Oh, colour me in.

When it comes to music, I have always been a lyrics nerd. I think it all started when, as a tiny child, I would listen to the Monkees (yes, the Monkees) and would try to figure out what Micky Dolenz was really saying amidst his poor enunciation. For example, I was pretty adamant that he sang, "you'll need no underwear in the sky" in the song "Sometime in the Morning." (The lyrics are actually, "You'll need no longer wear a disguise.") Misheard Monkees lyrics are practically an epidemic in the music world.

However, my fascination with lyrics did not stop with the Monkees (Let's hope not. That would be downright depressing, considering that they mostly did not write their own lyrics and were a musical scam altogether. Yet I still love them.)

Lyrics are essential to songs, and they should be considered an equal partner to the musical part of the song. Think marriage in this day and age versus in the 1950s. The lyrics should not have to wear a frilly apron and greet the music with a pot roast on a perfectly dressed table when he comes home from work. They should rather be equals and both have fulfilling lives and careers. (Too much analogy? Probably.)

This is why I become so perplexed when someone tells me that they just listen to a particular song for the melody or rhythm. That's like saying that you like to eat food only to experience its texture-- not its taste or nutritional value. In other words, it's just stupid. But this directly explains the phenomenon we see in the music industry-- the garbage (there's no other word for it) that masquerades as music and sells millions of copies. "P-p-p-poker face, p-p-poker face," anyone? I try to ignore when this happens and have faith that the world might become less dumb with time. (That's mean. I love you, world!) In the meantime, I will continue to be a lyrics nerd/snob and enjoy them on my own merits whilst spreading the love in hopes to infect people with my fascination.

I will share some tidbits of lyrics from some favorite songs filled with meaning, flavor, and all that is right with the world. (I realize this is rather self-indulgent and silly. I don't really know why I'm doing it. So don't read if you think it is lame.)

"Boys who rape should all be destroyed." -The Raveonettes

"If I could have a second skin, I'd probably dress up in you." -Belle and Sebastian

"I want to be your love, I want to make you cry and sweep you off your feet. I want to hurt your pride, I want to slap your face, I want to paint your nails. I want to make you scream, I want to braid your hair, I want to kiss your friends. I want to make you laugh, I want to dress the same, I want to defend you. I want to squeeze your thighs, I want to kiss your eyelids and corrupt your dreams. I want to crash your car, I want to scratch your cheeks, I want to make you sick. I want to sell you out, want to expose your flaws, I want to steal your things.
I want to show you off, I want to tell you lies, I want to write you books..." -of Montreal

"I am grey, still on the page, oh colour me in." -Broadcast

"Help yourself, don't say a thing. Your love won't show you anything at all... if all you do is talk." -Black Rebel Motorcycle Club

"She said it was all make-believe.. but I thought she said maple leaves. And when she talked about the fall, I thought she talked about the season. I never understood at all." -Jens Lekman

"You say the Beatles stopped the war. They might've helped to find a cure, but it's still not over." -The Black Angels

"Why so green and lonely?" -Radiohead

"Chemicals, don't strangle my pen, chemicals, don't make me sick again. I'm always so dubious of your intent, like I can afford to replace what you've spent. Come on, chemicals!" -of Montreal

"In your heart of chambers, where you sit with your picture books and your ancient wit. In that nook I found you so old and tired. Would you be the one to carry me? I'd like to be someone you could finally learn to love again" -Beach House

"I do believe in something, you know." -The Duke Spirit

I am fascinated with berries and seed pods. Especially when it rains. One of the first things that made me fall in love with Logan were the rain-drenched trees laden with dripping, red berries that I would walk through on my way to school. It's a weird fixation that not many understand. I'm fine with that.

A fond farewell.

Goodbye, summer. Thanks for letting me hang my clothes on the line outside my house every laundry day.

I'm going to miss that.

The man in the mustache.

One grey day.
A threat of rain,
but nothing waters.
We are dry still.

