Sometimes I write my blog post titles before I write the actual blog post and sometimes I pick a title afterward. Today, I have written the blog post title first. As if in picking the title first, it will somehow magically set the stage for all that follows.
"The Lengths One Will Go" - reminds me of a Dr. Seuss title ... but trust me readers, this is not a G-rated blog post. Consider yourself warned.
A million years ago, I lived in Buffalo, New York. Despite the fact that there were crack houses in any direction within a 6 block radius of me; I enjoyed my time in Buffalo in the summer and tolerated it in the winter. I still remember one insane blizzard when a charming wine buyer with a baritone voice walked six blocks in waist-deep snow just to bring me a bottle of wine to start our first date. Buffalo men are definitely made of hearty stock and it made an amazing first impression. I felt like a Princess in a fairy tale where the valiant Prince overcomes all obstacles just to be in the Princess' presence. And feminism be damned, I like feeling like a fairy tale princess every now and again.
Plus in addition to being a romantic story of a valiant first date, I can add to my "six degrees of star f*ckerness" that the afore-mentioned baritone was a former roommate of the guitar player for The Goo Goo Dolls. If you live in Buffalo, you need a Goo Goo Dolls connection or an Ani DiFranco connection.
(For those that do not know, both recording artists are originally from Buffalo, New York. LilyOnTheLam.com bringing you music and geography trivia. You're welcome!)
This blog post is about my Ani DiFranco connection. It's a connection I don't think Ani herself would appreciate. But until she invites me for tea at her home in New Orleans, this is the best I have got. (Seriously Ani, I'll bring this awesome ginger turmeric tea from TeBella - all you need to do is email me! Fine fine, I'll bring scones too - damn, you drive a hard bargain!)
I was dirt poor in Buffalo. I lived in this run down building that I think was once a grand stately mansion. It had been carved up into tiny apartments. The windows were so flimsy that I would have to cover them up with layers of plastic and comforters just to avoid icicles from forming on my nose. Winters were spent wrapped in so many pieces of clothing, I looked like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man. A look I am well-acquainted with sporting. My mother moved from a tropical island to southern Minnesota and when I was born, she was quite concerned that I would freeze to death. She would put so many layers of clothing on me, that I couldn't bend my arms. All of the pictures of me from the first three years of my life, portray me in a" Jesus on the cross" type pose outdoors. Hardly "Baby of the Year" photo material!
The very cold, very drafty apartment had a fake fireplace. That perhaps was the cruelest joke of all. As I sat on my futon (yes, a futon!), wearing every piece of clothing I owned, swathed in blankets; I would stare at the fake fireplace and try to will it to become real. I was "The Little Matchstick Girl" come to life. That was one fairy tale where I did not envy the main character nor wish to emulate her!
Although poor, although cold ... I still managed to live in a faux hipster community about 8 blocks from Buffalo State college. Or as it was known "Buff State." Which I thought was a definite misnomer because no one who seemed to attend the school there was in anything I would consider a buff state, mentally or physically. (Sorry Buff State, I went to UB!)
One day, I was sipping tea (trying to stay warm!) in a coffeehouse on Allen Street. The owners had decided to be "ironic" and used hay bales instead of chairs. Do you know how uncomfortable sitting on a dried out hay bale can be?
"Excuse me sir, but I believe there is a blade of hay up me bum!"
Maybe I was looking particularly fetching that day or maybe I looked like I needed help extracting straw out of my arse, but this tall, very good looking, very "cool" man came up to me. He was in his late 20's (an "older man" to me) and worked for Righteous Babe Records.
As a die hard Ani DiFranco fan (and as a Buffalo resident), I knew that Righteous Babe Records was Ani DiFranco's personal record label that she had started basically as a kid. I remember reading an interview with Prince and he commended Ani DiFranco on being smart to start her own record label. Ani may sell less records than if she had big recording industry backing but she makes much more money on each CD sold - and therefore truly gets to profit from her art versus making other people rich off her hard work.
A smart woman outfoxing the big record labels, imagine that! Righteous Babe, indeed!
