One day I noticed that one of my coworkers was reacting to a piece of news with a low, drawn-out, "Whuuuut." You know, like shorthand for "What the hell."
"Hey!" I thought. "She picked that up from me." I would have been flattered if the intonation had been mine in the first place, but the fact was that I had already stolen it from my former coworker Bill. Now my coworker from Hawaii was talking like my former coworker from South Carolina. American state fusion!
I am painfully aware that my speech patterns, catchphrases and laughing styles are 95 percent plagiarized from other people. I have stolen one laugh from my sister, another from my friend Haylie. I have a certain way of making pronouncements that comes from Jen, and a way of imitating smug people that comes from Marcel. I say "bummer" now because of Rosie, and have an anticipatory "get excited!" tone directly cadged from Crissy. I was one of those annoying people who picked up the inflection when I went abroad to London (though to my credit, I lost it after awhile, unlike you, Madonna). I mean, is there nothing original about my speech patterns? I wait for the day when someone imitates me -- and it's really me.
Saturday, May 17, 2008
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Your Inner Life Is Your Best Friend.
That's what M. told me last night. Isn't that true of everyone?
I met a four-and-a-half-year old at Passover seder the other night and we became fast friends, discussing such matters as parrot tattoos and afikomen hiding places.
As she planted herself on my lap, she turned to look at me and cocked her head. "When I saw you, I could tell you were a daughter," she said sagely.
"Really?" I said. "How could you tell?"
"Because you were sitting next to your mother," she answered.
My sister-in-law corrected her. "Actually, that was my mother. Christina's mother isn't here tonight."
A lot of explanation ensued, explanation about in-laws and faraway mothers and grown-up kids. It was too much for the girl, so she changed her assessment.
"Well. I can tell you are a teenager," she said.
"Why, thank you," I said. "Really, I am a teenager on the inside."
"You are older on the outside," she said, nodding definitively. "But on the inside you are a teenager."
"Yes," I agreed.
Sigh.
I met a four-and-a-half-year old at Passover seder the other night and we became fast friends, discussing such matters as parrot tattoos and afikomen hiding places.
As she planted herself on my lap, she turned to look at me and cocked her head. "When I saw you, I could tell you were a daughter," she said sagely.
"Really?" I said. "How could you tell?"
"Because you were sitting next to your mother," she answered.
My sister-in-law corrected her. "Actually, that was my mother. Christina's mother isn't here tonight."
A lot of explanation ensued, explanation about in-laws and faraway mothers and grown-up kids. It was too much for the girl, so she changed her assessment.
"Well. I can tell you are a teenager," she said.
"Why, thank you," I said. "Really, I am a teenager on the inside."
"You are older on the outside," she said, nodding definitively. "But on the inside you are a teenager."
"Yes," I agreed.
Sigh.
Wednesday, March 05, 2008
Beautiful Friendships.
Have you ever fallen for a coworker?
I don't mean "fallen" in the romantic way. I mean it in the way that allows you to discover a real kinship with someone that you never would have sought out, just because you walk into the same office every day. You say your good mornings, you silently tolerate injustices together, you commiserate over shared hurdles, and you accidentally discover someone great. I still think of awesome people that I met at work: Some are now far away or long out of touch, but I remember jokes they made, ways they operated, stories they told.
Have you ever worked someplace where you have no connection to the people around you? You walk in there and it's all polite, but you wouldn't care if you never saw those people again. It's like a never-ending doctor's appointment. That's what makes the jobs with cool people all the more precious.
I met one of my best friends when he joined our "news" organization in New York in 1998. When he started work, he was always extremely nervous about doing something wrong and I thought he was way too concerned about things. He was the Fretful New Guy, and that's all he was to me. Then one day I was talking to no one in particular about a radio station in Washington. "Oh Christina," he said, turning around in his chair. "Do you know D.C. radio?" Thus, a friendship was born.
Other connections have not been so long-lived. I once joined a team of five people that made my job, and my life at the time, bearable because of the amount of fun we had. Every day, we filed into the conference room for our story meeting, and that was probably the best part of my day. But one of us eventually left the company, then another one, and two remaining people paired off and got married. I'm only friends with one of them now, but it was fun while it lasted.
My newest work coterie consists of myself and three other people. We should probably be sick of each other by now from the amount of socializing that we do on top of work, but somehow we aren't.
