills her water dish, claws great chunks out of the walls–but she will not stop me from loving you!  Well-meaning friends try to call me on the phone, attempting to distract me.  They just don’t understand, do they?  They don’t see how wholesome and pure our love really is.

I have become obsessed, they say, allowing my time with you to supersede all others.  You’re too old for me, they say, but you, Mrs. Nappington, are ageless.  Timeless.  You are the deep, primeval ursleep of the gods.  You are my first, my last, my everything.

Hoping to remain forever in a pillow-creaséd afterglow,

there is nothing that can stop me from being rocked like a hurricane

Published
by
Alfina the Vague
on October 10, 2005
in Cheese Sandwich, Music and Vintage Imports
. Closed

After months of suffering with the cutest but stupidest (isn’t that always the way?) alarm clock in all creation, my misery is over.  No more to be awakened by the heart-stopping sounds of an air raid that can only be ceased by it’s being flung across the room, which causes the battery to fall out and me to oversleep.  No more to lie awake at night driven mad by the ticking, OH MY GOD THE TICKING!

I have purchased the prettiest, shiniest, most glorious alarm clock ever to be conceived: it is the pink alarm clock of destiny!  It has giant numbers that even I can read, and two alarms which can be set to the buzzer, radio, or CDs.  There is now no reason at all why I shouldn’t wake up each morning to the ass-kicking strains of The Scorpions, Rick Derringer, and early Guns ‘n’ Roses.

Incidentally, VH1 showed the Behind the Music special on G’n'R last night, which pretty much rocked (at least until they got to the “November Rain” era).   Bright Eyes, my ass.