I don't know what I was more excited about - that this very good-looking man was talking to me or that he worked for Ani DiFranco's record label. OK that's an insane lie. I knew what I was most excited about - the connection to Ani DiFranco.
Now the truth of the matter was, this guy was a low level peon at the record label and I think the closest he got to Ani DiFranco was seeing the back of her head through a window "that one time." My high school friend (shout out to you, WJ!) who is a flight attendant once met Ani while she was in first class on a flight to Spain. WJ had a stronger connection to Ani than this record label guy did, but still I felt this was somehow my ticket to becoming Ani DiFranco's new best friend.
Did I happen to mention I was a bit more stalkerish in my youth?
Besides ... the guy was really hot. I never claimed I had great depth.
So we're in the coffeeshop and the guy is going on and on and on about himself. And I'm falling for it. Me, there with hay up my arse, was staring at him swoonily like he was the most fascinating man on the planet. My spell check is flagging "swoonily" - but trust me Webster's, if "swoonily" is not a word, it should be. Because "swoonily" was exactly how I was looking and feeling at that very moment.
I felt like I had hit the cosmic jackpot - hot, faux hipster guy - he looked like a tall, lanky British guy, but American. And he had a connection to Ani DiFranco! Could it get any better? I was already composing our wedding announcement in my head ... "Lily and Guy who works at Ani DiFranco's record label are registered at New World Records (now defunct) and Williams Sonoma."
Did I happen to mention that I tend to count my chickens before they hatch? I'd like to say that was just "in my youth" but I still find myself lolling around (SWOONILY) counting chickens that will never grace this Earth. Damn chickens.
I was on cloud nine. Here I was, sipping tea and I already found my hot record label executive husband. (OK so I gave him a promotion in my head!) I was practically centimeters away from releasing an album of kicky, girl power duets with Ani DiFranco. Nevermind that I am completely tone-deaf. Ani DiFranco would then decide to throw away her solo career and beg me to form a duo with her. "Ani please ... I am so busy being the wife of a high-powered, hot record label executive and I know I have the voice of a tiny angel ... please stop pestering me ... I promise I'll think it over."
I was completely lost in my fantasies while Hot Record Label Peon was going on and on about himself ad nauseam. But one word shook me out of my fantasy, dropped my jaw and made me go mute with a "WHAT THE F--K?"
That word?
Girlfriend.
He was now talking about his girlfriend. I narrowed my eyes at him. Evidently this guy thought he was so hot that he was hitting on me while talking all about his girlfriend! Seriously? And to think I was going to let you introduce me to Ani DiFranco, my future new best friend!
But then came the hook ... (There's always a hook.)
The girlfriend was practically frigid. And he was a man who needed fiery sexual passion. He needed to be with a woman who was equally as passionate and dynamic and embraced life!
I wanted to lean over and say to him "Um yeah, you want a girl who will embrace your c**k, not life." But I didn't. I just kept nodding like an idiot, as if I could really feel for his plight. I braced myself, expecting that his next words would be an ardent plea for me to be his "sex therapist." That I, out of the goodness of my heart, should offer up all the sexual treats that he had been so missing out on. Like I was some sort of sexual charity worker, helping out men with frigid girlfriends. The naughty but gracious Mother Teresa helping out the poor masses of sexually deprived, cheating scum.
But no, the plea to help him out sexually was not made, instead ...
He let out a big sigh and said "Well, I'm probably going to propose to my girlfriend ... I figure that's the only way she'll give me a blow job. Six years of dating and she's only blown me once."
The words hung in the air like puzzle pieces. I slowly pulled them together to see if the words that I thought I heard were actually what he said. Marriage proposal to get oral sex. Not "I'm going to propose because she's the love of my life and I want to spend the rest of my life with her." Not "I've found my soul mate and I cannot wait to spend the rest of eternity as man and wife."
No. No ... it was- "I guess if I want a blow job ever again, I'll need to propose. " All my faith in men crumbled at that very moment. Seriously? Is this why men propose marriage? To get a blow job?
