A Dialogue Re: A Gluttonous, Sexy Picnic, Composed Entirely From Dave Matthews Band Lyrics

Do not be a snob today.

If you overlook their radio hits, the Dave Matthews Band is quite a lovely, talented group. Each member is a superlative musician and it’s not their fault that they attract both the patchouli overflow from Widespread Panic shows and Abercrombie-clad frat boys.

They do good shit.

D: I will bring water.

T: Pour a glass for me!

D: Oh, so be it.

T: I won’t spill a drop. I promise you.

D: Hungry, hungry boy.

T: My mouth is open wide. Lick and taste…..

D: Please don’t hurry.

T: I’ve got this growl in my tummy and I’m gonna stop it today.

D: Greedy little pig!!!

T: Monkey see, monkey do.

D: This, I admit, tastes so good.

T: The hunger keeps on growing.

D: Crazy how it feels tonight.

T: The air is growing thick.

D: Rain!

T: We’ll make the best of what’s around.

D: Storms she come and storms she go.

T: Come now and play.

D: Let’s strip down.

T: Ok, ok, ok.

D: You wear nothing but you wear it so well.

T: In your eyes I see what’s on my mind.

D: I will treat you sweetly.

T: Are you happy with just fucking?

D: Do as you please. I’ll back you up.

A Dialogue Upon Arriving in the City, Composed Entirely of The Beautiful South Lyrics

(Author’s Note: Unless you’re a big fan of this obscure British band or hail from England, you’re probably not going to “get” today’s entry. But, you know, it could be fun anyway.)

D: Well, here I am at the airport, with my passport.

T: The Sunday sun shines down on San Francisco Bay!

D: The weather isn’t sunny and the weather isn’t bad.

T: Well, this city has its charm.

D: This could be Rotterdam or anywhere. Liverpool or Rome.

T: I want my sun-drenched, wind-swept Ingrid Bergman kiss!

D: Your town is dragging me down.

T: I’ll carry on regardless.

D: Another holiday argument!

T: Here I am with my souvenirs.

D: Video, compact disc. There’s nothing we forgot.

T: I’ll cry with a limp

D: It’s due to fog, it’s due to fog

T: Tell me how do you feel?

D: Here, it’s cold.

T: It’s got class and it’s got excellence like you’ve never seen.

D: It gives cheap thrills to the seagulls.

T: This easy bird is easily impressed.

A Dialogue, Composed Entirely of Smiths and Morrissey Lyrics

J: I want to leave. You will not miss me.

M: It’s gruesome that someone so handsome should care.

J: You can punch me and you can butt me and you can break my spine but you won’t change the way I feel ’cause I love you.

M: I know - it’s serious.

J: And though I walk home alone - I might walk home alone - but my faith in love is still devout.

M: I still love you. Only slightly less than I used to, my love.

J: Everyone’s laughing since I took up with you.

M: Oh, I really don’t know and I really don’t care.

J: Take me out tonight. Take me anywhere, I don’t care.

M: There’s a club, if you’d like to go. You could meet somebody who really loves you.

J: It’s so easy to laugh. It’s so easy to hate.

M: No more, no more apologies. Oh, I’m too tired. I’m so sick and tired. And I’m feeling very sick and ill today.

J: I am now a central part of your mind’s landscape whether you care or do not.

M: It seems so unfair. I want to cry.

J: How sad are we ?

M: I dreamt about you last night.

J: Send me the pillow, the one that you dream on, and I’ll send you mine.

M: Why do you come here when you know it makes things hard for me?

J: I’ve seen this happen in other people’s lives and now it’s happening in mine.

M: I don’t owe you anything.

J: Is evil just something you are or something you do?

M: Goodbye. Goodbye.

Friday’s Missed Connections

I’m making good on Monday’s promise to resume Friday’s Missed Connections after last week’s bye. I hope you show me the love in the comments section.

Explanation: As on most Fridays here at UseYourHands, I select Missed Connection/Chance Meeting/I Saw You ads from weeklies around the country. If you know of a great weekly, recommend it to me. The ad comes first, and the story growing out of the ad follows.

HOBBY LOBBY. HANDSOME man with glasses and khakis monday afternoon. You looked for prints and frames. I was with friend. We said hi. I waved goodbye. Coffee? (Austin Chronicle)

Veronica was looking for embroidery floss to make friendship bracelets in an attempt to express kindness toward friends through irony. She carefully selected aquamarine, magenta, and pink. She was rooting around for a purple skein when a flash of color turned her head. Tom was flipping through a bin of shrink-wrapped prints. He’d just lifted up a Matisse. Veronica held her breath in hope that he’d select it. It was one of her favorites.

