Tuesday, May 31, 2005

His Name Is My Name Too

I recently (OK, let's use more appropriate adverbs here: vainly; self-absorbedly; partially pathetically) Googled myself and found that, despite the seemingly singular Anglo-Philic Kraut-Head nature of my name, there is another Trevor Messersmith out there in the world.

And here's where the vain, self-absorbed, partially pathetic piece of the story kicks into high gear:

He ranks higher in Google searches than I do.

He is also a "6'2" 225-pound tight end and defensive end from Galt High School", somewhere in Northern California.

So, I have to wonder: does he Google his/our name too? Does he wonder: "Who's this gay designer dude in New York that I outrank?" or, more appropriately:

"Were his parents trying to offset that Krauty, practical German last name by giving him that semi-fussy Welsh first name?"

I remember there were a couple of years that I hated my first name (about 5th grade), when my first name all of a sudden screamed "Faggot!"; there was even a short story that I had to read in school about a teenage British hooligan named Trevor who thought his name was so effeminate that he would only refer to himself as T. Those were times that I longed for a "Mike" or a "Dave" sort of name that everyone else in my school seemed to have.

Monday, May 30, 2005

Scarytime at the Maritime

The usually fun Sunday party at the Maritime Hotel was an overcrowded junkshow last night, due to the Holiday weekend.

Sure, it was fun to run into friends and hang in the great outdoor space, but shoo, Lordy, for a place with 4 bartenders, 1 set of bathrooms and a panic-attack-inducing 5-foot-wide walkway, there were really far too many people to have a great time.

The bar situation was so bad, for a while we were ordering drinks on a constant loop from the semi-drunk cocktail waiter/ess. He would show up with our drinks, we'd pay and order another set immediately.

It's not quite as dangerously rehab-bound as it sounds - it took about 45 minutes for our gal Friday to stumble back to us with the cocktails anyway.

Sunday, May 29, 2005

She's Speaking My Language, Baby

My Juliette Lewis obession continues...

I saw Juliette and the Licks last night at the Bowery Ballroom - and to paraphrase Amy Sedaris: "The bitch has got the skills to pay the bills."

Seriously though, Juliette tore it up in a Viking helmet and at one point dove head first into the crowd, still singing. It wasn't so much of a crowd-surfing moment, since it seemed like the crowd was just passing her around by her exposed torso (basically, from where we were standing, all we could see was her feet passing back and forth in front of the stage). She really did command the stage and sang her black-bikinied ass off.

It was well-worth the $13 admission price and I haven't been that physically close to an Oscar-Nominee/Winner since I saw Meryl Streep on 12th Street just after I saw The Hours on a dreary Sunday afternoon a few years ago in Union Square.

I got weak in the knees after that one.

I don't get too star-fuckery about New York celebrity sightings, but something about seeing her just after I saw her in a film, based on a book in which a character (the same one Meryl Streep plays in the film) passes the real Meryl Streep on a street in the Village was way too glitch-in-the-Matrix for me to handle at the time.

Saturday, May 28, 2005

Practical Lesbian Advice
(Or, Keep It Together, Old School Style)

A few months ago, my best friend from high school, the Chicago-Gaymous* comedic stand-up Lesbian genius Jessica called me in a semi-panic from Chicago.

"Hey Jess, what's up?"

"What are you doing?"

At the time, I was in Miami (see also: Four Moons Over My Hammy) for a friend's birthday. I happened to be lounging on the beach, post-cocktails.

"Um, actually, I'm on the beach in Miami."

"Oh, OK."

"What's going on?"

"I have to ask you something."

"Sure."

"ARE YOU DOING CRYSTAL?"

"Right now?"

"Yes, now. ARE YOU DOING CRYSTAL?"

"It's a Thursday afternoon."

"So, are you?"

"Um, no."

"Are you sure?"

"Hold on, let me double-check. Um, yeah, no. As far as I can tell I'm not grinding my teeth or enganged in massive group sex."

"Have you ever done it?"

"No."

"That better be true, Trevor."

"Believe me, it is."

"Don't you lie to me - I'll check."

"It's true."

"Look, what's wrong with your people?"

"My people?"

"You fags need to get it together. There's absolutely nothing wrong with a joint and a Martini. You don't have to get more messed up than that to have a good time."

*Gaymous=Famous in Queer Circles. As in: "DJ Gustavo is super-gaymous."