This quadro-friendship seems all the more sweet because it seems unlikely to last. Three of us are single and the other is married but with no real responsibilities. We are all at various stages of the honeymoon with our employer. At some point, something is bound to bring down our happy dynamic: a new job, a move, a new attachment, a falling-out. Something will happen, and things will not be the same. I guess one benefit of age is that your enjoyment of things as they are is enhanced by the awareness that they will eventually change.
I don't mean "fallen" in the romantic way. I mean it in the way that allows you to discover a real kinship with someone that you never would have sought out, just because you walk into the same office every day. You say your good mornings, you silently tolerate injustices together, you commiserate over shared hurdles, and you accidentally discover someone great. I still think of awesome people that I met at work: Some are now far away or long out of touch, but I remember jokes they made, ways they operated, stories they told.Have you ever worked someplace where you have no connection to the people around you? You walk in there and it's all polite, but you wouldn't care if you never saw those people again. It's like a never-ending doctor's appointment. That's what makes the jobs with cool people all the more precious.
I met one of my best friends when he joined our "news" organization in New York in 1998. When he started work, he was always extremely nervous about doing something wrong and I thought he was way too concerned about things. He was the Fretful New Guy, and that's all he was to me. Then one day I was talking to no one in particular about a radio station in Washington. "Oh Christina," he said, turning around in his chair. "Do you know D.C. radio?" Thus, a friendship was born.
Other connections have not been so long-lived. I once joined a team of five people that made my job, and my life at the time, bearable because of the amount of fun we had. Every day, we filed into the conference room for our story meeting, and that was probably the best part of my day. But one of us eventually left the company, then another one, and two remaining people paired off and got married. I'm only friends with one of them now, but it was fun while it lasted.
My newest work coterie consists of myself and three other people. We should probably be sick of each other by now from the amount of socializing that we do on top of work, but somehow we aren't.
This quadro-friendship seems all the more sweet because it seems unlikely to last. Three of us are single and the other is married but with no real responsibilities. We are all at various stages of the honeymoon with our employer. At some point, something is bound to bring down our happy dynamic: a new job, a move, a new attachment, a falling-out. Something will happen, and things will not be the same. I guess one benefit of age is that your enjoyment of things as they are is enhanced by the awareness that they will eventually change.
Monday, February 25, 2008
What Was Adulthood? Part Two.
Last Saturday I went skiing for the first time in many years, and the memories came flooding back: the calf pain that surfaces if you allow your socks to bunch even slightly in your ski boots; the feeling of sailing toward the chairlifts at the end of a run; the directives from my instructors at ski school, lessons that I hated with a passion at the time but now must grudgingly admit were worth it; the attempts to skid to a halt and shower snow on whichever family member was waiting for you at the bottom of the hill.
I was prepared for the family vacation memories, but something else came back to me that I did not expect. From the moment we hit the slopes, this commercial began replaying in my head and would not stop:
Adulthood Exhibit C
"That sounds obscene," M. said as I tried to describe the Juicy Fruit jingle and lyrics.
"It's not obscene, it was a commercial," I insisted, as if the two things were mutually exclusive. In my young mind, where this commercial's integrity was forever preserved, advertisers would never allude to anything other than what was being sold. Gum and fun, how much more straightforward could it be?
"Whatever, I think the people at Juicy Fruit knew it was going to sound like a blow job," he said.
For some reason, parent company Wrigley felt it was very important to target skiers of all kinds as potential consumers for Juicy Fruit gum. Personally, I never thought of gum -- especially a brand that loses flavor as quickly as Juicy Fruit -- as a natural accompaniment to skiing, even for someone as gum-addicted as myself. For one thing, it gets stiff in cold weather. Then there's the high risk of swallowing...
Adulthood Exhibit D
I guess, watching these as an adult, it's possible that M. may have had a point. Maybe it's about more than just skiing and fun and the simple pleasures of gum-chewing? I feel so confused and yet, somehow, older.
I've looked at gum from both sides now
From kid to grown-up and still somehow
It's gum's illusions I recall
I really don't know gum, at all.
I was prepared for the family vacation memories, but something else came back to me that I did not expect. From the moment we hit the slopes, this commercial began replaying in my head and would not stop:
Adulthood Exhibit C
"That sounds obscene," M. said as I tried to describe the Juicy Fruit jingle and lyrics.
"It's not obscene, it was a commercial," I insisted, as if the two things were mutually exclusive. In my young mind, where this commercial's integrity was forever preserved, advertisers would never allude to anything other than what was being sold. Gum and fun, how much more straightforward could it be?
