Some thoughts, in no particular order:
In one of my many Conversations With Myself this morning,** I used the word “prerogative,” which lead me to wonder how many people were able to correctly use this word prior to Bobby Brown’s 1988 release of Don’t Be Cruel. Or, I continued to wonder, am I just horribly misunderestimating the vocabulary of the English-speaking world?
** To clarify: this is an “all the fucking time” thing, not just a “this morning” thing.
I had a flashback (also this morning) of a phone conversation between my mother and one of her ninety sisters. In said flashback, mom was trying to determine the diagnostic criteria of an injury she believed had befallen me, and was calling Sister No. 12 to verify. This memory makes me happy, not because said injury ultimately resulted in surgery*** but because little things like this are–at least for my mother’s half of the gene pool–one of the best parts of being a family.
This memory lead me to wonder what sorts of phone conversations I’d have with my own brother in the future, and the conjecture became increasingly fuzzy. The majority of our current conversating revolves around the obscure pop culture references we both share, our unique tastes in music, and our joint, overwhelming, awkwardness. Basically, we live in a giant Insider bubble that no one really “gets” but us.
My last text to Brother: “Few can rock the steel drum solo like the hollies”
So in Future Land, when my hypothetical children are suffering from mysterious ailments (likely caused by their mother’s unintentional neglect: “Mommy doesn’t know how to cook meat properly. Just eat some more rice”), will I call on my brother for help? Likely not. Were I to be desperate enough to seek his advice, I imagine the conversation would run something like this:
Julie: Hey, Brother, I think little Jojo broke his toe, but I’m not sure.
Brother: Jojo was a man from Tuscon, Arizona…
Julie: Haha, yes! (singing) “Bought some California grass…”
Brother: Get back, Jojo!
Julie: For some reason that song makes me think of Jumpin’ Jack Flash
Brother: It’s a gas, gas, gas
Julie: I hate that word. I’m glad no one uses it anymore.
Brother: I need to bring that word back.
Julie: Please don’t
(Heard in the background: “Mommy, Jojo’s toe fell off”
Julie: Aw, shit.
***Though I did get to miss school AND got a new pair of pants (in a somewhat unrelated, but somewhat intriguing story) out of it
As endearingly-irritating as his voice can sometimes be, I fucking love James Blunt. No other album gives me goosebumps the way Back to Bedlam does. Yes, I love the music, but I have such strong, positive memories associated with the album that the overwhelming feeling I get whenever I hear it is damn near surreal. This is my holy music. I cannot describe why.