Friday, December 03, 2004
house is on fire, we're naked again
Maybe all we need
Is water and friends.
Sadly, these are not my lovely angst-filled words. They belong to Bush-X, former band of Gavin Rossdale, so-cute-it-hurts Brit, married to that girl you may have heard of...uh...Gwen Stefani. I'm not sure who I'd rather be in this equation -- him getting her or her getting him. There's some gender-transgression for you. I can't decide whether I want to be Gavin more than Gwen. They're both so hot and so cool. Frankly, the boy and girl parts seem secondary to the equation.
But this is not really about which celebrities I want to sleep with. It's about secretly wanting to be the lead singer of my brother's garage band.
So, my bro's got these funny little (read: 6'3") friends who all play various instruments: guitar, bass, drums, etc., and they assemble after school a few times a week in one of their parents' garages and proceed to belt out tunes and then record them with this state-of-the-art equipment that for some reason my bro's friend has access to. They have this song called S.J.A.D., that's Squeal, Jam, And Die, for those of you who aren't 16-year-old boys, and it consists of a kid screaming in this high-pitched, pre-pubescent voice while the others yell "SJAD!" at the top of their lungs and pound on drums and strum the hell out of some guitars in the background. It actually sounds much better than you'd think from that description. So, my theory is that they need a singer. A girl. Someone chill to sing a bit, not crazy-good like Bif or Sarah McLachlan or Shirley Manson, or hell, even Beyonce circa Destiny's Child, who steal the show to the point where everyone forgets that they even have a band, but someone, well, Gwen Stefani-like, who can carry a decent tune but doesn't need to totally steal the show to feel important. The problem is in convincing a bunch of 16-year-old boys that a) I can sing, when I'm not even too sure of that myself, and b) that they really need me to make their band cooler. I have the feeling they'd rather just squeal, jam, and die on their own. Oh well.
Maybe G's friend will let me join his band.
My prof (Professor Dolt, that is) claims my paragraphs are too long. I think he's just lazy.
I can do 45 sit-ups in a minute. I would much rather be able to do 60. But I can deal with 45 for the time being. I also started doing dips without any weight assist, to the shock and dismay of the trainer at the Y, who was convinced that no one had ever done this before and that I was sure to hurt myself in the process. I didn't, but I do feel a bit more roar and my pecs are sure to hurt tomorrow. There was a lot of gawking at the gyme today, but not from the couple of very hot 20-somethings walking around. Instead, I was getting oggled by 50-odd year old guys who probably need to shoot Viagra into their veins just to get it past the gawking stage. What the fuck is up with that? I can tell you right now that I do NOT look my age. I look maybe 18, at the upper limit, until you talk to me and find out I'm probably cynical enough to be a lot older than that, but that means that these guys are basically staring at a girl who's old enough to be their daughter and young enough to be jail bait. YUCK! I am getting increasingly worried about guys who are anymore than about 3-4 years my senior, and not without good reason.
I sometimes wonder why I'm finding it hard to meet people these days, and then I realised: I spend SO much time trying to avoid harrassment and danger that I really don't offer people the benefit of the doubt most of the time. I keep to myself on the bus, turn the music in my headphones up real loud, and I don't let people get too friendly with me, especially when they're drunk. And really, why should I? I have good enough reason to worry, what with women getting raped and beat into disability just for jogging in the park, and with date-rape becoming increasingly common. Maybe I read too much horrible shit, but I know that there are some very dark sides to human nature that I would like to avoid if at all possible.
My cat Charlie is hanging out on my desk right in front of my speakers, probabaly because that spot's right under the lamp and it's nice and warm, but he is actually physically vibrating from the Bush-X in my sub-woofer, which I can't help but chuckle at. I can see the movie trailers now: "They thought he was just a normal house cat. Little did they know that he harboured dreams of heavy-metal stardom. Join Charlie the champagne persian on a journey that will lead you into darkness, and hurtle you unexpectedly into the light." Rock on, Chaz, rock on.
Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out, breathe in...
Tied to a wheel
fingers got to feel
i spin on a whim
i slide to the right
i feel you like electric light
for our love
for our fear
for our rise against the years and years and years
I got a whole lotta nothing to do tonight. I should be annoyed by this, but I actually feel pretty relaxed. Charlie just knocked over a whole pile of cds and I didn't really care.
As my bro would say...I guess I'm pretty chill.
Do wish I had some pot kicking around though. Oh well.
A bientot mes amis.
-NRon
