I never had any misconceptions about sex while growing up. I learned about it from my older sister, who did what she was supposed to do when she wanted answers about something: she went to the library, looked it up in the card catalog, and researched it. Nothing but scientific facts for us. As far as love (and sex) went, when I was a teenager, and all through high school, my friends would confide in me about their crushes, their adventures, and their eventual (to me) shocking experiences, and I was always cool, always an available sympathetic ear. I could afford to be detached, because I knew that the whole area of passion had nothing to do with me, and never would. I didn't so much think I was above it, as beyond it. I thought of myself as an anthropologist studying an interesting but hopelessly foreign culture.
What I didn't know was that right under my placid surface was lurking a lake of sensuousness, lust, and an aching to be loved in that way. Although I didn't have a date in high school, or fancy any particular boys, it might have been obvious, because I was busily collecting record albums by romantic, moony singer-songwriters.
When I got to college, there I was, almost eighteen and ready to go off like a time bomb. I didn't really date in college either, but I hung out in groups. One of the people I hung out with was a young man who had immediately gotten my attention the first semester in one of those seminars where we all sat around on the floor, as he was picking apart his sneakers during the class. I don't know why this attracted me to him; it may have been some sort of misfit signal. I had quite a frustrating relationship with this person. I tried to get alone with him, then I took hold of his hand once alone, but could not manage to keep it. I could tell that there was some sort of electricity in the air between us, but any time I got closer, he moved farther away. This puzzling dance culminated one evening with him telling me a story which I later realized was about his recent first sexual experience - with someone else! - and the fact that he was thinking about me all through it. It seemed to upset him when he heard from another woman in our group that I was getting married; a couple of years later, I ran into him and he pretended he didn't know me. I never have been able to figure out why he distanced himself from me at every opportunity, if he were really interested.
In the meantime, I developed an intense crush of a type which might only happen to a nineteen-year-old girl. I fell completely for a voice on the radio, a voice with an English accent and that suave and friendly tone which is a radio announcer's bread and butter. I was carrying around a portable radio and listening between classes. At noon, this particular disc jockey played an hour of oldies-but-goodies and took requests. In my guise as the Kinks Lady of Northport (see "Me and The Kinks), I would call the station from a pay phone in one of the buildings on campus and request Kinks songs during the hour. Pretty soon, he got to know me, as all the other DJs did, and we would have a conversation interrupted by his leaving to put records on. One day, he surprised me by inviting me up to his apartment. I couldn't drive, and so he came to the Quad to pick me up. I stood where I could see him before he saw me, and when I came out, he said, "What a pleasant surprise!" We went to his place and ate bologna sandwiches and talked about England and the Kinks and I don't remember what all else. We even kissed. He had to go back to work, and dropped me back off on campus.
I knew from talking to him that this DJ was five years older than me, and that his wife had recently left him for another woman. I understood that he was in a vulnerable state, and I think he understood that I was. I talked to him many times on the phone while he was on-air; I don't think I had his home number. I don't remember now if I went back to his apartment a second time. But I do know that I relived those moments in my head over and over for years. I remembered every word that we said to each other for years. My mind was completely taken up with this man. If I had known anything about sex, I probably would have lost my virginity to him, but I was still thinking that was for other people. I certainly lost my emotional virginity. I gave my heart and soul with such intensity that I could never go back to being the same person I was before I met him.
My DJ got a job in another state just a few months later, and he had to leave. It just about broke my heart. I had already met my future ex-husband, but when I first went out with him, I told him that I still loved somebody else. I may very well have taken up with John on the rebound, but by the time we got married two and a half years later, I was over my disc jockey and thought I knew John very well.
John was working with the local theater and offered me a ticket to a play. Turns out he had two, and offered the other one to another woman who didn't show up, so I guess I was the lucky winner. We went riding around in his car in the daytime, and to a couple of the famous parties at my sister's house. One thing I liked about John immediately was that he didn't have to go home early for some reason all the time (this had been a common excuse of the guy with the shoes from the seminar). We also would sit in his car, later his truck, and make out and kiss, just like a normal progression for a relationship. I enjoyed this a lot, but I apparently did not realize where it was headed. When John suggested we have sex, I told him I didn't want that kind of a relationship. He pointed out that we had that kind of relationship, and I couldn't argue with that logic. I probably had no desire to, either.
He had rented an apartment, and at first it had no furniture, but we didn't care. I would go there after class, and he'd show up after work, and I'd be so late coming home, and had so much trouble trying to get him to take me home, that I ended up moving in with him. Two years later, when I got out of the University, we got married(see For JWB).
After John ultimately broke my heart, I signed on to Internet dating sites (only free ones), at first just to see what people were on there, because everybody I knew had moved out of town and I didn't know anybody at all to socialize with. I wanted someone to chat with or to go hang out with, anyway. I briefly turned 19 again right after my divorce, and developed a huge crush on a person I met online. He was very interesting to talk to, and knew a lot about music and movies and other popular-cultural things that I could reference. He also had a great sense of humor, and we joked and carried on. I got to meet him once, but it went nowhere. One day, I saw him praising a woman on his profile, and she was raving about him on hers - then he was gone from the site without a word.
My heart would have been broken again by that rude treatment if I had not also by this time been chatting with Joe. I met him on the PlentyOfFish site, where I went by the name Coelacanth. Joe came on and made a reference which let me know that he knew what a coelacanth was - a very sharp hook to drop into the water! We started chatting back and forth with regularity. Joe has a quick mind, a gentle soul and an earthy sense of humor, and he expressed himself in writing very much as he turned out to be in person. I had to ask him if he was ever going to ask me out, or what. We had a memorable first date. I won't go into any more detail since he's a private sort of guy, except to say it's been memorable ever since.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Friday, August 28, 2009
Bama Rapture
One grand day, there will be a Bama Rapture, and everyone who is wearing any kind of an officially licensed Alabama Crimson Tide shirt (or outerwear) will mysteriously disappear, and be raised up bodily to heaven, to sit at the right hand of Bear Bryant.
Saturday, August 08, 2009
Me and Jobs, Part 2
I am sometimes asked why I continue working for the State of Alabama, which has not been very friendly toward me as an employer. The fact is that in over seventeen years, they have been unable, or perhaps unwilling, to fire me on a whim.
