Monthly Archives: February 2014

They’ll Probably Kill Me (A Music Vlog Starring Moi)

Hey, friends and followers! Meet rock blog hottie and all around cool rocker chick/ hilarious mom, Marissa Bergen, from “Glorious Results of a Misspent Youth”. I could tell just from her blog title that she is my sister from another mister. Enjoy Marissa’s song, “They’ll Probably Kill Me”, and have fun reading her blog!  P.S. Click “View Original” at the bottom to see the video and visit her blog.  The YouTube link just takes you to the generic YouTube screen for some reason.
Marie

Glorious Results Of A Misspent Youth

A music vlog dedicated to all the women who feel like they have to be everything to everyone.

I ain’t gonna do the laundry so there
My husband will probably kill me
He won’t have no clean underwear
I know he’ll probably kill me

What do I care? Not a lot
I’ll just put on something hot
My husband will probably kill me today

I burnt the dinner again today
My kids will probably kill me
It was frozen pizza anyway
I know they’ll probably kill me

If they’re mad or if they’re hurt
I’ll just give them chocolate cake for dessert
I know they’ll probably kill me today

Wrote something dirty on Facebook today
My mom will probably kill me
I’m a big girl but anyway
I know she’ll probably kill me

I don’t know but I have a hunch
If I try to be nice and take her…

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Tell Me A Story: Western Themes

I was going to post a long, sad tale about how my first “real” job after college was a soul-crushing bore in which whey-faced office workers shuffled through the halls in orthopedic shoes, queuing up in front of the restroom sinks to brush and floss their teeth after lunch every day, and how it barely paid me enough to keep me from eating off my Texaco credit card.

And then I was going to tell you how while desperately looking for a new job in the classified ads, I found a little old lady who was giving away a houseful of paperback books, and how I got all excited, planning my escape from the Langolierseque office by means of opening a used book shop, and how I tediously carried all the books in the trunk of my car, all by myself, one load at a time, and stacked them in my parents’ garden shed, which subsequently developed a leak in the roof, thus ruining all the books, and smashing all my hopes and dreams of being freed from the Langoliers nightmare in which I spent my days.  At that point, I had no choice but to go on to doctoral school and give this whole professorin’ gig a shot in order to get myself free.  After all, you gotta have a back up plan when the garden shed leaks and destroys your future.

But enough about that.  Let’s get on to the good stories. I really love a song that tells a story, don’t you?  I’m going to do a little series on what I call “story songs”, with a different theme each week.  We’ll start with a few songs about one of my favorite periods of history…westward expansion and cowboys and the gold rush and such. The brilliant lyricist, Bernie Taupin, shares this fascination.  In fact, that’s why he’s been called “The Brown Dirt Cowboy”.  His love for the western U.S. and its history definitely influenced his writing, and this can be seen most clearly in one of my favorite albums, Tumbleweed Connection.  Here’s a fine example, “Burn Down the Mission”…

Here’s another Bernie classic, “Roy Rogers”, from another favorite album, Yellow Brick RoadAnd Roy Rogers is riding tonight…

I could talk about Bernie and Elton all day, but let’s move on to another one of my favorite songs, and what I consider the ultimate prospectin’ song,  “Fire on the Mountain” by The Marshall Tucker Band.  They say heaven’s at the end, but so far it’s been hell..

And now, in tribute to the used book store that never was, and the young, book-besotted girl that worked so hard and so futilely to make it happen, here’s a cool poem I found about girls who read.  And if you are one of my spinster cousins that claim to be reading my blog, please excuse the slightly coarse language.  It’s worth it. From Roundhouse London, by Mark Grist.

Questions? Comments? Please Share!

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Sting Showdown

In the early nineties, my friend Lisa and I hung out a lot together, walking at the track around the Hattiesburg Methodist Hospital after classes, eating frozen yogurt, and going down to New Orleans on the weekends.  It took me a good while of track walking and yogurt eating to agree to go to New Orleans with her because she kept saying that we could stay with her aunt and uncle for free, and naturally, I didn’t want to do that, because of the awkwardness of staying with strangers and having to smile and make small talk and all that.  But after a couple months I couldn’t think up any more excuses and off to the Big Easy we went.

She had told me that the aunt and uncle were wealthy and had plenty of room, but I was completely unprepared for the majesty and splendor that awaited me at their mansion in the Garden District.  I was stunned almost speechless as we walked through the house to our rooms. Apparently, her uncle was a big shot in the oil industry and had more money than God. Lisa and I had an entire floor to ourselves, each with our own gorgeous bedroom and bathroom, and a lounging/TV area in which a pot of coffee along with pastries and fruit mysteriously appeared every morning.