Is that why guys propose on their knees? Is it subliminal? "Look honey, I'm on my knees giving you a ring. Now why don't YOU get on your knees and give me some head?" Ugh! My whole romantic worldview was getting pissed upon. And I don't appreciate golden showers!
"She hates doing it, but I figure she'll be so excited if I show a ring that she'll have to give me a blow job, right?" He said as he looked at me expectantly, desperately wanting me to affirm his plans.
Was he really asking me to give a thumbs up on his strategy on how to best procure a blow job from his girlfriend? Really? Seriously? Is this a freaking joke?
I floppily shrugged and said "Seems like a lot to go through just to get a blow job. How does this work exactly? Would you propose to her and then after the blow job, say to her: `just kidding!'?"
He looked at me like I was the most uncouth bastard he had ever seen.
"No!" He said with haughty indignation. "I would definitely marry her!"
Oh ... uh sorry. I didn't see that covered in Miss Manners. But ummmm, so why then have you spent the last hour flirting with me, Jerky McJerkerson? I kept nodding at him. Words were completely failing me. I was beginning to feel like a bobble head.
"You don't understand," he squawked with immense tragedy in his voice. "It's been only ONCE in SIX YEARS."
Oh. I guess I didn't understand the enormous pains he has been persevering through. I think starving children in Africa would shed a tear over this guy's lack of BJ's from his girlfriend.
Jerky McJerkerson changed the subject and continued talking. More blather about him, him, him ... his life, his goals, his career aspirations ... I really don't remember much of it as I was too busy checking the room for a "Candid Camera" film crew.
After what seemed like another hour, Jerky leaned in to me. A smile starting to spread across his full lips. He was inches from my lips. He stage-whispered: "So, should we go back to your place?"
Whaaaaaat?
"Wh-why?" I stammered. So we could talk more about your girlfriend and why she hates giving head?
"I have a feeling you are a ... very passionate person ..." He said with a leer.
"B-b-but you have a girlfriend ... or a fiancee..." Why was I stammering?
"But I've already told you about her issues. I don't think you have those issues now, do you?"
I'd like to say I stood up, threw my lukewarm tea in his face and said "I'm going to tell your girlfriend just what you think of her sexual skills, you slimy rat!"
Or that I slapped him hard across his "way too beautiful for such a gross cheater" face and said "I am fabulous in bed, but you'll never know, you gross lying cheating scum of a man!" And stormed out!
This was the moment for a grand speech! Something, anything, teeming with moral indignation and affirmation for the rights of all women!
But the younger me was a hell of a lot less confident. I managed to squeak out a "Thanks for the offer, but no thanks - I gotta go."
Yeah, I bet those words really stung him to his core!
That was the first and last time I saw the budding young record label worker. I can't even recall his name. It was so long ago. I wonder if he did propose to his girlfriend. And I wonder if she blew him after screaming "YES!" I wonder if that was the last blow job he would ever receive from her. I wonder if his "going to propose so I can get a blow job" strategy was the lasting foundation for a successful marriage.
I have my suspicions on the answers to those questions, but I'll never know for sure.
However, what I do know is that I never did get to meet Ani DiFranco, although I continue to see her every time she tours. (LilyOnTheLam Trivia question: which recording artist has Lily seen the most times live?) I'm not as manic thinking that one day Ani and I will be best friends. And well, that award-winning album of duets "Lily and Ani - Together at Last!" will probably not be on iTunes any time soon.
But at least I no longer have straw up my arse and in the literal end, isn't that what's really most important?
Call me, Ani. I need a better Ani DiFranco connection story than this one! And I promise I won't sing my version of "Both Hands" from "Living in Clip" into your face with ardent intensity. I swear. I promise.
OK, maybe I'm lying about that promise. In the meantime, I'll just be here warming up my voice and waiting for you, Ms. Ani DiFranco, to invite me to New Orleans for tea.
"The Lengths One Will Go" - reminds me of a Dr. Seuss title ... but trust me readers, this is not a G-rated blog post. Consider yourself warned.
