That’s What SHE Said: The Soundtrack for Summer, 2012—

The other night we ran out of something that we needed desperately for some valuable reason I can’t recall (and don’t ask me what it was—maybe it was milk or butter…or motor oil?  D batteries, perhaps?  I don’t know…) and as my husband reached for his keys, I practically tackled him to the floor to get out the door first. 

As I crawled across his limp body, I was all “Hey honey, sorry about that—don’t trouble yourself, sweetheart!  Let me get this one for you. You just stay here and relax…with the kids.” 

I was halfway down the driveway before he had pulled himself up enough to salute my generosity with the extension of his middle finger as our daughters leapt upon his back, regaling him with stories from their day and pleas for play time.  An image of insects devouring their paralyzed prey flashed in my head. 

Please don’t misunderstand me.  I adore my children.  I would lay my life down for them in an instant, without hesitation.  They are perfect, precious—extraordinary in every way.  But sometimes, mommy needs a minute of solitude for the sake of her sanity, you know?  I decided to drown out the guilty voices inside my head by cranking the radio.

It was one of those lovely, late summer, purply-pink-pre-twilight times, where slices of sunlight still streaked the western sky, melting the day into the night; at about 83 degrees, it was cool enough to put the windows down and blast the tune that slid through the speakers—Don Henley’s “Boys of Summer”. 

In that moment, as my hair whipped against my cheeks and my left arm found the beat against the exterior of the driver’s side door, I wasn’t a mom or a wife or a homeowner with bills and health care concerns and fifteen pounds that just would not go away (no matter how much I reduced my chicken McNugget intake)—I was transformed.  I was just a kid, hearing this song for the very first time on a similar summer night a lifetime ago—looking forward to back-to-school clothes shopping, seeing which friends were going to be in my classes, lusting after new crushes…just a kid with nothing to lose and everything before her.

It. Was. Awesome. 

I returned home—with my milk or my butter or my batteries or whatever it was—a new woman. 

Refreshed. 

There’s just something about an amazing summer song, isn’t there?  Summer songs represent change—they mark the transitions in life: Elementary to middle.  Middle to high.  High to college.  First love to next love.  Best friends to new friends.  Agony to ecstasy—and back again.  More than birthdays, more than New Year’s Eve celebrations…for me, it is the memories of summers spent that I pull out of the recollection box of my mind—accompanied by their incredible soundtracks—that became the indelible benchmarks for the significant stages of my life. 

To paraphrase the timeless wisdom of LFO’s “Summer Girls” (please tell me that you do see the tongue, firmly planted in the cheek, right???): “Summer songs come and summer songs go—some are worthwhile and some are so-so.” 

Sometimes the value of a great summer song lies in nothing more than a catchy hook (take Shaggy’s ridiculous “It Wasn’t Me”, Will Smith’s infectious “Gettin’ Jiggy Wit It”, Haddaway’s absurd “What is Love”, Deana Carter’s irritating “Strawberry Wine”, Ginuwine’s mortifying “Pony”…or any number of the countless blissfully ignorant throwaway tunes from virtually everyone’s summer experiences) but sometimes, there is so much more to a great summer song than you may even realize until you are old and running away and hiding from your family at dinnertime to purchase items you cannot even recall just to have a second to yourself. 

Summer songs, regardless of genre, are about three things only: fun, love, or loss.  Fun songs are as easy to find as they are to lose—they are not forgettable, but after a time, you find yourself rolling your eyes and changing the station as quickly as possible when they come on. The ones that stand the test of time usually require a direct hit to your head or to your heart—but these are more difficult to define because your response to them depends wholly upon who you are and where you’re from.  This got me to thinking about my soundtrack for the summer of 2012—according to the Mayans, our final year together on the planet.  Now at the final chapter of this season, I am left to ponder: Were the songs that dominated our sun-soaked attention spans built to last?  Maybe.  Here are a baker’s dozen that I think measured up—or will at least keep the summertime memories alive until the comet or zombie apocalypse wipes us out on December 21^st. 

In no particular order:

1)    fun., feat. Janelle Monae—“We are Young”:  Stop trying to escape this song.  Don’t run from it; give in to its hypnotic charms.  At some point, we all thought we were invincible and that we would live forever.  This infinitely sing-able testament to the delusional impregnability of youth is not whining—it is calling out to those living in that moment, hearkening them to hang on to it with everything they have.  As for the rest of us, it’s a bittersweet reminder that Mellencamp was right—we should have held on to sixteen for as long as we could; those changes that made us women and men came around a hell of a lot sooner than many of us expected, didn’t they? 

(Runner up, for all the very same reasons: Adam Lambert—“Never Close Our Eyes”)

2)    AIR—“Cosmic Trip”/ “Sonic Armada”:  Okay, so if you don’t think French new wave electronica might be your thing…perhaps you should stop being such a normal person and tap into your inner pretentious ass, hmmm?  No, seriously.  They’re amazing—always have been.  You’ve heard their music countless times (I discovered them in that 1999 Heath Ledger gem, “10 Things I Hate About You”, which led me to AIR’s sublime album, “Moon Safari”), and while their new album is more conceptual and not as divine, sometimes the summer just calls for a great piece of moody music that is sexy, mindless, goodness (e.g. Enigma, Dirty Vegas, Portishead, Basement Jaxx).  I don’t speak French, so they could honestly be singing about toilet paper and athlete’s foot, but I’d still chill to their sound—they’re just that good. 