One of the added benefits of being the guests of rich uncle was that he was somehow connected to a fabulous hotel in the French Quarter, which shall remain unnamed, but it’s possibly the ritziest in the city.  It’s that type of hotel where regular people like me don’t even attempt to glance past the doorman in order to peek in through the beveled glass of the mahogany door.  We just stare straight ahead and keep on walking to the Hampton or the Holiday Inn.  But because of the connected uncle, we were allowed to have our car parked there and use the restroom facilities and so forth.  That came in handy, because it was right in the middle of the action and it was safe and clean.  So Lisa and I spent our days shopping and eating po-boys and our evenings either checking out the bands at Tipitina’s or The Maple Leaf Bar, or having a blast at a karaoke bar in the Quarter, and using the Garden District mansion and the fancy hotel as our headquarters. Pure heaven.

One day in spring, as we were making our way through the fancy hotel to the restroom that we liked to use, walking down a long, wide corridor that was well-lit by a wall of arched windows, I saw two strikingly handsome men approaching from the other direction, wearing sophisticated looking, European style suits. One of the men was of the beefy, bodybuilder variety, and the other one was slim with sandy hair. As we got a little closer and I could see their faces clearly, my brain accessed the massive, virtually useless database compiled through a gazillion hours of MTV watching in the eighties and told me immediately what I was seeing, which as you have already predicted from the title, was Sting and his bodyguard.

Though I’ve never been that much of a fan of Sting or The Police, I had watched that “Every Breath You Take” video ad nauseam and I knew, without any doubt at all in my mind, that I was looking Sting square in the face in this hoity-toity hotel. What’s more, a sustained Sting-Marie eye lock ensued as we walked toward each other.  As you know, I’ve had the eye lock with another major figure in rock before. But that eye lock was different than this one. The Allman-Marie eye lock was of the natural, male-female, tummy-flipping variety that makes life worth living.  This eye lock was a silent challenge – a showdown.  He knew that I had recognized him, and we were in this hotel where people don’t do crass things like approach celebs, but he was still wary, probably thinking something along the lines of “Oh, my God, I just know this little chickie is going to ask for my autograph”.

But he didn’t have to worry.  It would have to be a cold day in summertime New Orleans before I would have asked him for an autograph or in any way fed into the whole celebrity worship thing. And like I said, I wasn’t even all that big of a fan. My own thoughts were something like, “Oh, my God, that’s Sting! What the hell is he doing here? And why is he dressed like that? He looks like an arrogant snob”.  So the eye lock held, neither of us backing down, neither of us smiling, maintaining absolute poker faces, as we got closer and closer.  I think my goal was to let him know that I definitely knew who he was, but that it didn’t hold any water with me.  I guess I was trying to take him down a peg or two.  HA!  Like that could ever happen. Finally, when he got within a few feet of me and the weirdness and tension became unbearable, he broke the lock.  After he passed, I immediately turned to Lisa and whispered, “Do you know who that was?!”  She had been digging in her purse the whole time, had missed the whole thing, and didn’t believe me when I told her that we had just passed Sting. We argued about it in the restroom, but we checked with the concierge on the way out of the hotel, and he confirmed that Sting was in town for a concert at UNO that night.

Reflecting back on this brief, silent encounter, it’s really not surprising that the vibes I got weren’t all that great, because I never really liked his music all that much. Conversely, in the Allman encounter, the vibes were fun and positive, and his music is right up there among my very favorite and most loved.  Funny, huh?  Make of it what you will, but that’s how it was.  Not to get too metaphysical, and I’m sure I’ve alluded to this before, but there’s something very strange and wonderful about the power and meaning of music, and how we are drawn to (and sometimes repelled by) others through it, and how it can affect our perceptions and feelings and moods.

Of course, I don’t want to say that Sting isn’t a nice guy or anything like that, because I don’t know anything about his life or personality – he may be, and probably is, a perfectly decent human being.  But I’m still glad I won the showdown.

Now Jeff Lynne I can dig. She came to me like a friend, she blew in on a southern wind, now my heart is turned to stone again, there’s gonna be a showdown…heh heh heh…

Okay, I feel a little bad for kinda doggin’ Sting, so as a token of my (guarded) respect, here’s one I do like, from before his suit days.

Questions? Comments?  Please Share!