"Whatever, I think the people at Juicy Fruit knew it was going to sound like a blow job," he said.
For some reason, parent company Wrigley felt it was very important to target skiers of all kinds as potential consumers for Juicy Fruit gum. Personally, I never thought of gum -- especially a brand that loses flavor as quickly as Juicy Fruit -- as a natural accompaniment to skiing, even for someone as gum-addicted as myself. For one thing, it gets stiff in cold weather. Then there's the high risk of swallowing...
Adulthood Exhibit D
I guess, watching these as an adult, it's possible that M. may have had a point. Maybe it's about more than just skiing and fun and the simple pleasures of gum-chewing? I feel so confused and yet, somehow, older.
I've looked at gum from both sides now
From kid to grown-up and still somehow
It's gum's illusions I recall
I really don't know gum, at all.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Wine-Pairing Master Class.
Today I was intrigued to discover in one of my food magazines a service called eWINE match, "Your tool to finding the perfect wine pairing for your meal."
I enjoy fine foods and I enjoy fine beverages, but I am too lazy to pair them properly. It's sort of like my fashion sense: I can buy a good pair of shoes, and I can buy a lovely outfit, but Google has a better chance of putting together a cohesive ensemble than I do.
So I was excited to go to eWINE and have it tell me just what to drink with the cheeses I had bought. First, I typed "ricotta salata," which I was already disrespecting with some hastily cooked tomatoes and crostini.
The results: Greg Norman Sparkling, Meridian Pinot Noir, Matua Valley Paretai Sauvignon Blanc.
Interesting! I would not have guessed that, I thought. Let's kick it up a notch: I went to type in brebiou, a sheep's milk cheese I like... except I typed "brebious" by mistake.
Amazing! Despite my typo, eWINE still came up with a chardonnay, a cabernet sauvignon and a zinfandel. Huh, I thought. I would not have put those together.
I decided to give it a serious challenge. Going back to the search box, I entered a new term: "crap."
A real soldier, eWINE still delivered. Apparently Meridian Central Coast Sauvignon Blanc pairs well with crap, unless you search for "crap" second time, in which case Gabbiano Pinot Grigio would be your top result.
Personally, I have always been stumped in terms of what to pair with Dubble Bubble. How to play off its chalky sweetness? Beringer Founders' Estate Chardonnay, says eWINE.
And what about something more spicy, such as Crest? If you want to brush right, take eWINE's suggestion and rinse with Chateau St Jean Sonoma Chardonnay. Its "floral notes with nuances of pear and honeydew" meld perfectly with this ADA-approved aperitif.
Hallelujah, Internets!
What pairings are you seeking lately?
I enjoy fine foods and I enjoy fine beverages, but I am too lazy to pair them properly. It's sort of like my fashion sense: I can buy a good pair of shoes, and I can buy a lovely outfit, but Google has a better chance of putting together a cohesive ensemble than I do.
So I was excited to go to eWINE and have it tell me just what to drink with the cheeses I had bought. First, I typed "ricotta salata," which I was already disrespecting with some hastily cooked tomatoes and crostini.
The results: Greg Norman Sparkling, Meridian Pinot Noir, Matua Valley Paretai Sauvignon Blanc.
Interesting! I would not have guessed that, I thought. Let's kick it up a notch: I went to type in brebiou, a sheep's milk cheese I like... except I typed "brebious" by mistake.
Amazing! Despite my typo, eWINE still came up with a chardonnay, a cabernet sauvignon and a zinfandel. Huh, I thought. I would not have put those together.
I decided to give it a serious challenge. Going back to the search box, I entered a new term: "crap."
A real soldier, eWINE still delivered. Apparently Meridian Central Coast Sauvignon Blanc pairs well with crap, unless you search for "crap" second time, in which case Gabbiano Pinot Grigio would be your top result.Personally, I have always been stumped in terms of what to pair with Dubble Bubble. How to play off its chalky sweetness? Beringer Founders' Estate Chardonnay, says eWINE.
And what about something more spicy, such as Crest? If you want to brush right, take eWINE's suggestion and rinse with Chateau St Jean Sonoma Chardonnay. Its "floral notes with nuances of pear and honeydew" meld perfectly with this ADA-approved aperitif.
Hallelujah, Internets!
What pairings are you seeking lately?
Saturday, February 09, 2008
What Was Adulthood?