I have worked at a place where I was fired because somebody's girlfriend needed a job. I have worked at a place where I was fired in order to cover up the fact that I was at work and someone else, who was supposed to be in charge, wasn't. I worked at a place where I insisted I was not going to work on Easter, and that they could not make me do so. I had big plans for the annual reverent double-feature of Jesus Christ Superstar and Monty Python's Life of Brian, with bread and red wine. Anyway, I didn't work, but I found out later that they had called in a coworker who had come straight in from the hospital emergency room, where she had been treated for a severe headache and double vision, and still had one pupil larger than the other at the time she went to work. And they made her work. And she went to work. I quit.
I worked for the United States Postal Service for eighty-nine days. I was what they called "probationary," meaning that I was only hired for ninety days, after which time they either rehired me on a permanent basis, or not. I was put straight to work as a front window clerk, apparently due to my history of dealing with a hostile public at the food stamp office, which I had quit to work for USPS. I was told that I had one of the highest scores ever recorded for the window clerk's exam. I was also evaluated about once a week, and the evaluations I got were uniformly laudatory in the highest degree, although I was assigned a station with no postage meter and no money order machine, which slowed my performance considerably. I was also not required to work more than 6 hours in a two-week pay period, other than my training period, since the position was technically "part-time." I had been told that everyone in this position nevertheless worked forty-hour weeks, and, other than myself, everyone did. I worked six hours one time. I would have been in trouble if I hadn't withdrawn my retirement from the food stamp office, as I was living on it. My final evaluation stated that I did not like the job, had no interest in doing it, and was unable to do it. I was literally escorted out the back door when it was discovered that if I came to work one more day, I would be hired permanently. I eventually came to the conclusion that there was more than one political faction at work there, and that I had become caught between them. You could call me a disgruntled former postal worker. Unlike some of the breed, I subsumed my anger by refusing to pass within blocks of the post office at which I had worked for the next four or five years.
Following my exit from the USPS, unemployment benefits until they ran out, and a desperate search for work, I was contacted by a friend who offered me a job he said he knew I wouldn't like. It was telemarketing, cold-calling unsuspecting companies and trying to sell them advertising in a publication that did not yet exist. He was right; I did not want it, but desperation won out. The operation was bankrolled on such a shoestring that, every payday, all the employees were in a race to the bank that the paychecks were drawn on, knowing that the last few to get there were as likely as not to be holding a worthless check. I was laid off in a round of belt-tightening, and didn't much mind.
A stint with Kelly Temporary Services, for whose local office I have nothing but praise (at least in the late Eighties), led to my working for the State of Alabama again. This is not what you would call an employee-friendly workplace, but seventeen years of steady paychecks - and raises! - tell the story. There may be many private employers out there who would hire me in a minute, treat me like a valuable commodity, pay me well, and keep me working for them until we cried in each others' arms at parting. But the odds just don't look that good from here.
I have worked at a place where I was fired because somebody's girlfriend needed a job. I have worked at a place where I was fired in order to cover up the fact that I was at work and someone else, who was supposed to be in charge, wasn't. I worked at a place where I insisted I was not going to work on Easter, and that they could not make me do so. I had big plans for the annual reverent double-feature of Jesus Christ Superstar and Monty Python's Life of Brian, with bread and red wine. Anyway, I didn't work, but I found out later that they had called in a coworker who had come straight in from the hospital emergency room, where she had been treated for a severe headache and double vision, and still had one pupil larger than the other at the time she went to work. And they made her work. And she went to work. I quit.
I worked for the United States Postal Service for eighty-nine days. I was what they called "probationary," meaning that I was only hired for ninety days, after which time they either rehired me on a permanent basis, or not. I was put straight to work as a front window clerk, apparently due to my history of dealing with a hostile public at the food stamp office, which I had quit to work for USPS. I was told that I had one of the highest scores ever recorded for the window clerk's exam. I was also evaluated about once a week, and the evaluations I got were uniformly laudatory in the highest degree, although I was assigned a station with no postage meter and no money order machine, which slowed my performance considerably. I was also not required to work more than 6 hours in a two-week pay period, other than my training period, since the position was technically "part-time." I had been told that everyone in this position nevertheless worked forty-hour weeks, and, other than myself, everyone did. I worked six hours one time. I would have been in trouble if I hadn't withdrawn my retirement from the food stamp office, as I was living on it. My final evaluation stated that I did not like the job, had no interest in doing it, and was unable to do it. I was literally escorted out the back door when it was discovered that if I came to work one more day, I would be hired permanently. I eventually came to the conclusion that there was more than one political faction at work there, and that I had become caught between them. You could call me a disgruntled former postal worker. Unlike some of the breed, I subsumed my anger by refusing to pass within blocks of the post office at which I had worked for the next four or five years.
Following my exit from the USPS, unemployment benefits until they ran out, and a desperate search for work, I was contacted by a friend who offered me a job he said he knew I wouldn't like. It was telemarketing, cold-calling unsuspecting companies and trying to sell them advertising in a publication that did not yet exist. He was right; I did not want it, but desperation won out. The operation was bankrolled on such a shoestring that, every payday, all the employees were in a race to the bank that the paychecks were drawn on, knowing that the last few to get there were as likely as not to be holding a worthless check. I was laid off in a round of belt-tightening, and didn't much mind.
A stint with Kelly Temporary Services, for whose local office I have nothing but praise (at least in the late Eighties), led to my working for the State of Alabama again. This is not what you would call an employee-friendly workplace, but seventeen years of steady paychecks - and raises! - tell the story. There may be many private employers out there who would hire me in a minute, treat me like a valuable commodity, pay me well, and keep me working for them until we cried in each others' arms at parting. But the odds just don't look that good from here.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Sheer Pottery II
Poor fool, I
To throw my soul upon the beach
Beyond reach of the waves,
To look hope into the sky
And get blue in my eyes.
Why catch fireflies?
They only glow, and die away
Cold and green and a little weird.
Best not to jar them.
Leave them starring the night,
Black and cold and a little weird,
Distant as the fixed stars,
Frigid as the moon.
Poor fool, I
Following footsteps out the door
And across the grass,
To look dark into the sky
And get stars in my eyes.
To throw my soul upon the beach
Beyond reach of the waves,
To look hope into the sky
And get blue in my eyes.
Why catch fireflies?
They only glow, and die away
Cold and green and a little weird.
Best not to jar them.
Leave them starring the night,
Black and cold and a little weird,
Distant as the fixed stars,
Frigid as the moon.
Poor fool, I
Following footsteps out the door
And across the grass,
To look dark into the sky
And get stars in my eyes.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Sheer Pottery I
Enchanted moon,
I should have known that very soon
You and I would be no more.
No bond between us, no one had seen us
Dance beneath the old enchanted moon.
