her pink haired friend drove us to the airport

I used to have a fan club on OD.  I used to read this girl’s diary and we were obsessed with each other’s writing.  Then we talked on the phone.  Then I went and saw her in Seattle and made out to a Placebo album and watched her friends smoke pot out of a Sunny Delight bottle.  We took public transportation and stole her Mom’s Vicodin.  We walked her Welsh Corgi in the woods and I met her Grandma that had a gimp leg.  She took me to a dark room and showed me how to develope pictures.  She used the tongs and sifted her ammmazing photo around in puddles of chemicals while I kissed and tugged at her.  I loved the smell of Seattle; the look of the roads and the trees and the air and people.  Her pink haired friend drove us to the airport and I laid my head on her shoulder, in the dark, and we watched the lit up lines from the street lights whip by.  Her hands were small like mine, and her eyes were bright blue like old Hollywood celebrities. 

I don’t hardly listen to Placebo anymore, but when I do I feel like I’m laying in her lumpy, twin bed, starring at her popcorn ceiling with her tiny hand resting upon mine, listening to the hum of her computer.  That was years ago, three, four.  She goes to Evergreen, has an awesome girlfriend, makes movies and art and heartbreak.  She doesn’t write on here anymore.

I’m a six pack and half a bottle of wine deep, and Flamin’ Hot Cheetos are still not very good.  Finish the bottle, and they’ll be awesome.

I was talking to my friend Rich, who resides in Las Vegas and makes a shit load of money, about how most people suck.  We say,

Most people just keep talking and don’t listen.  They wait for you to be done talking so they can tell you about their crack addictied friend, Jen and how her baby’s daddy’s mommy is trying to get custody of a kid named Isis or Daxton.  They talk to you about what kind of wedding ring they want and how Papa John’s Pizza is waaaaay better than Pizza Hut.

and you say

yeah. no? seriously? crazy. uh huh. I know, right?

I like to play a game with people that I call Top Five Albums.  This game consists of me saying,

"top five albums, no thinking, GO!"

I think you can tell a lot about a person by their top five albums.  Some people ponder, disassociate, they may say

but, I don’t think it terms of "albums"

Or, they know right away.

Recently a girl started working in my office and on her first day, since my office chum and I are both big music snobs, decided to throw this game out right away.  I ask her, tell her not to think, force her to answer and she says,

the doors
led zeppelin
the beatles
pink flloyd

and… um….

kings of leon

This is all fine and good.  Whatever.  I know right away, when people say shit like this that they MISS THE POINT.  ‘Cause I’m not talking about the greatest albums EVER.  I’m not talking about the greatest peices of rock music EVER (not that kings of leon is any of that, I think she just ran out of options).  I’m talking about your personal top five.  I’m talking about an album you listened to on repeat everyday for two months your sophormore year of high school because your girlfriend broke up with you, I’m talking about albums that were gateway albums into new kinds of music, I’m talking about something you feel emotionally connected with- even if maybe you don’t listen to it anymore.

My other office chum, when I ask him, he gets it.  He says

the rosedales
bad religion
elvis costello
joy division
the smiths

He has a story for each album.  You see, he GETS IT.

I play this game with people and I judge. Harshely.  I try not to, but I can’t help it.  

Placebo is on my list, and I don’t even like them that much.