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The After VD (By Which I Mean Valentine’s Day) Party Party

Like I’m assuming the rest of you have been doing, I’ve been going through my shoe box of old photos, looking for pictures of flowers or teddy bears that somebody gave me or anything else Valentine-related in an attempt to prove my lovability. What’s that you say?  You haven’t been doing that?  Oh.  Well, moving right along, I didn’t find any teddy bears or flowers, natch, but I did come across this photo that has “After VD party. I love my friends!” scribbled on the back.  And no, I was not referring to any kind of venereal disease.  I was (am) one of those immature people that thinks it’s funny to call Valentine’s Day “VD”.  I remember the occasion well…

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It was in the loser dorm. Those of us that were dateless threw a little party in the common room with burnt cupcakes that we made in the dorm kitchen. I recall chain-smoking my dearly beloved and long departed Marlboro reds in order to avoid eating any of them, then going back down to my dorm room to cry in solitude over some cheesy dude that I’ve nearly forgotten now.  Lying there on my little bed, probably listening to Neil Young or maybe even something like Joni Mitchell, my dorm buddies burst into my room and took this picture.  That’s why I look like a surprised, possibly heroin-addicted raccoon, with my mascara smeared all under my eyes. We all took pictures of each other to document our solitary, unloved status on VD, which led to a lot of silliness and hilarity and fun.  By the way, that’s not my hair sticking way up like that; my hair ended with the weird blue knit hair band thing. The rest of that is either a shadow or the blackness of my soul seeping out and showing up eerily in the picture.  Anyway, if you are alone and sad on VD, I give you permission to stare at my hideous picture and know that you are not alone in your suffering.  Also, consider the sad tale of Walter Egan.

Like everyone else, Walter Egan was infatuated with Stevie Nicks, except that his love had some basis in reality since he actually knew her. In fact, you can hear her singing in the background on this song.  Of course, Walter being one of us – things didn’t work out. Just look at him, the poor lovesick sap, standing there so awkwardly between Stevie and Lindsey, trying to pretend like everything is fine.  And just look at Lindsey, standing there so confident and arrogant with his shirt unbuttoned way down low, trying to show off his chest hair.  Rips your heart out. Don’t worry, Walter, I pick you over Lindsey. Not that you care, especially if you’ve seen my after VD party picture.  But I feel your pain, Walter Egan, I really do.

I love this song and it’s my Valentine, in addition to the Thigh Master ad, to all of my readers and followers because…

With you I’m not shy to show the way I feel,
With you I might try my secrets to reveal,
For you are a magnet and I am steel.

Our friend Walter also wrote the beautiful “Hearts on Fire”, which was recorded by Gram Parsons and Emmylou Harris on one of my favorite albums, Grievous Angel.  Perfect.

Questions?  Comments?  Please share!

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No Neutral Ground: Victim of Love

So it’s time for the hearts and the cards and the flowers and so forth. It seems that the world is divided into two Valentine camps: the bitter, sardonic, “I hate love” camp, and the nauseatingly romantic, “I love love” camp.  I like to think that I am in neither of these camps, and that I fall coolly somewhere in between.  On love’s neutral ground, so to speak.  But actually, I suspect that love has no neutral ground.  Well, maybe it does, but I think it only exists for people that have become so numb that they aren’t even in the game anymore.  And what fun is that?  It’s none at all.  Trust me, I’ve tried it before.  It was back in the “Love Me Like a Man” days of my lonely early thirties.

But…why was I regularly using that Thigh Master thing unless I was secretly still in the game? Believe me, that Thigh Master was no fun, and I wouldn’t have been doing it just to try to impress my fellow singleton buddies with some killer glutes and thighs as we sat around watching “Friends” and “Seinfeld”, eating air-popped popcorn and pretending we were completely happy and satisfied with our solitary lot in life.  Speaking of which, air-popped popcorn sucks severely and is like eating Styrofoam, in case you don’t know. It was the dietary equivalent of the Thigh Master.  And then, there was that hunky guy that lived upstairs in my apartment complex that I tried to meet by timing my departures with his, in a reverse procedure to what I did with the elephant man from the SRV wars.  Naturally, I never met the guy, whereas the elephant man became my lifelong friend. Oh, the irony.  The absurd, pathetic irony of my life.  But it doesn’t sound like I was really all that numb, even when I thought for sure I was.

So the bottom line, I think, is that there really is no neutral ground, and that we only pretend to ourselves that we are numb.  The numbness is an illusion. We are all victims of love in some way.  I can feel some of you desperately arguing with me on this, so let’s look at a scenario.  Let’s say you are my spinster cousin and you say, “But Marie, I’ve been living alone happily with my cats since 1983.  I have my gardening and I sing in the church choir.  I’m perfectly fine!  You’re full of baloney, Marie.”