Enchanted moon,
Lighting up the rain, never hinting of the pain
Filling up the days and weeks like water in the lakes and creeks
Illumined by the old enchanted moon.
Enchanted moon
Hanging in the sky forlorn
I realized when I cried alone
In the southwest sky sits a cold white stone
In place of the old enchanted moon.
I should have known that very soon
You and I would be no more.
No bond between us, no one had seen us
Dance beneath the old enchanted moon.
Enchanted moon,
Lighting up the rain, never hinting of the pain
Filling up the days and weeks like water in the lakes and creeks
Illumined by the old enchanted moon.
Enchanted moon
Hanging in the sky forlorn
I realized when I cried alone
In the southwest sky sits a cold white stone
In place of the old enchanted moon.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Jesus and The Joint Commission
I work at a state mental hospital, which means that we are chronically underfunded, short of staff and behind the state of the art. I am in the medical records department, known as Health Information Management, apparently to throw people off. (This is, though, an industry-wide title.) At the moment, the requirements by The Joint Commission (formerly known as the Joint Commission for Accreditation of Health Care Organizations) for monitoring of medical records has become so onerous that it is increasingly difficult for the traditional, routine and necessary work of the medical records department to be done efficiently and on time. There is simply not enough staff or time for both horribly complicated and arcane businesses to be done by this one department. The atmosphere is increasingly desperate, proportionate to the desperation of the situation, and it seems that the only solution hoped for by now is that Jesus Christ will come back before things become impossible.
There is a parking space in front of our building which reads, "Reserved for HIM." One day, my dad brought me back from lunch, and asked, "reserved for him? Who's he?" I told my dad that most of the people I worked with were true believers and thought that He would be coming back any minute. Apparently. He would be needing a spot to park His SUV.
One can only hope Gabriel's trumpet sounds before TJC's does.
There is a parking space in front of our building which reads, "Reserved for HIM." One day, my dad brought me back from lunch, and asked, "reserved for him? Who's he?" I told my dad that most of the people I worked with were true believers and thought that He would be coming back any minute. Apparently. He would be needing a spot to park His SUV.
One can only hope Gabriel's trumpet sounds before TJC's does.
Friday, June 19, 2009
What I Learned In School
One of the most important things I learned in school, and one that it took all the way through elementary school to get through my head, was not to get ahead. Reading ahead in the book to learn what was coming next was strictly forbidden. Even next week's arithmetic problems and spelling words were dangerous territory. Pages or chapters were assigned, and the end of the assignment meant you stopped there, or else.
Even more of a horror was to learn things that weren't even part of the curriculum for theentire school year. This was a major problem for me, with my sister who was over a year older than I was, and who was a year, and, later, two years ahead of me in school. The problem with my sister was that she liked to teach me what she knew, presumably so we'd both know it. I enjoyed learning what she knew and soaked it up as fast as she could put it out there. I'm told she taught herself to read at the age of three, and taught me when I was no older than four. This caused me no end of problems when I was supposed to have been learning to read and would rather have been reading, which was not on the agenda.
I was very proud of what I knew for the first several years, and I didn't know any better than to march right into the classroom and demonstrate my new knowledge for all to see. The connection between said demonstrations and the time I spent sitting on the bench in the hallway of my elementary school remains vague to me, even now.
Another thing I learned in school was that my word was good for absolutely nothing, especially in the face of overwhelming evidence to the contrary, such as the statement of a peer. This lesson was learned early and painfully, as part of the general "Life is not fair" lesson that I'm still trying without success to find a way around.
Having moved some six hundred miles away from my parents' hometown and all our relatives, I did not see much of my grandparents, and I felt this lack keenly as a child. One year at Christmas, my mother's parents drove down and stayed for several days, bringing what in memory seem to be some rather odd Christmas presents. Anything from my beloved relatives was a treasure, however, and when I found that a missing pencil I had received from my grandparents had turned up in the possession of some kid in my class, I knew that I had to have it back. I pointed out to the teacher that the kid had my pencil, which in retrospect must not have seemed like such a big deal to her. I was not at all articulate and unable to express the overwhelming feelings I had at times; much less to make rational, Perry Mason-like legal arguments back in those days, and I can't recall what I said to the teacher; but she was not impressed. The kid, for whatever reason, claimed the pencil as his. "He says it's his," the teacher said, and that was the end of that. It was useless, had I done it, to point out that the pencil in question was gaily decorated with red, white and blue elephants and the legend, "McLean County Republican Committee," and that Alabama has no McLean County. My gift had left my possession forever.
This lesson has been reinforced again and again, as my best arguments and my most logical reasoning have been put forth against the flimsiest of excuses for withholding from me what I have earned. It doesn't matter what I say, what evidence I have, what obvious lies have been set against me. "It's the pencil all over again," I think.
Even more of a horror was to learn things that weren't even part of the curriculum for theentire school year. This was a major problem for me, with my sister who was over a year older than I was, and who was a year, and, later, two years ahead of me in school. The problem with my sister was that she liked to teach me what she knew, presumably so we'd both know it. I enjoyed learning what she knew and soaked it up as fast as she could put it out there. I'm told she taught herself to read at the age of three, and taught me when I was no older than four. This caused me no end of problems when I was supposed to have been learning to read and would rather have been reading, which was not on the agenda.
I was very proud of what I knew for the first several years, and I didn't know any better than to march right into the classroom and demonstrate my new knowledge for all to see. The connection between said demonstrations and the time I spent sitting on the bench in the hallway of my elementary school remains vague to me, even now.
Another thing I learned in school was that my word was good for absolutely nothing, especially in the face of overwhelming evidence to the contrary, such as the statement of a peer. This lesson was learned early and painfully, as part of the general "Life is not fair" lesson that I'm still trying without success to find a way around.
Having moved some six hundred miles away from my parents' hometown and all our relatives, I did not see much of my grandparents, and I felt this lack keenly as a child. One year at Christmas, my mother's parents drove down and stayed for several days, bringing what in memory seem to be some rather odd Christmas presents. Anything from my beloved relatives was a treasure, however, and when I found that a missing pencil I had received from my grandparents had turned up in the possession of some kid in my class, I knew that I had to have it back. I pointed out to the teacher that the kid had my pencil, which in retrospect must not have seemed like such a big deal to her. I was not at all articulate and unable to express the overwhelming feelings I had at times; much less to make rational, Perry Mason-like legal arguments back in those days, and I can't recall what I said to the teacher; but she was not impressed. The kid, for whatever reason, claimed the pencil as his. "He says it's his," the teacher said, and that was the end of that. It was useless, had I done it, to point out that the pencil in question was gaily decorated with red, white and blue elephants and the legend, "McLean County Republican Committee," and that Alabama has no McLean County. My gift had left my possession forever.