Friday, May 27, 2005

It's the Time of the Season

I had been looking forward to spending this Holiday weekend quietly in the city, not doing much. Now that the weather has turned again for the better, I'm craving the beach and the sea and that oddly captivating burning skin pigment scent that comes with basking in the sun too long. I have some work I have to finish, but I'm longing to go upstairs to my rooftop and cook a little, like a rotisserie chicken.

There was a time that getting a tan to me seemed gross and tacky. Perhaps to some, or most, it still is. There was a pack of girls I went to high school with that were tan obsessed, or tanorexic. They went to tanning beds year-round and had reverse raccoon pigmentation on their faces since they wore those goggles to protect their eyes, which would leave their eyelids as white as their (presumably, if they wore bikinis to tan-bed in) semi-perky cheerleader asses.

One of them was so tanorexic that her skin color was always a deep chocolate color, offset by the fake blue contact lenses she wore. Her name was Tami. Tami also chose to wear her hair in a "claw-bang" style that was fashionable to her set of what at the time were termed "Fluff-Chicks". Tami would tease and Aqua-Net and tease and Aqua-Net her bangs until they were supremely high up in the air and curled in sharply, like the outstretched talon of a bird of prey about to snatch up a victim for lunch.

It seemed suitable for Tami.

Tami never took full stock of herself in a mirror turned to the side at half-profile. Since she took such pride in her bangs, she never noticed that the rest of her hair was left flat and neglected. The sides, although sprayed to jut out at her ears, fell limply to her shoulders; the back of her hair hung lifeless, uncurled without any sort of the rapturous attention her front 'do received.

Years after high school, Tami, not recognizing me, tried to pick me up at the local Fotomat, where she worked behind the register. She batted her eyelashes and shook that unmoving mane of hair at me, hoping to get my attention.

She was rather disheartened when I told her my name, so I could pick up my pictures.

"Oh. You look different, Trevor." She said emotionless, embarrassed.

The former Homecoming Queen was probably not ashamed of hawking film. More likely, it was because she just tried to pick up a known fag in broad daylight.

Thursday, May 26, 2005

Tom Tom Club

March 2005
Dear Diary,

Katie Holmes is so cute. I hope she likes me, too. Do you think she'll want to go out with me? I'm so scared. What should I do?

I hope our reps at PMK can get us together, like, soon. Ever since Penny up and left me for that stoner dude (I'm so sure) and transferred to that Catholic school in Texas, I've just been dust in the wind. How am I supposed to meet the ladies anyway? I'm so shy, you know.

Do you think I have a chance at finding true love?

Those ex-girlfriends of mine haven't been really helping me out either. Nikki has been getting banged all over town with all the hot guys from the Drama Club and Glee Club and now she's even dating guys from Vocational-Ed who have jobs after school already. Thank God Mimi graduated a while ago - I still hate seeing her all sexed up in the grocery store. She does look fine in that cashier's smock.

I just can't take this.

So, please, Diary. Make this one work. I mean, Katie is a frosh babe after all, so a lot of guys have already been sniffing. I'm so glad she dumped that football player - I mean really. Just because she's from Ohio, doesn't mean she has to get engaged in high school! Besides, I'm going to be a senior soon, and I should have all the girls at my feet. I'll have to ask O. what to do - I mean, she's really into me too, but she's President of the Student Council and all and that just seems too obvious.

More soon!

Kisses, Tommy Cruise

Wednesday, May 25, 2005

Flav-O-Ice-Castles

Alpha-Male Red has been forever hitched to his high-school sweetheart Cherry, leaving the handsome, yet mismatched bachelor Blue to forever dance with America's favorite offbeat beauty Raspberry. Blue, of course, longs to be with Blueberry, his step-sister and third cousin. And although Red will sometimes cheat from time to time with Strawberry, he has, thus far, refused any of the shy girl moves Raspberry has tried on him.

Fuck the Rain Away

What is this? Summer in San Francisco?

It's raining again today and is about 50 degrees - weather one would expect for, oh, a day in late October.

In Assfuck, Canada.

It's really cramping my work style too - I have been slow-mo sluggish and groany all morning. I have work errands to run out and about, which is making me even more cranky.

In less crankasaurus news, I saw Star Wars Episode III: Revenge of the ExpensiveCGI last night, which was, thankfully, right on the money. Despite a few harrowing moments of near camp (like any time Natalie Portman had to feign love for "Annie"), it was a goodtime at a SW movie, like it was 1985.

