My mom is a wunderfrau when it comes to furniture arranging. I lack all spatial organizational abilities, so all of my furniture has been shoved to the perimeter of my apartment, creating a sort of dance-floor effect in the middle of my large studio. That could be really great if my apartment came with a disco ball and a few gyrating guests, but as a living space, it’s kind of bleak and depressing. This ain’t no disco. This ain’t no fooling around.

So my mom, my younger cousin,* and I did some shopping, a little Chicagoey sight-seeing, and a lot of walking around. Your general fascinating tourist activities. My mom is the quintessential tourist. She’s an attractive, stylish woman, but when she’s traveling, all of her classy accessories are turfed in favor of floppy straw hats, liberal application of sunscreen, hideous tote bags, and the most GODAWFUL, oh-my-God-I-hope-those-ugly-motherfuckers-help-you-to-see-through-walls, enourmous black rectangular wraparound sunglasses which make her look twenty years older than she really is.

She also becomes even more hyper-friendly when she’s away from home, which is sweet, but could instigate an assault in certain places in the city. LuvaMom sometimes has trouble with the concept of “personal space.” We’ll be in the elevator, and she’ll have loud and semi-sensical conversations with whomever will listen, about the weather or what they’re wearing, and she’ll throw in a few of her favorite joke tag-lines, forgetting that the stranger in the elevator hasn’t yet had the privilege of listening to those jokes time and time again, and may still be under the illusion that they have meanings or punch-lines.

It’s funny, I remember my grandfather, my mom’s dad, doing the same thing. We’d all be walking to church, and he would grab passers-by and wish them a blessed morning with a familiarity that made people uncomfortable. It pissed off my mom so much you could hear her small intestine becoming bunchier. The difference being that my grandfather was pretty fucking creepy, and my mom is a sweetheart. She’s not creepy, just dorky. I’m sure it wouldn’t annoy me as much if Oversensitivity to Maternal Antics wasn’t in my job description.

The last night she and my cousin were in Chicago, we had dinner at an Italian restaurant downtown where my parents had eaten the last time they came to visit me. Oh, my God, this meal was so good on so many levels.

Chicken and spinach and farfalle in a parmesan broth thingy. The World’s Yummiest Salad ™ with greens and gorgonzola and chicken, served with The World’s Squishiest and Most Flavorful Croutons ™, drizzled with some kind of perfect vinaigrette, dear Lord almighty (which was not the name of the dressing, though it perhaps should have been). My lifeblood, red wine. And for dessert, a gigantic brick of delicious tiramisu, which my mother, cousin and I split between the three of us.

When our waiter, Jessie, brought out the leftovers (which were plentiful, and all of which I took home because my family was leaving the next morning … SCORE!), he tapped me on the shoulder and revealed a tin foil container holding a HUGE piece of tiramisu. “This is for you,” he said, and put it in the bag with the rest of the food. That was sweet.

We left the restaurant, and my mom grabbed my arm and said conspiratorially, “I think that young man would LOVE to get to know you better.” Indeed, the way to my heart is through gigantic 7 pound slab of free rum-drenched ladyfingers layered with cream. Poor Mom is rather desperate to set me up with just about anyone, I think. She means mighty well, and I can tell she isn’t nearly as persistent as she would like to be, which I appreciate. But I sort of doubt that she realizes the kind of guys I’m usually attracted to, and I think it’s very unlikely that I’d have had much in common with our forty year old Italian waiter. Nothing against Jessie. What would be most tempting about going out with him would be the right to say that I was “Jessie’s Girl.” And that song has been running through my head ever since that revelation of INARGUABLE GENIUS.

It would be nice to be so coveted just by virtue of my boyfriend’s name. I’d be watching him with these eyes, and luvinim with this body, you just know it. And I’d hold him in my arms, latelate at night … And why can’t you find a woman like that?

