Everyone loves excuses, so here are a bunch of 'em

A shout out to those of you who sent messages to me requesting proof of life. Woot!! It is very VERY surprising to me that ANYONE reads this blog, let alone takes the time to send me an email saying that they enjoy reading it and would like to read more. I am so very flattered when I get such kind messages.

Also, I feel rotten.

READER: "I happened to notice that you aren't doing your job of entertaining me. When do you suppose you will get back to it?"

ME: "I am MONUMENTALLY averse to responsibilities and obligations, and the minute I start to feel like something is expected of me, I start barfing all over the place."

The sincerity of these inquiries, rolling in at a steady pace of one or two a month for three years, completely disarms me. While they give me a live-affirming boost (because I am inevitably in the middle of referee-ing some blood-curdling custody battle that is converting my soul into a gerbil pellet), these pleasant messages make me feel guilty, and I wonder myself why I am not paying attention to "the blog" (I still feel like a jackhole even referring to this thing). But then I have to remind myself: This is just a hobby. I wonder if you know how blogs work? I don't get paid. Was that not clear?

Please don't take that the wrong way. I know what you meant when you wrote to me asking where I had gone off to. What a totally unmerited blessing to have enthusiastic readers – many of you have never even met me! But, then I started to think, who ARE you? I mean, we're on the same page here, I hope. We're all fully aware that I'm no one special, right? I hope it's not the case that a friend of a friend of a friend of a gay guy forwarded this to you and you think I have credentials or something. I am not, just to be clear: (1) important, (2) knowledgeable, or (3) famous, in any shape or fashion. I pay $15 a year for a domain name, and here you are reading this. I apologize if there has been some sort of misunderstanding. I hope that by now you recognize that I don't know anything about outer space or Alanis Morissette's marital status, and that I don't date Brian Urlacher – even though, in spite of all of your emotional support, not a one of you lazy fuckhats, who I guess can't afford to buy books, has come through with his address or even told me what bar he hangs out at. Shame on you.

So even though for all you know I'm serving 25 to life, I still can have a blog. I know. It doesn't seem right, mostly to me. But it is fun for me to write totally wrong things about Chick-Fil-A and Iceland knowing that people actually read this for some reason. Some people even feel compelled to send me very serious messages to "school me" or debate "facts" or refute claims that I've made (primarily re: D.B. Sweeney). Half of what I write in this blog is a clarification that the other half of this blog is total bullshit. Then again, when was the last time you heard anyone talking about D.B. Sweeney? Personally, I think I'm doing him a favor.

Someone from Europe posted a comment addressing me as: "Poor Dumb Polak [sic] Girl." To this person, all I can say is, "POOR YOU!!! I am REALLY sorry!!! Why are you reading a blog that you hate? Are you being held hostage at a Dark Site? Are they making you listen to a lot of Taylor Swift? If you have free will, and access to the internet, why in the hell are you reading THIS? Order yourself 'The Hunger Games' trilogy! It's totally awesome!"

Since the last time I wrote, some things did contribute to my slacking off on the blog: I moved three times. I had a boyfriend. Then I didn't have a boyfriend. I had a JOB. I couldn't find a pencil.

About the boyfriend – right around the time I met him, I ran a blog post up the flag pole about anal-sex. Of course he was not a fan. I have 9,000 other posts involving NO anal sex whatsoever. I can aver that 99.9% of this blog is NOT about anal sex, but after a year and a half, my boyfriend still had only gotten around to reading the butt-sex post, which was clearly purposely ridiculous (even though it was 100% true). He did read the post in which he is featured as offering to let me wipe my sweaty face on his shirt at a concert, and he liked that one, perhaps because I had portrayed events exactly as they had occurred, or because I captured his sense of humor accurately (because I DO literally write down things people say WHEN they are saying them, and some people don't mind that, while others, understandably, find it REALLY STRANGE). He did NOT find it strange, and that is because he is a narcissist of the highest order (i.e., his narcissism is so stealth that he honestly believes that he is the opposite of one, and being a lesser narcissist myself, it took me over a year to even BEGIN to pick up on hints about it), so of course he liked to read about himself.

Even some non-narcissists don't mind reading about themselves from another person's point of view. But most people really DO NOT like it. They might THINK they would like it. Lots of people say, "Are you gonna write about this!!!" And I say, "Yes, but you won't like it." And sure enough, the blog post goes up, and 14 minutes later I receive a tactful email from my friend saying how her aunt is on Facebook and if she clicks through she'll see my blog and know that [friend I wrote about] is "Skippy" [in X blog post] and "could you please remove Skippy from the story, or if you wouldn't mind, just remove the post altogether, and I really do like your blog, but just not when I am in it, you know, because of my aunt."