There was also a balls-out preview for The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe which threw the crowd into a collective fit of 10 year old geek ecstasy (myself included). The grown homo in me was also giddy since Jadis, the White Witch is played by Tilda Swinton, who I've been swooning over since I saw her in Derek Jarman's The Garden and Edward II as a wee 'mo in college. After the preview ended, to rapturous applause, my friend Patty yelled out:

"Jesus, I guess it's good to know your target audience."

She then rolled her eyes my way, as if to say, "You too, nerd."

Tuesday, May 24, 2005

When Flakes Attack

My friend Torrey is a flake.

I love him to pieces, but he's as flaky as a nice French pastry, as flaky as a crisp day in January, as flaky as the black-cashmered neckline of a handsome man in need of Head and Shoulders.

I'm hoping that calling him out on it now may do some good, as a sort of intervention that you'd never see on Starting Over. He has stood me up for dinner three weeks running now and has managed to blame me for all three misses.

#1: Did we really have plans? You didn't sound definite.

#2: I was supposed to call you back? You didn't ask me to.

#3: No, you said you were going to call me when you left work. Yeah, I know you work from home and stuff, but that's what you said.

Torrey is an air sign.

Clearly, I am not.

Saturday, May 21, 2005

Juliette, When We Made Love, You Used to Cry?

I am out in Fagstacy Island for the weekend, enjoying the intense, smokin' heat and holler of our house's new high-speed wireless connection. I think I was scaring my friend Jimmy in setting it up, however. I was very high-blood-pressure man with technology-issues most of Friday afternoon, slowing stewing in my own frustration and borderline panic attack state of mind. It took a while to get it all together, since I also had to install a wireless card in my laptop, and for a harrowing five mintues, I thought I had fried my G4. (Note to the folks in Cupertino - did you lay off all of your tech writers? The support section of apple.com is a Lindsay Lohan skeletal-style mess yo).

Whoa. Enough of the AV dude chatter - back to the topic at hand.

Juliette Lewis has been in the band The Licks for a couple of years - and they just released a hot-as-shit-on-pavement-in-August album. I'm a sucker for Juliette anyway - the fact that she's rocking hard in a good band makes me all the more crazy for her.

Because, homegirl is straight-up, unapologetically crazy.

And, perhaps, more tellingly, she's exactly the kind of chick I would have smoked pot with in high school while analyzing the lyrics to random Siouxsie and the Banshees songs.

Friday, May 20, 2005

An Affair To Remember

About this time last year, I had a fictional affair with the fictional Sue Ellen Ewing of Dallas, via the new millenium's latest STD, Friendster. Here is a partial transcript of our unrequited, yet lurid affair:

SUE ELLEN: golly you're really hot.

ME: What's lurking beneath those foxy bangs of yours?

SUE ELLEN: i'm trying to hold it together. think you need to come down to south fork and check out these here bangs for yourself. maybe you can push them back as i look up into your face while i suck your...

ME: You're as fresh as ever. Would love to muss your bangs with my manhands.

SUE ELLEN: On second thought, let's hold off on the bangs. i mean, neither one of us really wants you to push them back and be faced with my facelift scars. right?? why don't you just keep 'em right on my tiny little waist as you pound me from behind like the little bitch that i am?

ME: Your box is so hot, last time I tapped it, my meat came out smoked and tender.

SUE ELLEN: Oh, the sweet things you say. You make me want to bend you over and take care of business.

ME: Strap it on and pound away Sue - I am a man who ain't afraid of his anus. Just promise you won't use JR's crude oil lube again....last time you stained my coveralls so bad that all the other guys at the rig knew you had been poundin' out my mancake.

SUE ELLEN: yeah, I could see you're not afraid of your anus. and you know what? i'm not afraid of it either. don't let the guys get to you. if it makes you feel better, i've pounded almost every single of of their sweet roses myself. and pamela barnes took care of the ones i skipped. anyway, i use a better oil-based lube. you'll see.

ME: Check it, rich lady:
I don't know no mo' , 'ho -
but am back in store
at your backdoor -
beggin' fo' mo'
down on my knees
beggin' to please
my face full o' yo' skeez
up in yo' crack
stingin' yo' snatch
like some damn honeybeez

I'm out this weekend, doll. but feel free to tease from south fork as you see fit.

We batted the banter back and forth and back and forth and back and forth, until Sue Ellen left me high and dry for Charlene Tilton.