Satiation at the coffee shop
welcomed by a poor sore throat.
One-two-three,
and happy jitters arrive
-on time-
with the otherwordly beats of a DJ's complex machinery.

Transcendence to a different place
where people speak in electronica,
awkward rhythms
and colors.
Psychedelia drawn in pastels-
vivid in time,
divine in nature.

And the man in the mustache kicks out the jams.
And the man in the mustache kicks out the jams.

I was only dreaming.

What does it mean when you dream that modern-day Nazis are guarding your house, and one of them looks like the guy who plays Draco Malfoy in the Harry Potter movies? And then they throw a time bomb through your window, and you bust out of your house and only thing you grab is your cat. And then you're running up a really steep hill in a successful escape from Malfoy and the Nazis. And then, naturally, all of the sudden you are with a guy who happens to be wearing blue eyeshadow. You tease him, asking if he's going through a Kevin Barnes-eqsue phase. Thankfully, he declines. He is very elusive, hard to read, and likes to watch you get ready for the day. Then he puts a ring on your finger, smiles, and says he's never given a girl a ring before. But it's your ring, one that you bought yourself. Jerkwad.
















Kevin Barnes, of Montreal frontman.
(*Warning- if you ever do a Google image search of this man, naked images of him performing will inevitably pop up. This is the exact reason I didn't dare attend his most recent concert. Love you, Kev, but *puke.*)

Overheard.

It is now time for "Overheard at the Coffee Shop," a series where I tell you about silly, poignant, interesting, or stupid conversations I overhear in coffee shops or other places while staring into a book or newspaper and consuming a delicious drink or foodstuff.

"Overheard 1"- Saturday, August 15, 2009.

Where: Caffe Ibis.
Eating/Drinking: Dark roast coffee and blackberry coffeecake.
Reading: "Me Talk Pretty One Day" by David Sedaris.


Conversation went something like this (quotes are not exact):

Lady who appears to be in her 30s and who is some kind of instructor at the university: "...Well, it's not fair. Women can't go out alone in public without being bothered. I can't go anywhere alone without being hit on or bothered by someone. It's not fair. Guys can just go sit somewhere alone and read in peace. Women are victims."

Guy: Something interesting. (I couldn't hear what he said.)


Commentary in my head went something like this:

Really, madam? I am a female. I have been sitting here, alone in a public place, for about an hour. No one has "bothered" me or "hit on" me, unless you count the fly who landed on my shoulder a couple times. And I think that was more of a throwing-up-on or pooping-on than anything else. And would you believe, madam, that I frequently sit in public places alone without being approached, except for that time when that guy with the really long earrings just couldn't contain himself about how young I looked? You see, the fact that you are a very attractive, intelligent female doesn't permit you to speak for the rest of us. Perhaps you shouldn't make such broad generalizations about women getting hit on all the time, just because it always happens to you. I'm not trying to be rude, that's just how it is. And it's pretty hard to ignore when I, the lone female, am sitting right across from you.


...And that concludes "Overheard at the Coffee Shop" for this week. Stay tuned for more coffee and conversation in the upcoming weeks.

**IRONY: A week after I wrote this, I was "bothered" by a man in the same coffeeshop. I just wanted to sit and read in peace and he kept talking to me and bragging about his art. And somehow I ended up giving him my phone number. Funny how that happens when you are not in the least bit interested in the person. Not to be rude, I'm just being honest. And then he kept calling and calling me for a while. Oops.

An excerpt.

Dear Miss A.,

I realize it's been a terribly long time since I've written you. I don't really know why. I'm bad at keeping up with things. And facing things. But here I am, I'm facing you, telling you about my day, whether you like it or not.

