Los Pericos, what do you see in this image?

You may want to check the Wikipedia Rorschach Test site soon. It appears to have some errant Wiki-fiti of an Argentine band squeezed into the intended content.

Random thing that pisses me off

Wanna know what really grinds my gears? Semi-pro singers who grab-up karaoke spotlights. Don’t you get enough attention singing on your own that you can let us Plebes have a little fun and not be intimidated by you? Like, what’s up with that?

So, Matthew and I were at a party. This party boasted karaoke and 80’s music—perfect! But, no, awesomeness was not to be had. First, no one at the party but us was into the 80’s music part. Second, some woman jumped up the second the karaoke book was passed around and instantly had her smug little face in front of the microphone. I didn’t think about it too much until she opened her mouth and belted out an amazing pitch-perfect rendition of a Janis Joplin song.

Dood. Give the rest of us a chance—you just took a little piece of my heart.

The list will never end

I just thought of another awesome Christine Wy song lyric:

"Yeah, I fought the four leaf clover and always win."

What does that even mean?

"She had a crush on me. She was really into Robert Palmer. Went to one of his concerts. Do you know who Robert Palmer is?"

"Yeah."

"I guess she was addicted to love."

"Did I ever tell you what I used to think that song said?"

"No."

"'Bite his little face and you're addicted to love!'"

It's not about fuel consumption

I have this major problem with song lyrics. If I’m not really sure what they are, I kinda make up random words that sound right.

I have the uber ipod now that I got for Christmas, and I’m putting everything on there I can think of. In the mix: my husband’s Buzzcocks CD.

The first thing I realized was how many live songs I had heard and loved in my life that were actually Buzzcocks covers. Second thing? Lyrics. Now that I can see song titles, a whole world of understanding has opened to me.

My version: “All gas-matic.”

Actual version: “Orgasm addict.”

Their way sure makes a lot more sense. I always wondered why that song was about cars….

Coming up for air

Remember the note to myself I couldn't find? The music artist I wanted so badly? I found it. It was on the mega-important insurance page I had filed in my desk under "Mega-Important Insurance." My brain. So peculiar.

Turns out it's J'DaVey. Who knew? Once I read it I knew for certain that, yes, duh, that was the name, but I couldn't remember it on my own.

Enjoy the performance. It's sweet.

The gods’ annoying endowment

Prometheus gave us fire. Athena wisdom. Calliope poetry. Euterpe gave me the power to recognize Chinese muzak versions of American pop hits of yesteryear.

“’I just called… to say… I love you.’”

“What?”

“’I just called… to say how much I care.’”

“What are you singing that for?”

“That’s what’s on the restaurant muzak.”

Laughing, "I can't even hear it."

“Oh! ‘Love lift us up where we be-looong!’”

“How is this your talent? Of all the useful things you could do…?”

“I can identify bad Chinese muzak?”

“Yes. What is up with that?”

“’Don’t cry for me Argentina!’”

Mairzy doats

In honor of St. Patrick's Day, my favorite faux Irish ditty:

Mairzy doats and dozy doats and liddle lamzy divey
A kiddley divey too, wouldn't you?
Yes! Mairzy doats and dozy doats and liddle lamzy divey
A kiddley divey too, wouldn't you?

If the words sound queer and funny to your ear, a little bit jumbled and jivey
Sing "Mares eat oats and does eat oats and little lambs eat ivy"

Oh! Mairzy doats and dozy doats and liddle lamzy divey
A kiddley divey too, wouldn't you-oo?
A kiddley divey too, wouldn't you?

Now isn't that fun? My little sister taught it to me many years ago. I would sing it all the time if wouldn't drive everyone else bonkers.

Hope all your Irish hangovers are mild and well-nursed, and may the ground always rise up to meet your feet.

The 80's girl band power struggle lives on

Karaoke started innocently enough, but the next thing I knew, I was listening to the radio and my iPod for next perfect song to perform. And then I was hooked. Moderately obsessed, but I swear not full-on obsessed. I haven’t started buying karaoke discs to take with me or anything (true litmus test). I did get my own microphone, but that’s because I’m a psycho germaphobe. No expectorate sharing. Practical, right, for the paranoid germ psychotic?

