Dear The Public,
It is entirely possible that I have just eaten a hash brownie unwittingly. In my epic attempt be the most non-grocery-shoppingest adult on the planet, I have given birth to and raised the most successful and healthily understocked pantry at least on my street and in, quite possibly, America. An inventory of my food cabinet just revealed that I am the proud owner of four different types of steak seasoning, a bottle of Mexican vanilla flavoring, a half-gone box of spaghetti noodles, and an open bag of marshmallows of questionable age.
I am supposed to readying my house for Idaho Billy, and those of you who’ve stuck with me through the years of writing him letters through this blog can attest to the fact that it is completely unreasonable that we have not made good on my promise to convert to an All-Billy, real-and-in-person lifestyle. Well, I’ll just go ahead and announce it now– supposedly, he’s moving here in two weeks and my whole life will change. Fact is, I live like a 22-year-old boy in that my house is a gallimaufry of tiny living room adventures and abandoned art projects, of coffee-stained sheet music and babydoll heads, of too many books and not enough bookshelves, of dirty dishes and dirtier towels and tennis shoes that match no articles of clothing in my possession. I like my house the way it is, but no one, not even my delightfully slobby roommate, agrees with my current lifestyle. I can’t stop accumulating things. They’re all important things. I have no need for most of them now, but I know that as soon as I throw them out, I will commence a project which will require these precious objects, these twisted coat hangers and paint-crusted brushes, these cinderblock chunks and bits of fabric refuse.
So every day since last week I have woken up with the full intention of weeding out the unnecessary bullshit, of making way for Billy’s suits and polished shoes, for his weights and his computer desk where he spawns brilliance on the internets, for his razors and vitamins and the keys to his probably perfectly maintained car. I know in my soul that it is quite possible that he never smells weird, and he laughs perfectly in person, and his posture is probably impeccable. I also know that I have created this physical entity entirely in my mind, and the reason I know that this will work is because I will graciously accept a stinky, slouchy Billy with an embarrassing laugh just as quickly as I will accept whatever I made up in my head.
But instead of making my life and my house look like I am worth a shit, I decided to teach myself how to play Mr. Bassman on piano. In the midst of all the unwashed plates and the unrecycled beer bottles and the detritus of bachelorhood, I managed to ignore all my responsibilities in order to revisit my childhood (which I apparently spent entirely at Showbiz Pizza ) and teach myself to play a Rock-afire Explosion song. For you, and you only, I have made a video of my 25-YEAR-OLD record playing Mr. Bassman. I wish I could say that I had to abandon my blog-writing and dig the record out of a box labeled “Amanda, Dorky things, 1985,” but I cannot, because, at age 30, Mr. Bassman is perpetually set up in my little Telex record player, ready to go at anytime. I listen to it almost every day and I dance around the living room like an ass because I can’t help myself. For serious, though, it skips twice in the video, and this is because the record is the actual one given to me by my parents at age 5 since the first time I heard the Rock-afire Explosion live and in animatronic person I almost lost my mind and I wouldn’t shut the fuck up about Fatz the keyboardplaying gorilla until I could have him at my fingertips at all times.
Isn’t it magnificent??
So, back to my original point. I taught myself Mr. Bassman on the keyboard instead of cleaning my house, and then I worked up an appetite for a sweet thing, and I rummaged through the freezer and found a nasty, frost-bitten brownie, and I ate it with a quickness.
Then I remembered, that was no brownie. It had sprinkles on it just like the ones in the dregs of the batch forgotten in the freezer last October. Which means. . .
I’m. . .gonna. . .go. . .
Wish me, luck,
Mandey.