EASTER SUNDAY, EDDIE Bauer on Michigan Avenue. You helped me pick out boxers. Me: woman with long blonde hair. You: attractive, looked like you were coming from/ going to gym. Wished me Happy Easter on the way out. Wish we’d chatted more. (Chicago Reader)

At minute ten of her workout on the Stairmaster, it suddenly occurred to Becky that the guy in Eddie Bauer might have thought she’d been flirting with him. Just a few nights ago, she’d been aghast when a few of her platonic male friends told her she had this extraordinarily flirtatious manner. She didn’t want to be a woman like that.

RABBIT HOLE BARTENDER Saturday 4/5. You: Hottie bearded bartender with glasses. Me: Drunk, cute, ate garlic bread and drooled while watching you. I thought we exchanged a look. I sure am interested, let me know if you were. You sang, “Mrs. Robinson” (Portland Mercury)

Karen and Sheila met up every Saturday for brunch and then spent the rest of the morning dawdling over the paper. This ad just jumped out at Sheila, who liked to make fun of the people who’d place them. She read the ad then yelled, “Yeah, girlfriend, he probably sang ‘Mrs. Robinson’ because you were way, way older! Jesus!” Karen’s head snapped up from the lifestyle section to scream, “We’re the same age, Sheila. Get off of my back.”

BLONDE MAN, DARK BLUE BMW I saw you having breakfast at Scarlet Tree In January. You R 40ish, you wore black caoat & jeans. I was the blonde woman staring at you. I can talk now. Would like to see your smile! (Seattle Weekly)

She paced around in a circle as she took a call for what sounded like her dream job, but he still caught her eye. His fork was poised in mid-air with a bite of French toast. She suppressed a little laugh before telling this potential employer what a great multitasker she was as she carefully studied the way he casually tossed money on the table and jauntily hopped in his newly buffed BMW.

WBEZ or “Dub-Zed”

I don’t remember ever taking so much pleasure at mocking public radio personalities. I’ve laughed at SNL’s “Good Times” NPR mock-fest.(Really, how can’t you laugh at the pucking Alec Baldwin saying “Schwetty Balls”? It’s juvenile sure, but still.) But I haven’t participated in the mocking personally. I’ve worked their pledge drives. I’ve had crushes on their hosts. I’ve donated to their coffers.

But then I met WBEZ.

I love making fun of the crew down there. Here’s a list:

1) Carlos Hernandez Gomez - He’s fine, except for his sign-off. “I’m Carlos Hernandez Gomez…SHHHHicago Public Radio.” The way he concentrates energy on the CH in Chicago makes me wonder. I know he’s probably just trying not to say Cheecago like that weirdo from Latino USA, but still.

2) Lisa Labuz - Whenever she flubs (and, boy, is that often!) Phineas invokes Chevy Chase’s “ignorant slut” line. She’s good for eye-rolling. Oh shit, I just looked at her photo on WBEZ.org and she’s positively muppet-like.

3) Gretchen Helfrich - Now, I love Odyssey, even when it’s dry as toast. Recently, I saw “Helfy” in person and wowsa! Girlfriend’s quite the little blond sexpot. And an eager beaver. She started in radio in ‘93 by answering phones at WBEZ and in a year was made Worldview producer. Bet that degree in romance linguistics came in handy. (Author’s sidebar: Romance linguistics? Come on. There’s a whole world of academia/oral sex jokes there that I don’t even want to ponder.)

4) Richard Steele - The Sunday jazz guy. C’mon. Who else wants him to go by Dick?

And the topper. Wait for it -

5) Steve Shadley - He’s the male Lisa Labuz. I don’t know that he’s muppetlike because his bio lacks a photo. A face for radio?

I refer to Steve Shadley as “The Shatter.” Here’s the story that rattles around in my head: Picture a 20-year-old college sophomore Steve Shadley on the air at Northern Arizona State, his alma mater. He’s playing “psychedlic study music” between 2 and 5 a.m. Dark sunglasses. Flannel. A whisp of a moustache. His on-the-air nickname is “The Shadow.” Some guys in his dorm who fucking hate him start calling him “The Shatter” because why not? And it stuck, regardless of his protestations.

To this day, Steve Shadley’s first words upon waking from the nightmares that plague him is “I AM THE SHADOW!”

What Up, Wednesday!

A bit of reflection:

At last night’s Chicago Bloggers function at the decidedly non-divey Black Beetle, I used the term “hotbox” for, like, the first time ever. If you are too old or too young or did not attend a college where the air was fucking redolent of the Chronic, then hotbox might be a new one for you. Basically, it refers to the smoking of pot in a completely sealed room. Simple, evocative.

