“I idly chatter to you in the suave tones of surface talk.
I tell you everything that’s really nothing,
and nothing of what’s everything,
of what’s crying within me.
So when I’m going through my routine
do not be fooled by what I’m saying.
Please listen carefully and try to hear what I’m not saying,
what I’d like to be able to say,
what for survival I need to say,
but what I can’t say.”— Charles C. Finn (September 1966)
That’s what my second father asked me, after watching him and his only daughter try to fix their Skype audio for a solid 10 minutes, in silence, on Saturday night.
(What would I do without the internet??)
I waited patiently, of course.
He is the only man I know, over 50, who makes an honest effort to try and understand what kids are talking about today. Whether it be with current music, movies, or books he will always know more than me — even if he is a little off (fleet not fleeing, but still). He will be the one to tell me what Lady Gaga wore to the VMAs or what crazy thing Charlie Sheen did…before he even did it. Pretty sure Sheen gets most of his tricks from this guy. After all, this is the same man who spit beer from his mouth into my fathers and vice versa, while their wives watched and later told their children about (both in shame and slight amusement) — drunk??
"Yes, I’ve heard of Fleet Foxes. They are from Seattle." (reason #45 for "Why Seattle??")
Apparently, his niece was going to their show in LA.
Anyway, FLEET Foxes have a new album, Helplessness Blues. I’ve only heard good things, but haven’t had the chance to give it a proper listen. And I probably would have waited longer unless asked, “Have you heard of Fleeing Foxes??”
So here I am, mid-Monday, listening to six grungy boys play and sing their blues. And I must say, I love it. From the second I heard the first line on the first song, Montezuma, I was hooked once again. I forgot how good their Green Albumwas is!! I forgot how the first time I head them I was watching a recorded episode of SNL, a little high, but completely positive nothing ever sounded as good.
(Why does music always sound better, louder in the dark??)
And how running around the (Mormon) church by my house late at night, with Ragged Wood playing in my head as I lapped each corner, was some of the most peaceful times — coincidence??
"CHRIStopher!!" unless you see a unicorn, run the other way.
My housemate and his girlfriend fight a lot…a lot a lot. It wasn’t until moving across the street from the cemetery, one flight up the stairs, to the corner unit marked 216, that I realized girl(s) cry a lot…a lot a lot.
Slamming doors and raising voices, don’t really bother me—unless its 3:20 am. (Especially when I am in a deep sleep, dreaming about how nice the peace and quiet is.) It is in these moments when I want to disregard my smarter, little sisters advice to not get involved in other peoples business and to simply tell these idiots they need break up already!!
Being forced to share a kitchen and bathroom with dumb and dumber, I have come to a conclusion: These kids have no clue how to be happy. I guess I can’t really say that with much certainty (everyone has their own definition of happiness). But I would say, it is a safe assumption. I mean, telling your significant other they are a “fucking idiot” every other day doesn’t exactly remind me of rainbows and butterflies (that is the only cliche I could think of for being happy).
No. Instead I think of leprechauns. Those creepy little guys in green.
Annoying and unnecessary.
**I used to think she was the crazy one, after hearing her cry for an hour straight one night just because he didn’t put her bread on a plate before warming it up in the microwave for a minute, maybe even two minutes. (She associated this unthinkable act with being “treated like a dog.”)
But after eight months of hearing them fight about nothing significant at all, I’ve come to another conclusion: He is just as crazy.