As always. Surprise. Surprise. Surprise. Circle takes the square and back around again. I can’t seem to think one thing lately before something else hops up into my goddamned lap.
Yesterday I went to the Levi’s store. And if there is one thing about me you should know–besides the fact I love Fleetwood Mac, and besides the fact I am amazed by scale, and besides the fact I will cry no matter what the movie if one character says “I Love You” to another character, animal or even machine (or cartoon machine), and besides the fact I love coffee and have a real soft spot for Tequila, and besides the fact some part of me doesn’t really see the absurdity of Tom Petty and I living happily ever after or even besides the fact that I truly believe that I come from a blood lineage that can not thrive without eating red meat even though I have yet to meet a vegetable that I don’t like, even when I don’t know it’s proper name–it’s that this old girl lives her life in blue jeans.
And I am forever trying to make that as seamless as possible. For everyone involved. But it would seem that Levis is hell bent on fucking with me.
Every time I fall in love, they flip their script. Maybe that’s how you make money, and trust me I’d be the last to know, but who doesn’t love Coca Cola right? If it ain’t broke, stop crapping on it. Whenever I blow out the crotch of my number one favorite pair, and trust me that is not as exciting as it sounds, they are irreplaceable. The name or size now means nothing. They’ve changed the waist because that’s what women really want. They’ve already “worn” holes in them for you or kitten whiskered you all up in the crotch. Or my number one favorite, they have shortened the zipper just a smidge so now you can be guaranteed you’ll be showing off your London and possibly even your France if you do something so risque as sit on a barstool or god forbid tie your shoe. But, of course none of this is the point.
In the Levis store a couple of doors down from Reckless today I was doing my damnedest to replace my daily go to jeans. And a very nice lady was helping me sift through the piles when her coworker turned to her and said, “Oh my god I love this song. Do you know who it is?” And she didn’t. But I did. Do I interject? Do I even give a shit? I for one was still fuming over her explanation of the logical reason they had changed the name of all of their cuts for the second time in six months. But he wouldn’t quit. He’d obviously heard it before and sort of knew the words. I guess even the soundtrack of hipness loops back upon itself at some point.
So finally after he again stated that he really loved it, I gave in. “The band is called Wolf Parade* and this song from their most recent album. I actually work a couple of doors down at Reckless and we give anyone who works in the neighborhood a 10% discount. You should check it out, it’s a great record.”
And this is what old boy turned to me and said:
“Wolf Parade? Cool. I’m totally gonna download it.”
You’re welcome asshole.
But just don’t park in our spots.
That’s how Lens Crafters made the shit list.
And so it goes. Song 24. I’d say that I was all alone.
*This is exactly the kind of band name that fucks with your self preservation instincts. The words Wolf, Eagle, Crystal, Black or Skulls of any kind just scream dealbreaker. But I have been proven wrong before. It took me forever and maybe fate for me to give them a chance. In fact, I had no intention to whatsoever, but at Pitchfork I was blown away. I then hoped on my bike and rode to the United Center to be totally let down by my first ever Tom Petty and The Heartbreakers concert. Not because it was bad, but because I had gone from seeing this great band sweat it’s ass off in front of my face to sitting somewhere in like row G Five Trillion. I swore that night never again. Unless, I break the goddamned bank for Row One through maybe, depending on my own economic crisis, something in the Row low Teens. Thanks a lot Canada.