Remember when you looked at adulthood through the lens of childhood?
When I was a kid, I imagined that being an adult meant you got to live like this:
Adulthood Exhibit A
and this:
Adulthood Exhibit B
Essentially, you got to party all the time, drink special drinks that kids are not allowed to have, eat whatever you wanted, have special Adult Conversations and do Mysterious Adult Activities (there has to be something more to that picnic blanket than meets the eye), go to the bank and get wads of cash, wear special sexy outfits without your mom's permission, watch the best movies and say all the Adult Words (meaning the s-word, the b-word, and sundry) without getting punished.
You had a certain understanding of things, and you got to revel in it. That's how I understood adulthood, as a child.
What did you think it meant to be an adult?
When I was a kid, I imagined that being an adult meant you got to live like this:
Adulthood Exhibit A
and this:
Adulthood Exhibit B
Essentially, you got to party all the time, drink special drinks that kids are not allowed to have, eat whatever you wanted, have special Adult Conversations and do Mysterious Adult Activities (there has to be something more to that picnic blanket than meets the eye), go to the bank and get wads of cash, wear special sexy outfits without your mom's permission, watch the best movies and say all the Adult Words (meaning the s-word, the b-word, and sundry) without getting punished.
You had a certain understanding of things, and you got to revel in it. That's how I understood adulthood, as a child.
What did you think it meant to be an adult?
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Provisional License.
I remember one of the first times I discovered a musical artist without the use of a radio or a television. I was at Union Square Station in Washington, D.C., waiting for a train to New York in the mid-90s. I stood at a listening station at some now-defunct CD store there, and I heard Ben Folds Five for the first time.
The method of discovery was not only a departure for me, but so was the music: I was into Mary J. Blige, Prince and Jodeci, so a white college-rock band was, like, "experimental" for me. Ooh boy was I hip.
These days I use TV shows, blogz, radio and magazines to procure my music interests. Lame as it is to say, I actually work at finding new music, even though (and because) it's more accessible than ever. I wasn't cool when I was 22, and I'm still not cool now, but I want to know what the kids are listening to. I still want to fall in love with songs and musicians, because it's the only way left to really fall in pure, helpless love when you're an adult.
However, I am losing something, and it bothers me. I am losing the experience of living with an album. I am forgetting what it feels like to give an album a provisional license, thinking you kinda like it, and then finding that it has somehow totally taken over your soul (e.g. Who Is Jill Scott?).
This kind of love starts only after you have listened to an entire album, straight through, for about the fifth time. It happens when you get to know the album well enough to know its faults, but to appreciate it anyway. It happens when you know every track, and you have had affairs and conversations and partnerships with each one. It happens when you feel as though you could continue on with that album -- the whole thing, not just a single -- for the rest of your life.
Who does that these days? Certainly not me. I am too busy pulling up MySpace for the newest ear candy. I download a song, fall in love a little bit, and it's over (or I'm frustrated, because there's no label release yet). I'm looking for an album I can really date long-term. Does anyone have suggestions?
The method of discovery was not only a departure for me, but so was the music: I was into Mary J. Blige, Prince and Jodeci, so a white college-rock band was, like, "experimental" for me. Ooh boy was I hip.
These days I use TV shows, blogz, radio and magazines to procure my music interests. Lame as it is to say, I actually work at finding new music, even though (and because) it's more accessible than ever. I wasn't cool when I was 22, and I'm still not cool now, but I want to know what the kids are listening to. I still want to fall in love with songs and musicians, because it's the only way left to really fall in pure, helpless love when you're an adult.
However, I am losing something, and it bothers me. I am losing the experience of living with an album. I am forgetting what it feels like to give an album a provisional license, thinking you kinda like it, and then finding that it has somehow totally taken over your soul (e.g. Who Is Jill Scott?).
This kind of love starts only after you have listened to an entire album, straight through, for about the fifth time. It happens when you get to know the album well enough to know its faults, but to appreciate it anyway. It happens when you know every track, and you have had affairs and conversations and partnerships with each one. It happens when you feel as though you could continue on with that album -- the whole thing, not just a single -- for the rest of your life.
Who does that these days? Certainly not me. I am too busy pulling up MySpace for the newest ear candy. I download a song, fall in love a little bit, and it's over (or I'm frustrated, because there's no label release yet). I'm looking for an album I can really date long-term. Does anyone have suggestions?
Sunday, January 06, 2008
Belated Holiday Post.