Aunts are just the worst.  I can say that, because I am one.

So anyway, the day after I wrote it, the boyfriend (who wasn't my boyfriend yet) forwarded the post about us going to see MGMT to some of his friends under the guise of showing them that he had gone out with a girl who… I really don't know what message he was trying to convey… that he went on a date with a girl who writes down conversations verbatim and then plugs them into the internet? That he went out with a girl who goes home from a date and stays up all night transcribing it? Is that something you want your friends to know? Did he like it? I can tell you that most people do NOT like being the subject of, or even casually mentioned in, one of my blog posts, so why this guy got a kick out of it and passed it on to his family and friends, well, I should have seen the red flag. Maybe I thought he respected my "craft," but who am I kidding. This isn't a craft. It's a BLOG. A dirty, filthy, blowjob-laden BLOG, with no value whatsoever. I liked this guy a lot, and although I don't believe that he meant to dissuade me from writing, when he tendered his opinion that I didn't need to write "things like that," I felt tsk'ed, so I stopped writing. I loved him and I didn't want to embarrass him or hurt his feelings. I didn't want to write things about my mother that made it seem like I don't love my mother, because I DO love my mother. But he got me to thinking that if I had a kid, well... I shouldn't be allowed to have kids and also have a blog. I was starting to regret the things I'd written, mostly because I was getting a very strong vibe that the person I loved had it in his head that I would be a terrible mother.

And a regrettable girlfriend

It's not totally unforgivable that he wasn't keyed up to be dating a girl who wrote about that time she took pills and begged someone to fuck her up the ass. Twice. That makes sense. But that ship has sailed. I wrote it. It's out there. I can't take it back. And according to eBlogger, which shows which posts are being read AND the cities where people are reading them, that ONE post has gotten as many hits as the footage of the Snooki-face-punch. And for some reason, the people of Iceland, perhaps ALL of them, based on the number of hits from unique IP addresses, are really curious about anal sex. Now, this had really nothing to do with what I'd written. This was about how search engines work, and people search for whatever they search for.  It just so happened that after a couple of weeks, you could type "anal sex" into Google, and UP came MY blog.

That's not really what I was going for. Not at all. I'm sorry, Iceland. I really am, but I can't be one of the top 3 sites that come up associated with... well, sex of any kind. I mean, it's not flattering. I wrote it. I know that. But it wasn't intended to define me or destroy all of my personal relationships.

But it did.

Because he took to the concert post, I mentioned him in the brutally honest butt-sex post. I thought I was dating a guy who was cool with me having a blog. I think he thought he was cool with me having a blog. But it wasn't worth it to me to push it. I couldn't figure out how to be a nice girlfriend and a weirdo blog-writer at the same time, so I stopped posting... and worked really hard at being a girlfriend. As surprising as this may sound, given all the flattering things I've disclosed about myself, my best wasn't so good. I was a less-than-satisfactory girlfriend, as it was related to me in the end. Too bad, so sad.

But at the time, discontinuing broadcasting the escapades of my youth wasn't a hard decision to make. While I had strangers who had no problem with the things I wrote, I had real-life people who were expressing that my blog was "distasteful." My boyfriend's brother's girlfriend (now wife), who I did not meet until over a year later, on the very day that my boyfriend's brother proposed to her, turned out to be supremely cool. But long before my meeting her, she read the non-blowjob-themed post about my date with her now-brother-in-law at the MGMT concert. I don't know if she read any other posts, or if someone gave her a Cliff's Notes version of the blog, but my boyfriend related to me her concise review of WindyCityChick.com, which was: "She sure likes to give blowjobs."

Oh.

My.

Then, that same week, my father unexpectedly, and surely inadvertently, made a reference to a non-raw portion of an incredibly raw post, indicating that, even though there is no reason in the world for my parents to know that I have a blog, they DO know that I have a blog. And they read it. Ack!!!!

Even though my blog is mostly NOT about sex at all, but about me being an idiot when I was in my 20s, it seems like my blog is just about blowjobs and anal sex, and the only people reading it and admitting to it are my dad and my ex-boyfriend's sister-in-law. So, my own blog has been grossing me out for the past three years. I kind of wish burqas were in fashion, because I'd like to wear one for the rest of my life just to avoid having to look my father in the eye.