I thought of you the other day when I bought a classy pair of brown high heels. They are really high and painful. I tried them on probably 20 times before buying them. And there I found myself, lost in the cacophony of shoes at Nordstrom Rack, remembering how you always said high heels were comfortable for you and how it made me jealous. My stupid narrow feet and high arches. Thinking of you amidst the shoe aisles is not an uncommon occurrence for me. I can't go shoe shopping without thinking how much you would want to buy this black pair of peep-toe, hidden platform heels (nevermind you already had several pairs of a similar shoe), or this pair of red satin pumps. Buying my pair of heels was easier knowing you would approve. Buying heels is a big deal for me-- it doesn't happen often. That was always your thing. Maybe that's why I bought them-- so that when I wear them, I'm wearing a little bit of you. I wore them to a wedding with a beautiful aquamarine dress that actually made my eyes blue. I felt pretty for once, and now I understand why you loved to dress to the nines and feel pretty.

I saw the new movie with John Krasinski yesterday. I couldn't help but feel guilty that I was seeing it and you weren't. He was absolutely yours. You would always say, "I want to climb him like a tree." I always thought that was peculiar, but now it makes a lot of sense to me. I mean, he is tall. And handsome, especially with that beard.

For Andrew's wedding luncheon, I sang a lovely little song called "Find Love." Now I understand why you wanted so badly to find true love. I surely hope you've found it somewhere in those crazy stars and planets, amidst millions of flitty butterflies, with Coldplay songs streaming across a galaxy.

And I sure as hell hope I find it on this silly little Earth.

Eat your heart out, Billy Idol.

There's nothing better than having dance parties with yourself in your apartment.

Don't worry, all my windows and doors are open.

Don't worry, I dance facing a heavily-trafficked street from which many people can see inside my house.

I don't mind.

Yes, you can has cheezburger.

Alina and I were on a dusky stroll one Tuesday, when we encountered an adorable kitten. It immediately ran up to us, its little collar jangling insistently as it told us in kitty language why we should fall in love with it based solely on its cute kittenous nature. We gave it some love. I put on my best shrill talking-to-kitty voice and cooed lovingly. Wanting to know its name, we inspected the jangly collar. She was called Zhooey, with an "h." But the best part was this inscription on one of the tags:

"O hai! If I iz lost, plz take me hoem k thx!"

If the preceding jibberish looks like jibberish to you, that's because you are not familiar with LOLcats, the insanely popular time-wasting website devoted entirely to kitties and their bad punctuation and spelling.

Upon seeing that inscription, I felt like I was supposed to say some grumpy grandpa thing like, "What is this world coming to. That stupid website is infiltrating our precious vernacular, making us talk to our pets in some inane language, threatening any lingering hint of intelligence we might have as a society. What if that cat was really lost? It would probably die because I can't read the damn inscription on its collar."

Instead, I will say this:
I like LOLcats. I really do. And it really does make me LOL. There, I said it.


kthxbai.

Ants in awkward places.

I woke up to find a tiny ant biting me in an inappropriate place. "Get away from me, you perv," I said. No wonder I was itchy and couldn't get to sleep. No thanks, ants = no thants.

-Unrelated-

I really love when sneezes come in pairs. It seems to provide some kind of closure. As if you thought the first one was a fluke, the second one sets in and gives you a whole new level of satisfaction, as if to legitimize your entire existence as a sneezer. I'm always jealous of those people who sneeze more than three times in a row. What euphoria. The funny thing is, I am not kidding at all.

Is it true that your eyes will pop out if you don't close them while sneezing? I will try my hardest to keep my eyes open next time I sneeze to find out.* Does the same thing happen if you open your eyes while kissing someone?** What if you kiss while sneezing? These are the important matters I concern myself with daily.



*If you see me without eyes, you'll know what I've been up to. But say hi because I won't be able to see you.

**Chances are, I won't be kissing anyone any time soon to find this out. Contact me in 40 years, and hopefully I'll have found out by then.

With your pen and notebook, you've blown me away.

If you care to read...

I was rifling through my old Opinion Writing class notebook and it made me laugh. (A shout-out goes to Nancy W.)

Things I secretly like.