Thursday, May 19, 2005

I Can't Believe It Fits!™

I spoke to my mother the other night about her upcoming trip to New York. She's very excited, and due to her professionally-retired status, she has far too much time on her hands to sometimes know what to do with herself (especially since she's very action-oriented and, well, German).

Late last week, she went shopping for some new clothes for her trip, which included some - um - delicates.

Yes, as her gay son, I hear these details - whether I like it or not.

My mother is a teeny wisp of a thing - about 90 pounds wet, and as my friend Lucas once told her:

"Honey, you have to run around in the shower to get wet."

When I was a teenager, she confided in me, while watching a buxom starlet cavort topless in some kind of R-ish movie on HBO: "I used to envy women like that. But now, thank God I don't have big breasts. Can you imagine having to drag those things around?"

With all that in mind, my mother was quick to tell me about her new bra purchases. "Well, you'd be proud," She said. "I'm still shrinking after all these years. I'm now officially an A-Minus cup size."

A-Minus evidently is the adult equivalent of a training bra. To add insult to injury, the line of these baby bras is called I Can't Believe It Fits!™.

I spit the coffee I was drinking all over myself when she told me that.

Given the nature of my relationship with my mother (head-to-head smart-assed-ness), I knew she was waiting to hear my punchline to her story.

"C'mon, Trev. Say it." She baited.

Barely able to control myself, I replied: "Say what?"

"Just say it."

Full-tilt shits and giggles now, I said it:

"They should call that product line, I Can't Believe I've Got Tits!".

Wednesday, May 18, 2005

Another One Bites the Dust

My iPod died today. Not a big deal - at this time of year I was almost expecting it.

See, the new one I bought today (from the glorious, ill-staffed hell that is BestBuy) is the fourth one I've owned (only the third purchased - one was a sort of parting gift from Condé Nast). This time I actually bought the extended service plan, not that it's going to help. I think, when used well, iPods aren't tough enough for the long haul. I'm starting to buy those Apple hate ads that are plastered up all over the city right now - but they've got me fixed good, like a iPod junkie 'ho, yo.

Here is the sad and true chonology of my exes:

2002: 10G pod. Firewire connection stripped due to exposed connection of first design. Cost to fix: $250. No thanks.

2003: 5G pod. A parting gift after a year of torture at the hands of the exquisitely dressed. Just stopped one fine day due to hard drive overheating. Didn't mind it's death, since it made me feel dirty owning and using it.

2004: 20G pod. A new hope. After recent weeks of erratic and passive agressive behavior, quietly passed in its sleep. Could not be resuscitated.

Apple doesn't really advertise this: but if you rock it, smack it, hump it, pump it, jump it, slap it, slam it, and shove it in your sweaty jockstrap at the gym like it's your bitch, the poor, seemingly perfect Pod will only last a year.

You always hurt the ones you love.

Tuesday, May 17, 2005

Girl, Destiny's Crazy Girl

Some mornings, after my fix of New York 1, I will let my fingers do the walking, all over the remote control, banging through all of the music video channels, depending on how lazy/awake I am. (Awake = no videos; Lazy = I can watch VH1 Classic for an embarassingly long time).

Recently, I haven't been able to do this though due to one, singularly bad video by Destiny's Child called "Girl".

Now, don't get me wrong, I have been known to tear it up to some Beyoncé and some early Destiny's Chile (i.e. my friend LaNaye3000 and I used to cheekily perform "Bug-A-Boo" at overly quaint dinner parties in Boston, much to the dismay of the self-identified "New England Chic" fags who would host said events), but this new song is so bad, it defies camp.

Here, roughly, is the chorus:

Girl, I Can Tell You've Been Crying Girl
And You Needing Someone To Talk To Girl
Girl, I Can Tell He's Been Lying Girl
And Pretending That He's Faithful And He Loves You Girl
Girl, You Don't Have To Be Hiding Girl
Don't You Be Ashamed To Say He Hurt You Girl
I'm Your Girl, You're My Girl, We're You're Girls Girl
Want You To Know That We Love You Girl

To make matters worse, the video is a bad Coco Canal Street knock-off of Sex and the City - complete with fucked up, mangled titles (in approximating the opening credits, the makers of the video have simulated a PowerPoint presentation - a rare feat) and very strange plot line. There is a lot of shopping (ok, that's fine) and some weird scenes of psuedo domestic violence.