The reason I love karaoke so much is that my friend hosts a modified Japanese style karaoke with an American twist. He even has a snappy name for it, Jerryoke, a pun on the beginning of his last name. We meet in his home on monthly Friday nights, and we wail away in privacy, amongst our closest friends. No one to judge your song choice, no one to disdain your mediocre (or worse) singing, no one to rate how cool you are based on your performance. Unencumbered fun, no trepidation over appearance.

And I’ve found Jerryoke to be a release. “Let go,” Jerryoke says to me. “It’s OK to be your rock-n-roll car sing-along self, here, in Jerryoke’s home.”

What makes Jerryoke the Japanese cum American experience is that aside from the privacy and friendliness of the experience (Japanese), anyone can choose to sing along, not just the song requester (American). Whoever likes a song jumps up, grabs a microphone, or just shouts along without a mic, and we all sing together. The camaraderie is profound in the unified communal catharsis of singing. It’s fun.

One night, my friend--whose voice is more suited to New Order than The Go-Go’s--and I sang “Vacation” in unison at Jerryoke. He said, “Good, your voice can hide my crappy singing.” We went to sit down after we finished, flushed with conquering The Go-Go’s, and I felt so close to him.

“What song do you want to do next?” I asked Davis.

“Mm, maybe ‘Head Over Heels,’ but you do back-up.”

Woah. Davis just told me my voice was good over his, but now he wanted to relegate me to back-up? And in case you didn’t know, back-up on pretty much any Go-Go’s song is “Ahhh-Ahhhh-Ahh” and repeat.

“Really? We can’t both be Belinda Carlisle?”

“No, you can be Jane Wiedlin on this one. I’ve been practicing and I think I’m ready.” This from a 300-pound dude with a basso-baritone voice—or something rumbly and deep sounding.

It turned out we didn’t sing again that night, so I avoided the Belinda Carlisle/Jane Wiedlin power struggle. I figured he was at least slightly joking, so I teased him about it.

Feb 19 email:

ok, so our next song can be head over heels if you want. but after that, we're doing "candy" by iggy pop and kate pierson. it was made for us.

-Christine

Later, I asked him to join us at Jerryoke:

Feb 23 e-mail:

nope, can't do it tonight, but practice the harmonies on "Head over
Heels," I've been working on that one in the car.

it should be pretty easy, you just need to do the "right from the starting line" harmony and the aaaaaaaah-AH! AAAAAAAH-ah! part.

I want to learn that piano part, too. Like I can't play anything on piano but I could nail that one solo just to blow people's minds. If Charlotte Caffey can rock it while dressed up like an 80s housewife in the video with a sweater and a poet's tie and everything just so no one could tell she was a totally horsed-out stone junkie, then so can I.

Oh, Charlotte, who ever guessed that you and Gina would age the most gracefully?

Davis.

E-mail response:

i made sure to put it on my ipod LAST NIGHT! so i'll start listening RIGHT NOW!!!

we rock.

-Christine

Double woah. He’s really serious about this back-up stuff. The awareness of the correct back-up vocals locations, the deep analysis of the pianist, it all points to Dread Pirate “Head Over Heels.”

Later, he told me I could have lead vocals on “Vacation” if he could have “Head Over Heels.” What sucks is that “Vacation” was my go-to song for so long that I’m over it. I want “Head Over Heels!” And it’s Jerryoke I’m (moderately) addicted to, not karaoke—we should all sing lead vocals on “Head Over Heels” together if that’s what we want.

But, you know, if it means that much to him, I’ll learn the “Ahhh-Ahhhh-Ahhs.” I was enamored with Belinda Carlisle in the ‘80’s, but I like ‘00’s Jane Wiedlin better than ‘00’s Belinda Carlise anyway.

Crisis of conscience

We just left home karaoke at our friend’s house in Blue Island. I was driving, we were tired, and I wanted a little reassurance.

“How’d I do tonight?” I asked.

Matthew was quiet for a bit.

“Honey, we both suck but we have fun.”

I felt my heart sink and my throat get a little woozy. “Suck” was news to me.