Let me put it to you this way: if you like the entrancing rhythms and dulcet tones of Ellie Goulding’s “Lights”, you’re already halfway there.  It’s time for you to step away from Nicki Minaj’s starship (which you and I both know is infinitely inferior to her transcendent 2011 single, “Super Bass”, anyway) and get some fresh AIR.  (ßSee what I did there?)

Don't worry; no rockstars were harmed.

3)    Linkin Park—“Burn it Down”:  Why is this song on my list?  Because they’re Linkin-effin’-Park, people.  Don’t make me explain this one—they’re the sole survivors of a dying genre and this new single does not disappoint.  Don’t get me started on what the hell happened to contemporary/ alternative rock or what malevolent force was behind its genocide; suffice it to say, we should celebrate its survivors—especially when they still produce excellent music.  Every summer soundtrack needs a fist pumping, head banger—this is as close as you can get anymore.

(My honorable mention in this category goes to my beloved band, The Black Keys, for their superb new song, “Gold on the Ceiling”.  I gave this one to Linkin Park only because I’ve heard it about a hundred more times, so it’s embedded in my brain.  I’m sure The Black Keys will catch up in no time.)

4)    Mac Miller—“Missed Calls”:  So, I’m probably going to take a lot of heat for this one, but bear with me.  The Pennsylvania native is about the hardest working, self-promoting kid I’ve ever seen.  He didn’t have the backing of Bieber or the Disney machine to create his identity for him.  Mac Miller has been making mixtapes of his laid-back raps about the simple joys of youth—you know, the deep stuff, like Kool-Aid, pizza, and purple kush—since he was fifteen years old.  Fifteen.  [Do you want to know what I was doing at fifteen years old?  Writing “Mrs. Anthony Rippy” on my geometry folder with a sparkly glitter pen and thinking about going to the mall to check out the new selection of “Guess” jeans.] This kid is a beast. 



This kid has got to hate old people like me
who find him completely adorable.

The last couple of years have found the scrappy little rapper quietly growing in popularity and maturity (his adorable doo-woppy ode to the lovability of young people, “Knock, Knock”, was one of my very favorite songs last year)—though he is probably best known for his rhymes about the king of the comb-over, Donald Trump.  While Miller is often compared to a young Eminem, I don’t see it.  He doesn’t seethe and his rhymes aren’t that tight; however, now, at twenty, I see a baby Beastie Boy experimenting with his skills and cultivating his talents under the tutelage of a host of quality hip-hop influences like Wiz, Pharrell, and Weezy.  I’m keeping my eye on him and inviting you to do the same.

In Mac’s honor, I bestow my second place award upon: Gym Class Heroes, feat. Ryan Tedder—“The Fighter” (which, coincidentally, I thought was rapped by Mac Miller the first time that I heard the song.)

5)    The Killers—“Runaways”:  I’ll admit—I’m new to The Killers.  I completely missed their 2008 album (might have had something to do with my creating and birthing and nurturing a new baby or some other such nonsense), so I am dutifully kicking my own ass for arriving so late to this celebration.  But now that I’m here, let me start by placing the nearest lampshade on my head, getting hammered, and dancing on a tabletop—I will be the life of the party.  This new single in particular, is excellent—it brings to mind all the elements of early U2, quality rock and romance that you just don’t hear enough of anymore.  I said the best summer songs involved love or loss—this song commemorates both.



We get it, Alex.  You're just not that into us anymore.

6)    Alex Clare—“Too Close”: Yeah, yeah, the Microsoft commercial song.  Screw that.  Look, let’s be frank.  We’ve all been out driving around and noted that the vehicle beside us was vibrating, pulsating, with music stressing the limits of its speakers, its driver, blissfully unaware of our embarrassed observations as they belt out some tune with childish abandon, right?  Well…if it was this summer, it was probably this song.  (And, YES.  It was probably me.)

In the absence of new work from my favorite trip-hop band of all time—Massive Attack—Alex Clare’s ambitious amalgam of blues, funk, and electronica have made this British soul man my go-to guy all summer.  Every song off his 2011 album “The Lateness of the Hour” is beyond delicious; its prize jewel, “Too Close”, is no emo-heartbreak-crybaby crap.  Clare is clear—it’s not him, it’s you—and he’s just fine with that, thank you very much.  Perfectly satisfied being the anti-hero, every beat of this infinitely listenable song punctuates a step he takes in the opposite direction from the one who made the mistake of loving him.  You know, everyone deserves a fabulous, ass-kicking breakup/ burn song at least once in their lifetime—if this is you, this is that song.

