Posts Tagged ‘Janine’

Music Is My Drug

November 7, 2013

And I got HIGHHHHHHHHHHH tonight.

Oh my.

Yes.

I had forgotten.

“It’s never too late to start your day over,” my darling friend said to me on the phone not even a few hours back.

I had just had a day.

Fuck my day.

Fuck starting it over.

I was starting it over from the minute my feet hit the floor.

Not the way I wanted to have my day.

No, you know I want sunbeams and moonbeams, at the same fucking time, don’t tell me it’s not possible, toss in some god damn unicorns, a couple of grandparents, early drop off time for the baby, nothing says disconcerting to getting to work not on time, but early (I like to wipe the sweat off my brow and drink some water and catch my fucking breath before I go and be all nannified and cheery and shit), and the baby is already there.

One baby is always already there, he lives there, but the other little boy I was doing the share with, came early.

I thought I was late and then looked at my watch, damn, I am early and I left the house thinking I was running behind.

The bicycle commute is getting faster and faster.

Although I don’t want to push it.

The morning traffic commute up Lincoln Avenue is no joke once you hit 20th.

I gently remind myself that at times, better to be a little late than a lot dead.

The baby was asleep, which is not an awful thing, but I usually have a routine and it was quickly being pushed aside.  The grandparents were doing what grandparents do, and they have every right too, but it does make it a challenge to juggle that in the mix as well.

Grandpa decided to take my charge out for a stroll and I was left with a few spare minutes to tidy, get ready, and yes, call those bastards at ACS Student Loan Services.

Customer Care Consultant my ass.

How about rude bitch in India.

I was nastily informed that even if I did dispute the charge, which my bank even said they would back, it wouldn’t matter because it would be thirty to forty-five days before it would be reverse.

And then, she haughtily informed me, “you would have another payment due, so why bother.”

UGH.

I hung up.

I cannot afford to lose my cool in front of my employers.

I don’t need the emotional repercussions to come back and bite me in the ass.

I need to stay cool for the babies and not be distracted.

I was distracted anyway and it colored the rest of my day dreary.

Oh, I tried.

I did.

I got out to the park, I had some reprieve there, the sun was gorgeous, the park was empty, school’s back in session, and it was dreamy to have a few moments to sit down while one little monkey kept busy with a shovel and pail and the other lay asleep on my chest in the carrier.

The sun was warm, the park was quiet, the babies content.

I could breathe and there was nothing wrong.

Sandbox

Sandbox

Blue Skies

Blue Skies

 

 

 

 

 

However, the brain has a way of creeping back in and mine was doing just that.

I made some phone calls, got some perspective, tried to stay upbeat, but I felt, on the verge all day.

Then I noticed a new drop camera in the living room.

Jesus people, you got three nanny cams now?

I startled to see it track my movement and just sighed.

Well, they got me on camera in tears.

What the fuck else is new.

I picked up the box in the kitchen and read a little on it and just about fainted when I saw the remote microphone and the, I don’t know tech speak, thing that does that spy like crap, and I just thought, great, and now I am fired.

Not because I am a bad nanny, no, just a tired nanny, frustrated with living fucking paycheck to paycheck.

I will have money coming in, just not today, just not from ACS, just not anything to cover the -$137.49 in my account.

Which feels like working a full fucking shift and not getting a thing.

But I was able, on the second phone call to ask that they at least apply it to this next months payment, so on one hand I got a pass this next month.

On the other, I aint’ got money to buy groceries.

Grateful that I made a big pot of soup this past Sunday and that the Fillmore gives out apples at the end of the show.

God.

The show.

THE SHOW!

Fan-fucking-tastic.

I know I am saying fuck a lot, by the way, I just don’t have a lot of juice left, should have been in bed already, need to get rest for the rest of the week, but can’t fathom not fucking writing about the show.

THE SHOW!

So good.

The Boots

The Boots

First off, yes, I was this close, I could have hopped up and touched him.

But I was already fan girl dorking out and trying to keep some composure, but dude, he just kept playing everything I needed to hear.

Sometimes an artist, without meaning to, I am sure, becomes a part of the sound track of your live and Mike Doughty has been such musician for me.

I am affected by the music, the show, the energy, the banter, the engaging with the audience, the outright musical genius of someone just getting all his ya yas out on stage.

I have no idea about what some of the instruments he was playing even were.

Nope.

But when he encored with Janine off the Ruby Vroom album and instead of saying “Al Roper says to me, dial, 1-900 J-A-N-I-N-E,’ as he falls asleep to the blue light of live at five, and Doughty put in Edna St. Vincent Millay, I whooped.

Then slapped my own hands over my mouth, nerd.

I am.

Millay was a poet that I revered in eighth grade and choose to perform a piece of hers in a forensics competition, I took home the Gold.

“Oh, I feel you, I do,” Doughty smiled at me appreciatively.

I could have died.

Oh, you, musical conduit of God, choose to beam love down on me for a moment.

Let me bask in your light.

God, music, love, sex, drugs, rapture, escape, losing myself in the bright lights, the blue and purple, the imperial violet of it all.

I danced.

I sang.

Oh.

Yeah, I shed a tear.

The music was important to me during a time of my life that was so in flux, sometimes still is, it became an anchor, a bookmark of those times, I can put that song there on and know exactly how I felt living in that upstairs apartment in Newton, Iowa.

It might be True Dreams of Wichita, but it evokes smoke-filled nights in bars, and corn fields rolling toward the horizon at sunset, and running away and love and loss and youth.

Oh, that patina of nostalgia, it wasn’t good, it was hard and ugly, but you put a sound track to that, Soul Coughing, and suddenly there is a glow of remembrance that is deeply moving.

So, too just to see how far I have gone since that 21-year-old girl listening to it the first time in the apartment on Gilman Street when I was first dating the man who turned me on to the album, that was a messy, ugly, awful, wonderful relationships, drugs, and sex and love and police, and late night beauty and ugly.

Sometimes the things that are the most beautiful are the ugliest too.

The music stamped me.

And I got to add another layer of experience over that melodic revery.

I got to be right up front with my good friend Stark Raving Brad and dance and laugh, and tell stories and hoot and holler.

Me and SRB

Me and SRB

It was so god damn cathartic.

My friend was right, it is never too late to restart your day.

I just did.

Mike Doughty

Mike Doughty

Mike Doughty

Mike Doughty, my hero

 

 

 

 


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