I secretly like the smell of cigarette smoke in the winter. In the bitter cold, while walking through campus or a Salt Lake street. I don't like anything about smoking at all. I think it's a pretty nasty habit, and usually the smell makes me gag. But there's a certain brand of cigarette, when mixed with icy weather, that lends itself to a sense of comfort in my mind. I have no idea why. Maybe it's because of the record store. At one point, probably half the staff there smoked and I remember when Garrett would go outside and light up. I thought he might freeze and snap in half because he was so skinny. I would have kissed him right then and there in the snow and tasted his smoker mouth. I wish I would have. I wish I would have done a lot of things.

I also secretly enjoy the smell of the fumes in printmaking class. The ink being stretched thin over the plates. The rosin kept safe in the box, only to burst out through the seams when someone blasts compressed air through a little hole. The spray paint and propane torch. Oh, and the hard-ground being lushly painted over gleaming copper surfaces, like black molasses. And the less pungent soft-ground melting softly in the heat. And the mineral spirits used to clean off the ink from the plates-- I think this one is my favorite. It's also probably not very good for me to smell-- it's basically paint thinner. I love opening the bins of used, soiled rags and getting a whiff of the ink that has been carefully lifted up by oil and mineral spirits. It's the smell of hard work, passion, and a little insanity. I wonder what goes on those bins when no one's looking.

I'm a girl.

So, you know the phrase "the girl next door" that's been in our vernacular ever since Doris Day was invented? Or was it Sandra Dee? I can't remember. Anyway, this term is generally used to describe the unassuming, sometimes innocent, cute "regular" girl who manages to be just friends with men-types! (I know, weird.) But she also happens to be really hot/pretty, charming and smart, and you can't believe she's been there this whole time and you just started noticing how amazing she is and now she's the girl of your dreeeeeeams!

Ahem. Anyway. On that note, I have decided that if we're placing girls in neighborhood locations, I am "the girl five blocks down, two blocks over, past the abandoned warehouse, through the swampy area (you'll need some boots), up the little rocky path, through that barbed-wire fence, over the grassy knoll, through the brambles, and if you get lost, give me a call."

Yes. Interpret it how you will.

Simple thoughts

A few thoughts for the day, though very scattered and tangential. Enjoy?


I love it when my earrings surpass my hair in length.

To Adrianne: I miss you every single day, no exaggeration. Posting on your facebook page weirds me out. That's why I don't do it. Sorry?

On that note, rest in peace, King of Pop. Wow. If you see Adrianne, tell her I love her.

I'd rather be funny than pretty. Good thing, or I'd be screwed.

The other night I had the worst possible combination of bad dreams. This involved: falling into a huge pile of dried dog poo in the middle of the desert, being given the shaft by a jerk-faced male, Satan/zombies + my family, and sobbing in a pasture of cows because they were going to be slaughtered.

Composing a song in your head is frustrating when you don't have the instruments to carry it out.

"Protest against the rising tide of conformity."

Columbine flowers are miraculously beautiful.

I will never be into Feist. You can't make me.

I will make Key Lime pie for the second time this week. I think I'm obsessed with it. Let me know if you want some.

An afterthought.

Dear Northern Utah,
Are you trying to be the Pacific Northwest? If so, I suggest you stop trying. I don't know who you're trying to fool with your recent chilly, wet, thunderous nature in the midst of summer. I mean, I appreciate the recent frequent downpours, and I like your newfound super green-ness. But it's not really you. Are you trying to change who you are because you think Seattle and the like are prettier than you? Seattle and friends are very pretty, but so are you. You are pretty in your own special way, as Mom says. And you are a desert and not a coastal state. So quit trying to be something else. Get some confidence and just be yourself, dammit! Seriously, get a grip.

With love,
KG

For the price of a cup of tea.

Dear foreboding, rumbly-tumbly storm clouds,

Since you decided to set in and chase me inside from my sanguine Sunday bike ride, I guess I will write something. (P.S. I don't like you.)

If I have many flaws (which I do), one of them is that I get really attached to places and days gone by. I also get attached to people, but that is probably more normal than being in love with a coffee shop or a doorway, so we'll leave that one behind.