Anyone who’s heard me sing a cappella will indeed tell you I’m terrible. I need a band, I need back-up, I need tonal supervision, and I project best into a microphone. I was always in church choir and lauded for my voice, and, every time I’ve sung karaoke, I’ve been congratulated on my singing. Real congratulations, not sympathy congrats like you give to your losing opponents in little league, not just, “good job,” and a fake grip-n-grin. People have looked for me when I’ve sung karaoke in bars and said, “You did great with the Go-Go’s.” Who would lie about that?

But I’ve just been told, “Honey, we both suck but we have fun.”

I asked him, “No one’s ever told me I’m bad at karaoke. Are you really saying I’m bad at karaoke?”

“We had fun, and that’s what matters.”

No, that isn’t all that matters. A lifetime of compliments on my stage performance has just been questioned for the first time ever.

“Matthew, everyone’s told me I sing well at karaoke.”

“Well, who are you going to believe? Them or me?” he asked, half-asleep already.

“Your opinion is the one that matters most to me,” hoping for the affirmation, hoping he’d change his mind or at least fake it a little.

Silence.

My evening of fun, competent, group singing felt undone. I questioned every note I’d sung. Was it when I couldn’t get the low notes in “Rio” by Duran Duran? Was it because I didn’t know all the words to “Mirror in the bathroom”? Did I sing the girl parts too loud on “Love Shack”?

What about the last time I sang karaoke? Was it my rendition of Melanie’s “Roller skates”? She sang it funny herself, she warbled and squealed, so I warbled and squealed. Was that bad?

All I really wanted to be told was that I performed adequately. I know I’m not Melanie. I know I’m not Belinda Carlisle. I definitely know I’m not Simon Le Bon. I just wanted to know that I didn’t suck, that I had a good time and didn’t suck.

At least I had the best microphone.

Lord of karaoke

Fallin down like a domino

I slaughtered The Bangles' "Walk Like an Egyptian" at karaoke last night. Hog-tied and butchered. They didn't deserve that. Their revenge: I can't get the damn song out of my head.

Fly free bird

Clear Channel has so bruised classic rock it’s like an overripe peach escaped from a greedy corporate fist: “I will wring the highest profit possible out of lame programming and nationally broadcast generic deejays!” Classic rock is so over exposed that its context is irrelevant. Which is what makes it perfect.

I go bonkers on car trips longer than two hours. Hours two to four I get a little noxious, and then hours four plus I go totally off the deep end, which includes meaningless shouting, gripping the dash and rocking violently like I’m trying to shake the car, and ends with me pouting silently at the mean, nasty road. My only salvation is classic rock.

Some time around hour two, I start looking for the local Clear Channel classic rock station. Any white person can sing along with classic rock, which is why it’s so ubiquitous. Clear Channel wants me to come like they are and not fear the reaper. Okay, no problem. “Come on baby,” I’m already there.

Singing along, intentionally tunelessly, loudly and obnoxiously, I drown out the tedium of driving and the feeling of entrapment in my tiny car. Even my staunchly anti-corporate media husband plays along with the game and shouts “25 or six to four” with me. Should we try to do some more? All signs point to Yes. “In and around the lake.”

My favorite parts of automotive sing-alongs are changing lyrics to be witty or punning (“I wish I had Jesse’s squirrel”) and crazy back-up-dancing-fake-Freedom Rock-Woodstock-jamming out (Nodding head, “Yes, yes, yes—keep on rockin!” Shaking head, “No, no, no—don’t stop rockin!”).

Rock-n-roll will save my road-weary soul, Clear Channel style.

Sing your heart out, baby!

I’ve come to think that offices should have karaoke rooms.

There should be a soundproof glass booth with a high quality karaoke machine somewhere in the back or a corner. Singing out loud is such an awesome stress reliever, and having that at work would blow off steam in a controlled, safe way that doesn’t involve exploding on co-workers.

You get a bad e-mail from your boss saying you have to work late to finish the Jones project. You go into the soundproof box, and you wail Janis Joplin’s “Cry Baby.” You feel better, refreshed, calmer, level-headed, and you go back to your desk and work on the proposal for the Jones project. Mission accomplished.

