Enough Is Too Much

Don’t Forget the Songs That Made You Cry and the Songs That Saved Your Life

I am not what you would call an intellectual, especially on paper; I’m sorely lacking in traditional academic achievements. I am technically not very well-read. I mean, I’m certainly not dumb, but a lot of what I do know didn’t come from an Ivy League classroom or a classic novel; a lot of what I know came from songwriters. I heard things in songs, wondered what they were/meant, and looked them up/sought out books and read them — that’s been the pattern. So I’ve always been kind of weirdly ashamed that when a heady subject came up, my first thought was often, “I heard about that in a song!” This has also made it a little difficult for me to explain to people why music means what it means to me, to impart its importance, to convey why I hold certain records so dear — that it’s so much more than just, “I like the tune.”

I watched a documentary on Howard Zinn recently, and he talked about first finding out about an important historical event from a Woody Guthrie song; my face lit up with delight. This respected historian and I have something (however small) in common! If it happened to HOWARD M.F. ZINN, then I should no longer be embarrassed to say, “Oh yeah, I heard about (insert important thing here) from a Billy Bragg/Clash/Public Enemy/etc song!” I mean, as long as I made the effort to learn more about the miners’ strike/Spanish Civil War/institutional racism/etc, who cares if a song got me there? Right?



“One day, I heard a song by Woody Guthrie called the Ludlow Massacre, a dark, haunting, powerful song, and that lead me to look in the library about this event which nobody had ever mentioned in any of my history courses, which no textbook of mine had ever mentioned.” — Howard Zinn

It’s a Dirty World

I just watched this documentary on “Deep Throat” (the porn, not the Watergate guy), and was introduced to this lady, my new favorite person in the world.

This Is Why I Like You

What I’m Into: overachieving Ivy Leaguers who wear button-downs with the sleeves rolled up (maybe even khakis, too), have regular-dude haircuts, work regular-dude jobs, and outwardly look like your average accountant or something, but secretly listen to, like, Dead Kennedys, and come home and want to watch weird-ass movies. If you look like Jason Bateman/a hot dad, but you’ve traveled a lot and read a lot of books and know the words to some Wu-Tang Clan jams, you’re on the right track.

To Me You Are a Work of Art

From an interview with Morrissey:

On a similar note, you’ve met a few of your own personal heroes over the years. Do you think it’s a good idea to do that, or to want to do that, or does it take something away from the mythological image you’ve built in your mind from afar by recognizing that they’re just another human being after all? Maybe that’s a good thing, unless it turns out they’re a shit?

But they’re not “just another human being” …however much you try to wish that they are. Do you think Patti Smith recorded Horses whilst also working the cash register at Macy’s? Do you think the New York Dolls were otherwise destined to clean windows for a living? Do you think David Bowie yearned to sell vacuum cleaners, yet filled in the wrong job application by mistake? No. All of these people are very special, and it’s only a weightless sense of jealousy that makes you want to believe that they’re frauds.

Our Frank and Open Deep Conversations

A small sampling of topics I will never tire of discussing:

• Scientology
• How Liberace made his super young boyfriend get plastic surgery to look like a younger version of himself
• “Saved by the Bell” and critical analysis thereof
• Gender as a social construct
• How often anvils appeared in cartoons because seriously what is that about?
• Batman
• Unfrozen Caveman Lawyer
• The scene in movies/cartoons where someone is electrocuted and you can see their skeleton for brief flashes — where did that even originate, because that never once happened in real life, so who even got that idea in the first place?
• The origins of moustache rides being five cents and how they have remained that way for decades (centuries?)
• How everyone these days is so terrified of the word “socialism” but FDR is widely considered to be one of the best presidents ever and that dude, especially by today’s standards, was kind of socialist as hell
• Tom Hanks and how nice he is and how all super famous people should ask themselves “WWTHD?”
• Zines/DIY/punk rock, but in an inclusive and not an elitist way
• Just trying to be a better person but also retaining some edge, you know?

Virtue Never Tested Is No Virtue At All

I was married for five years, from the ages of 23 to 28. Looking back, it’s easy to say that we were too young and it was a rash decision, but at the time, we were very much in love and thought the best way to show it was to commit ourselves to each other, legally and presumably forever. And I can honestly say that I do not regret it at all and would probably do it over again.

Being with David, from friendship to dating to marriage to separation to divorce, has taught me so much about myself and people and the nature of love, and the fact that it doesn’t necessarily disappear; it can morph and grow in different directions, and fill other parts of your heart that you previously didn’t know existed.