This year's Christmas went much like the previous 30-odd years I can remember: a tree with colored lights, topped by an angel made of cardboard and plastic; decorations more sentimental than aesthetically correct; an eyebrow-raising sea of presents emanating from the tree's trunk; an orgy of wrapping paper, bows, toys, ham and my aunts' shrill laughter at the dinner table.
We have some new players -- kids and spouses -- but things in my family remain mostly the same. The unadulterated consumerist approach to the holiday, for us, remains untainted by religion, earnestness or aging. The only spiritual element involves watching A Christmas Story, which we started doing every Christmas Eve, way before TBS started running marathons. In adulthood, I added the tradition of watching It's a Wonderful Life at some point, usually alone and always crying.
We all wake up to stockings filled with magazines and drugstore merch including, thanks to an in-joke with my Dad, Ban Roll-On for me. A horse-trading approach is taken with gift lists; e-mail and Amazon have become indispensable.
Put simply, our Christmas has always been more about the wonder of Santa Claus than of Jesus Christ. Historically, I have not had a problem with this. As kids, we made our lists and left out cookies and sat on laps at the shopping mall and even, for a time, made phone calls to the big man (or, if you prefer, my Dad's office). I always felt fortunate, not only for my family and the gifts, but also for the freedom from religious ritual.
I did not abandon the notion of Santa until I was nine years old. Of course, I knew -- but I didn't want to know. By that age, I had developed enough reasoning power to know that Santa didn't exist, but I did not like the idea of finding out. Finally, I willed myself to ask my mom. She was standing in the bathroom, getting ready to go out. "Mom?" I said, approaching her. "Santa doesn't exist, does he." My mom was applying makeup and looking in the mirror, with me reflected behind her. "Well, the spirit of Santa always exists," she said, or something like that. "What matters is if you believe." I knew enough about my Mom to parse the truth of her diplomatic response. A phase of my life quietly ended there.
This year, I felt like a new unpleasant realization struck, and it happened while I was contemplating the recycling bins sitting out on the driveways of my parents' suburban Washington neighborhood on the day after Christmas. I knew, but I didn't want to know. I knew that the holiday always meant several toys and electronics cut out of their impossibly hermetic plastic casings, untold amounts of paper, not a few batteries, a good amount of cardboard and plenty of media that could have been bought used.
I knew that we were just like millions of Americans on Christmas, using the holiday as a time to express our gratitude via credit card. I knew that it was environmentally and financially excessive -- it was harder still to admit that it was not even particularly satisfying. I don't know if the change was an abrupt one in me, or a slow one in our house, but it felt as if the focus on distributing gifts actually took away from my experience of my family. I would have been happy with half the presents and twice the connection.
I like to think that I still believe in the spirit of Santa, as my Mom encouraged -- but I both want and fear a different incarnation.
We have some new players -- kids and spouses -- but things in my family remain mostly the same. The unadulterated consumerist approach to the holiday, for us, remains untainted by religion, earnestness or aging. The only spiritual element involves watching A Christmas Story, which we started doing every Christmas Eve, way before TBS started running marathons. In adulthood, I added the tradition of watching It's a Wonderful Life at some point, usually alone and always crying. We all wake up to stockings filled with magazines and drugstore merch including, thanks to an in-joke with my Dad, Ban Roll-On for me. A horse-trading approach is taken with gift lists; e-mail and Amazon have become indispensable.
Put simply, our Christmas has always been more about the wonder of Santa Claus than of Jesus Christ. Historically, I have not had a problem with this. As kids, we made our lists and left out cookies and sat on laps at the shopping mall and even, for a time, made phone calls to the big man (or, if you prefer, my Dad's office). I always felt fortunate, not only for my family and the gifts, but also for the freedom from religious ritual.
I did not abandon the notion of Santa until I was nine years old. Of course, I knew -- but I didn't want to know. By that age, I had developed enough reasoning power to know that Santa didn't exist, but I did not like the idea of finding out. Finally, I willed myself to ask my mom. She was standing in the bathroom, getting ready to go out. "Mom?" I said, approaching her. "Santa doesn't exist, does he." My mom was applying makeup and looking in the mirror, with me reflected behind her. "Well, the spirit of Santa always exists," she said, or something like that. "What matters is if you believe." I knew enough about my Mom to parse the truth of her diplomatic response. A phase of my life quietly ended there.
