ah, the old music...

It seemed like a good day to start by listening to Jimi Hendrix, which got me to thinking...

In the day (which shall remain vague), I thought the point of singing along was to exactly mimic whoever I was singing along to, which was why I had Janis down in junior high..."one day up neah Saleenz Lah-ow, I le' him slip away...heze lookin' for that home, an' I hope he fi-i-inze i-uh..." (Feature a dorky 12 year old (or whatever, you do the math) singing the blues, as though not getting the pair of Dittos I wanted gave me a leg up on getting what Janis Joplin was all about.) I thought the point was to ape every nuance of singer, until I heard my brother getting hysterical on the other side of my bedroom door. I was ashamed, abashed, annoyed.

Little did I know my skills would later serve me well when I could torment my brother with my (dare I say) amazing ability to croon Olivia Newton John's "Have You Never Been Mellow." Of all the putrid top 40 songs, that was one of the worst.

My O. Henry twist: I still can't get that fucking song out of my mind.

Here's the other sad part. I remember now that my brother begged me to sing that song for him. It was his free entertainment. (All his, and later my, spare change went to pot, so we had to make do. I'm sure pot made me a lot funnier to him.)

And here I am, stuck with "Now I don't mean to make you frown; now I just want you to slow down.." followed by lots of trills and coos.

All of this sprang fully formed from my brain when I had a shite day at work last week and soothed my soul by honking along with "Summertime." Ultimately I just had to laugh at myself. Purpose served.

Sometimes for middle aged kicks, I leave my windows down so the guards at work understand that middle aged women don't all listen to crap like old Olivia Newton John, American Idols or Muzak. I love it when they can't hear me over my music.

Random thought: I slipped into Nordstrom for underwear (if I can't splurge on non-ride-ups, what's the point of a salary?) and ran into three women with whom I work, at three separate times. Something about running into three (perfectly nice) well-heeled co-workers while I'm out and about for no longer than five minutes in a store that makes me feel very alien (as the pianist played the Stones) made me not like me, if indeed that was the essential me.

This is very anal, but for some reason I feel I should add I only smoked pot in high school, and stopped when it got 'good' (read: fogged my mind completely and made me a driveling idiot).