When I thought about my boyfriend, his brother's wife, or my dad reading any of this, I felt sick. On the other hand, I really LIKED writing it, and I genuinely missed doing it; so I continued to write, but I couldn't bring myself to post anything.

But there are yet more reasons why I stopped writing:

Against the advice of some caring readers who encouraged me to stop lawyering and start writing more, I became a partner at a law firm, which is the best way in the WORLD to have loads of free time! But before I got myself into a 6.5-day-a-week, trials-back-to-back position, I had to find the job, interview for the job, and survive night sweats and pants-shitting terror over the idea of a potential employer or client entering my name into Google and finding out that I am a blowjob addict with a public forum. So I took the whole thing down.

Three years have passed. I am single. I quit my job. I had a series of "adventures" (I was homeless). I became a middle school English teacher in Nashville (which makes even the NAME of this blog a lie). There are plenty of things I'd like to write about to catch you up on all the excitement, but I think it goes without saying that being a teacher and having a blog like mine is TOTALLY UNCONSCIONABLE. Kids today don't know much about the internet, so it'll probably be fine. But just in case, I've been wearing a fake mustache and a cape to class every day with the hope that my students, co-workers, and superiors won't recognize me in my normal blogger form, which by now should be very clear in your mind: a girl with cocaine-caked nostrils gagging on a dick.

Hi, Dad! :)

40th Birthday -- Unplugged, Unslinged, Unplanned

[Last year, on Saturday, January 5, the day before my 39th birthday, my brother's and my friend, Pete, had a party. It was a get together with a bunch of my brother's friends and their girlfriends and wives, people I've known for years and years. I had no plans for my birthday, not because no one had offered, but because I didn't want any. I'd just had surgery, and for other reasons unrelated to birthdays (you know how I like to stay on topic and not digress in endless parentheticals), I wasn't in "the mood" for having a birthday. But there was this party, and my brother and sister-in-law encouraged me to go, so I did. I'm glad I did. It was fun. Even though it wasn't a birthday party, it was the night before my birthday, and I was at a party. I wasn't alone, and therefore, I wasn't sitting somewhere thinking how dumb it was that even though I could be with people, I'd made a choice to sit by myself on my birthday for no reason. (There was a reason, but that's a whole other thing, and again, I'm respecting how you don't need me going off on tangents.)

At midnight, I turned 39. A wink from my sister-in-law and a couple of girlfriends who knew -- that was nice. I felt happy. Content. It was the exact right amount of birthday acknowledgment I could handle that day, and if every birthday could be that way, I think I would like it. But this year, my birthday is on a Monday, and also, I don't live in Chicago, so there are some considerable barriers to someone just happening to have a non-birthday party this Sunday in Nashville.

I've decided to appeal to Pete, who, I'm sure, would probably want to have a party 3 days after New Year's Eve anyway. Lots of people like to go to parties the very first weekend after all the holidays are over. That's why the timing of my birthday is so awesome to begin with... it's usually the first day back to school or "real" work (not "In-between-holidays-I'm-just-here-because-I-have-to-be-but-really-I'm-spending-8-hours-looking-at-everyone's-Facebook-pictures-from-Christmas-and-Jesus!-Did-she-ACTUALLY-wear-THAT-OUT-to-a-New-Year's-Eve-Party?-Why?-Also,-should-I-send-an-email-to-my-friend-asking-her-to-take-down-this-picture-of-me-where-my-muffin-top-is-just-like-REALLY-prominent,-or-would-that-seem-vain?" work.) It's the time of year when NO one really wants to be ANYWHERE except home in bed. Including me. Which is why I never want to celebrate my birthday. But there's still the hope of Pete. For some reason he did it last year. Why not this year?]

***  ***  ***

So, uh, Peter, are you going to unknowingly have a birthday party for me again this year? Saturday works... if the lovely Gigi is free to clean up your place and make it look like a caveman doesn't live there. If she doesn't want to clean up, that's fine too. As for food, I don't need anything fancy. Just cook up those 20 boxes of Macaroni & Cheese that we made fun of you for having after we opened all the cabinets in your kitchen.

This year I'm in pretty decent shape for a party, unlike last year, when I was recovering from shoulder surgery and wearing a comically gigantic sling:

January 2013
The sling and the huge pillow in between my forearm and torso hold my arm in place, but they do not serve any protective function for the part of the body where the surgery happened. While it LOOKS like the elbow and forearm are in distress, the shoulder, with six incisions in front and back, is totally exposed. It must be human nature to slap someone on the shoulder when you see her wearing such a wild contraption (it had REFLECTORS ON IT!), and it makes perfect sense that one would deduce that the person wearing it had met with some kind of elbow misfortune.