7)    Kenny Chesney—“Come Over”:  If you know me, you know modern country is not really my thing.  So much so, that I’ll admit that I’ve analogized it with beating bags of sick cats against broken glass walls.  Author and comedian Michael Ian Black recently observed: “Every mentally handicapped person I have ever known prefers country music.”  He stressed, “I’m not saying you have to be mentally handicapped to enjoy country music, just that it helps.”  To be clear, HIS words, not mine; don’t kill the messenger. 

My point?  Oh, yeah—don’t you ever say that I can’t be open-minded and fair, because here I am, throwing you a bone.  While Chesney’s “Come Over” doesn’t touch Lady Antebellum’s “Need You Now”, I will admit that this song (despite the limitations of its genre) is actually catchy, breezily romantic, and hopeful.  And if we’re going to be honest, what more could I ask of a summer song? (But you still better love me for reaching so far outside of my comfort zone for this one.  You owe me.)

2^nd Place: Eric Church—“Springsteen” (To quote the woefully underrated  cinematic masterpiece, “Showgirls”: “It doesn’t suck.”)

8)    Gotye, feat. Kimbra—“Somebody That I Used to Know”: Breakups make for such powerful summer song fodder, don’t they?  The epic “he-said/ she-said” agonizing over who-done-who-wrong has massive universal appeal—and this absolutely unavoidable song (seriously, just try to run from it—it WILL find you, wherever you hide) perfectly captures every human being’s neurotic compulsion to be perceived as the “wronged” party at the end of a relationship.  All the elements are here— the soothing syncopated rhythm, the haunting refrains of Gotye’s grief (his voice, lilting like an pre-solo career Sting), Kimbra’s gorgeous, measured response to his brooding self-absorption—for the perfect summer song (that is substantially superior to Katy Perry’s “Wide Awake”).  I only wish I found the rest of Gotye’s catalogue as appealing as this song—but if it does end up being a one-off, I won’t whine about it.  I’ll always be grateful for the memory.  It’s not like I’ll pen a ditty called “A Song That I Used to Know” or anything like that. 

9)    GROUPLOVE—“Tongue Tied”:  In spite of the shouty-capitals in their band name, this song is pleasingly adorable and surprisingly effervescent.  I love an indie-band that doesn’t take itself too seriously—and in the case of GROUPLOVE, it would be good if they didn’t, because I predict that they will be completely forgotten in approximately five years (seriously, if you remember the name of this band in the year 2017, you come find me and I will pay you five dollars.  I have a notary standing by as witness), but then again, who cares?  We need stuff to dance to in our flip flops and cocoa butter.  “Tongue Tied” is about as nutritive and filling as a spoonful of sherbet, but on a hot summer day, what could be better?

Michael debuts his "Blue Steel". 
"Magnum" is still in the works.

10)  George Michael—“White Light”:  To understand this selection, you must know something about my love for all that is George Michael—from his exuberant days as the sexy half of Wham!, to his mind-blowing (and hormone-exploiting) album, “Faith”, to his devastatingly resplendent album, “Older”, (which, to this day, if I had to select only ten albums to listen to for the rest of my life would definitely make the cut) this fabulously talented man has created gorgeous musical snapshots for every stage of my life, from the irresponsible ecstasy of adolescence to the heavier reflections of an aging heart.

“White Light” is no exception.  Yes, I’ll admit that when I first heard this song, I shared with a friend that it sounded like a dubstep redux of a mid-nineties Depeche Mode track.  But then I listened again.  And again.  And again.  That is George Michael’s gift…he gets under your skin and in no time at all, his music is running through your blood and living in your heart.  At its very least, “White Light” is a simple summer club banger—but at its best, it is a testimonial to survival, by someone who’s lived hard enough to tell the tale with a measure of authenticity.

11)  Phil Philips—“Home”:  Yes, I know, haters gon’ hate, especially if you’re one of the millions of poo-poo-ers who resent the American Idol machine (you know, the system that rewards the red necked, the white skinned, or the bluesy-acoustic guitar)—but gosh-darn-it, don’t take it out on the kids!  I never read Phil’s “awww, shucks” lopsided grin as insincere or contrived—in fact, I believe that, in time, he may turn out to be the real thing.  While many disparage him for his limited range, comparing him to a discount Dave Matthews or a baby Bob Seger—I think his performance on “Home” hints at a contemporary Simon and Garfunkel. 

Look. I can still feel you fuming at me as you read this, believing it blasphemous for me to make the American Idol winner the only indie-folk rock selection on my summer list, so I’ll just smile bashfully, shuffle my feet, and stare at the floor as I remind you that you have the rest of your lives to listen to Mumford & Sons, Fleet Foxes, and Bon Iver—why not give a few of your summer days to a sweetly endearing love song?  They’re rarer than you may realize.

Not just another pretty voice.
MoZella's hot, too.

12)  MoZella—“Change”:  I discovered MoZella quite by accident.  I’m not embarrassed to admit it: she was a recommended selection from my Adele station on Pandora—but one song was all it took to snag my heart and make it hers.  I’ve been gushing about her for weeks, trying to get anyone and everyone to listen to this sweetly smoky-voiced, retro chanteuse.  If Adele, Dusty Springfield, Duffy (what ever happened to Duffy?), and Christina Perri had a love child, MoZella would be their holy progeny. “Change”, her most recent song, is that perfect, late-summer brand of sentimental reflection on the ever changing nature of our existence—a bittersweet farewell with the tiny twist of hope.