A million years ago, I lived in Buffalo, New York. Despite the fact that there were crack houses in any direction within a 6 block radius of me; I enjoyed my time in Buffalo in the summer and tolerated it in the winter. I still remember one insane blizzard when a charming wine buyer with a baritone voice walked six blocks in waist-deep snow just to bring me a bottle of wine to start our first date. Buffalo men are definitely made of hearty stock and it made an amazing first impression. I felt like a Princess in a fairy tale where the valiant Prince overcomes all obstacles just to be in the Princess' presence. And feminism be damned, I like feeling like a fairy tale princess every now and again.
Plus in addition to being a romantic story of a valiant first date, I can add to my "six degrees of star f*ckerness" that the afore-mentioned baritone was a former roommate of the guitar player for The Goo Goo Dolls. If you live in Buffalo, you need a Goo Goo Dolls connection or an Ani DiFranco connection.
(For those that do not know, both recording artists are originally from Buffalo, New York. LilyOnTheLam.com bringing you music and geography trivia. You're welcome!)
This blog post is about my Ani DiFranco connection. It's a connection I don't think Ani herself would appreciate. But until she invites me for tea at her home in New Orleans, this is the best I have got. (Seriously Ani, I'll bring this awesome ginger turmeric tea from TeBella - all you need to do is email me! Fine fine, I'll bring scones too - damn, you drive a hard bargain!)
I was dirt poor in Buffalo. I lived in this run down building that I think was once a grand stately mansion. It had been carved up into tiny apartments. The windows were so flimsy that I would have to cover them up with layers of plastic and comforters just to avoid icicles from forming on my nose. Winters were spent wrapped in so many pieces of clothing, I looked like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man. A look I am well-acquainted with sporting. My mother moved from a tropical island to southern Minnesota and when I was born, she was quite concerned that I would freeze to death. She would put so many layers of clothing on me, that I couldn't bend my arms. All of the pictures of me from the first three years of my life, portray me in a" Jesus on the cross" type pose outdoors. Hardly "Baby of the Year" photo material!
The very cold, very drafty apartment had a fake fireplace. That perhaps was the cruelest joke of all. As I sat on my futon (yes, a futon!), wearing every piece of clothing I owned, swathed in blankets; I would stare at the fake fireplace and try to will it to become real. I was "The Little Matchstick Girl" come to life. That was one fairy tale where I did not envy the main character nor wish to emulate her!
Although poor, although cold ... I still managed to live in a faux hipster community about 8 blocks from Buffalo State college. Or as it was known "Buff State." Which I thought was a definite misnomer because no one who seemed to attend the school there was in anything I would consider a buff state, mentally or physically. (Sorry Buff State, I went to UB!)
One day, I was sipping tea (trying to stay warm!) in a coffeehouse on Allen Street. The owners had decided to be "ironic" and used hay bales instead of chairs. Do you know how uncomfortable sitting on a dried out hay bale can be?
"Excuse me sir, but I believe there is a blade of hay up me bum!"
Maybe I was looking particularly fetching that day or maybe I looked like I needed help extracting straw out of my arse, but this tall, very good looking, very "cool" man came up to me. He was in his late 20's (an "older man" to me) and worked for Righteous Babe Records.
As a die hard Ani DiFranco fan (and as a Buffalo resident), I knew that Righteous Babe Records was Ani DiFranco's personal record label that she had started basically as a kid. I remember reading an interview with Prince and he commended Ani DiFranco on being smart to start her own record label. Ani may sell less records than if she had big recording industry backing but she makes much more money on each CD sold - and therefore truly gets to profit from her art versus making other people rich off her hard work.
A smart woman outfoxing the big record labels, imagine that! Righteous Babe, indeed!
I don't know what I was more excited about - that this very good-looking man was talking to me or that he worked for Ani DiFranco's record label. OK that's an insane lie. I knew what I was most excited about - the connection to Ani DiFranco.
Now the truth of the matter was, this guy was a low level peon at the record label and I think the closest he got to Ani DiFranco was seeing the back of her head through a window "that one time." My high school friend (shout out to you, WJ!) who is a flight attendant once met Ani while she was in first class on a flight to Spain. WJ had a stronger connection to Ani than this record label guy did, but still I felt this was somehow my ticket to becoming Ani DiFranco's new best friend.