My problem is that I would be in there 20 minutes of every hour. “Ooh! I just thought of an awesome song to sing! I’ll be back in five minutes.” Two songs, three songs, four songs later, “Sorry, I sang all the songs by INXS In the catalog.”

I always look for good karaoke songs for my voice, even though I only actually do it about twice a year, and by the time karaoke trips come around again, I’ve forgotten what songs I picked. My stand-by is “Vacation” by the Go-Gos. I’ve sung it in two different states and one different country. Everyone sings along for the chorus, so it doesn’t matter if I’m bad. Which I’m not. I rock the karaoke. But the audience participation makes singing alone on a stage a communal experience that bonds us all closer.

Now where’s my soundproof booth? I wanna sing “Venus” by Shocking Blue.

Opposite City

I have a silly song in my head.

See, I was one of the lucky ones—my parents got cable TV really early on in my childhood. No public television Sesame Street for me, I was straight-up Nickelodeon all the time.

And so there was this program that I can’t remember the name of that came on after Pinwheel. There was a woman who always wore a pink uniform jump suit--wait!--she was a mannequin that came to life after the department store closed. The show took place after the store closed at night and all the hidden things came out to play. And there were animals that lived in the walls of the store, and I think there was a janitor guy. I don’t know for sure, I just remember the pink jumpsuit lady most, she had curly brown hair.

The characters went into a place called “Opposite City” inside the TV show. I loved opposite games as a kid, so Opposite City was my favorite place in the world. Every time they went, they sang a song together, “Come on, come on, to opposites with me! Come on, come on, to Opposite City!” It was catchy.

I’m walkin around thinkin, “Come on, come on, to opposites with me! Come on, come on, to Opposite City!” and I just wanna do a little dance as I walk down the hallway and get into Opposite City through the snow globe that took them there.

Future sounds

The cell phones that I have owned in the past have always had at least
one ring tone I found tolerable. There were the standard issue
corporate logo ring tones, the sound of a rotary phone ringing, the
sound of a pulse phone ringing, the one with the strange cheer and
birthday music. Each was acceptable in its own quirky polyphonic way.

But now we are in the new era of ubiquitous downloaded custom ring
tones. And my bland corporate can bores me.

At the big shindig family reunion this past weekend, my mom and I had
the same ring tone. Can you believe? Oh the confusion. We’d laugh and
say, “Is that your phone or mine?” But I was irked. Not that I mind
copying my mom, au contraire, but I minded that I couldn’t tell if I
was expecting to hear from my husband or my mom’s sister. I just
wanted to know the difference.

I was uninspired as to what to look for in a ring tone until my husband
and I watched “CSI: Miami” Tuesday night. During a pivotal
third-quarter hour death revelation scene, a familiar bit of opera
re-mixed with a Hindu influenced house beat punctuated the drama of the
scene. “That’s it!” I said to Matthew. “It’s from ‘The Magic Flute.’
It’s perfect for a new ring tone.” I jumped up and was off to the
computer to hit our vendor’s website and find the aria. I think
Matthew ignored my typically erratic behavior. I have no idea who
killed whom though. I am kind of curious.

Quick web search, Mozart wrote “The Magic Flute” (sorry I can’t spell
it in German). Quick search of the cell phone website, no “Magic
Flute.” Only three Mozart entries. Hm.

I downloaded “Minute Waltz” by Chopin because that was awfully cute as
a ring tone, but I still wasn’t satisfied. I went back to the website
and clicked on all the classical music entries in order to sample all
the different sounds. Most of them were very dour and only appropriate
for an angry spouse. Some were too light and seemed unhelpful for
getting the receiver’s attention.

But then a random click revealed it. “Lakme Flower Duet.” I don’t
even know what that means! “Flower Duet?” That’s not from “The Magic
Flute” at all! Oh well, it’s the right sounds no matter how mistaken I
was about the origin.