[P.S. Listen, I’m not a demanding person, but considering that Adele is off making her wonder-baby, Dusty Springfield is leading the choir in heaven, Duffy is apparently missing in action, and Christina Perri has settled for being a two-hit (at least, for now) wonder, how’s about we all get this woman into a studio and making some amazing new music, shall we?]

So, the definition of a “baker’s dozen” implies a thirteenth something, right?  A freebie to reward your loyal patronage?  Any guesses about your bonus summer song?  I’m sure you noted how many radio edit top-40’s I blew off, right?  What will it be…what will it be?  Pitbull’s “Back in Time”?  Maroon 5’s “Payphone”?  Pink’s “Blow Me (One Last Kiss)”?  Usher’s “Scream”?  Oh, come on—it’s too easy:

13)  Carly Rae Jepsen—“Call Me Maybe”:  Manifest.  Pervasive.  Infectious.  Three words given more often to blood-borne pathogens than candy-coated pop confectionary, but if the bio-hazardous descriptors fit…

Not since Billy Ray Cyrus (you remember, Miley’s mulletted daddy?) served up his 1992 mega-hit “Achy Breaky Heart” have I seen a song so completely devour the collective consciousness of a society quite the way that “Call Me Maybe” has consumed ours.  Thousands of spoofs—including politicians, Olympians, artists—and countless memes have proven that you cannot escape the tractor-beam pull of a Death Star of this proportion.  

In fact, I’d venture to posit that the complete range of this song’s influence has yet to be measured.  There is no limit to what the marketing machine will make from our (apparently) voracious appetite for this perky piece of pop culture. Though (thankfully) I won’t likely be around to see it, I can almost guarantee that they’ll revive the song 40 years from now to promote “Call Me Maybe”-themed Depend© undergarments or that Carly Rae Jepsen will be on a reality-television celebrity dating game with Snooki, Kristen Stewart, and Bret Michaels’ head, preserved in a jar of formaldehyde.   

Love it or hate it, you can’t deny that 2012 was the year for the cute crush song with the awkward grammar.  It will be a part of your cultural DNA long after you stopped smiling when you heard it.  You will roll your eyes and you will deny you ever sang it.  You will try to forget it—but you will never forget the summer where it took over your world.

(But can I see it absolutely making your day when you’re sneaking away from your noisy kids for a minute of “me-time” and it comes on the radio twenty years from now???  Actually, yes.  Yes I can.  You’ll see.)

Of course, this is only HALF the story. 

For MORE on this subject, you’ve got to see what HE said @ Suburban Acrobat ...

He ain’t heavy—he’s my brother…

I am an only child, complete with all the trappings, both good and bad. 

Perhaps being imbued for decades with the confidence (arrogance?) and the steadfast belief that everything I did or said was magical, miraculous, and utterly extraordinary (thanks, mom!) staved off the loneliness, the sense of isolation that accompanied a bedroom full of perfectly organized, undamaged toys and an entire houseful of spaces that I could call my own, my territorial claims perennially unchallenged.

(Incidentally, I should mention that I actually do have a half-brother out there who I was fortunate enough to meet once, a lifetime ago—and whose facebook page I still stalk with rabid frequency—but I’ll save that for another story, another day…)

The fact is, I longed for a brother or a sister beside me growing up—a familial partner to accompany me along life’s journey.  Someone to make faces at when my mom was maddeningly out of touch, someone to loan me their albums and teach me the latest dance moves, someone to threaten bodily injury to errant suitors or educate me about the relative merits of Tampax® vs. Stayfree®.  Sadly, I was left to navigate these challenging waters alone. 

(This is probably why my mom still wants to slap me when I roll my eyes at her, my only dance move is an unholy hybrid of ‘The Running Man’ and ‘The Cabbage Patch’, and despite years of solitary research, I’m still left befuddled by the plethora of lady products available to me and usually just grab the first box I see.)

My hope faded as the years passed and my mother’s egg countdown dwindled; I learned to survive the only child way—by making everything all about myself and learning to like it.  That is, until the day I discovered that I was not alone after all—I’d been the victim of a cruel and elaborate conspiracy: I had a twin brother and we had been separated at birth.  (Cue dramatic soap-opera music.)

To shorten a very long and circuitous story, suffice it to say that I had been privileged to find work at an enchanted suburban high school for a fistful of years.  It was in my time spent there, collaborating with wonderful department colleagues and teaching fantastic young learners, that I stumbled upon my long-lost brother. 