This lesson has been reinforced again and again, as my best arguments and my most logical reasoning have been put forth against the flimsiest of excuses for withholding from me what I have earned. It doesn't matter what I say, what evidence I have, what obvious lies have been set against me. "It's the pencil all over again," I think.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Genius
I have given a lot of thought to genius, since I am commonly thought to possess it. There are two kinds of genius ordinarily recognized: scientific/mathematical genius (the "Rain Man" type of idiot-savant genius falls into this category, as well), and the artistic genius. Mad, or evil geniuses who conceive of brilliant plots to overtake the world will be dealt with in comic books and unreasonably popular novels. (This reminds me of the animal known as the political genius, but if that's considered genius, I'll lump it with the artistic category, since politics is an art, like any other form of theater.)
My claim to genius is based on a Stanford-Binet IQ test which I took at the age of seven years and some months, on which I achieved a frighteningly high score. Neither my parents nor I, nor probably my school, was given the result at the time, and it was twenty years before I got the result. However, I contend that my score is just another example of my talent for taking tests, which served me well all the way through college, and kept me from flunking out on more than one occasion, due to my refusal to do homework or to turn in any papers with which I wasn't completely satisfied. Another example I like to use is the advanced-placement math test I took at the beginning of my freshman year at the University of Alabama. Back at that time, I was still able to recognize the first problem on the test as a quadratic equation, although for the life of me, I couldn't remember what one was supposed to do with it. Looking forward, I could see that the math problems just got harder from there - and I had quite sensibly quit math completely after Algebra I. So I entertained myself by using the #2 pencil to fill in the A, B, C and D answers in a nice, aesthetic pattern, and turned in the test. I ended up with a percentile somewhere in the low nineties. I conclude that there is just no way I can miss with tests, which is how I ended up working as a flunky in a State job, where a high test score was at least supposed to help give one preference for a job.
So much for genius. And so much for genius, a brilliant education and a well-paying job.
It's hard to be humble about being a genius when you have nothing you could have bragged about if you had chosen to do so. If I'm told how smart I am (which I am all the time, sometimes as a dire threat), I don't go immediately into blushing, aw-shucks, toe-kicking-at-the-dirt mode. After all, what's the rest of the sentence? If you so smart, why ain't you rich? Look, folks, it's not all that entertaining to sit around thinking about how brilliant you are. It tends to always lead back to, "so what?" Genius + talent, good. Genius + entreprenurial drive, good. Genius + an overwhelming desire to take over the world for evil purposes? Well, it might get you a movie, at least.
I have to admit, I do have a very good brain. I get a lot of answers on Jeopardy. Before various medications started in with their side effects, I had a prodigious memory. I have an innate sense of systems. That is, I can figure out with a very few clues patterns in how things are set up, and understand why they are set up that way, which helps a lot with clerical work. It's not really a talent that is easily described to a potential employer.
I have also worked for small businessmen who were very happy to have me working for them, because I am flexible enough that I was able to take care of all their business for them. Unfortunately, I also knew about all their business, and if there's anything a businessman doesn't want, it's some woman he doesn't even know, knowing everything about his business.
It probably takes a certain kind of talent for a woman to be smart and dumb at the same time. I suspect it's something that Southern women may have been taught better than their sisters from the north were, Scarlett O'Hara being somehow my mental picture of a woman talented at being both.
So, what is genius if it is not scientific or artistic? Does it count? Is the concept too vague even to grasp? And is it significant that genius has the masculine Latin ending? Close your eyes, and when I say, "Genius," what does he look like? Whatever happened to all the geniae out there? If I called myself a genia, nobody would know what I meant. I don't think it's a silly feminist point, either; I think it's telling.
When I was in elementary school and had my IQ tested, I thought it would be great to be an astronaut. The space race was on, and the astronaut program was all over the news. I don't think I ever thought seriously it could happen to me, though. I didn't have any particular ambition toward any kind of career, and none was encouraged by the schools i went to. In fact, I was punished for reading ahead in my school books when I got bored, reading books for pleasure when I was supposed to be back with the rest of the class, or letting on that my older sister was teaching me what she learned in her class.
When I was in seventh grade, we had some kind of independent-reading program introduced. Students would read certain essays and answer questions, and when their answers had been approved by the teachers, they would get to go on to reading essays at the next grade level. Of course, I flew through all the levels and had to wait for a teacher's attention so that I could get passed and be handed the work for the next grade. I still remember the disappointment I felt when the program ended and I could not get a teacher to pass me on the 12th-grade level, so that I could say I had run the entire program. It was such a small thing, but it was so important to me, and entirely meaningless to them.
I suppose I could say the same lack of encouragement continued all through my career as a student; when I was at the University of Alabama, I often cut classes (which were generally so large or run by graduate students so uninterested that no one knew whether I was supposed to be there), and graduated with a B average. An unstructured curriculum left me to wander by myself, but I'm still convinced that a structured one would have seen me drop out, rather than being lined up like a good little magnetized iron filing and sent into a willing job market.
Genius is only worth what it's worth. A pretty face or a membership in "the lucky sperm club" might get you farther. It might keep you warm at night if you are the kind of person who's kept warm by something like that. In today's world, the more brains you have and the more attention you pay, the more cynical you're likely to become. The ability to be philosophical may be worth more than anything else.
My claim to genius is based on a Stanford-Binet IQ test which I took at the age of seven years and some months, on which I achieved a frighteningly high score. Neither my parents nor I, nor probably my school, was given the result at the time, and it was twenty years before I got the result. However, I contend that my score is just another example of my talent for taking tests, which served me well all the way through college, and kept me from flunking out on more than one occasion, due to my refusal to do homework or to turn in any papers with which I wasn't completely satisfied. Another example I like to use is the advanced-placement math test I took at the beginning of my freshman year at the University of Alabama. Back at that time, I was still able to recognize the first problem on the test as a quadratic equation, although for the life of me, I couldn't remember what one was supposed to do with it. Looking forward, I could see that the math problems just got harder from there - and I had quite sensibly quit math completely after Algebra I. So I entertained myself by using the #2 pencil to fill in the A, B, C and D answers in a nice, aesthetic pattern, and turned in the test. I ended up with a percentile somewhere in the low nineties. I conclude that there is just no way I can miss with tests, which is how I ended up working as a flunky in a State job, where a high test score was at least supposed to help give one preference for a job.