But why was it in my head, waiting to spring forth? I’ve never “hotboxed,” been a “hotboxer,” or gone “hotboxing.” So, what the fuck? The mind is like a grandma’s closet. You reach in, pull out an old box of Sunsweet prunes, and say what the hay and dive right in.

A bit of fiction:

It’s only eleven and I’m already hacking from the cigarette smoke. No matter how many meetings, how many late nights, I’ll never get used to this nasty stink. In the clothes, in the hair. But I remain true to the mission.

When I got to number 12, the last step, I thought that I’d feel free but that’s when the real work started. I truly did have a spiritual awakening and try to spread the word to others. And that’s why I’m here, in the one place where my sponsor thinks I shouldn’t be, where my family is scared for me. A bar.

I’m in bars about three-four nights a week. I’ll pop in around nineish, stay until one. I drink water or cola only. I have never once wanted to drink in a bar again. That was never my thing anyway. I preferred bathtubs.

I sit and I watch. I keep a book or magazine handy when there’s a lull, but usually there isn’t. Because there’s always some guy or woman who needs to hear the truth. So I wait until that person has to go to the bathroom. At a particular volume, alcohol ceases knocking and resorts to pounding on the bladder. It’s a matter of waiting.

When the person exits the bathroom, sometimes still zipping up, I emerge. This is how my speech starts:

“Do you want me to tell you what none of your friends will say?”

The person always mumbles. A man might sneer also. A woman will ignore me.

“Do you want me to say what you already know?”

It’s cryptic enough to get attention. I think a lot of people might interpret this as a weird religious thing. I guess it is, in a way.

They’ll say: “What?” Always elegant. Erudite!

“You’re a drunk.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“No, a drunk, not just intoxicated.”

And here’s the good part. This will always get them. Why? Because I can spot you so easily. I used to be you and it makes me nauseous.

I put my hands on their shoulders and make eye contact. Sometimes this is hard, because eyes can swim as easily as fish.

“Someday, you will accept who you are, but you will not be proud. You will tire of falling, feeling feverish, breaking things, and regret. It will be difficult, but I believe in you.”

A handful of people have burst into tears. I’ve gotten punched twice. But most of the time, I’m on the receiving end of a cocky, shit-eating grin that looks great only under dim lighting, in the glow of an Old Style sign.

Courtesy of Mrs. Pittman

We’ve hauled some barges in our day/
Filled with lumber, coal, and hay/
And we know every inch of the way/
From Albany to Buffalo-o-o-/
Low bridge, everybody down!/
Low bridge, ’cause we’re comin’ to a town/
And you’ll always know your neighbor/
You’ll always know your pal/
If you’ve ever navigated on the Erie Canal!

I learned this little ditty in - oh! - the fourth grade or so. Mrs. Pittman, an unfortunate looking, bemoled woman with serious back, came around to our podunk rural school every Thursday for music day. We hated this woman. Her voice was shrill and her vibratto arduous. She hated us as well.

But isn’t it nice to be reassured that “you’ll always know your pal”?

Besides the Erie Canal song, which haunts me regularly, I have her to thank for these earworms:

Why do birds/
Suddenly appear/
Every time/
You are near?/
Just like me/
They long to be/
Close to you/
Wa-a-a-a-h/
Close to you/

The Carpenters! To Pittman’s credit, she did allow us to choose between learning songs from Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat or selections from ’60s and ’70s pop. And really, do you want me to be quoting “Any Dream Will Do”?

The beat goes on, the beat goes on/
Drums keep pounding a rhythm to the brain/
La de da de de/
La de da de dah/
Charleston was once the rage, uh huh/
History has turned the page, uh huh/
The miniskirt’s the current thing, uh huh

Yeah, that was Sonny and Cher’s “The Beat Goes On.” I know the fucking lyrics to this shitty Sonny and Cher song thanks to sub-par music funding in my public school. I can only imagine the budgeting meetings. “Geometry? Computers? Fuck that shit, man. Bring on Sonny and motherfucking Cher.”

When you’re down and troubled/
And you need a helping hand/
And nothing, whoa nothing is going right/
Close your eyes and think of me/
And soon I will be there/
To brighten up even your darkest nights.

Ok, fine. James Taylor by way of Carole King. Good, good, all well and good. But! Imagine “You’ve Got a Friend” being belted out of Mrs. Pittman’s warbly, emphatic pipes. And the vibratto? It made her wattle waggle fiercely.

Why did they even bother? This once a week “music class” didn’t approve our appreciation of culture any more than fifteen minutes of kickball transformed us into stellar athletes. We were all phoning it in - administration, Pittman, the students - but I wonder how many of us remember all the lyrics to “I’m A-Goin’ To the Shuckin’ of the Corn”?

I do. I do.