The clues were everywhere, and yet I missed every single one: the identical azure eye color, the same thick, sandy-brown hair (though, in my defense, after years of tinting, bleaching, and coloring my own locks, I’d honestly lost all sense of what my natural color even was), the inexplicable and incurable addiction to all things Prince, John Irving, Seth MacFarlane, and film analysis—these were just a few of our curious connections. His wit was sardonic; satirical, but not cruel.  His eye for detailed observations was uncanny.  I lost track of the times I sat, stupefied by the coincidences that left me screaming silently “Get. Out. Of. My. Head!” It was not until my final moments working with this brilliant, hilarious, compassionate man that the tragic truth fully revealed itself to me: Our birth certificates simply had to be a lie.

Cosmic, cruel circumstances drove us apart, but I continued to follow my suspected kin electronically—reading his blogs, following his tweets, scanning his status updates—each entry was another confirmation of my suspicions.  There was no way that a random stranger could reflect this much of what I believed and who I believed I was and NOT be related to me by some measure. 

(Next you’ll be telling me that Chelsea Handler ISN’T my evil, only-moderately more attractive clone, or that Adam Levine ISN’T singing all those songs about me!  Now who’s crazy?)

I hesitate to say too much at this point, but I’ll give you a hint: Said twin has succumbed to my delusions and embraced the irrefutable certainty of our ancestral heritage—we have begun crafting a joint venture with great alacrity.  What will it be?  I can’t specifically say quite yet—but I know that it will be amazing. 

(I mean, if we’re this astonishing separately, just imagine what we’ll accomplish if we unite our powers!  The universal implications are staggering.)

Your final clue:

We are neither hedonistic hippies nor are we ascetic navel-gazers…we’re simply two kids born in the 70’s, loving the 80’s, maturing in the 90’s, commenting on the new millennium.  We have families we adore and lives we cherish.  We are music lovers who listen to The Killers while we wear our Barry Manilow T-shirts without irony.  We are literature-loving educators who read contemporary publications with impunity.  We are cinematic snots who worship at the altars of Fellini, Welles, and Kubrick but are unafraid to voice our allegiance to the wit of the latest Will Ferrell foray.  (Okay, we may be unafraid, but perhaps we are a wee bit embarrassed…)

The point is, we’re out here living this life right alongside you, straddling the same chasmic (<-not a word, but you’ll figure out sooner or later that I take great literary license and  make these things up all the time) divide between the “Good Ol’ Days” and the “Here and Now” that you are.  We’re just trying to make sense, make meaning, or make a hella good time of it all.

If we found one another after all these years, perhaps there are even more of us out there—sometimes they’re called “cults”, we prefer “communities”.  All semantics aside, we’re drunk on this Kool-Aid and wondering: won’t you join us for a glass...?

[For a sample of what you’ll be in for, check out my brilliant “brother” at his blog: Suburban Acrobat.]

Good girl gone…normal?

So I was sitting at our YMCA the other day, dutifully watching my beloved nine-year-old daughter, Alexa, during her fourth round of intensive swim lessons (I should probably note here that she has remained classified as a “Polliwog”—or, in kid-centered, “everyone-gets-a-trophy” Y-speak: the level directly above “Sinking Stone”…I’m not kidding.  My angel-faced, fifty-five pound wisp of a girl floats across the land with the grace of a dandelion puff, but somehow ejects an invisible eighty pound anchor from her arse when she hits the water), and, after eight weeks of daily lessons, I’ve yet to witness any significant improvements in her abilities (unless you count not drowning as a skill).  However, on this particular afternoon, I am utterly astonished by what I observe.

Alexa, standing at the edge of the oh-so-scary deep end—all pale skin, twitching elbows, and knocking knees—was vigorously shaking her head at her gracious and kind teacher (the fourth in a series of wonderful, supportive young women who had coddled, nurtured, and encouraged her to acclimate and accept the grace given to those with confidence in their aquatic endeavors) floating in the water before her, arms open in a welcoming embrace.  For five, full minutes, I watched the two of them in a bizarre dance of warring wills.  It went something like this—  

Teacher: patting the water, extending the day-glo colored foam noodle to bridge the space between them, gently coaxing my reticent little wogger (hipster-speak for “polliwog”) with a warm smile and a firm direction while hiding her growing exasperation; Alexa: skittering to the edge of the platform, toes curling over the brink of the board, tilting forward…then, arms flailing, leaping back to the safety of the pool deck.  Repeat.  Repeat.  Repeat.  [This is not the unusual part.  This was becoming a carefully calculated habit.  But wait…]

Deadlocked in this watery waltz of authority and acquiescence, one of the lifeguards eventually approached them at the edge of the pool.  He was all muscles and tattoos, a small-town Channing Tatum (at least from where I was sitting in the remote, “parents-we-don’t-want-you-interfering-thank-you” observation deck) and I watched as he spoke to Alexa and her teacher for a moment.  Though I couldn’t hear a word of their exchange, Alexa smiled broadly and nodded cheerfully.  He extended his hand to her and, clearly besotted, she readily placed her petite palm inside of his.  Gliding like a debutante, the shirtless Prince Charming escorted my daughter down the diving board where she, without hesitation, leapt right off the deep end and slipped directly into the water.