This year, I felt like a new unpleasant realization struck, and it happened while I was contemplating the recycling bins sitting out on the driveways of my parents' suburban Washington neighborhood on the day after Christmas. I knew, but I didn't want to know. I knew that the holiday always meant several toys and electronics cut out of their impossibly hermetic plastic casings, untold amounts of paper, not a few batteries, a good amount of cardboard and plenty of media that could have been bought used. I knew that we were just like millions of Americans on Christmas, using the holiday as a time to express our gratitude via credit card. I knew that it was environmentally and financially excessive -- it was harder still to admit that it was not even particularly satisfying. I don't know if the change was an abrupt one in me, or a slow one in our house, but it felt as if the focus on distributing gifts actually took away from my experience of my family. I would have been happy with half the presents and twice the connection.
I like to think that I still believe in the spirit of Santa, as my Mom encouraged -- but I both want and fear a different incarnation.
Wednesday, January 02, 2008
Life of the Nightmare.
About once every six months or so, I dream that I have committed a murder. The victim is usually unknown to me, invented and extinguished in my mind. The method and motive vary -- in fact, sometimes there is no discernible motive. Sometimes I have accomplices, sometimes not. No matter the circumstance, two things always occur: one, an incredible paranoia and detailed attempt to cover up the crime and two, the devastating realization that I will have to live with this unspeakable deed for the rest of my life.
Then I wake up, with a new lease on life. I have not killed anyone! I have nothing so horrible on my conscience! Boy, what a great day it's going to be, knowing that I am not a murderer after all!
Other types of dreams are more difficult to recover from. This morning I had a bad fight with M., in my sleep. I woke up and there he was, being as sweet and pleasant as ever, but still I had the feeling that we had to make up. I have had this dream about family members too, feeling inexplicably out of sorts with them because of some stupid dream.
Of course, if I really wanted to delve into my psyche, I'm sure I could uncover in any fight dream a real issue needing attention. But hey, I don't really want to delve into my psyche. I just want to get on with my day and only address the arguments that happen in real life.
As my midday brain catches up to reality, I am unexpectedly grateful for today's hidden blessings: harmony with those around me, a conflict-free morning and a clean record with the police department.
Then I wake up, with a new lease on life. I have not killed anyone! I have nothing so horrible on my conscience! Boy, what a great day it's going to be, knowing that I am not a murderer after all!
Other types of dreams are more difficult to recover from. This morning I had a bad fight with M., in my sleep. I woke up and there he was, being as sweet and pleasant as ever, but still I had the feeling that we had to make up. I have had this dream about family members too, feeling inexplicably out of sorts with them because of some stupid dream.
Of course, if I really wanted to delve into my psyche, I'm sure I could uncover in any fight dream a real issue needing attention. But hey, I don't really want to delve into my psyche. I just want to get on with my day and only address the arguments that happen in real life.
As my midday brain catches up to reality, I am unexpectedly grateful for today's hidden blessings: harmony with those around me, a conflict-free morning and a clean record with the police department.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
In Need of Schoolin'.
"I wouldn't want to be in your band unless I could sing 'Whole Lotta Love' by Led Zeppelin," M. typed to me one day while we were at work.
"Is that the one that starts, 'Been a long time since I rock and rolled'?" I messaged back.
"I'm not telling you," he replied, his sigh of disgust almost audible through the IM window. What I considered unremarkable ignorance, he felt to be shameful.
The first time I visited California with M. and we turned on the radio in the rental car, he informed me, "Rock stations in California rarely play anything recorded past the mid-90s, and every other song is by Led Zeppelin." It was an exaggeration, but not by much. I think we heard at least half of the Zeppelin catalog on the radio in the space of four days.
Because I was never a teenaged boy, and because I did not date any Zeppelin-loving dudes (that I know of) until later in life, I pretty much missed my Zep window. As far as I was concerned for most of my young life, Robert Plant was the solo performer of "Big Log."
I enjoy and embrace most Led Zeppelin songs that happen to get broadcast in my vicinity, but do not own any albums and was not exactly going to be memorizing lyrics anytime soon.
Or so I thought. A few weeks ago when I walked into my band workshop/class (for the only band that I am fit to be in right now is one I have to pay to join), my teacher had a surprise. "I decided to pick an extra song for you to do, something that will push your comfort zone a little bit," he said to me. He looked tentative.
"OK," I said. "What is it?"
"Do you know the song 'Whole Lotta Love' by Led Zeppelin?" he said.
