Hello sleep dep and pseudo-ADD, my stupid stupid friends
◊ Just so you know: low nighttime temperatures in the high 30s suck. I know it's California and I know it's not exactly death on a stick but you know what? I can't hear your arguments about the puniness of Bay Area cold when I CAN'T FEEL MY FINGERTIPS.
Also, Jeff Buckley I [heart] you. And [kidney] you. Also [lung] you, [brain] you, [pancreas] you and [insert organ that the English think is acceptable for use in some kind of pie] you. I don't [appendix] or [intestine] you because let's face it, those are just around for the body to process and remove waste and the end results would be a bit disrespectful to your memory. I also don't [skin pore] you because I know it's not fair but I'm 25 and I still get zits and sometimes it makes me want to punch the people who make magazines for teens.
Or punch people who cover your version of "Hallelujah." I know it's a Leonard Cohen song (and I do love the original) but folks, y'all can't pretend you're covering Cohen's version of it because you'd leave out all the raspy singing and, like, half the lyrics Buckley injected. I have found that I am usually a reasonably calm and patient person right up until someone tries to break out a Buckley or Tom Waits cover and then I just get angry.
Rufus Wainwright gets a grudging OK the same way one puts up with a boyfriend's inexplicable and slightly embarrassing hobbies — I'll let him cover "Hallelujah" or collect model trains, so long as he doesn't leave the basement to try and share the song or train trivia with civilized humans, or even ones that maybe haven't figured out the finer points of civilization and are still focus-grouping things like smelting and rudimentary agriculture. Tori Amos is allowed to cover Tom Waits' "Time" because she is Tori Amos and she can do whatever she likes with cover songs, no questions asked, no tickets needed, no remembering to plug in the toaster before you want to toast something because the magic of her cover songs toasts the bread for you. This power may also extend to waffles.
And the covers … people, haven't we punished me enough? You see how I struggle just to locate my shoes in the spot next to the bed right where I left them last night? Or next to the toilet, which I find particularly confusing since it's not like shoe removal plays a major part in my excretory functions? I do not need the kind of violent, hate-fuelled, fascist persection embodied so thoroughly and chillingly by Bruce Springsteen singing "Jersey Girl." In a Holocaust-film version of this situation, I would be portrayed by an actor with signifigant indie cred and a not-too-character, not-quite-a-star face, someone who would look trustworthy. And the Boss? The Boss would wear jackboots.
And by the way, regarding the zits-at-25 thing: oh my god. I'm 25. I am officially old, half-dead and past it. WHAT HAVE I DONE WITH MY LIFE SO FAR?! Apparently not much other than amassing a prime collection of recyclables on my desk and … uh …
… Newcastle bottlecaps. If only I could trade them in for university credits.
UPDATE: Now I cannot feel my toes, either. Damnation.