On the drive home, I tried a light-hearted approach to understanding what happened with my little swim-class Cinderella, teasing her mildly about the new “boyfriend”—but this only earned me an “Oh, moth-ER!” face and the silent treatment until I could buy back her affections with a Happy Meal. 

[Please tell me it will always be this easy to make amends with my child?]

Other than the fact that I thought that I had another five or so years to prepare for it, this scenario didn’t particularly surprise me.  I’ve puzzled and written a lot recently about the rules of attraction and the nature of relationships—in my reaction to the “Fifty Shades of Grey” phenomenon, I briefly mulled over the economy in affairs of the heart, analyzing what it is that we are willing to barter in exchange for what we most desire.  I couldn’t help but examine what this young lifeguard represented to a girl of such limited years that would entice her (so quickly!) to abandon her fears and embrace the opportunity that all of her previous instructors had offered to her?  What mojo did this young man possess?  An awful fear gripped me unexpectedly.  Heaven help her—had my poor child inherited her mother’s preternatural attraction to the…dramatic pause…“bad” boy?

[I will quickly concede my weakness, as a young girl, to being drawn—like a hungry kitten to a saucer of yummy, yummy milk—to any young man within a five mile radius in possession of a tattoo, piercing, mullet, cigarette-smoke infused leather jacket, or rusted-out rattletrap blaring heavy metal at a level that more than alarmed my mother, but actually sent her into a frantic search for the nearest curator of chastity belts.  In fact, at sixteen sweet years old, I actually fell for a guy who fit the aforementioned description down to the very last detail; he even had a license plate that read “LOSER6” (I kid you not.  If you lived in South-Central Illinois in the early 90’s, I can almost guarantee you saw it or knew him.  I’m just going to issue a blanket apology now.  You’re all covered.)

One day I got the nerve to stop making out with him for about five minutes to ask why he actually paid good money for personalized plates that were so self-deprecating.  His response, leaning into me with his ethereal blue eyes fastened to mine, my brain blurred by his heady mix of Marlboro, motor oil, and whatever cheap cologne he’d stolen from the local Wal Mart? 

“I’ve lost in love six times.  But something tells me that my luck has changed with you.  Don’t ever make me change it to ‘LOSER7’, okay?”  

(You do realize that I just died inside writing that, right?  I mean, I threw up in my own mouth enough for the both of us.)

The intelligent young woman in me was laughing her ass off—actually screaming at me for listening to this absurdity—but the hormonally driven teenager in me with the boyfriend who looked like an even hotter Judd Nelson from “The Breakfast Club”?  Well…she was too busy cooing “Oh, you poor baby.  Here, let me love you and fix your broken-hearted booboos…” to even hear my ego trying to kick her idiotic ass. 

(I know.  I KNOW.)  Don’t judge me.   

In my defense, just so you won’t lose all respect for me, you should know that just because I was drawn to them, doesn’t mean I ended up with them.  Sheesh.  Give me a little credit, won’t you?  My “real” relationships were with artists, software engineers, attorneys, and IT consultants.  I just had a tiny addiction for a little while—just an occasional taste kept the jitters at bay.  But I’ve totally kicked the habit now, I swear.  I’m clean and sober, man.]

So…back to my precious girl and the question that would not leave my head: did momma’s predilection for rebels without a clue jump into her gene pool?  I couldn’t get any answers from Alexa, after all, she’s just a little girl.  She doesn’t yet possess the ability to articulate what it is that drives her to do anything, whether it’s shaving her cat, locking her sister in the closet for an hour, or holding hands with a strange boy to dive into nine feet of water that had her quaking in her swim shoes only minutes earlier.    

I hate pondering something and coming up without a hypothesis of some kind, so I decided to take a break from the navel-gazing and bust out the kindle to read my latest purchase—the wildly popular new Gillian Flynn novel (Gone Girl) that belongs to a genre (crime-fiction) that I never [EVER] read—just to blow off my fears that the sins of the mother would be visited upon the genetic betrayal that was to be my child’s legacy: that she would be destined to meet and love the wrong guy, over and over again. 

Talk about irony—for the next twenty-four hours, I was courted by the strange, exotic, charming, and horrifying couple, Amy and Nick Dunne.  (Picture above-average American sweethearts—I’ve personally cast Reese Witherspoon and Ryan Gosling, but you’re graciously free to select your own images, with my permission.  You’re more than welcome.)  The thing is, Nick and Amy offer a behind-closed-suburban-doors-peep-show that makes Ana and Christian Grey look about as interesting as a pair of neutered housecats.  (And I’m not even referring to the sex, although there is some of that, too.  No offense to the Greys, but their fifty shades of kink pale in comparison to the mind-fucking drama of the Dunnes.) 

There is honestly so little that I can tell you about this book that wouldn’t be too revealing or provocative—but I will limit myself to a couple of simple statements: this is a brilliantly written he-said/ she-said transcription of the proclivities and perversities of a perfectly normal American couple.  Then again, I suppose this depends upon your definition of “normal”; the truth is, there is love and passion and anger and betrayal and murder—and there are often moments in this book that will astound you and knock you to your knees with the awareness that these two people are more like you than you may ever comfortably admit.  And that’s a pretty humbling—and frightening—thought when you lie down next to the one you love tonight.