Did I happen to mention I was a bit more stalkerish in my youth?
Besides ... the guy was really hot. I never claimed I had great depth.
So we're in the coffeeshop and the guy is going on and on and on about himself. And I'm falling for it. Me, there with hay up my arse, was staring at him swoonily like he was the most fascinating man on the planet. My spell check is flagging "swoonily" - but trust me Webster's, if "swoonily" is not a word, it should be. Because "swoonily" was exactly how I was looking and feeling at that very moment.
I felt like I had hit the cosmic jackpot - hot, faux hipster guy - he looked like a tall, lanky British guy, but American. And he had a connection to Ani DiFranco! Could it get any better? I was already composing our wedding announcement in my head ... "Lily and Guy who works at Ani DiFranco's record label are registered at New World Records (now defunct) and Williams Sonoma."
Did I happen to mention that I tend to count my chickens before they hatch? I'd like to say that was just "in my youth" but I still find myself lolling around (SWOONILY) counting chickens that will never grace this Earth. Damn chickens.
I was on cloud nine. Here I was, sipping tea and I already found my hot record label executive husband. (OK so I gave him a promotion in my head!) I was practically centimeters away from releasing an album of kicky, girl power duets with Ani DiFranco. Nevermind that I am completely tone-deaf. Ani DiFranco would then decide to throw away her solo career and beg me to form a duo with her. "Ani please ... I am so busy being the wife of a high-powered, hot record label executive and I know I have the voice of a tiny angel ... please stop pestering me ... I promise I'll think it over."
I was completely lost in my fantasies while Hot Record Label Peon was going on and on about himself ad nauseam. But one word shook me out of my fantasy, dropped my jaw and made me go mute with a "WHAT THE F--K?"
That word?
Girlfriend.
He was now talking about his girlfriend. I narrowed my eyes at him. Evidently this guy thought he was so hot that he was hitting on me while talking all about his girlfriend! Seriously? And to think I was going to let you introduce me to Ani DiFranco, my future new best friend!
But then came the hook ... (There's always a hook.)
The girlfriend was practically frigid. And he was a man who needed fiery sexual passion. He needed to be with a woman who was equally as passionate and dynamic and embraced life!
I wanted to lean over and say to him "Um yeah, you want a girl who will embrace your c**k, not life." But I didn't. I just kept nodding like an idiot, as if I could really feel for his plight. I braced myself, expecting that his next words would be an ardent plea for me to be his "sex therapist." That I, out of the goodness of my heart, should offer up all the sexual treats that he had been so missing out on. Like I was some sort of sexual charity worker, helping out men with frigid girlfriends. The naughty but gracious Mother Teresa helping out the poor masses of sexually deprived, cheating scum.
But no, the plea to help him out sexually was not made, instead ...
He let out a big sigh and said "Well, I'm probably going to propose to my girlfriend ... I figure that's the only way she'll give me a blow job. Six years of dating and she's only blown me once."
The words hung in the air like puzzle pieces. I slowly pulled them together to see if the words that I thought I heard were actually what he said. Marriage proposal to get oral sex. Not "I'm going to propose because she's the love of my life and I want to spend the rest of my life with her." Not "I've found my soul mate and I cannot wait to spend the rest of eternity as man and wife."
No. No ... it was- "I guess if I want a blow job ever again, I'll need to propose. " All my faith in men crumbled at that very moment. Seriously? Is this why men propose marriage? To get a blow job?
Is that why guys propose on their knees? Is it subliminal? "Look honey, I'm on my knees giving you a ring. Now why don't YOU get on your knees and give me some head?" Ugh! My whole romantic worldview was getting pissed upon. And I don't appreciate golden showers!
"She hates doing it, but I figure she'll be so excited if I show a ring that she'll have to give me a blow job, right?" He said as he looked at me expectantly, desperately wanting me to affirm his plans.
Was he really asking me to give a thumbs up on his strategy on how to best procure a blow job from his girlfriend? Really? Seriously? Is this a freaking joke?