So much for genius. And so much for genius, a brilliant education and a well-paying job.
It's hard to be humble about being a genius when you have nothing you could have bragged about if you had chosen to do so. If I'm told how smart I am (which I am all the time, sometimes as a dire threat), I don't go immediately into blushing, aw-shucks, toe-kicking-at-the-dirt mode. After all, what's the rest of the sentence? If you so smart, why ain't you rich? Look, folks, it's not all that entertaining to sit around thinking about how brilliant you are. It tends to always lead back to, "so what?" Genius + talent, good. Genius + entreprenurial drive, good. Genius + an overwhelming desire to take over the world for evil purposes? Well, it might get you a movie, at least.
I have to admit, I do have a very good brain. I get a lot of answers on Jeopardy. Before various medications started in with their side effects, I had a prodigious memory. I have an innate sense of systems. That is, I can figure out with a very few clues patterns in how things are set up, and understand why they are set up that way, which helps a lot with clerical work. It's not really a talent that is easily described to a potential employer.
I have also worked for small businessmen who were very happy to have me working for them, because I am flexible enough that I was able to take care of all their business for them. Unfortunately, I also knew about all their business, and if there's anything a businessman doesn't want, it's some woman he doesn't even know, knowing everything about his business.
It probably takes a certain kind of talent for a woman to be smart and dumb at the same time. I suspect it's something that Southern women may have been taught better than their sisters from the north were, Scarlett O'Hara being somehow my mental picture of a woman talented at being both.
So, what is genius if it is not scientific or artistic? Does it count? Is the concept too vague even to grasp? And is it significant that genius has the masculine Latin ending? Close your eyes, and when I say, "Genius," what does he look like? Whatever happened to all the geniae out there? If I called myself a genia, nobody would know what I meant. I don't think it's a silly feminist point, either; I think it's telling.
When I was in elementary school and had my IQ tested, I thought it would be great to be an astronaut. The space race was on, and the astronaut program was all over the news. I don't think I ever thought seriously it could happen to me, though. I didn't have any particular ambition toward any kind of career, and none was encouraged by the schools i went to. In fact, I was punished for reading ahead in my school books when I got bored, reading books for pleasure when I was supposed to be back with the rest of the class, or letting on that my older sister was teaching me what she learned in her class.
When I was in seventh grade, we had some kind of independent-reading program introduced. Students would read certain essays and answer questions, and when their answers had been approved by the teachers, they would get to go on to reading essays at the next grade level. Of course, I flew through all the levels and had to wait for a teacher's attention so that I could get passed and be handed the work for the next grade. I still remember the disappointment I felt when the program ended and I could not get a teacher to pass me on the 12th-grade level, so that I could say I had run the entire program. It was such a small thing, but it was so important to me, and entirely meaningless to them.
I suppose I could say the same lack of encouragement continued all through my career as a student; when I was at the University of Alabama, I often cut classes (which were generally so large or run by graduate students so uninterested that no one knew whether I was supposed to be there), and graduated with a B average. An unstructured curriculum left me to wander by myself, but I'm still convinced that a structured one would have seen me drop out, rather than being lined up like a good little magnetized iron filing and sent into a willing job market.
Genius is only worth what it's worth. A pretty face or a membership in "the lucky sperm club" might get you farther. It might keep you warm at night if you are the kind of person who's kept warm by something like that. In today's world, the more brains you have and the more attention you pay, the more cynical you're likely to become. The ability to be philosophical may be worth more than anything else.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Me and The Kinks
I always liked the Kinks, although I didn't realize it until later. I was seven when "You Really Got Me" came out on the radio, going on eight, and I already loved pop music, paid attention to it, and remembered what I liked. I noticed the Beatles much more than the Kinks at the time, naturally. Everybody did, after all. Their songs were bigger, and they were all over the TV. And I loved the Beatles. I remember going to the movie theater in August (I think?) of 1965, when I was eight, with my Beatles-worshipping friend Debbie, to see Help, and sitting through the whole magical experience twice! Not only that, but Debbie had a little record player, and got enough money from her parents to buy 45's. She had some Beatles singles, a copy of the Stones' "Get Off My Cloud," and even an album, the Beatles' Second Album, which she slept with under her pillow. I swear, though, that I read a magazine article in LIFE, or LOOK, or one of the magazines that everyone in America subscribed to at the time that amazed me. It told of a pop group in England that was more popular there than the Beatles were, and was headed by a pair of brothers whose name I couldn't remember (Davis?). What intrigued me was that our two cultures could be so different that with Beatlemania in full swing here, somebody could be even more popular back in England, the very home of the Beatles. I wanted to hear what these guys sounded like. But I didn't pursue it at the time.
This is the point in the story where years pass.
It was in 1970 or 1971 that the Kinks re-entered my life, in a big way. I knew that "Lola" was by the Kinks, and I liked that song a lot. But I don't remember where its period of heavy radio play fell in relation to my introduction to Timothy Ray Reed (later to be known in music circles as the Reverend Fred Lane and art circles as T.R. Reed, Artiste Deluxe). Tim was at that time the significant other of a close friend of mine, and we ended up at his house one evening, an interesting experience in itself. Tim not only played The Kinks Are The Village Green Preservation Society while we were there, but also Captain Beefheart's Clear Spot, which I surprised myself by finding I kinda liked. (Creepy organ music here, foreshadowing the re-entrance of the Captain into my life several years later, at the hands of the person with whom I would have a 30-year relationship, ultimately disastrous.)
Anyway, the next day at school, I could not get the songs from VGPS, which I had heard once, out of my mind. They played over and over until I had to buy the album for relief. Later, Mr. Reed graciously lent me his own copy of Lola vs. Powerman and the Moneygoround, Part 1, allowing the even more infectious songs on that album to take over my mind completely. I treated that LP like gold. It was no small thing to be trusted with a disc from Tim's bizarre and varied collection.
Lola vs. Powerman. I learned about the Kinks from that album. After I got my own copy, I played it as much as my sister allowed. (Only her records in her hearing when she was at home.) Listening to it today, I accept that the songs are in my DNA. I realized for the first time that there were two different people singing on this record, for instance; one lower and one higher voice. Usually they sang in harmony, but sometimes Higher Voice would sing lead, and I particularly liked those songs. Kinda like George Harrison with the Beatles.