While I am definitely recommending this wickedly clever, agitating novel to anyone and everyone, I’m more than aware that Gillian Flynn does not need my help selling her book: it does this, splendidly, on its own.  In fact, as I was writing this, I noted that it was the #4 book on the Amazon* and #5 on the Times* best seller lists. (*Note—Dear God, for the sake of all that is holy in prose, please let something that is actually well-written knock that bloated Grey trifecta off of the top of the best seller lists before I lose all faith in humanity’s ability to appreciate genuine literature.  Please?)  I cannot tell you any more—I cannot pigeonhole this book into any category: it is simply its own engaging, electrifying entity.  (Honestly, would you all just hurry up and read it so we can talk about it?  Thanks.)            

Unfortunately, in matters of human attraction, sometimes we don’t make the choices that are the best for us—sometimes, the heart simply wants what it wants.  The real hero may be standing in front of us with his bleeding heart in his hands, but we are too busy supplicating at the foot of the hunk adjusting his balls and stubbing out a cigarette to notice.  Love is rarely within our realm of control—even when we think we have it all figured out for ourselves, we’re just bullshitting and making this up as we go along.  What or who we fall in love with is not always a true reflection of who we are or what we value.  In fact, the surface of the person we fall in love with might be nothing like what lies beneath the façade at all—Poe warned us that everything we see or seem might just possibly be a dream within a dream.  Gone Girl is a fresh take on a very primitive fear—that despite our hubris and our assertions to the contrary, none of us truly knows what is lurking in the shadows of the human heart.  Perhaps we would all be wise to exercise a little more caution around those murky places—lest we be sucked into that darkness ourselves.  (I’m telling you, this book will mess with your mind.)

As for my baby girl and her poolside prince?  I’ll just chalk this one up to the classy-sweet kindness of a stranger. The hopeless romantic in me hopes that one day—many, many years from now—Alexa will find the kind of partner who would inspire her to exile her fears and hold her hand as they dive into the deep end of life’s adventures together. 

However, the neurotic mother in me is far more powerful and she is fully prepared to purchase iron window bars and stainless steel chastity belts.  Bad boys beware: I can also locate a great deal on medieval castration tools.  Nobody needs a Christian Grey or a Nick Dunne for a son-in-law; consider yourselves warned.  

You need a book to read that will impress your friends and look great on your bookshelf for years to come. Dave Hill wrote just such a book. This is that book. You are welcome.

This is Dave Hill.  What you probably can tell from the photograph is that he is clearly a sartorially splendid specimen of sexy, sexy manhood—but what you probably cannot tell, just by looking at his photograph, is that:

1)      He is an internationally celebrated rock god (just ask anyone in Osaka—he’s HUGE in Japan).

2)      Despite his delicate good looks and his discerning eye for fashion, he is actually a kick ass former hockey grinder who’ll shove a biscuit down your throat if you even think about getting chippy with him.

3)      He is not actually British (I KNOW, right? He totally looks like one of the queen’s people, doesn’t he?), but a born-and-bred son of the U.S.A.’s very own Cleveland, Ohio.

4)      He is a comedian who is actually a really good writer (which is no small accomplishment —the two are not necessarily synonymous—but I won’t name names.  I’m a lady.) 

5)      He is obsessed with the joys of dressing up as Santa Claus, nude people (especially hot, naked chicks on the internet), Japanese toilets, guitars, and doing or saying whatever it takes to make you love him.  And not necessarily in that order.  [He’d really, really like you to love him.] 

Okay, maybe his membership in the “heterosexual man club” was a giveaway clue about his fascination with the unclothed human—preferably female—form.  After all, a quick glance at basic art history would indicate that most men like looking at nekkid folks, but how many can you say have written a BOOK that includes an essay detailing their riotously sexy romp on an all-nude dinner cruise?  Dave Hill has. Ha, so there.   

While I cannot, personally, testify to his prowess as a rock god, as a hockey player, or as a comedian (at least, not without stalking his vast array of youtube video credits), I can, however, attest to his writing abilities.  Having just finished his book, “Tasteful Nudes”, I will admit that I laughed—loudly, and frequently—at his sardonic voice.  I’m not kidding, my poor cat actually catapulted (no puns, please…let’s leave the comedy to the professionals, m’kay?) from my bed, leapt into the darkness, and bounced squarely off of my nightstand because my braying was so sudden and so unexpected.  What can I say?  Dave Hill has a hilariously dual personality that ricochets between the self-deprecating and the audaciously-confident…and it is a very appealing blend of madness.  [Also, he owes me $75 for my animal clinic visit and my kitty’s valium.  It was a very traumatic experience.] 

While his stage persona sort of radiates a feigning-sycophantic-nerd vibe, Dave Hill’s essays actually exude a charismatic, irreverent swagger—a pleasing “I don’t give a damn, I’m just putting this shit out there”-kind of tone.  However, what makes his literary voice particularly likeable is that you can easily imagine his puppy-dog face popping up regularly, head cocked, silently whimpering: “I didn’t mean it—I DO give a damn!”  It is in between the cheeriest moments, when his confidence wavers and the actual vulnerability behind the casually cutting humor emerges, that his writing becomes the most engaging and Dave Hill—the real man—becomes his most endearing.  

