Sunday, November 18, 2012
Friday, November 9, 2012
Wednesday, November 7, 2012
On politics...
"I could never live permanently in the South again. I loved it when I was a kid, but outside the cities, it's so red you can't see straight." -Maris
"Something about trees makes people Republican." -X
"Something about trees makes people Republican." -X
Saturday, November 3, 2012
On the song...
The way I remember coming into my voice is very different than my families perception.
In my memory, I always sang along to Buddy Holly records on the living room turntable.
Chuck Berry.
Pete Seeger.
Leslie Gore.
My boyfriend's back and you're gonna be in trouble.
According to my mother, I never once sang in front of the family.
Ever.
You shy little thing.
I remember long truck drives with my father.
I would softly sing along to the radio country he always played, or "negro spiritual" cassettes.
Hallelujah bang my chains.
He'd correct me on how I pronounced my As, formed my oohs.
That ain't right. That ain't right.
I sucked at piano lessons.
Maybe that's harsh.
I just didn't like having to move my hands that fast.
One time I played Canon in D at a recital, really slow.
Just didn't feel like speeding up.
In seventh grade when I switched schools, I joined choir because there was a cute boy.
I sang every song to him.
He never noticed.
My choir teacher asked me to audition for the small group.
My father had perfect pitch.
I don't.
But I have had mean teachers who forced me to keep belting while I threw up into a bucket.
I could never look them in the eye.
I was afraid of all of them.
In my mind, they were all my mean Aunt who slapped me when nobody was looking.
Get me a lemonade.
Sweeter. Stronger.
You'll never get to heaven if you never reach a high C.
Thank you.
Everybody needs to fear somebody.
The most romantic song I ever wrote was composed the morning after I let a stranger choke me and screw me without a condom.
We never saw each other again.
I took a public bus from the East Village back to Brooklyn, stumbled into my bathroom with my keyboard and hand held audio recorder at 11 a.m., cracked open a Bud Light and wrote and recorded this in one take:
Prom Night on the Moon (take 2)
This is how I remember it anyway.
In my memory, I always sang along to Buddy Holly records on the living room turntable.
Chuck Berry.
Pete Seeger.
Leslie Gore.
My boyfriend's back and you're gonna be in trouble.
According to my mother, I never once sang in front of the family.
Ever.
You shy little thing.
I remember long truck drives with my father.
I would softly sing along to the radio country he always played, or "negro spiritual" cassettes.
Hallelujah bang my chains.
He'd correct me on how I pronounced my As, formed my oohs.
That ain't right. That ain't right.
I sucked at piano lessons.
Maybe that's harsh.
I just didn't like having to move my hands that fast.
One time I played Canon in D at a recital, really slow.
Just didn't feel like speeding up.
In seventh grade when I switched schools, I joined choir because there was a cute boy.
I sang every song to him.
He never noticed.
My choir teacher asked me to audition for the small group.
My father had perfect pitch.
I don't.
But I have had mean teachers who forced me to keep belting while I threw up into a bucket.
I could never look them in the eye.
I was afraid of all of them.
In my mind, they were all my mean Aunt who slapped me when nobody was looking.
Get me a lemonade.
Sweeter. Stronger.
You'll never get to heaven if you never reach a high C.
Thank you.
Everybody needs to fear somebody.
The most romantic song I ever wrote was composed the morning after I let a stranger choke me and screw me without a condom.
We never saw each other again.
I took a public bus from the East Village back to Brooklyn, stumbled into my bathroom with my keyboard and hand held audio recorder at 11 a.m., cracked open a Bud Light and wrote and recorded this in one take:
Prom Night on the Moon (take 2)
This is how I remember it anyway.
Monday, October 29, 2012
Friday, October 19, 2012
On illness...
"You know, being sick is pretty lame on the outside, but inside it's so metal. War is being raged in my veins." -X
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
On ironic locales...
"Yeah, you're almost there...we're across from God is Real for Those Who Believe In Him Laundromat....no that isn't a joke." - X gives directions to the coven
Thursday, October 11, 2012
On elections..
Forget Paul Ryan; X and I have come up with the most sexist thing you could ever say to a woman OR a man. It's degrading no matter who you are! Vote for us.
On unconditional love..
"Git over here Ash Toilet, lest I cut them off and beat you with your own polio legs!"
-How the Coven talks to menfolk
-How the Coven talks to menfolk
On strength..
"I know you want to build a small shelf, but is this board gonna be strong enough?"
"Well, it's not like I'm going to stack all my Bibles on it!"
"Well, it's not like I'm going to stack all my Bibles on it!"
FuckNugget
FuckNugget -NOUN-the most offensive thing to call a person, as it's simultaneously objectifying, and a diminutization. Saying this word into the aether constitutes sexual harassment
Wednesday, October 10, 2012
On Safety..
"I definitely carry pepper spray, but I'm kinda scared to actually use it."
"Yeah with the wind and all. You ever get attacked?"
"Yeah once. I kicked him in the balls."
"If I were a mugger I'd wear a cup."
"Yeah with the wind and all. You ever get attacked?"
"Yeah once. I kicked him in the balls."
"If I were a mugger I'd wear a cup."
Monday, October 8, 2012
On desire..
"I need Home Depot the way some people need civil rights. I need Home Depot the way some people need art." -Marissa Lee
"Surrender your heart to the cheese grits- they smell like America.
"Surrender your heart to the cheese grits- they smell like America.
Friday, October 5, 2012
On childbirth...
"If I ever give birth, I'm only going to give birth to a cheese platter... the only thing I could ever love unconditionally.." -X
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
Horses
"A horse is like...it's like a racist. No matter what anybody says I will never say it's ok."-C
On writing stories as a child
"I wrote stories about cholera, death, and marriage. The teacher called my parents. They just told her I was fine, but morbid."-M
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)