I had no social life when I was in junior high and high school; I did my homework or produced massive art projects for my own satisfaction while listening to records which I bought with the scanty proceeds from occasional babysitting jobs. I took a trip to Mexico with my 10th grade Spanish class early in 1972 (also fairly disastrous); the first day or so was spent on a bus. Being isolated, I sat back with my eyes closed and played L vs. P, note for note, lick for lick, in my head. Over and over, in fact. Repetition and memory are said by neurological science to create new pathways in your brain; there is a Lola versus Powerman Boulevard in mine. It remains my favorite Kinks album by a small margin, and not just for the fond memories, though they can't be separated. It's the strength of the songs and the way they flow together.
Naturally, the next thing I did was to buy up the Kinks back catalogue and the new albums as they came out. I found one or two of the very oldest albums in the original mono, in clearance bins, at clearance prices. It took me the longest to find Face to Face. I guess it was scarce because "Sunny Afternoon" was a big enough hit that the pressing almost sold out, but not a big enough hit to justify pressing any more copies. It wasn't me, but the same older sister who located it in a 25-cent clearance box at a store somewhere and bought the only copy. Naturally, she couldn't sell it to me for that price, or even give it to me; no, she held out for the current price for a new album, the total four dollars. She knew she had me over a barrel. I think she was egged on by her evil boyfriend of the time; it was he who, in 1973, told me that Ray Davies had quit the Kinks (by which time he had probably already come back), and left me dangling, wondering if Preservation was ever going to have a Part 2, and not knowing what ultimately had happened until many years later!
I was turning into a serious fanatic by this time. I lurked in magazine stores and record shops, searching for articles, or even a mention, of the Kinks, or anything remotely related. I confused all my high-school classmates by writing "God Save the Village Green" in their yearbooks. I hung out in the University of Alabama library, using their state-of-the-art research facilities (don't laugh, children): the card catalogue for books, and the set of booklets that came out every year indexing magazine articles; looking for past mentions of the Kinks. I was looking for that article I had read about the band more popular in England than the Beatles, but it proved to be a chimera. I Xeroxed article after article when I did locate them: Billboard, Variety, the BBC Listener. (I did run across some great Peter Cook and Dudley Moore bits that way, too.) I began writing letters to the Kinks, although I didn't have any reliable addresses, and I never got any replies, not so much as a returned letter.
Meanwhile, back at radio station WTBC, 1230 AM in Tuscaloosa, I was making myself a reputation as the Kinks Lady of Northport (Northport being the suburb where I lived with my parents.) When I got tired of sitting by myself and listening to my records, late at night, I turned on the radio, and (pop AM radio still being listenable back then, and DJs in person still sitting by the phone), I called up the station and talk to whatever jock was on the air, asking them to play something by the Kinks. I began to notice, after a while, that they enjoyed talking to me, usually about music. I figured that I probably had more brains and better taste than the average teenybopper, but I figure being a young female who had a nice voice probably didn't hurt, either, when the guys were out there at night. Pretty soon, they all were calling me the Kinks Lady. WTBC had an Oldies hour at lunchtime with a particular favorite DJ of mine, and I'd call him on a pay phone (no cells!!!), and of course he had more latitude to play old records during that hour. He was reliable about playing old Kinks singles between noon and one. And when Schoolboys In Disgrace came out, I even caught a DJ playing the single "for the Kinks Lady" when I happened to have the radio on.
Now, remember: I was in college by this time, but I did not drive a car. I had barely enough money for records, stamps and copies. I lived in Alabama, and the Kinks did not play here. They didn't even wave as they passed by. I had no way of knowing where they will be playing, or when. I could't say I was the biggest Kinks fan in the world because I had been to all their concerts, because I hadn't the resources. However. I was by this time caught up in an extremely serious undiagnosed case of depression. I was not going to class; sometimes I didn't even recognize what class I was supposed to be in. Preservation Act 2 had come out, and this is what I did: I would stack the two LPs on my record player. I played them, turned them over, played them and turned them over again. I listened to Act 2 all the time. I have it better memorized than Lola vs. Powerman, even.
I talked to the disk jockeys. I mailed letters. One day, I found the address for Konk studios. Aha! I wrote a letter care of Konk, and got back a nice letter from a Kinks assistant, with a promotional Act 2 button enclosed. This is the closest I ever got to making contact by mail.
Since the last time I turned over the two LPs of Preservation Act 2, I've been afraid to hear it again. The Kinks have truly been the background music of my life for 40 years, but, like the particularly evocative background music for a movie that so shocked or moved you that you just can't watch it again, I just can't bear to find out what hearing that album would do to me today.
In the spring of 1975, I learned that the Kinks were going to play in Memphis, Tennessee. Of the few tour dates I'd managed to find out about, this was far and away the closest to me. I began to cook up a plot with my buddy and Kinks Konvert, Arlene. She was away at 2-year college with a sympathetic music fan who had a car and drove (which neither of us did), and relatives she wanted to visit in Corinth, Mississippi. We scraped together enough cash for round-trip bus fare from Corinth to Memphis, and for a cheap motel.
Upon arriving, we checked in at the across-from-the-bus-station seedy motel and hiked through the worst part of downtown, to the few renovated blocks where the concert venue was located. Along the way, we encountered a colorful group of the Children of God religious cult, who heard our story and informed us that our dedication to a cause would make us valuable members of their congregation. Amazingly, on the day of the show, we bought tickets at the window and landed on the 11th row on the floor. The Kinks were touring with A Soap Opera, with half the show the amazing theatrical from that album, and half of it a regular Kinks concert. It was unreal, one of the most incredible, happiest experiences of my life. My hands were red and swollen, and my throat was sore from screaming and singing along, the next day. We even managed to get a hamburger between us at the bus station cafe, with the key deposit we'd had to pay at the seedy motel since we'd had no luggage.
It had been especially enlightening to walk back through deepest downtown Memphis late, when the concert was over. Arlene and I hesitated for a moment, deciding which way to turn, and were stopped by a vision. A golden car, carrying golden ladies, dressed in gold, with gold makeup and fingernails and hair. The nearest one spoke to us and said, "Y'all workin' girls?" "No!" we said, and immediately chose a direction in which to stride off purposefully, which fortunately happened to be the correct one. Certainly not any competition for you, honey! I seem to recall that we had hesitated in front of an X-rated theater, so it was just as well that the ladies in gold had come along when they had.
(Thirty-one years almost to the month later, Arlene, my Kinks Kohort, and I went to see Ray Davies in Atlanta on his Other People's Lives tour. We enjoyed ourselves, and clapped and hollered and jumped up and down and whooped just as much as we had in Memphis in 1975. It was almost a flashback. And every bit as much fun.)
