I enjoyed your column on the woes of post-break-up music
(“Plucking the Heartstrings”). I had the same experience this year. I ended up
taking “our albums” out of my iTunes for the time being and returned to the
music of simpler times in my life (e.g., The White Stripes and Sublime). I also
found solace in two somewhat esoteric Dylan tunes: “Honey, Just Allow Me One
More Chance” and “When the Ship Comes In.” Hope you like them.
Mr.
Dee-Jay
Hey Mr. Dee-Jay,
Dylan makes me want to kill myself on a good day. I can’t
imagine having to suffer through him while in a melancholic state. But thank
you all for your suggestions at harmonic healing, which included everything
from Godsmack’s “Whatever” to Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive” to Ani
DiFranco’s “Untouchable Face.” However, the standout suggestions had to be from
a blog post called “I lost you but I found rap music,” which lists tunes like
Jay-Z’s “Dirt Off Your Shoulder” and The Panty Droppers’ “She Got Her Own.” If
a girl can’t find promise in The Panty Droppers, there’s no hope.
Just joined the wonderful world of Facebook a few months
ago, and I will probably soon need to go to Facebook Anonymous for this. Our
communication is breaking down so much. I never thought I would get into
texting, but now I am, along with swarms of other Americans. Pretty soon I
swear they are going to come up with some type of technology in which your phone
blinks colors that symbolize a feeling: green flash … someone
is jealous. But oh wait! They won’t communicate why they are feeling this way.
It will just be a guessing game of the new age. It is way too much effort.
Especially when it is a booty-call text or something.
Facebook-phobe
Dear Facebook-phobe,
I, too, agree with you on many of these points about the
plight of our communication. But what I’ve realized is that the digital wave is
one you’ve got to get on in order to get off.
If I were you, I’d be less concerned about the annoyance of returning a
booty-call text and the looming prospect of these digital “flashes” of emotion —
because one day soon, this digital age will have passed you by. And the only
“flash” you’ll have to worry about is the hot one accompanying menopause. Enjoy
this digital delirium while you can.
I first lived with my wife in St. Louis in the early ’70s.
She loved sex and taught me a lot too (an anal maven!). But she kept another
part of her sexuality from me: she liked girls. One night after drinking with
friends, I came home and heard sex sounds coming from the bedroom. Macho me was
ready to kick ass! But what did I see? Her doing the “69” with one “Sherry” — a
blonde, 38DD babe friend of hers. They both saw me but kept on at it. No
invite, so I passed out on the sofa. Some six months later, we broke up. Ten
years went by and she found me. She claimed her bi days were over and proposed
marriage. I accepted. Huge mistake. She kept coming home late and would not
tell me where she had been … licking pussy no
doubt. Netdetective.com tells me that she has divorced three times. Gee! Wonder
why?
Limp
in St. Louis
No, dear readers, I do not make this stuff up. Had you read
the original two-page diatribe, written entirely in caps, you too would likely
have thought it the lost pages of a tragically trite ’70s porn script. But one
more lost soul found it necessary to make me the receptacle for his lunatic
ravings. On a positive note, if the “anal maven” mentioned in this letter did
turn out to be gay, she has this freak as a reference point, which might make
lesbians seem normal in comparison.
Jeannie Greeley is a freelance writer
who checks her mail at jeannieg@comcast.net. Letters are subject to editing for
considerations of space and clarity.