Don’t get me wrong—this guy is no hopeless schlub or anything like that.  He’s got some great stories—he lived in the infamous Chelsea Hotel, he worked in a homeless drug-rehab shelter, he volunteered to perform his stand-up routine for 300+ prisoners in Sing Sing, and he was a pedicab driver on the mean streets of New York City—and he depicts each of them with so much vibrant detail that they only kiss the hem of “Too much information!” without ever crossing the boundaries of “Oh, God, please stab this image out of my head!”  Some of the essays in his book are heartfelt, carefully crafted vignettes of the human experience—and some are hand-engraved invitations (printed on premium-quality gloss cardstock with velum overlays and satin bows—metaphorically, of course.  His writing is really good…) to revel in the glory, the perversion, the wit, and the insanity that is the average American male mind. 

(You know, the kind of American male who grew up with half-naked girl posters on his wall, who was hazed throughout high school by his teammates and friends, who lusted and longed and lived out loud, and who happily indulged in sampling the finest things life had to offer his generation—exceptional rock music, a quality liberal arts education, copious amounts of consequence-free drug and alcohol consumption, and generous access to internet pornography.  That American male.)    

Perhaps it is the fact that I have lived a fatherless existence, perhaps it is the fact that I am an only child who grew up without brothers or cousins—but frankly, I’ve always been especially grateful for up-close-and-personal stories from the male point-of-view.  I think that I’ve spent a lot of years trying to crawl around in the brains of men because no one in possession of the proper hardware (duh, a penis) was willing to inform me about the male perspective.  I mean, sure, after the age of thirteen, when my breasts decided to wake up and give the world a friendly “hey, y’all—what’s up?” I had plenty of offers to learn about what boys were really like up close and in person, but I was looking for an education where I could actually keep my clothes on and that went beyond the back seat of their Plymouth Satellites.  [God bless my wonderful mother for trying her best to explain the male beast to me, but 1) thrice-divorced, I believed that she was not without bias and 2) without the appropriate hardware (again, duh…), I figured her explanations were little more than theories.] 

Maybe the gap in this pivotal stage of my development explains why my formative years were spent making greater connections with the guys in my life than I ever really made with the girls—I suppose I found a certain measure of comfort surrounded by “the boys” because I was a bit of a double agent, covertly trying to decipher the codes of their behaviors and habits by hanging out, shooting the shit, bumming around town, and sometimes sucking face with them.  In retrospect, I probably [inadvertently] left behind a lot of blue balls during my reconnaissance work, but, in my defense, I swear I did it all in the name of advancement for the social and behavioral sciences. 

[However, in the event that there are any hard feelings (I swear to God that I did not intend that pun), would the following people please consider this a sincere, belated, public apology from a very naïve girl?]

Dear Patrick, Bobby, John, Tony, Tom, Matt, Mike, Sean, Joey, Craig, Jason and ______,

I’m sorry I wasn’t more of a slut and that I wouldn’t let you go past second base.  I really mean that. 

Sincerely.   

I’ve often paid private thanks to the novels of Philip Roth and John Irving and Vladimir Nabokov, the music of Freddie Mercury and Kurt Cobain and Tom Petty, for imparting much of what I know about my male friends and companions: these men were the fathers I never had—imperfect educators, certainly, but at least they were always there when I needed them.  Their collective works, along with those of their contemporaries, paved traversable routes for me to follow in my search for kinship and companionship with our masculine cohorts. 

[Parenthetically, ladies, I will share that, through these explorations, I’ve discovered that men are quite simple really—they tend to say what they mean, they are fairly honest, they have modest expectations, and ironically, they pretty much want most of the same things we do: love, laughter, companionship—a life free from drama, spent worshipping and being worshipped by the most attractive person that they can get to voluntarily come home with them (without resorting to the use of illegal narcotics or chloroform).  You know, just like us.] 

Once, in another life, when I was a teacher, I often dreamed about creating a contemporary fiction course where we would explore the desires and debauchery of men, as seen through 20^th/21^st century literature.  My fantasy curriculum involved examining books like “The Catcher in the Rye”, “Portnoy’s Complaint”, “The World According to Garp”, and “Lolita”—a sort of guided literary tour of the progressing (and often, regressing) maturity of the curious male creature.  I believe that Dave Hill’s essays would have fit very nicely into my proposed structure: each piece from “Tasteful Nudes” depicts a charmingly unsteady step taken by a silly-boy-man on his quest toward becoming a self-actualized-mature-man.  I’ll leave it to your reading to determine just how close he comes to his destination, but either way, I’m pretty certain you’re going to enjoy the journey immensely.

(Just make sure to remove any sleeping cats from your room before reading.  You cannot claim that I did not warn you and Mr. Hill cannot be held liable for any more veterinary costs.)