one of the things that characterizes the trajectory of my relationship with the roomie are our fundamental, intrinsic, core differences. we have very different ways of viewing and interacting with the world, and i love her dearly and accept this. however! one of the things that constantly arises is the roomie's incapacity to correctly read me. i am constantly being mis-interpreted and mis-read.
the roomie has an unstoppable, old-faithful-type geyser for a bleeding heart, and has difficultly sifting through my endless barrage of flippant glibness in order to tease out the kernals of humanity therein. generally, she takes me at face value, which means that no matter what i'm saying, if it carries the slightest hint of negativity, she feels that it's her solemn duty to defend to the TEETH whatever it is that i'm using as fodder for my pop culture witticisms. this has resulted in the past with her defending say, jared leto and his stupid band, 30 seconds to mars. or defending emo kids from my observational humour. EMO KIDS. and their purposefully lank and limp hair! keep this in mind: the roomie has the faintest of grasps on what an emo kid even is. it's so faint, it can't rightfully be called a grasp. it's more like her hand is gently resting open-palmed-up somewhere near the general vicinity (say, the same township) as a learned and knowledgeable comprehension of what emo is. yet, any negative opinion is automatically construed as being judgemental (to the spelling gods: i really fail to see how that "e" after the "g" in "judgement" can be considered unnecessary).
so, the dotytron got this hilarious (but well-paying) gig in this top 40 band for nye's at some jack astor's. that's right. jack astor's. as in the drinking and eating establishment (presumably) owned and operated by one jack astor. definitely number 1 with a bullet on my list of places to go on new year's eve, ESPECIALLY when i'm looking for a place with peanut shells on the floor and crayons on the table, the better to allow a person the unique pleasure of decorating one's own table setting. at any rate, the dotytron has managed to get himself dragged into some motley crew, rag-tag, boomtown gang of a band, that's going to have all of two rehearsals before playing down about 50 songs.
he showed us the list last night, and he's allowed to veto 10. the list (compiled by the vocalist) is remarkable for its stunning audacity on two fronts. a) in the utter inability for any person with a lick of sense to program a set so disjointed and strange and b) for the sheer hubris on the part of the vocalist. blondie (TWO blondie songs? in one night? is that really called for?) sits cheek-by-jowl alongside such canadian university standards as james "laid" or violent femmes "blister in the sun". being a vocalist of no small ambition, of course she feels like she can adequately tackle "respect" AND "billie jean" in the same set and do justice to both. and again, no top 40 bar night would be complete without my personal cryptonite, spirit of the west's "home for a rest"
as usual, when it comes time to whittle things down, i'm piping in with all my opinions (which mostly come down to making sure all the tragically hip is excised from the list) and making quips about can-con, rufus wainwright...how much i loathe stupid cliched university girl anthems like "brown eyed girl". i'm there going, "wow. remeber gnarls barkley? I DON'T" and the roomie, fulfilling her obligation to the eternal dichotomy between us is all like, "they had a whole album" and i'm going, "no they didn't. they're dead to me" and she's going on and on about how they *could* come back and how bedouin soundclash has another album out and blah blah blah. and it's like, you know what sister? CEE-LO IS GOING TO BE OKAY. like, you're honestly going to make a point of coming to cee-lo's defense because you're worried that somehow, somewhere, poor cee-lo is aware that i've relegated him to the one-hit wonder category? i repeat: cee-lo is going to be okay.
i'm sure when it's time for me to take my rightful place in hell, the devil will have designed a special purgatory just for me: a late 90s small-town university bar, where i'm forced to fend off the advances of thick-necked, pucca-shell bedecked neanderthals while listening to an endless two-song rotation of "cotton-eyed joe" and "home for a rest".
today my supervisor is taking me out for indian buffet and then i'm coming home early to work on my paper all day and all night. for dinnie we're having a pork and kidney bean chili with corn bread and guac and sour cream.