On the other hand, we went to Atlanta in my car.
I saw the Kinks again, in Atlanta in 1978, in the (fabulous) Fox Theater. They were touring behind Misfits at the time, and had both Blondie and Tom Petty opening for them. I don't remember this concert nearly as clearly nor as fondly as the earlier one. The sound was horrible. We were up in a far corner of the auditorium, and I don't know if that made it worse. A friend who was with me kept going down and begging the sound man to do something, to no avail. I can't even remember what the Kinks played, only that Debbie Harry kept pulling her dress up and Tom Petty kept tossing his hair. What you have to do to get attention when you're not the headliner!
I kept buying the Kinks' albums - and the 12" extended disco single of "Wish I Could Fly Like Superman" - for a while. I think the last LP I had was Give The People What They Want. But in the very late 70s and early 80s, I began to hear music that didn't sound like anything else I had ever heard: reggae, ska, New Wave. The Kinks were playing music by this time that not only sounded depressingly similar to what everybody else was playing, but not as good, as far as I could tell, as what they had played before. To someone who was just discovering their newer music, they might sound really innovative compared to, say, Journey; but to me, they weren't creating magical, fresh songs that stuck in my head and wouldn't go away. I couldn't tell you who played on their last few albums, what label they were on, what songs were on what album, or whether they only came out on cassette tape and 8-track. Elvis Costello has given Ray Davies great props as a songwriter - but, by that time, I had rather listen to Elvis Costello.
Whether or not I'm listening to Kinks music, it's in the back of my mind. Whatever other music I love, and I love a lot of music, the Kinks are the soundtrack to my life. It won't do just to say they are special or precious. They and their music, the whole concept of them, everything about them, has meant so much to me for so long, that it's impossible to think of how I as a person could exist without them, who I would be without them. They saturate my existence. I am no longer the obsessed fan that I once was; now, I and they are more like an old couple who have been married for untold years.
I first noticed Dave Davies singing, "Truly, oh, truly, there is nothing in this life without your love," and it sounded almost exactly as if he were saying, "Julie, oh, Julie." In one of my favorite songs of Dave's, he sings, "Truly, truly, trust your heart." My ex-husband heard that and said, "Is he saying 'Julie'?" I prefer to think so. That's why I always sign myself
Truly Julie
This is the point in the story where years pass.
It was in 1970 or 1971 that the Kinks re-entered my life, in a big way. I knew that "Lola" was by the Kinks, and I liked that song a lot. But I don't remember where its period of heavy radio play fell in relation to my introduction to Timothy Ray Reed (later to be known in music circles as the Reverend Fred Lane and art circles as T.R. Reed, Artiste Deluxe). Tim was at that time the significant other of a close friend of mine, and we ended up at his house one evening, an interesting experience in itself. Tim not only played The Kinks Are The Village Green Preservation Society while we were there, but also Captain Beefheart's Clear Spot, which I surprised myself by finding I kinda liked. (Creepy organ music here, foreshadowing the re-entrance of the Captain into my life several years later, at the hands of the person with whom I would have a 30-year relationship, ultimately disastrous.)
Anyway, the next day at school, I could not get the songs from VGPS, which I had heard once, out of my mind. They played over and over until I had to buy the album for relief. Later, Mr. Reed graciously lent me his own copy of Lola vs. Powerman and the Moneygoround, Part 1, allowing the even more infectious songs on that album to take over my mind completely. I treated that LP like gold. It was no small thing to be trusted with a disc from Tim's bizarre and varied collection.
Lola vs. Powerman. I learned about the Kinks from that album. After I got my own copy, I played it as much as my sister allowed. (Only her records in her hearing when she was at home.) Listening to it today, I accept that the songs are in my DNA. I realized for the first time that there were two different people singing on this record, for instance; one lower and one higher voice. Usually they sang in harmony, but sometimes Higher Voice would sing lead, and I particularly liked those songs. Kinda like George Harrison with the Beatles.
I had no social life when I was in junior high and high school; I did my homework or produced massive art projects for my own satisfaction while listening to records which I bought with the scanty proceeds from occasional babysitting jobs. I took a trip to Mexico with my 10th grade Spanish class early in 1972 (also fairly disastrous); the first day or so was spent on a bus. Being isolated, I sat back with my eyes closed and played L vs. P, note for note, lick for lick, in my head. Over and over, in fact. Repetition and memory are said by neurological science to create new pathways in your brain; there is a Lola versus Powerman Boulevard in mine. It remains my favorite Kinks album by a small margin, and not just for the fond memories, though they can't be separated. It's the strength of the songs and the way they flow together.
Naturally, the next thing I did was to buy up the Kinks back catalogue and the new albums as they came out. I found one or two of the very oldest albums in the original mono, in clearance bins, at clearance prices. It took me the longest to find Face to Face. I guess it was scarce because "Sunny Afternoon" was a big enough hit that the pressing almost sold out, but not a big enough hit to justify pressing any more copies. It wasn't me, but the same older sister who located it in a 25-cent clearance box at a store somewhere and bought the only copy. Naturally, she couldn't sell it to me for that price, or even give it to me; no, she held out for the current price for a new album, the total four dollars. She knew she had me over a barrel. I think she was egged on by her evil boyfriend of the time; it was he who, in 1973, told me that Ray Davies had quit the Kinks (by which time he had probably already come back), and left me dangling, wondering if Preservation was ever going to have a Part 2, and not knowing what ultimately had happened until many years later!
I was turning into a serious fanatic by this time. I lurked in magazine stores and record shops, searching for articles, or even a mention, of the Kinks, or anything remotely related. I confused all my high-school classmates by writing "God Save the Village Green" in their yearbooks. I hung out in the University of Alabama library, using their state-of-the-art research facilities (don't laugh, children): the card catalogue for books, and the set of booklets that came out every year indexing magazine articles; looking for past mentions of the Kinks. I was looking for that article I had read about the band more popular in England than the Beatles, but it proved to be a chimera. I Xeroxed article after article when I did locate them: Billboard, Variety, the BBC Listener. (I did run across some great Peter Cook and Dudley Moore bits that way, too.) I began writing letters to the Kinks, although I didn't have any reliable addresses, and I never got any replies, not so much as a returned letter.