And here's how pathetic I am: Without a trace of the previous conversation with M. filtering back into my brain, I responded: "Is that the one that goes, 'Been a long time since I rock and rolled?'"
I don't know which thing M. had a harder time getting over: The fact that I, and not he, was going to perform "Whole Lotta Love," or the fact that I repeated that same ignorant question while failing to recognize his prophecy being realized in the moment.
Personally, I had a harder time with the former fact. In case you haven't noticed, the song's lyrics are fairly masculine. Also, about the only thing I have in common with Robert Plant is a sizeable forehead. Perhaps you won't blame me for feeling set up to fail here.
Still, I dutifully went home with my assignment. I listened to each verse over and over and over, skipping past the crazy breakdown section in the middle and focusing on Plant's growling, primal vocals. I'll bet Janis Joplin would have done a nice job with this tune; too bad I'm not her, either.
As I winced during one rehearsal, our lead guitarist murmured to me, "I feel the same way you do about this song."
"Really?" I said. "But you sound great!"
He shook his head somberly. He knew that he was no Jimmy Page as well as I knew I was no Robert Plant.
Nonetheless, we got up on the stage in a small bar before a small group of people, and we did it. Our guitarist did the solos, and I did the part where Plant shouts "LOooooovvvvE." And here's the thing: Even though we sucked compared to Led Zeppelin, people applauded us for trying. There were people in the audience who had to applaud, because they had to come home to us at the end of the night, but there were others who applauded because shit, we were doing "Whole Lotta Love."
Yes, my teacher set me up to fail. But we failed with dignity.
"Is that the one that starts, 'Been a long time since I rock and rolled'?" I messaged back.
"I'm not telling you," he replied, his sigh of disgust almost audible through the IM window. What I considered unremarkable ignorance, he felt to be shameful.
The first time I visited California with M. and we turned on the radio in the rental car, he informed me, "Rock stations in California rarely play anything recorded past the mid-90s, and every other song is by Led Zeppelin." It was an exaggeration, but not by much. I think we heard at least half of the Zeppelin catalog on the radio in the space of four days.
Because I was never a teenaged boy, and because I did not date any Zeppelin-loving dudes (that I know of) until later in life, I pretty much missed my Zep window. As far as I was concerned for most of my young life, Robert Plant was the solo performer of "Big Log."
I enjoy and embrace most Led Zeppelin songs that happen to get broadcast in my vicinity, but do not own any albums and was not exactly going to be memorizing lyrics anytime soon.
Or so I thought. A few weeks ago when I walked into my band workshop/class (for the only band that I am fit to be in right now is one I have to pay to join), my teacher had a surprise. "I decided to pick an extra song for you to do, something that will push your comfort zone a little bit," he said to me. He looked tentative.
"OK," I said. "What is it?"
"Do you know the song 'Whole Lotta Love' by Led Zeppelin?" he said.
And here's how pathetic I am: Without a trace of the previous conversation with M. filtering back into my brain, I responded: "Is that the one that goes, 'Been a long time since I rock and rolled?'"
I don't know which thing M. had a harder time getting over: The fact that I, and not he, was going to perform "Whole Lotta Love," or the fact that I repeated that same ignorant question while failing to recognize his prophecy being realized in the moment.
Personally, I had a harder time with the former fact. In case you haven't noticed, the song's lyrics are fairly masculine. Also, about the only thing I have in common with Robert Plant is a sizeable forehead. Perhaps you won't blame me for feeling set up to fail here.
Still, I dutifully went home with my assignment. I listened to each verse over and over and over, skipping past the crazy breakdown section in the middle and focusing on Plant's growling, primal vocals. I'll bet Janis Joplin would have done a nice job with this tune; too bad I'm not her, either.
As I winced during one rehearsal, our lead guitarist murmured to me, "I feel the same way you do about this song."
"Really?" I said. "But you sound great!"
He shook his head somberly. He knew that he was no Jimmy Page as well as I knew I was no Robert Plant.
Nonetheless, we got up on the stage in a small bar before a small group of people, and we did it. Our guitarist did the solos, and I did the part where Plant shouts "LOooooovvvvE." And here's the thing: Even though we sucked compared to Led Zeppelin, people applauded us for trying. There were people in the audience who had to applaud, because they had to come home to us at the end of the night, but there were others who applauded because shit, we were doing "Whole Lotta Love."
Yes, my teacher set me up to fail. But we failed with dignity.
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