The realization that our marriage was actually over was a grueling one, a process that was gradual and painful and filled with apologies and tears and attempts at trying to figure out what went wrong and if it could be fixed and if we were forcing something that was meant to end and did we fail ourselves and our families? It was agony, an agony that seemed to stretch out for a hundred years before a decision was made — a decision we knew we had to make. Yet, through it all, not once did my love for David waver; I knew (and still know) what kind of person he is — honest, true, loyal, caring — and, more than anything, I felt guilty because he deserved to be happy, and I was clearly not the one who could make that happen. We also had pettier problems, sure, but I had never before experienced the emotions I did during our breakup — I never felt anger or bitterness, just sadness and an overwhelming hope that we would stay in each other’s lives in some capacity.

We went to the courthouse together to initiate our separation (quicker and cheaper than a divorce, California residents), and then I think afterward we went to In-N-Out for lunch. When we finally moved out of our shared apartment, we split up our wedding gifts easily and evenly, although I did fight him a bit on the giant 85 South Interstate sign we had hanging in our kitchen (to be fair, he did most of the work prying it off of the fallen street sign outside of our first apartment in Atlanta). And once we had our own places, we’d still hang out regularly — there was never any of that post-breakup bullshit “but if I call they’ll think I’m desperate” game-playing, because we both knew we loved each other in a new way, an honest way that recognized that the old way just didn’t work.

I was single for two years after we split up. My heart needed that time to heal, and not because I pined for David in a romantic way, but because I wanted to be extra careful, to really make sure I learned from what happened — and also because I knew I had gotten very lucky, even with my breakup; breaking up with a wonderful, well-meaning guy is much different than breaking up with a scummy dude, and I didn’t think I’d be prepared to deal with the latter if it were to happen.

When David started dating his now-girlfriend, I literally cheered — I called him and we talked for a while, and I told him how truly, genuinely happy I was that he’d found someone so much better suited for him than I was; and I meant it. He’s a good dude — a good dude who showed me a that real love — real, true, pure (even if unromantic) love — is something that compels you to want to make sure the people in your life are happy. Not to sound like some Bible verse, but it really doesn’t have room for ulterior motives; it says, “You know this person is kind and lovely, so you should help them be happy in any way you can, even if it’s not with you.” (But hey, I’m no saint — I’ve definitely felt some “Yo, fuck that guy!” stuff after other breakups.)

So, to future suitors, I say: You’ve got to be cool with me still being friends with my ex-husband. Period. Non-negotiable. And you should be anyway, because our breakup helped me become a better person with a stronger heart who will be able love you better.


Two people (finally!) finalizing their divorce online last week.

I Want McNormal and Chips Or I’ll Blow You to Bits — Give Us It!

One of my best friends from high school, Sarah, used to own her own pizza delivery franchise for a few years after college. She would call me almost daily to tell me the greatest stories – my favorites of those being tales of desperate souls on a quest for the holiest of grails: free pizza. I transcribed and printed a few of these in a couple of issues of my zine about seven or eight years ago, and was reminded of them during a recent dinner party (read: I’m a fancy adult now) conversation about grifters and scammers, so I typed ‘em up here for the whole Internet to share.

Sarah: Hello, how can I help you?
Dude: Yeah, I got the wrong pizza.
Sarah: The wrong pizza?
Dude: Yeah, my pizza had the wrong toppings on it. I want a new one, and I don’t think I should have to pay for it. You guys put the wrong stuff on it.
Sarah: Okay sir, I’m sorry about that. We can send a new pizza, but when the driver comes, he will have to pick up the old pizza.
Dude: What?
Sarah: He will need to take back the pizza you got with the wrong toppings.
Dude: … Um… I threw it in the woods.
Sarah: What?
Dude: It had the wrong toppings on it, so I, uh, threw it in the woods.
Sarah: Well, sir, we can’t bring you a new pizza unless the driver can pick up the old one.
Dude: Um, okay. (click)


Sarah (To a customer who had walked into the store): Hi, how can I help you?
Guy: Yeah, I ordered a pizza from you guys and it had a hair in it. I think I should get my money back or get a free one.
Sarah: I’m very sorry about that, sir; when did you place your order?
Guy: About 10 minutes ago.
Sarah (Trying to look up the order in the computer): Ten minutes ago? I’m not showing any orders here… we haven’t had any orders placed in the last 10 minutes.
Guy: … Uh… maybe about four hours ago.
Sarah: Four hours ago?! Do you still have the pizza?
Guy: Uh, no.
Sarah: I’m sorry sir, we can’t give you a free pizza if you don’t have the old one – we’d need to see that there was a hair in it.
(Guy exits.)


Sarah: Hello, what can I do for you?
Woman (Walking into the store carrying a box with a few pieces of cheesy bread): I want a refund for this cheesy bread. They don’t look the same as they did in the commercial; they look gross.
Sarah: I’m sorry. But most things don’t look exactly the same as they do in commercials. When did you order them?
Woman: Three days ago.
Sarah: Three days ago?! Of course they look gross! I’m sorry, but I’m not going to be able to refund you for three-day-old cheesy bread.
Woman: I think that is bad customer service! I’m never ordering from you again!
(Woman storms out.)


