Notes From A Walkman Junkie: I Say Tomato; You Say, No Thanks, I Don’t Particularly Care For Tomatoes.
I am in no way a fan of things being imposed upon me — quite frankly, I’m still a little miffed about the whole “being born” thing, as I had no choice in the matter. Recently, at work, I found myself dragged into a conversation that I did not want to have with a (slimy tooth-lacking) person that I had zero inclination to have it with. A couple walked into the gallery and the woman began to browse around. The man, however, planted himself uncomfortably (ideally, I like a good ten feet) close to my desk and — despite my efforts to look busy with paperwork — began to chat me up. This discourse was off to an unpleasant commencement straight off as he opened with, “Nice stockings. I like oddly dressed things.” In the hopes of ending this exchange quickly, I thought it best to ignore his skeezy statement and blatant implication that I was an unspecified object –I gave him a quick nod and buried my head back in my papers. Well, this guy was not going anywhere and continued to loom over me; yammering on and on about his clothes, his cows, his hobbies, and various other aspects (that have apparently not allotted him any time to seek out proper dental care) of his life.
His attentions — perhaps after noting my glazed-over look and near complete departure from our exchange — then focused on the splattering of novelty items surrounding the desk. He picked up a plastic pickle and asked, “What does this do?” I said, “It yodels if you press the button on it.” The man then pressed the button and listened to the singing pickle in marked earnest, after which the following dialogue occurred: Man: “I am trying to learn to yodel. Not very many people can yodel. The Amish can, but they won’t teach me. “Me:”………..” Man: “Is this the only tune that the pickle can yodel?” Me: “Yes it is, but you know, most pickles can’t yodel anything at all so…” In the end, my hard sell of the pickle did not work and the man left empty-handed, but at least he left.
Much like unwanted or unprovoked conversations, there is a hefty list of other entities that should really never be forced upon people, for example — religion, breakfast ,children, politics, pets, cookies, and music. Sadly, I am at times guilty of the last on that list and can be slightly too passionate (pushy) about sharing (heaving) the music that I love with (on) others. When my music passion and need to share said passion is drizzled in booze… well, buckle up kids (and I am sorry.) I give you my latest cautionary tale of music-induced tyranny.
My companion and I met some friends out for sushi and a movie during which a touch of alcohol (sake, more sake, wine, two tiny cans of “something”) was consumed by me. A good time was had and I returned with my companion to his apartment. Things started off with good intentions — I merely wanted him to listen to some music that I had recently been introduced to and was enjoying immensely.
I played a song for him and received a very minimal reaction. That really should have been the conclusion of the music sharing/discussion portion of the evening but instead, this unnecessary unpleasantness happened: Me: “Didn’t you like it?” Companion: “Oh, it was OK.” Me: “What? I love it, it is goddamn beautiful.” Companion: “Well, I am just not into the sad crooning dudes.” This statement, for some reason (possibly the many tiny boozes), set me off into a downward (shame) spiral, causing me to throw out ridiculous defensive arguments like, “how can you not like this? It is raw… like balls.” Anyway, that type of buffoonery (on my part) went on entirely too long and tainted what would have otherwise been a splendid evening.
I shall take away from this the valuable lesson that a subtle and gentle recommendation of music will always suffice. I am attaching the song “A Picture Of Our Torn Up Praise” by Phosphorescent — one of my new favorite sad crooning dudes. Like it or don’t — I’m breezy, just putting it out there.