If you are the kind of person whom I talk to frequently, you know that I haven't been able to get over the beloved Citrus and Sage cafe since it closed last August. If you are one of these people, don't read this and save yourself from hearing me repeat myself.

Citrus and Sage was by far my favorite place in Logan, located conveniently on my favorite street in Logan. I sometimes ride by it on my bike, looking for signs of life and wondering why one of the lights is on. The "for sale" sign hangs resiliently, waiting for someone's interest (and money).

This place brought a great crowd of people together. There was that guy with the face tattoos and that Bill fellow who basically lived there. There were snooty people and college professors. There was Saturday night Jazz, poetry readings and study sessions. In the summer, you'd sit outside on the big wooden deck that was draped with potted flowers, and you'd sip your iced tea while folksy singer-songwriters would play into the dusk. I used to tell myself that one day I'd get up the nerve to play my songs in public and perform there.

One time, for some reason, someone hatched chickens in the upper level of the house where the tiny used bookstore was. Just these little eggs in a little incubator, sitting on a table waiting to be born. That's just the kind of place it was. (The awesome kind.)

One time I interviewed the former owner. She said she opened Citrus and Sage to bring people together to a place where they could just relax and hang out. She mentioned that she and her husband would often end up at Village Inn at night because there was no other place to relax and have a cup of coffee (and maybe a goopy cinnamon roll-- the ones at Citrus and Sage were quite outstanding).

Now it's back to Village Inn for a while, I guess. I am not opposed to pie. But it certainly 'aint no cinnamon roll or scruffy musician.

People.... people who need peopllllle.....

I love people. Though it may not be readily apparent to some, seeing as I sometimes have the asocial tendency to snarl and cower awkwardly in a corner in social places, I am fond of people. Most people. I think they are puzzling, lovable, and fascinating. (Except for people on "Rock of Love"-type reality shows.) And lately, though it reeks of creepitude, I have been craving them.* For you see, I live alone in a little box-like dwelling. I share a wall with an elderly (albeit spunky) lady who brings me freezer jam and Valentine's treats. Bless her.

I remember when my dear friend Adrianne asked me if I could really live alone, I brazenly said yes while imagining myself in a hip little kitchen, letting the cat out while sipping a cup of tea. Though I have let the cat out many times and have had many a cup of tea, my kitchen is not hip, and I think the oven might explode someday. But that's fine. The point is, I miss people. I'm not saying this for sympathy purposes-- living alone has its share of perks (see fig.1). But I dearly miss having roommates. People bustling and hustling about their day. People who tell you about their skin diseases and how far they've been with a guy. So if you're looking for a roommate, I'm yours.** If you want. Especially if you like boy-hatin'-on, secret eating, secret underwear pillow-fights,*** and secret secrets. In the meantime, a gangsta-style shout-out to roommate homies of the past will have to do.

To the freshman-year roommates: Poo '99 was fun. So was going to concerts. And interpretive dancing with underwear on our heads.

To the roommates I never really knew: I think we spoke, like, twice. You and your boyfriends were mostly annoying.

To the "Crack House" roommates: I love(d) you more than my own kidneys. Remember when one of you would run around in your underwear all the time? And remember when you awarded me the "Who shot the couch" award at the roommate awards? And one of you would pretend to be a grandma and joke about her diabetes. That same one bought me the new Shins album for no reason. And I learned many, many slang terms for female anatomy. And I got electrocuted by the stove. And someone left a colossal gift-poo in the toilet and I got really, really mad. I still have nightmares about that particular poo.

To the former roommate who sometimes lets me sleep on her couch: Thank you for letting me sleep on the sinky couch.

.....Oh, sweet memories.

Fig. 1) A perk of living alone:
My underwear hanging to dry on the shower curtain rod.






(I probably shouldn't post pictures of my underwear. Good thing it's a low-quality photo.)

*I am not a cannibal.
**Unless you're gross.
***Not really. That's gross. But it did make me sound hot for a moment, huh?