This afternoon I walked to the grocery store on my lunch break. As I
was on my way back to work, riding the elevator to Upper Michigan
Avenue street level, I heard the most beautiful music. Suddenly the
sound of delicate, warbling voices was surrounding me in the elevator.
I was overcome and looked around for a speaker, thinking, “My god,
that music is overwhelming me. It’s so beautiful. It’s like a duet.
It sounds just like the opera I downloaded…”

Yes, it was my own phone. I was awe struck by my little simple cell
phone. I laughed into the receiver, seeing it was my husband, and I
told him the story of the Magic Elevator Ride. He said, “You’re going
to do that every time you hear it ring until you get used to it.” He
is so right. And if it brings such beauty and wonderment into my
world, I don’t mind at all.

People in hell don't want to rock-n-roll

A friend of mine is taking guitar lessons concurrently with me teaching myself. He's much more advanced than I am since I lack any real musical dedication. There's lots of things I'd practice into oblivion, but music ain't one of 'em.

My parents are very supportive of my music endeavors and they're thrilled when I tell them I learned a new string today and a new note and all that. My intimate friends are all very excited that I am playing the guitar just because it's fun to go on a new adventure vicariously though the travails of someone you love. It's my poor husband, however, who suffers silently hearing the same 8 or so notes and the three nearly identical chords that I know played in rapid succession. He is also vexed by my awful timing, where I pause completely when I'm confused and then resume raggedly.

As a gesture of politeness, I guess, my guitar playing friend passed on a message to me that if I ever wanted to get together to play, I should call him up. It's possible he really feels so friendly to me that he wants to spend some fun time playing guitar with me, but I don't think he knows exactly the (lack of) skills I bring to the table.

I can think of only one person in the universe who would willingly select me as a musical accompanist. Satan. Satan would find the most depraved, wicked thrash guitar-er in Hell and damn him to spend an eternity of jamming with me. It would be even cooler if jam sessions with me were payback from where Satan bought the dude's soul in exchange for earthly fame achieved by his sick guitar sound, also bestowed by Satan. But it would be OK if it were just regular Hell torture instead of retribution for double-crossin' the Devil. Either way's OK with me, I'm game. As long as I get a pre-nup or whetever is necessary to state that I am a guest of hell, not resident, and therefore I may leave at my will (or when formal contractual stay expires), and therefore I deserve amenities the normal non-damned people receive. Such as filtered cool water at my request. Comfy couches. Upscale hotel quality sleep arrangements--no dirty tricks, shower with blood, bed is secretly a monster, and so on.

I would also like the liberty as a non-resident of Hell to associate with whomever I please. For instance, if Hell has a library, I might like to meet the librarians. If some of the Hell demons are good cooks, I think I'd like to work out a friendly social arrangement with them where I get to share their supper.

I think, after all these musings, the result will be that I will re-invite my friend to play guitar with me. Casually, on couches, no burning torture chairs, a variety of chilled beverages if he wants them. Then I'll corner him and make him teach me about finger position and other technical things I haven't learned in class. It will be just like he is in Hell! Mwah ha ha haha!

Dream entry #1

Three nights ago I dreamed I divorced Matthew to marry Peter Gabriel. I romanced Peter Gabriel by writing him an earnest letter of deepest love that cut straight to his core, and we knew we were instantly lovers for eternity. In my dream I woke up from a dream within a dream, and I thought this was a pretty cool idea, even though I felt kind of bad about Matthew. But I mean come on, wooing Peter Gabriel with love letters? That�'s a once in a lifetime chance that you can�'t pass up. Poor Matthew. So the dream within the dream didn�t go exactly as planned. I couldn'�t remember the perfect words I had written to Peter Gabriel to win his heart instantly, so I was doing to best I could, writing on parchment paper and using a fountain pen with India ink. All was not proceeding apace. No one was going to be swooning over my monstrosity to Peter Gabriel, and I was covered on both my hands with blackest India ink that stains deeply.

Peter Gabriel heard of my endeavors and came to meet me as I was writing my parchment love letter. He walked out onto this veranda where I was writing, and the sun made this beautiful warm glow around everything, it was a magical romance movie moment where he reached to take my hands, and I said �"but they�re covered in India ink,"� and he didn'�t care, he took my hands into his own and smiled and told me �I love you� with his eyes.