Sarah: Thank you for calling Pizzatown, how may I help you?
Lady (A notorious scammer who calls in with a new story once a week): Yeah, I have a pizza here I ordered from you, and it has a hair on it. I want a new pizza.
Sarah: Um, okay. Well, we will send you a new pizza, but we will need to get the old one from you.
Lady: What?
Sarah: The driver will come get the pizza with the hair on it when he brings you the new pizza.
Lady: Oh. Umm… … (a few seconds pass) Well, we looked at the hair closely and it’s not actually a hair, but a piece of stringy cheese. So never mind. (click)


Sarah: Hello, can I take your order?
Gent (really aggressively): Yeah, I ordered a pizza and I want my money back.
Sarah: I’m sorry, sir. When did you place the order?
Gent: Last night.
Sarah: What was the problem with the order?
Gent: You guys took too long getting it out here. My kids waited up for the pizza to be delivered, and as a result they didn’t get enough sleep and they had to miss school today. I want a refund.
Sarah: Sir, you should have called us last night when you were waiting on the order.
Gent (yelling): MY KIDS MISSED SCHOOL!!!
Sarah: I’m sorry sir, but we don’t guarantee a delivery time. We give you an approximate time when you call, but last night it was raining, so we were letting people know it would be longer than usual.
Gent (still yelling): I WANT A REFUND!!!
Sarah (looking up this gent’s order history in their system): Well, sir, I’m showing that you bounced a check to us last week… how about I forget about the bounced check and we just call it even?
Gent: Uh… okay. Fine. (click)


Sarah: Hi, can I help you?
Female: Yeah, I ordered some chicken wings from you, and they made my family sick!
Sarah: I’m so sorry, ma’am; I’ll be happy to give you your money back. Can I get your name?
Female: I don’t want my money back; I want another order of wings.
Sarah: Huh?
Female: I think I should get another order of wings for free!
Sarah: Well, ma’am, you just said the wings made you sick. If I send you another order, they will come from the same batch.
Female: It’s okay, I’m sure the new ones won’t make us sick.
Sarah: I’m sorry, but I can’t give you more wings. You said they made you sick, and any order I’d send you tonight would come from the same batch. We won’t risk making you sick again.
Female: Fine. Whatever. (click)