And I’m going to respond by saying, “I’m glad you’re happy, really I am, but you’re still a victim of love like the rest of us.  Don’t you remember that time your prom date spent the whole night dancing with that slutty girl and you called Uncle Herbert to come pick you up early?  I distinctly recall that you quit wearing your contacts after that, and I’m pretty sure you quit using your Thigh Master at that point too.  But I’ve seen all those muffins and cookies you bake for that weird choir director guy.  Yep.  You’re a victim of love too, spinster cousin, so don’t go thinking you’re better than the rest of us feeble clay-footed mortals.”  Of course, I wouldn’t really say any of this to a spinster cousin, because she would cry, and I’m a softie, but the truth is still the truth.

This is my favorite Eagles song, although some of the lyrics are slightly disturbing to me personally.  But maybe it’s my favorite Eagles song because of that.  I could be wrong…but I’m not.  Tell me your secrets; I’ll tell you mine.  This ain’t no time to be cool…

And now, a little Valentine’s present for you…enjoy.  And never quit fighting those flabby thighs.

Happy Valentine’s Day, fellow victims!

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Sex Ed. for the Seventies: Bad Company

No one ever told me the facts of life.  I know for sure that my mother didn’t, and my friends didn’t know any more than I did.  So I just pieced it all together (inaccurately) based on teen-party movies like Animal House and Porky’s and Bad Company songs.  Unfortunately, though I laughed along like everything was fine and hilarious at the stupid movies, they actually made me feel dehumanized and objectified, not that I knew about those concepts then.  All I took away from those movies was that the girls all looked stupid and the boys all looked like jerks and it was my mission to not be stupid or preyed upon by a jerk.

It was the Bad Company songs that made me suspect that the whole birds and bees thing might not be so horrific after all.  Of course, sex and love being the lyrical backbone of rock ‘n roll, Bad Company was not the only band to sing about eros, but they did so in a particularly enticing and convincing way – in such a way that even those of us traumatized by Porky’s and its ilk just might be open to re-considering the whole thing.

Which leads me, of course, to the church youth group I was in as a teenager.  In the years just before I was old enough to be a part of the group, there was a big brouhaha over how much freedom the kids should be granted.  There was espionage and intrigue, fighting and backbiting over issues such as the boys’ long hair and whether guitars should be permitted.  By the time I was in youth group, the more liberal-minded faction had won the battle and we were allowed not only to have guitars and hair, but we were permitted to play our own music at retreats, campouts, “fellowships”, and so forth.  It was a major victory for rock ‘n roll.  Trust me.

However, in retrospect, this may not have been the wisest decision.  You play “Feel Like Makin’ Love” around a campfire – you’re gonna create a completely different vibe than if you’re all singing along to “Kum Ba Yah”.  So you know what happened, right?  Every youth group social event turned into a make-out-fest.  The whole thing reached its crescendo on a youth group bus trip to Colorado, and then came crashing down around our hormonal feet when one of our members got busted in a very compromising situation in the stairwell of the retreat lodge. They flew her home and laid the smack down on the rest of us.  Boys on one side of the bus; girls on the other.  No more rock ‘n roll.  No more B.C., B.C.  No more Straight Shooter.  They played country music at us instead.  Really, though, looking back through the lens of adulthood, it was for the best.  Trust me.

Things got back to their normal level of teenage weirdness, rebellion, and angst after that.  But we did make up a song on the way home to the tune of the “Yellow Submarine” refrain about our experiences.  It was really long, but here’s a little that I remember.  It had to be relatively clean, because we all sang it together at the top of our lungs and the leader had now established some actual authority and we were afraid of getting flown home like our fallen comrade.  Names are changed, of course…

We all live in a Greyhound bus, a Greyhound bus, a Greyhound bus.

Mary Ashcraft sure disgraced us, sure disgraced us, sure disgraced us.

We got a leader that’s a big kill-joy, a big kill-joy, a big kill-joy.

Country music really just sucks, really just sucks, really just sucks.

And so on, ad infinitum.

But we’re adults now.  We don’t have to laugh uncomfortably at Porky’s, we don’t have to listen to country music if we don’t want to, and we can listen to Bad Company unhindered.  Now turn on your little light and prepare to rock steady.

Yeah, I know I linked this song in a previous post.  But this one’s different.  It’s got white jeans, smooth moves, and a hairy chest.  Besides, you know you feel like hearing it again.

I believe my soul is still on fire for this song.

Questions?  Comments?  You’re my spinster cousin and want to express your shock and dismay?  Please share!

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