It's as if Carrie (here - Cousin Kelly) was getting punched in the stomach daily by Mr. Big.

Monday, May 16, 2005

The Costume of the Day

Today I looked like a gay anthropologist.

Everything I had on was beige and vaguely practical - like I needed a lot of pockets to hold field samples or condoms or lube or poppers or mini bottles of booze or drugs or notepads or trick cards or recording devices or digital spy cameras or MP3 players pounding out tit-banging remixes of popular songs sung by pre-teens.

I was also wearing beige flip-flops.

And aviator sunglasses.

And very SoCal neckwear. (Ok, fine, let's just call it a necklace).

I didn't realize how odd my look was until I rolled down the street to get a salad from the deli. The doorman of the building at the corner gave me a sideways "What the fuck?" glance and giggled - I swear.

I caught a glance of myself in the reflection of the doorman's semi-luxe revolving door and I laughed out loud.

Obviously, Darcelle and Naomi need to be spoken to - sternly - about letting me out of the house - I mean office - looking like Margaret Mead trying to work the crowd at Studio 54.

Sunday, May 15, 2005

Oh, That Moon Is Bright.

Hangovers suck. Not because of the sharp pain of dehydration or the crankiness that makes the smallest, least significant social interaction a royal, armageddon-inducing pain in the ass.

No.

Hangovers suck because they are, to me, harsh reminders of how old I'm getting and how easy the shit used to be to get over. Once upon a time, I could tear it up, mid-week and roll into work without much of a problem. Nowadays, even on recovery day #2, I'm shaky and messy and bitchy.

It also didn't help that I was expecting (nearly, hoping) the weather today would be shitty so a day in bed with mind-breakingly bad television wouldn't make me feel all that guilty. Sadly, it was bright and kind of hot and humid - making me channel Vera Charles all day:

"Close that shade!!! Oh! That moon is bright!"

It was also making me think of Jimmy Stewart in The Philadelphia Story - when he wakes up incredibly hung over and immediately (at about 9 AM) requests anything alcoholic - as long as it's stiff.

Saturday, May 14, 2005

Sexy Monster Fucker (Or, I Am the Wanda-er)

I am a movie review-junkie. I read Film Comment feverishly, like it's porn, and I regularly read the Times Friday movie reviews online Thursday night. I even get a little delirious when my copy of The New Yorker arrives and I barrel straight to the back of the issue to read the film reviews.

Most of the time, I don't agree with reviews (at all) and sometimes reviews irritate and chafe me so badly, I wish I could channel Pauline Kael and give critics a critical righteous smackdown. (Thank Christ though the Times came to its senses and relieved Elvis Mitchell of his duties. He never failed to offend me in his pretentiousness and occasionally alarming, historically misinformed views).

Case in point: Monster-In-Law.

I'm not sure whether it's Jennifer Lopez or Jane Fonda that the critics are out to get currently, but the reviews I read of this very commercial, very entertaining film were downright gleeful in their dissection of this airy and hilarious comedy. I am always fast to defend low-browish entertainment - and am faster in puncturing the condescension that the over-educated will noxiously bring to their readings of popular culture. Instead of reading movies in context, critics tend to idolize those films that reflect who they are (Sideways) and impale movies that they either don't understand or believe they should dislike due to peer pressure and group-think behavior.

I also think the critical response to Monster-In-Law is also informed by a lack of basic understanding behind the motives of Jane Fonda's character. I read one review that termed her "obsessive" relationship with her son as "clinically icky". I'm not sure if these critics actually have mothers - or have witnessed mother-daughter-in-law interaction, but the shit, in general, ain't a pretty sight. Women can be incredibly competitive with each other - something Monster-In-Law explodes and turns inside out for the benefit of a lot of laughs. It also is an expansion on what happens when a vain and self-important and aging media star is put out to pasture in favor of demographics and the subjectively questionable findings of market research. Sure this film could have been a more subtle exploration of these themes, but - put bluntly - it's not. It's a fast moving physical comedy that is well made and - in my opinion - hugely, rightfully successful. It is a divine pleasure to see Jane Fonda back on screen - eating up every second of it in a knock-out, over the top comedic performance.

I'm glad Monster-In-Law was the number one movie this weekend - if I see another epic/war/period Gladiator knock-off or junked up, fucked up toothless horror film, I'm going to lose it. Anything that puts Jane Fonda in an Auntie Mame style turban and allows the genius of both Elaine Stritch and Wanda Sykes significant airtime is hot shit in my book.

