A Girl...

I Love

We got out of the house at about four on Saturday, off to the city to meet Teddy and do who knows what. I tried to nail down plans with my Mighty Hammer of Uptightness, but the boys, they would not be pinned, and so I wore the skirt and shoes and hair and tiny tee of a girl who doesn't know she'll be exposed to the cold wind, walking around in dirt, given the opportunity to try on clothes, and shopping in the mecca of coolness: the Amoeba music store in the heart of Haight-Ashbury. They actually dragged me in there wearing the faux-vintage Beatles shirt I bought at Target two weeks ago. Even my faux-vintage David Bowie would have been better.

After acting like a petulant toddler because how dare they take me into clothing stores when my hair was in a ponytail and I wore shoes with laces and my lumpy bra, I whined my way back to Teddy's apartment, where we were only going to stay for twenty minutes before going out to some godawful bar for the evening. Simon wanted to go to Harvey's to kick off Gay Pride Week and Teddy wanted to go to Zeitgeist to celebrate the Neverending Year of the Ironic Hipster, but since nobody told me we'd being going "out," and I consequently didn't clad myself in "out" attire, I refused to leave the apartment unless it was to get chocolate donettes at the corner store, which we did.

Flash forward to 2 a.m., Simon is passed out on the futon and Teddy and I are burning CDs. We'd spent the entire evening huddled around the computer in black office chairs showing each other the latest and greatest crap on the internet (see: Jan Terri, Beat Kids, Li'l Brudder). Among my contributions was the musical stylings of one Mr. Tom Heinl, who I saw open for Eric Bachmann and Bobby Bare Jr. last September. His short set was overwhelmingly bizarre (he had the stage set up like a campground, complete with a well-made fire), and although Gayle and I were paying more attention to the headliners, who were hanging out at the merch table, I do remember one song Tom sang, and this is it (if you don't listen to it, the rest of this entry won't make sense, so just do it):

I Love

Sunday "morning" I woke up with my own "I loves" coursing through my mind faster than I could catch them, so I hauled out of bed and wrote down several versus before crawling back under the covers for another three hours. As the day wore on--between our pathetic attempt at jogging around the lake to our dinner of edamame and quesedillas--I added a few more versus, and now I have for you a song twice as long as the original and with even more self-importance. If you try to sing it out loud, make sure you start low or else you'll have key-changed yourself into the "rockets red glare" stratosphere by verse seven. When I get around to it, I'll replace my outdated "100 Things about Leah" with these lyrics, since they do a pretty good job describing me without screaming sooooo 2003.

Please, feel free to write a verse or two about yourself in the comments. You'll be surprised how many things you adore fit neatly into rhyming couplets.

(Oh. Yes. There are footnotes if you mouseover some of the phrases. Overexplaining myself is not just a habit, it's a way of life. See also: blog.)

I love waking up at noon,
tiny silver spoons,
cheap plastic toys,
and boys.
And I love you too.

I love microwave meals,
bikes with three wheels,
Simpsons quotes,
and footnotes.
And I love you too.

I love shaving my knees,
doing what I please,
disco showers,
and whiskey sours.
And I love you too.

Now, what do you love?