Wednesday, October 30, 2002

FUCK the Fucking Prudes. I mean that in the best way possible.

As long as we are talking about bands with girls in them, anyone remember... Tall Tale? Or that very short-lived ensemble featuring Liz Turbull? Lilliput Langstrum or something equally impossible to remember (it was a Willy Wonka reference, no?). They did a cover of a GnR song which won my eternal approval. Liz was surprisingly good -- and not just in that way that you say someone is good at something that you don't expect them to do (like if Dick Cheney took up pet portraiture) -- but in the way of measuring up to anyone else. They were really good.

Here's something....
Watching the Sopranos last week I was reminded of my all-time favorite John Smith story. There was a yarn in the episode where AJ (the Soprano son) goes to his super-rich girlfriend's house and he and his friend are marveling at the Picasso paintings and other priceless possessions when the friend pulls out a Rubber Soul record and says, "this must be worth a fortune!" I laughed to the point of snot because...

John used to have one of those Rubber Soul records in his collection. When we lived on the corner of Roan and Watauga we used his stereo to listen to records in the attic (birdpoop, shit howdy). He hated that. To know John is to know and love his streak of anal retentiveness. Given this trait, imagine how antsy he could get thinking people were messing around in his record collection and likely breaking things. Antsy he was, and not without reason. Donnie and I had previously fried his speakers goofing around, trying to scratch. Whoops.

So, it's one of the *first few times* John doses and he's shooing everyone away from the his turntable and record collection. Paranoid, maybe. But I was wanting to play Fear of a Black Planet for the bazillionth time and that required using his stereo and being in close proximity to his record collection. He was having none of it. He locked the stereo room, and the music situation was easily forgotten moments later.

The next thing we know, Public Enemy is blaring out of the speakers and John is coming up the stairs with a handful of black record shards. It was his Rubber Soul. In a moment of clarity, John made this meaningful (albeit weird) sacrifice (Jeff Gold would be proud).

And THAT was all the proof I needed to affirm my suspicion that drugs (along with exercise and eating right) make you a better person.

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