CASSANDRA JENKINS: Wild World feat. Delicate Steve
My day was warm and mellow and unrushed. (Sure, I got to enjoy my first experience on the receiving end of a kill fee, but so it goes. On the flip-side, I developed a super dope sandwich I plan to repeat often in the future [toasted sourdough with garlicky hummus, sprouts, spinach, kosher salt, and a hearty spritz of lemon juice].) Hope yours was, too.
I recently reviewed the (spoiler alert) the puke-uke Replacements tribute album from Bright Little Field. Proverbially spinning (via busted iPhone) it over and over just stuck me with a hankering for the real deal, inspiring a major ‘Mats revival, particularly this track.
Often Westerberg’s smart songwriting gets masked by general sloshery. This song is so raw and sad and honest and pretty. The stale beer and pounding hangover. Vomit, heartache. It sounds exactly like a sloppy, solo walk home.
Perhaps it just took my first six consecutive months of singledom in years to entirely get the last wisp of optimism closing the cut. Or maybe I’m just getting old.
In other news, I think my marriage pact count is now up to three or four.
Sometimes my dreams have very vivid soundtracks. Last night I dreamt I met Steve Martin and told him about how my dad bought me his autobiography (true story). This played in the background. I can’t remember if this impressed him or anything else that happened. I just remember waking up next to my sister in her bed, dodging her ice toes and ripping the retainer from my mouth in some mystery rush.
I went to a WASP-y high school and attending youth group was a fairly popular, non-geeky Thing To Do — especially at Killearn Methodist or Wildwood Presbyterian.
I grew up Catholic, my family frequenting early Sunday mass within the stained glass Blessed Sacrament structure. But I tried out the protestant youth group with their PowerPoint presentations and acoustic guitar. It was very different from the rigid, pious practice that had become a beloved habit — Wildwood and Killearn’s lighting felt too bright and I couldn’t get excited about peanut butter-eating contests.
I was slipping away from Christianity in my early-/mid-teens but I was still trying to find some sort of footing in any of the three churches. I was trying to feel something, to believe.
It didn’t stick, but you can never fault someone for trying to believe in something — religion, love, magic. It’s worth trying.
Earlier this week, I volunteered to help my manfriend clean his rather unfortunate kitchen. While balls-deep in Butthole Surfers, cheap malbec, and on my second steel wool, he innocently asked, “Is this…OK with you?” I think, since cleaning is traditionally not the most party time task we get to experience in life, he thought surely I was cursing him under my breath. But…guys, I’m kind of a pervert.
Caroline accidentally named it about a month ago when we were kicking it with bourbon and Kevin on my couch. I’m not sure how it came up, but I was trying to recall an OxiClean commercial—you know, those ones from the ‘90s when that bearded dude crouches next to a sickly-looking light brown bathtub and is all,“YO WATCH THIS,” and when you do, you see him swipe a perfect white scar, cutting through the scuzz. “HOLY FUCK,” 8-year-old me thought. Caroline nodded knowingly as I detailed all of this. “Oh yeah,” she said. “Biore pore strip people. I’m one of those, too."