Five Song Friday: The Skeleton Purge
Episode #123: Cowboy Jams, Fire Thighs and Judgmental Crows
You should probably know about the time I killed a couch.
Why bring it up now?
My therapist wants me to clean the skeletons out of my closet.
Release my dark secrets into the light.
She wants me to draw a map of where all the bodies are buried.
Not literal bodies, of course. I’m not a murder person.
But her advice was to get ahead of these indiscretions. Claim responsibility before somebody discovers my past misdeeds and I have to defend myself.
Don’t worry, I’m not about to run for office.
And nothing I’ve done is on par with politicians.
I’ve never staged a bike accident with a dead bear.
I never gave away free tampons in high school.
And I never hung out with a guy who ran a creepy sex island or buried my ex-wife on a golf course for tax purposes or made fun of disabled people on national TV.
None of my dirty laundry is blood-stained or bullet-ridden.
But there are things I’m not proud of… and if we’re going to continue this relationship, it only feels right to fill you in.
Let’s start with the text messages.
Sometimes I get them out of the blue from numbers I don’t know. They seem polite and genuinely confused.
But clearly they have the wrong number because my name’s not Helen.
I’m also not Gary looking to give my cat up for adoption or Celeste, who is running late for a dinner party.
Maybe they really did misdial.
But instead of letting these random texters know they made a mistake, I lean in.
I pretend to be Gary and say I changed my mind.
My cat doesn’t need a home anymore because I put him in the microwave. Problem solved. Plus, now I get to buy a new microwave!
I say that, yes this is Celeste, but I’m not going to make it to dinner because I just hit a hobo with my car. And I didn’t realize I hit a hobo until I got all the way home and saw the dead hobo underneath my car, which was NOT there when I left.
I write, “please come help with body. bring trash bags and red wine. LOL.”
Sometimes they apologize for the misunderstanding.
Then they ask what I look like.
When I say I’m “sexy AF,” they immediately respond with a picture of themselves, which is always some doe-eyed Russian model biting her bottom lip.
To which I promptly reply, “Gross.”
Looking back, I realize this is mean and I’m sorry.
You should also know about the mailman incident.
A couple of weeks back, I’m taking out the trash and recycling cans.
Our mailman pulls up and hands me a big pile of catalogs, mailers and envelopes.
We get to chatting and while he’s talking, I thumb through the pile.
Then, right in front of him, I drop the whole stack into recycling.
Ever seen a grown man in a pith helmet cry? It’s not great.
And it wasn’t a slow, single tear like that Native American from the 1970s littering commercial either. It wasn’t dignified or dramatic.
It was messy.
He got all snotty and wet and blubbered about “what is he doing with his life” and “does he really have a purpose” and “what is even the point anymore.”
I really should have picked him up off the street and hugged him. Pulled him close and told him it would all be okay.
But that’s not what I did.
I laughed. I laughed and walked away and shouted, see you tomorrow!
In my defense, I thought he was doing a bit.
We no longer make eye contact.
I could go on, but let me wrap this up with the worst of my worsts.
Once upon a time I killed a couch.
It was a smoky cream, fake leather fat boy.
Puffy but sophisticated. A real looker back in 1991.
The details are fuzzy, but I was moving and there was either no room for this guy in the new place or I had no way to get it across town.
Sure, I could have given it away to friends or neighbors. Left it in the alley for scavengers. Or donated it to Goodwill.
But one day, I found myself alone with it in the backyard. Just me, the couch, a hammer… and a hacksaw.
I stunned it with a few quick blows and then tore into it like a madman. Sliced open the cushions until the stuffing spilled out. Whacked the legs. Splintered its skeleton into pieces small enough to fit into the garbage can.
An hour later, it was like the couch never existed.
As I scooped up the last of the mustard-colored foam guts, I noticed a face in the window across the way. It was a young boy, no older than five. His jaw open. Face frozen in horror.
He’d seen the whole thing go down. Poor bastard.
I never saw that kid again, but I think about him often.
How did my act of violence affect him? Did it rewire his brain?
Did he grow up to become a murder person?
I hope not.
That would be a bummer.
I like to think maybe that boy grew up with a soft spot for sofas and his childhood trauma fueled a desire to defend couches from people like me.
I like to think his passion to protect oppressed upholstery eventually blossomed into a deep love and insatiable lust for living room furniture.
I like to think that boy was JD Vance.
Five Song Friday #123
“Death Valley High” - Orville Peck, Beck
I want to say something insightful about this bumping, hipster cowboy jam, but all I can think about is the moment these two were introduced. “Peck, this is Beck. Beck, meet Peck.” Beck… Peck. Peck! Beck! Oprah…Uma. Uma! Oprah! To-may-toe. To-mah-toe. Schlemiel! Schlimazel! Hasenpfeffer Incorporated!
“I’m Getting Tired” - Jackknife Lee, Beth Ditto, Earl St. Clair
Fun fact: When I hear this song, I lose control of my legs. The beat really gets me going and if I’m behind closed doors, you better believe I’m pretending to absolutely KILL it on the Soul Train dance line. But halfway through I run out of steam. And while I’m breathing heavy and sweaty and my thighs feel like they’re on fire, I listen to the lyrics and, at that moment, everything in the universe makes absolute perfect sense.
“Birdbrain” - Buffalo Tom
Now that I’m older, I find this 1990 song offensive to birds. I watch birds and they seem to have things pretty much figured out. Hanging out in trees and swooping down to snatch fish out of the river whenever they get hungry? They go where they want to go, do what they want do and poop with impunity. I see how the crows look at me through my window when I’m stuck inside all day in Zoom meetings. It’s a look of pity. They are judging me. And when they fly away towards the sun and into the vast blue sky, their caws sound like, “See you later dum-dum!”
“In-Between” - Jacob Slade
I don’t know much about Mr. Jacob Slade. But if you can knock out a tight 2-minutes of breathy, ethereal synth-pop while rocking a mustache while also sporting a flower behind your ear? You go boy.
“One Million Kisses” - Half Japanese
Let me just say that one million kisses is probably way too many. You smooch that much and one of you is definitely walking away with chapped lips and some intense redness and irritation. Not to mention neck pain and a possible strained tongue. Pace yourselves, you perverts!
“When in doubt, act like God.” - Madonna (Born August 16, 1958)
Thanks for reading!
Sincerely,
DJ CrankyPete