Besides, Jane - at 67 - looks tremendous in Gucci.

So, JFo and JLo - take the advice of Jay-Z: "Fuck critics. They can kiss my whole asshole."

Friday, May 13, 2005

Promises, Promises In the Dark

I'm doin' it...I'm really doin' it.

I'm actually writing here two actual, whole days in a row.

Problem is, I don't have anything to say yet.

I could get all flustered and hot in the pants about the new desk chair I want to buy from Design Slightly Out of Reach that's more expensive than my sofa and the cost of which could feed an overweight, midwestern family of four for months, but I will try to refrain from such a materialistic, giddily homo moment.

My imaginary co-workers Darcelle (big-haired, slut-bag assistant decked in acrylic nails and short skirts) and Naomi (accounts receivable - who is always with BBQ sauce on her blouse) will sure be jealous though once I drop the cash like it's hot and snag me that chair - especially since Darcelle has to do all of her work from my bed and Naomi has to fax invoices from my bathtub.

Oh, the sweetly odd joys of self-employment.

Thursday, May 12, 2005

Yeah, Yeah, Yeah

So, once again, my committment to blogging has fallen sadly, singularly by the wayside. Without coughing up the minutae of my daily life, it's sometimes a challenge to keep up with the stories and the words and the sordidness that my fanbase (all two of you) now expect from me.

I will make yet another false and empty promise - right here, right now:

I will write here everyday until tomorrow.

Sincerely Yours,
Your Darling, Your Hamburger

Thursday, May 05, 2005

An Unrequested Reply

Good times for a change
See, the luck I've had
Can make a good man
Turn bad

Wednesday, May 04, 2005

B-B-Baby, I-I-I Can't Wait.

The Wood Family Singers descend on Fagstacy Island this weekend to initiate the 2005 Summer season with a bang.

I can't wait for the goodtimes to roll.

I also can't wait to get out of Manhattan for a much, much needed recharge.

Besides business trips, I haven't really been out of New York since my "Four Moons Over My Hammy" Miami trip back in February. When I go this long without a break from the noise, the urban congestion and - specifically in my 'hood - the cha-cha heels, the mesh tanktops and the constant flurry of cruisy mens, I get cranky.

Of course, where I'm headed this weekend isn't exactly devoid of cha-cha heels, mesh and rubbernecking mens, but at least all of that action will take place poolside.

Monday, May 02, 2005

Post-Weekend Depression (or, Fuck and Run)

Walking to the gym this morning, this song came on my iPod randomly:

I woke up alarmed
I didn't know where I was at first
Just that I woke up in your arms
And almost immediately I felt sorry
'Cause I didn't think this would happen again
No matter what I could do or say
Just that I didn't think this would happen again
With or without my best intentions
And whatever happened to a boyfriend
The kind of guy who tries to win you over?
And whatever happened to a boyfriend
The kind of guy who makes love 'cause he's in it?

And I want a boyfriend
I want a boyfriend
I want all that boring old shit like letters and sodas
Letters and sodas

You got up out of bed
You said you had a lot of work to do
But I heard the rest in your head
And almost immediately I felt sorry
'Cause I didn't think this would happen again
No matter what I could do or say
Just that I didn't think this would happen again
With or without my best intentions


And I want a boyfriend
I want a boyfriend
I want all that stupid old shit like letters and sodas

And I can feel it in my bones
I'm gonna spend another year alone
It's fuck and run, fuck and run
Even when I was seventeen
Fuck and run, fuck and run
Even when I was twelve

And I can feel it in my bones
I'm gonna spend my whole life alone
It's fuck and run, fuck and run
Even when I was seventeen
Fuck and run, fuck and run
Even when I was twelve

You almost felt bad
You said that I should call you up
But I knew much better than that
And almost immediately you felt sorry
'Cause you didn't think this would happen again
No matter what you could do or say
Just that you didn't think this would happen again
Without or without your best intentions

And whatever happened to a girlfriend
The kind of chick who tries to win you over?
And whatever happened to a girlfriend
The kind of chick who makes love 'cause she's in it?

And you want a girlfriend
You want a girlfriend
You want all that boring old shit like letters and sodas
Letters and sodas
Letters and sodas
Letters and sodas

Given my scrambled state of mind after the weekend, I needed to hear it.

Thanks to Liz Phair, circa 1993.