So then I really woke up from both dreams, thinking �this was pretty darn funny stuff,� right? I laid awake in bed a while before admitting it was time to get up, and I started to compose the letter I would write to Peter Gabriel. A letter that would truly come from my heart:

Dear Mr. Gabriel, I know you best from my dentist�s office. Dr. S. is a big fan of your work, and he has signed limited edition prints and albums from you hanging in his office. He also has a lot of rock memorabilia, and I think there may be part of a keyboard you once played in his office.

I am a fan of your music, but most often I hear your big hits, even though I�'m sure your catalog is very different from the few songs I know. �"Big Time"� has been in constant repeating mode in my head since there'�s a new commercial out that uses it as their theme song.

I�'m writing because last night I had a dream that I wrote a love letter so profound that I divorced my husband in order that we could marry. I don�'t remember what that amazing letter was though, so this is what you get.

By the way, if you ever play House of Blues, if you can get me two tickets that would be cool. I promise I'�ll learn the lyrics to your other songs too.

Your Fan Sincerely,
Christine Wy

Going for the one

It’s amazing to me to ride on the train and hear people’s ipods blaring music so loudly that I could sing along if I knew the words. Most people listen to what they look like. A Latino punk listening to the Clash. A young office-working guy listening to Modest Mouse. I like the surprises best though. One time I was standing near a young woman who was listening to her ipod at a truly eternal ear-damage level. She looked like she was on her way to college classes--very young art student. The first song I heard was by the Pixies. I tried not to bob my head and sing along, but when I wasn’t cringing from concern for her eardrums, I enjoyed it a lot. What happened next was definitely a shuffle moment. A song by Janis Joplin came on, and the girl turned up her ipod’s volume even louder! While I love Bobby mother-effin McGee almost as much as Janis did, I almost died laughing at innocent art girl.

Here was a song I associated so heavily with my high school years, when I pretended to understand what it meant to be a hippy, screaming from the earbuds of a girl who looked more techno-rave than tree-hugger. And she was jamming out on the packed morning commute train, standing near the doors with her art portfolio. What a cutie. Her anachronistic appearance and love of Janis Joplin made me smile for hours.

I just plugged in my new earbuds for the first time, despite mounting evidence that all of us ipod addicts are going deaf quickly. Apparently earbuds tire the auditory nerve more quickly than traditional headsets, which causes the listener to turn up the music louder and louder as their ear bones grow weary of transmitting sound. That said, my new earbuds are amazing. God bless Sony and their amazing acoustic technology. I feel like I’m listening to a tiny Yes concert in my head to the exclusion of all aural insults in my environment.

Yes is one of my guilty pleasures. Like the girl in the train car, I don’t think I look like a Yes fan. A Yes fan looks like a skinny middle-aged guy that has never been on time with fashion. If I were as unconcerned about my ear health as the young art student, I would jam to Yes on the way to work as everyone sniggered because they were suddenly reminded of that one Yes song that was popular when they were young. They’d try not to bob their heads and sing along, but they’d want to. I hope they’d smile as they thought of me blissing out to Yes.

Fret one, fret three

I recently made a huge commitment: I cut the fingernails of my left hand index, middle, and ring fingers to the quick. “But Christine!” you cry, “You have long been known throughout the land for your stunning natural fingernails!” Ah yes, it is true. I do have amazingly healthy fingernails, but there are sacrifices that need to be made for our art. I am learning to play guitar.

Art is used here in a very loose sense to describe my guitar playing. Since I haven’t figured out how to tune it and I am teaching myself, I described my chords to a friend as “as acoustic bleeding ear assault.” She thought this would be a good name for my future band. She might be right, but she’ll have to be a member because she’s the one who tunes my guitar!

I am now able to play eight notes on three strings, and sometimes they go together in ways that sound like songs. I was initially proud of my first callous and thrilled with my progress, but since I only practice 15 minutes to an hour every night, I have sort of plateaued at my eight notes. I have also committed myself to a better discipline of finger position on the frets, hence my need to reduce or eliminate fingernail beauty on my left hand. Form over function. Sigh. It makes me want to find my old college roommate and tell her, “I understand.”