Sarah: Hello, how can I help you?
Femme: You guys put sausage on our pizza and it shouldn’t have been on there. My kid is allergic and he ate it and had to go to the emergency room.
Sarah: I’m very sorry, ma’am; when was the order placed?
Femme: Yesterday between 7 and 10, I think. I can’t remember.
Sarah: What was the phone number the order was placed from?
Femme: Um, (gives phone number).
Sarah: We don’t have any orders from that number in our system…
Femme: Uh, well, we called from a payphone.
Sarah: Well, the number would still be in our computer… I’m sorry, I can’t find an order under the number you gave me.
Femme: Oh, I mean… I came into the store and ordered it.
Sarah: … Okay… when did you come in?
Femme: Sometime before dark.
Sarah: Do you have a more specific time before dark?
Femme: Just anytime before dark.
Sarah: Well, I don’t see any record here of a take-out order yesterday before dark. I’m sorry.
Femme: Yeah, well, we got one and it wasn’t supposed to have sausage on it, so can we get one without sausage? Also, we were supposed to get chicken wings with the order and we didn’t, so can we have those tonight, too?
Sarah: Excuse me? I’m sorry, I thought this was about your sick child.
Femme: Yeah, my son got sick because of the sausage you put on the pizza.
Sarah: I’m sorry, but I’m not finding any record of this order… maybe you accidentally called the wrong pizza place?
Femme: No, we ordered from you.
(Woman’s husband abruptly grabs the phone away from her)
Man (super aggressively): Our kid got sick off your pizza, and I have the hospital bill to prove it!
Sarah: Yes sir, I’m sorry if that is the case, and I want to help you, but I need to find a record of the order to be able to do so.
Man: Are you saying I’m lying?!
Sarah: No sir, but in order to help, I have to find the order to find out what toppings were on the pizza in order to be able to help your son. If you can give me information about the order time or cost, I can find it in the computer.
Man: My wife already gave you that information!
Sarah: Yes, but using the information she gave me, I can’t find a record of it. Do you have the box the pizza came in? It has all of the order information on it.
Man: … No, I burned it.
Sarah: You burned it?!
Man: Yep, I burned it.
Sarah: Okay sir, I’m sorry, but I have no record of the order. Perhaps you called the wrong pizza place.
Man: NO, I HAVE THE RIGHT PLACE!
Sarah: I’m sorry sir, but I can’t help you.
Man: So you’re not going to replace our pizza?!
Sarah: I’m sorry sir, I can’t do that.
Man: I think you need to put your supervisor on the phone.
Sarah: Sir, I own the store.
Man: You own the store?!
Sarah: Yes, sir.
Man: YOU own the store?!
Sarah: Yes. If anyone can help you, it’s going to be me.
Man: Do you have kids?
Sarah: No, but if I did and they got sick eating somewhere, the last thing I’d want to do is eat at that place again.
Man: Are you getting smart with me?!
Sarah: No, sir.
Man: Do you know (drops name of local lawyer)?
Sarah: No sir, I’m not from this area.
Man: I do, and he’s a big-time lawyer and he will sue you for hospital bills!!
Sarah: Well, sir, considering you said that you burned the pizza box, which was the only evidence you had of ordering from us, I’m not sure how he’s going to be able to make a case against us.
Man: ARE YOU GETTING SMART WITH ME?
Sarah: No sir, I’m just pointing out what you already told me.
Man: Do you know (name of guy) down at the DMV? Do you know (name of guy), the commissioner?
Sarah: No, I don’t.
Man: Well, I do, and they’re big people here in (name of county), and they can cause you some big problems.
Sarah: Sir, are you threatening me?
Man: I’m not threatening you, but you need to help us.
Sarah: I’m trying, sir, but without any order information, there’s nothing more I can do.
Man: What if I told you that I’m recording this conversation?
Sarah: I would say that is illegal, unless you’re a policeman, because it’s illegal to record someone without their permission.
(pause)
Man: What if I told you I was in a club… well, not really a club… but what if I was in a club and we were going to come protest your business?
Sarah: I’d say that you have every right to do that, as it’s a free country.
Man: Well, maybe I’m going to do that.
Sarah: Well, you do what you have to do, and I’ll do what I have to do, which is to ask you to never call this business again.
Man: You can’t stop me! You don’t even have my phone number!
Sarah: Your wife gave it to me earlier. Please never call here again, sir.
Man: But it’s a free country!
Sarah: You’re right, however, this is a private business and we can refuse service to anyone we wish, and I can tell you that you will never get pizza from this establishment.
Man: So you’re not going to do anything for us?!
Sarah: Sir, there’s nothing I can do for you. I’m going to end this conversation now; I’m going to hang up the phone.
Man: WELL YOU’LL BE HEARING FROM MY LAWYER, YOU BITCH!
(click)

She Took a Personality Overdose and Sniffed the World Right Up Her Nose

“Staying true” to myself (or, more representative of my parlance, “KEEPING IT 
REAL”) is a concept I have struggled with for all of my life in a way that — and I’m only guessing based on the reactions of the small amount of people (including therapists) that I’ve talked about this with — few have. I am hard to be around most of the time. I have a type of enthusiasm that, while coming from a place in my heart that is honestly, truly well-meaning, wears on people and exhausts them, until they feel bad that they can’t match it. There is a trail of people in my past who found that hanging out with me was better in theory than in practice; they either quickly got burnt out on me pumping my fists with delight every time we did something as simple as get milkshakes or get good seats at show, or they got weirded out at the first sign of me getting slightly serious for a second, thinking I would permanently stop being fun and start getting real. I have a hard time with balance, and not being able to find more of a balance has contributed to the demise of a marriage and other relationships and friendships, much to my dismay and sadness and nights sitting up late wondering, “How the fuck hard can it be to just calm the hell down sometimes?”

I think this is the topic most discussed with my therapist, because while I’m certainly not worried about being a “normal” 33-year-old in that I want to start, I don’t know, carrying a briefcase and talking about the stock market or whatever, I also realize it’s probably a good time to dial it back on yelling in people’s faces about how cool the full moon looks or how many great Morrissey records I got on eBay. Not only do I want to be the kind of person people want to be around — pleasant, patient, attentive, a good listener, but still standing up and disagreeing when necessary; qualities I value in others — but I also betray myself in a way, as I’m interested in conversation topics that go deeper than Batman or Yo! MTV Raps or my favorite candy bars, but who’s going to stick around after 15 high-fives over how tasty I find this gum I’m chewing to find out?

I never want to be someone who is ashamed to find joy in the simple things, because it needs to be pointed out sometimes that some things are just awesome — they just are, and in the middle of life, with all its hardships and heartache and tragedies in this world filled with violence and grief and disease and catastrophes, sometimes you just have to recognize, “I am sitting here with my friends eating a FUCKING DELICIOUS pizza and we are all laughing and enjoying each other’s company and this is great and we are lucky to be doing this right now.” 

But maybe if you’re yelling that all the time, in everyone’s faces, the joy becomes tedium? I’ve been working for years to figure out the answer to that question, and I feel like I still have a ways to go.