50: Your only options are to be a poet or a cowboy

I got up late Saturday because I knew that all I had to do, really, was go to work. Low on cash, I sold some CD’s at Reckless (they wouldn’t buy the first Ruff Ryders album, but they did take the Carpenters double-cd — interesting), ate some french fries, and took the Milwaukee bus downtown.

There is something really nice about working the occasional Saturday evening. I can play my music as loud as I want. There’s nobody to tell me I can’t burn my pathetic little makeout mixes on the company burner. If you look at the computer that houses the burner, half of it’s shared drives are music folders on other people’s computers. Including mine.Using Napster is really great if your employer has the second most amount of bandwidth in the city of Chicago.

By the time I got home Saturday night, there was nothing good on television, which was just as well. I needed to catch up on my sleep. I love sleeping. I didn’t used to love it — when I was little, I hated the idea that I could be missing good late night television. But there is nothing like clean sheets and fluffy pillows to get you in the proper spirit. Given that I’m probably going to start looking for a new job in a few months, I’ve decided to only look for jobs that would allow me to work from the comfort of my bed. It’s doable, I’m sure — telemarketer? Or I could stuff envelopes. Or, better yet, I could do phone sex or be a phone psychic. Meow!

Superbowl Sunday promised to be a busy day — I was helping Kevin make his famous spaghetti sauce, and I had a lot of chopping to do. (According to Kevin, the onions came out fantastic. I can’t take all the credit, though — I was using Kevin’s *gorgeous* Wusthof, and I think it’s virtually impossible to do a bad job with those.) Kevin picked me up, and we spent a pleasant hour at Dominick’s looking for paper bowls, buying produce, and raiding their supply of Schweppes seltzer with lime. This is delicious stuff, and I had to buy some of my own. K, my seltzer is still in your truck. Could you drop it off some time after work this week? Let me know.

The Superbowl started at approx. 5:30 pm CST with “America the Beautiful” sung by Ray Charles. He was followed by the Backstreet Boys singing the national anthem. I don’t think that I need to explain the injustice of Ray Charles opening for the Backstreet Boys. Why couldn’t Ray sing both? Or better yet, change

the national anthem to Ray Charles singing “America the Beautiful” and get ride of the BSB altogether. If Georgia can change it’s state song to Mr. Charles’ version of “Georgia on My Mind”, why not change the national anthem to something a lot more enjoyable than that “dawn’s early light” stuff. But enough of my yammering. Back to the game.

For those of you who could not join us at Kevin’s, imagine the scent of tomato sauce, Italian sausage, and hatred of the man that is Art Modell. Between plotting Art’s demise before touching the trophy should the Ravens win (which they did — nice defense!!) and ogling Jason Sehorn, I consumed some pork rinds, ate some truly delicious artichoke foccacia (ah, D’Amato’s bakery, how do I love thee? let me count the ways), and drank a butt-load of RC Cola. I felt just like Elvis, but without all the pills.

The half-time show was, frankly, a bit confusing. ‘N Sync and Aerosmith ran out onto the field and took the stage, which bore a striking resemblance to an asterisk, the logo of E-Trade (the half-time show’s official sponsor). I wonder if they registered that asterisk as their trademark. Can they even do that? Aerosmith, though they are twice (and in some cases, thrice) the age of the average member of ‘N Sync, arrived at

the stage first. ‘N Sync launched first into “It’s Gonna Be Me”, then “Bye Bye Bye” with Steven Tyler gumming the lyrics and shaking his money maker so fast that poor old 22-year old Justin Timberlake of ‘N Sync could not keep up.

Professional virgin Britney Spears, Nelly, and Mary J. Blige emerged in a puff of smoke and a cloud of embarrassment for an all-star, indecipherable rendition of “Walk This Way”. Mary looked hot, of course — the woman cannot go wrong. But poor Britney was reduced to a shiny bra and a tube sock on one arm. Do you suppose it was used? And if so, by whom?

At some point, Aerosmith played a few bars of “I Don’t Wanna Miss A Thing”, which was neither here nor there. The screaming girls who had been allowed on the field for the half-time show looked confused, though respectful — they wore the expression that I wear on the rare occasion that I attend church. They didn’t know when to sit, stand, or kneel, so they looked to Steven, screeching into a bandana-wrapped microphone, for guidance.

Why is it that when Aerosmith is trotted out for public occasions, they’re asked to play “Walk This Way”? Why not “Sweet Emotion”, or “Love in An Elevator”? “Living it up while I’m going down” is a lyric that all

Americans can and should be proud of, a reconfiguration of the American dream, a tad spicier than that house with a picket fence bullshit. And that is what the half-time show was — a lot of bullshit.

Except for Mary J., of course, she looked great. It would have been nice had she been permitted to solo on one of her more upbeat songs, like her cover of “Let No Man Put Asunder” or a medley of “Real Love”, “Happy”, and “More Than I Can Say”. But there’s no use in bemoaning the show that was — let’s look forward to the shows of the future, and hope the producers come to their senses. Which they probably never will.

You’ve no doubt noticed that this is nftff no. 50. Please feel free to observe this special day however you see fit. Myself, I’ll probably be adjoining to the Beachwood tonight to spend my last two dollars on a Point

beer. Please feel free to join me if you are in the area and, more importantly, if you are buying.

Weather is bad. It’s raining, sleeting, and snowing, and I have little hope that Punxsutawney Phil will give us a reprieve with an early spring. If one of you East Coasters want to check out the scene on Friday and send me a dispatch, I would be forever grateful and would compensate you with either a Last Supper floaty pen or the sexual favor of your choice! Actually, just the pen.



“The snowflakes are perfect. The stars are perfect. Not us. Not us! We are here to ruin ourselves and to break our hearts and love the wrong people and *die*. The storybooks are *bullshit*. Now I want you to come upstairs

with me and *get* in my bed!”


NPR. State of the State address is on at 12:00 pm CST! “Cinnamon Girl” by Neil Young because it is my song like “Brown Eyed Girl” was my song in high school. “Beautiful Stranger” by Madonna. And the soundtrack to “First Love, Last Rites”. I’ve never seen the movie, but if it’s anywhere near as good as this album, then I’m renting it this weekend. Oh, and “If I Were A Bell” sung by Blossom Dearie. This song drives me nuts, it’s so good. So go listen to it. Or, better yet, listen to her version of “Surrey with A Fringe on Top” or “Rhode Island is Famous for You”. Fabulous.





~ by Jasmine on January 30, 2001.

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