Meanwhile, back at radio station WTBC, 1230 AM in Tuscaloosa, I was making myself a reputation as the Kinks Lady of Northport (Northport being the suburb where I lived with my parents.) When I got tired of sitting by myself and listening to my records, late at night, I turned on the radio, and (pop AM radio still being listenable back then, and DJs in person still sitting by the phone), I called up the station and talk to whatever jock was on the air, asking them to play something by the Kinks. I began to notice, after a while, that they enjoyed talking to me, usually about music. I figured that I probably had more brains and better taste than the average teenybopper, but I figure being a young female who had a nice voice probably didn't hurt, either, when the guys were out there at night. Pretty soon, they all were calling me the Kinks Lady. WTBC had an Oldies hour at lunchtime with a particular favorite DJ of mine, and I'd call him on a pay phone (no cells!!!), and of course he had more latitude to play old records during that hour. He was reliable about playing old Kinks singles between noon and one. And when Schoolboys In Disgrace came out, I even caught a DJ playing the single "for the Kinks Lady" when I happened to have the radio on.
Now, remember: I was in college by this time, but I did not drive a car. I had barely enough money for records, stamps and copies. I lived in Alabama, and the Kinks did not play here. They didn't even wave as they passed by. I had no way of knowing where they will be playing, or when. I could't say I was the biggest Kinks fan in the world because I had been to all their concerts, because I hadn't the resources. However. I was by this time caught up in an extremely serious undiagnosed case of depression. I was not going to class; sometimes I didn't even recognize what class I was supposed to be in. Preservation Act 2 had come out, and this is what I did: I would stack the two LPs on my record player. I played them, turned them over, played them and turned them over again. I listened to Act 2 all the time. I have it better memorized than Lola vs. Powerman, even.
I talked to the disk jockeys. I mailed letters. One day, I found the address for Konk studios. Aha! I wrote a letter care of Konk, and got back a nice letter from a Kinks assistant, with a promotional Act 2 button enclosed. This is the closest I ever got to making contact by mail.
Since the last time I turned over the two LPs of Preservation Act 2, I've been afraid to hear it again. The Kinks have truly been the background music of my life for 40 years, but, like the particularly evocative background music for a movie that so shocked or moved you that you just can't watch it again, I just can't bear to find out what hearing that album would do to me today.
In the spring of 1975, I learned that the Kinks were going to play in Memphis, Tennessee. Of the few tour dates I'd managed to find out about, this was far and away the closest to me. I began to cook up a plot with my buddy and Kinks Konvert, Arlene. She was away at 2-year college with a sympathetic music fan who had a car and drove (which neither of us did), and relatives she wanted to visit in Corinth, Mississippi. We scraped together enough cash for round-trip bus fare from Corinth to Memphis, and for a cheap motel.
Upon arriving, we checked in at the across-from-the-bus-station seedy motel and hiked through the worst part of downtown, to the few renovated blocks where the concert venue was located. Along the way, we encountered a colorful group of the Children of God religious cult, who heard our story and informed us that our dedication to a cause would make us valuable members of their congregation. Amazingly, on the day of the show, we bought tickets at the window and landed on the 11th row on the floor. The Kinks were touring with A Soap Opera, with half the show the amazing theatrical from that album, and half of it a regular Kinks concert. It was unreal, one of the most incredible, happiest experiences of my life. My hands were red and swollen, and my throat was sore from screaming and singing along, the next day. We even managed to get a hamburger between us at the bus station cafe, with the key deposit we'd had to pay at the seedy motel since we'd had no luggage.
It had been especially enlightening to walk back through deepest downtown Memphis late, when the concert was over. Arlene and I hesitated for a moment, deciding which way to turn, and were stopped by a vision. A golden car, carrying golden ladies, dressed in gold, with gold makeup and fingernails and hair. The nearest one spoke to us and said, "Y'all workin' girls?" "No!" we said, and immediately chose a direction in which to stride off purposefully, which fortunately happened to be the correct one. Certainly not any competition for you, honey! I seem to recall that we had hesitated in front of an X-rated theater, so it was just as well that the ladies in gold had come along when they had.
(Thirty-one years almost to the month later, Arlene, my Kinks Kohort, and I went to see Ray Davies in Atlanta on his Other People's Lives tour. We enjoyed ourselves, and clapped and hollered and jumped up and down and whooped just as much as we had in Memphis in 1975. It was almost a flashback. And every bit as much fun.)
On the other hand, we went to Atlanta in my car.
I saw the Kinks again, in Atlanta in 1978, in the (fabulous) Fox Theater. They were touring behind Misfits at the time, and had both Blondie and Tom Petty opening for them. I don't remember this concert nearly as clearly nor as fondly as the earlier one. The sound was horrible. We were up in a far corner of the auditorium, and I don't know if that made it worse. A friend who was with me kept going down and begging the sound man to do something, to no avail. I can't even remember what the Kinks played, only that Debbie Harry kept pulling her dress up and Tom Petty kept tossing his hair. What you have to do to get attention when you're not the headliner!
I kept buying the Kinks' albums - and the 12" extended disco single of "Wish I Could Fly Like Superman" - for a while. I think the last LP I had was Give The People What They Want. But in the very late 70s and early 80s, I began to hear music that didn't sound like anything else I had ever heard: reggae, ska, New Wave. The Kinks were playing music by this time that not only sounded depressingly similar to what everybody else was playing, but not as good, as far as I could tell, as what they had played before. To someone who was just discovering their newer music, they might sound really innovative compared to, say, Journey; but to me, they weren't creating magical, fresh songs that stuck in my head and wouldn't go away. I couldn't tell you who played on their last few albums, what label they were on, what songs were on what album, or whether they only came out on cassette tape and 8-track. Elvis Costello has given Ray Davies great props as a songwriter - but, by that time, I had rather listen to Elvis Costello.
Whether or not I'm listening to Kinks music, it's in the back of my mind. Whatever other music I love, and I love a lot of music, the Kinks are the soundtrack to my life. It won't do just to say they are special or precious. They and their music, the whole concept of them, everything about them, has meant so much to me for so long, that it's impossible to think of how I as a person could exist without them, who I would be without them. They saturate my existence. I am no longer the obsessed fan that I once was; now, I and they are more like an old couple who have been married for untold years.
I first noticed Dave Davies singing, "Truly, oh, truly, there is nothing in this life without your love," and it sounded almost exactly as if he were saying, "Julie, oh, Julie." In one of my favorite songs of Dave's, he sings, "Truly, truly, trust your heart." My ex-husband heard that and said, "Is he saying 'Julie'?" I prefer to think so. That's why I always sign myself
Truly Julie
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