I floppily shrugged and said "Seems like a lot to go through just to get a blow job. How does this work exactly? Would you propose to her and then after the blow job, say to her: `just kidding!'?"
He looked at me like I was the most uncouth bastard he had ever seen.
"No!" He said with haughty indignation. "I would definitely marry her!"
Oh ... uh sorry. I didn't see that covered in Miss Manners. But ummmm, so why then have you spent the last hour flirting with me, Jerky McJerkerson? I kept nodding at him. Words were completely failing me. I was beginning to feel like a bobble head.
"You don't understand," he squawked with immense tragedy in his voice. "It's been only ONCE in SIX YEARS."
Oh. I guess I didn't understand the enormous pains he has been persevering through. I think starving children in Africa would shed a tear over this guy's lack of BJ's from his girlfriend.
Jerky McJerkerson changed the subject and continued talking. More blather about him, him, him ... his life, his goals, his career aspirations ... I really don't remember much of it as I was too busy checking the room for a "Candid Camera" film crew.
After what seemed like another hour, Jerky leaned in to me. A smile starting to spread across his full lips. He was inches from my lips. He stage-whispered: "So, should we go back to your place?"
Whaaaaaat?
"Wh-why?" I stammered. So we could talk more about your girlfriend and why she hates giving head?
"I have a feeling you are a ... very passionate person ..." He said with a leer.
"B-b-but you have a girlfriend ... or a fiancee..." Why was I stammering?
"But I've already told you about her issues. I don't think you have those issues now, do you?"
I'd like to say I stood up, threw my lukewarm tea in his face and said "I'm going to tell your girlfriend just what you think of her sexual skills, you slimy rat!"
Or that I slapped him hard across his "way too beautiful for such a gross cheater" face and said "I am fabulous in bed, but you'll never know, you gross lying cheating scum of a man!" And stormed out!
This was the moment for a grand speech! Something, anything, teeming with moral indignation and affirmation for the rights of all women!
But the younger me was a hell of a lot less confident. I managed to squeak out a "Thanks for the offer, but no thanks - I gotta go."
Yeah, I bet those words really stung him to his core!
That was the first and last time I saw the budding young record label worker. I can't even recall his name. It was so long ago. I wonder if he did propose to his girlfriend. And I wonder if she blew him after screaming "YES!" I wonder if that was the last blow job he would ever receive from her. I wonder if his "going to propose so I can get a blow job" strategy was the lasting foundation for a successful marriage.
I have my suspicions on the answers to those questions, but I'll never know for sure.
However, what I do know is that I never did get to meet Ani DiFranco, although I continue to see her every time she tours. (LilyOnTheLam Trivia question: which recording artist has Lily seen the most times live?) I'm not as manic thinking that one day Ani and I will be best friends. And well, that award-winning album of duets "Lily and Ani - Together at Last!" will probably not be on iTunes any time soon.
But at least I no longer have straw up my arse and in the literal end, isn't that what's really most important?
Call me, Ani. I need a better Ani DiFranco connection story than this one! And I promise I won't sing my version of "Both Hands" from "Living in Clip" into your face with ardent intensity. I swear. I promise.
OK, maybe I'm lying about that promise. In the meantime, I'll just be here warming up my voice and waiting for you, Ms. Ani DiFranco, to invite me to New Orleans for tea.
LOVE this post! Be my friend? Lol. Now who's a stalker? I kid, I kid. :)
ReplyDeleteBrighid - I love the following from your bio on http://www.alalamamas.com/: "she donned a hat of true self seeking and went forth to sample all untasted fruits of the world, be they dangerously immoral or idyllically pure."
ReplyDeleteI need to sample some untasted fruits of the world - but let me tell you, all the fruits I seem to stumble upon are absolutely, dangerously immoral!
If you liked this post, check out "Bad Dates and Other Things That Make Me Nauseous" - http://www.lilyonthelam.com/2011/11/bad-dates-and-other-things-that-make-me.html - the November 25th entry.
Thank you for reading and thanks for posting a comment! Much appreciated!