My fruit-striped career

For some reason, I recently hearkened back to 7th grade math class. It was the first week of school. I remember sitting there in the front row. There were lots of cute boys (ie, smelly 7th graders with bowl-cuts or gelled, pokey hair), and I was thrilled to the brim.

I decided to buy some Fruit Stripe gum. You know, the rainbow zebra gum? I planned on chewing it seductively as to enchant the boy I sat in front of. The next day, I tried. It didn't work.

I wish I would have paid more attention in class.

Hi, Gene.

I recently had a cologne attack. A colognac attack, rather. Maybe you've experienced one. You're walking home from campus in a stupor, probably thinking about food of some kind or plotting an evil nano-robot scheme, when out of nowhere, a college-going man-child dashes by, leaving you in a cloud of confusion and putrid Aqua di Gio or whatever the hell he has marinated himself in overnight. This particular incidence was so severe I could taste the smell and actually started gagging.

Here are some tips for this guy and other poor saps:

1. Marinade is for chicken and other succulent meats. Not for people. Unless you are a cannibal and you think people meat makes a nice steak.

2. The amount of cologne you wear is not equal to the amount of girls who will immediately throw themselves on you like in those commercials. No one is going to take their clothes off because your cologne makes you an irresistible sex god. Check yourself-- can you even grow a good beard?

3. I would rather smell a consecutive stream of 25 elderly men bathed in Old Spice than taste the smell your pretty-boy brand of cologne that was all the rage with the spiky-haired kids in high school. Plus, grandpas are awesome and they tell me I'm pretty. You look down at me over your popped collar. You lose.

4. Spray once, put down the bottle. A little cologne isn't bad. It's very nice, actually. Here's a rule of thumb: If you can just barely smell the cologne on yourself, that means everyone else can smell it quite well at a level that is unoffensive to the soul.

5. If it's me you're trying to impress (which it's not), you could easily squeak by with wearing some random aftershave you found in your underwear drawer. Wearing deodorant is a definite plus as well. But if it's me you're trying to impress, you would also have to be able to grow a beard and probably kinda dress like a lumberjack.

C'est printemps!

I've recently taken up a fascination with people's trash. I'm not referring to the everyday, smelly garbage of banana peels and tampon wrappers, although that kind is very interesting and can reveal a whole lot of juicy stuff about a person, like that they use tampons or eat bananas. But right now, I am talking about trash in the sense of baggage. Extra stuff that people don't know what to do with. Stuff that sticks around because it doesn't know how to go away. Card tables and woodscraps, spare tires (either the metaphorical kind or the rubber kind), or emotional baggage left over from a bad break-up-- everyone seems to possess it. And every bit of it seems to tell a story.

Upon the first promising signs of winter thaw, I went on a walk and soon discovered how amazing trash seemed to me. The discarded. The residuals of life. The stuff people keep around because it's too difficult or painful to part with. But piled high in a disheveled heap eyesore, it seemed to have a melancholic artfulness to it, simply because I didn't know why it was there. Especially the bathtub that someone left out in their front yard by some towering scaffolding that hugged the side of the house. This sight made me think that perhaps these people are moving on and leaving the old behind-- spring cleaning, as it were.

I began thinking of my own spring cleaning. My own lingering baggage. The receipts, the endless laundry piles, the omnipresent dust specks that veil my room in a sheath of denial and forgetfulness. My mental pathways that have stirred negativity and spawned immaturity. My un-exercised body and the "love handles" that grace my small frame. Sure, it all tells a story, but it needs to go. It's spring, it's wonderful, and I've spent too long shrouded in winter, wrapped up the dirty gauze of my own self-pity. In my own covert, chilled little world, precious bits of life slipped by as I was sleeping.

I worry it is cliche to talk about "spring rejuvenation," but it's the first time it's ever made sense to me. I never saw spring cleaning as something symbolic. Now I see myself as its human embodiment. Now there's a mess in my living room and it's cleaning time.