As such, I thought I’d consult the internet to find out what the writer of that brilliant song is up to these days. Turns out, he’s recently written another album, which, for whatever cruel reason, I find pretty fucking hilarious.

Remember this guy 

“John Cougar/John Cougar Mellancamp/John Mellancamp!”

No, sillies. That’s Rick Springfield.

Don’t worry; I’m sure it happens to him all the time.

Starting with a text-image I copied from the super-cool website for the new album, why don’t we …

There’s this …

… which informs us that Mr. Springfield has been quite busy, indeed, producing a new CD that you can’t miss. That’s right, You. And, You, too.

The “four raw emotions” in question are shock, denial, anger, and acceptance. Those don’t immediately spring to mind when I think of raw emotion. OK, anger is a raw emotion. Shock? At times. But “shock” is more of a state than an emotion, really.

Denial and acceptance are not emotions at all, let alone gut-wrenching, “raw” ones. They’re complicated and layered psychological parts of an emotional process, which makes them about as raw as white flour. You don’t really feel “denial.”

I think that Mr. Springfield is still trying to lure listeners with the teenbeat terms that used to work with his target audience, forgetting that he was born in 1949, and that his target audience has long since learned how to read. Not to say that they’d be as metaphysically nit-picky as I am.

The following are some photos from the production of Shock/Denial/Anger/Acceptance. Note how it totally looks like they’re recording in someone’s aunt’s rumpus room.

Where the magic happens. According to the sign, it’s the “Dog House.”

Aforementioned dog, Scoob, who fled the premises after the sweet tunes began. Poor little Scoob.

You may think, as I did, that Mr. Springfield is doing some kind of flamenco clap in front of his face. In fact, however, there is a harmonica obscured by his manly, meaty palms.

I’m a big fan of this one, because it looks like he’s being French. Here, I think he’s singing “ouef.” Look! His mouth is making that shape that surfaces when you try to fit too many vowels into one syllable! Ouef!

Here’s the keyboardist, Derek. I think Derek looks like a nice guy. Maybe I’d be Derek’s Girl, and he wouldn’t even have to try that tired, “I played with Rick Springfield on his 2004 album” line. That one’s getting mighty old.

It could be the crappy resolution on my computer at work, but is that a ski pole in the background, right by Derek’s elbow?

This is Matty. My guess is that the rumpus room is his. Or hers. I’m not sure of the gender.

Rockin’ Rick Springfield. Because, who hasn’t wanted to see up Rick Springfield’s nose?

Rockin’ Rick Springfield #2. This little crossed-legged guitar tuning move totally attracted the poety chicks in high school. Now it gets him arrested.

OK, that was mean. After all, Mr. Springfield is …

That is simply awesome.

I shouldn’t pick on Rick. He seems like a nice guy with a decent sense of humor about himself, all things considered. One of his newer songs, according to the “Journal” portion of the website, even makes brief reference to “Jessie’s Girl.” And despite what I always thought, he wasn’t a one hit wonder. He was in lots of successful bands in Australia, and had some success on TV and whatever, with guest appearances on episodes of “Nancy Drew” and “The Incredible Hulk.” Which is more than I’ve done. So, I’ll stop now.

You want to tell me that you love me, but the point is prob’ly moot,

Kelly

(The radio is playing the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra Chorus singing Mozart’s “Lachrymosa.” I totally sang this in high school. Na na nana na.)

(And I’ll bet I know what song you have in your head now. Yeah, that Lachrymosa’s a catchy one. How I wish that I was Wolfgang’s girl.)

* My cousin, referred to in the previous entry, seems to be doing okay. She’s turning into a witty little smartass, and I couldn’t be happier about that.

~ Last Five Entries ~

Moths, and Relative Nonsense - 08.18.05

I Finally Have Internet Access in my Bedroom. But, No Ashtray. - 08.09.05

Here I Am - 08.02.05

One-Armed Paper Hanger Earns her Wings - 07.29.05

Sugar & Lemon - 07.28.05

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