It works really well as cup-holder.

Last year at your party, EACH and EVERY PERSON who entered the party, said hello to me and then inexplicably punched me RIGHT in the stitches, causing me to spit-take Diet Coke in agony while smiling and saying, "No, no, I'm fine. It's OK." Then I moved into an empty area of the house that I'd had to seek out for just this purpose, pressed my face into the wall, and screamed noiselessly for 2 minutes. Then I came back out to the party, acting like everything was cool, even though I suspected that after the fifth or sixth jab, and two of them from like REALLY BIG DUDES (you know exactly who I'm talking about), at least ONE of those stitches HAD to have popped open. But I wasn't going to complain or be a baby about it. If people want to greet me by punching me, that's OK. I used to have cats, so I understand that friendliness can be expressed in a variety of ways that don't seem friendly at all.

So after I caught my breath and adjusted my sling, I came back into the room, and I positioned myself strategically so that no one could get near my shoulder. But no matter WHAT I did, people just kept finding me and punching THAT ONE SHOULDER. You know I'm not making this up, Pete. And I think I was a really good sport about it.

The whole point is, my shoulder is fine and totally punch-able now. In fact, I INVITE you to punch it! Accordingly, because I'm able-bodied this year, there should be dancing, preferably to music that you've written... perhaps with me in mind? I'm not asking for much, just maybe a 10-track album entitled "Jules -- The Entire Inspiration for My Life of Music"? That seems reasonable. Thanks in advance.

(Side note to my sister-in-law, and Mindy, and Loradona: Like last year, I'm again requesting that you not tell anyone at Pete's party that it's my birthday, because, like last year, I don't want anyone to know it's my birthday, even though I kept accidentally mentioning it... but only for the purpose of IMPLORING you not to tell anyone, which you didn't, and I really appreciate that.)

The Grammys (2013)

Iknow what you are thinking:  "Wow!!  This girl sure is passionate about her blog!  She writes once a year, and then, only about the Grammys, which she professes to hate."

I DO!  I DO hate the Grammys, but I enjoy a spectacle, and the Grammys are RIDICULOUS.  They also happen to coincide with a time of year when I feel "blog-y."

Today, I am in Vancouver, BC, with Christine and Jared and their 18-month-old son, Cole, who is already superior to me in many ways.  For example, I am dictating this, and he is typing it up while at the same time memorizing the OED.  This frees me up to find out who’s up for what at the Grammys.

A baby is not actually typing this blog.  That would be child abuse in more ways than one.  I’m actually sitting in a Starbucks, as all blog people do, and a group of Vancouver Policemen are sitting at the table next to me.  This is so perfect, because it is just the way I picture Canadian police people – protecting the Canadian public with lap tops instead of guns.

Canadians are more likely to die from accidentally getting trapped under giant bottles of ketchup.

I had to go to the bathroom, but I have a very extensive lap top, net book, iPhone, iPad, and 14-iPod set-up, and it's a pain in the ass to put all of that away to go to the bathroom, then come back and not be able to find a new place to sit.

So, I stood up and said, "Sirs?  If I leave the table for a minute, can you keep an eye on my electronics?"

Only one out of the four of them acknowledged that I had spoken, but he looked at the SETI array on my table, and shirked the responsibility.  Fine.  So the Vancouver po-po don't want to guard my tribute to Steve Jobs.  I packed everything up, and then I came back and took it all out again.  They were still there, still ignoring me, and, weirdly, I think, didn't seem to care that I was very openly photographing them.

So anyway, I'm on Pacific Time, and this leads me to understand that the Grammy ceremonials will be televised here at 5 AM, so I'm starting my "live" blog two days ahead of time.  OK, Cole.  I've got a lot of opinions, so keep up (and please stop making thoughtful edits to my unwieldy parentheticals – it's a "stylistic" choice).

I will now give you my personal analysis of the relative worthiness of the nominees.  It is in no way intended to disrespect your own musical preferences.  Music is my oxygen, and I can't walk four feet without noise hooks in my ears.  I listen to mostly indie/electronic stuff, but when "We R Who We Are" comes on my iPod, I openly jump-strut-slut-dance on the Blue Line.  Yes, of course I does.  You don't wanna mess with me.  Got Jesus on my neck-a-lus-es-es.  (I mentally write 9 differently-themed blog posts every time I hear this song.)

I am pleasantly surprised to find that this year a few of the nominees are bands that I called for recognition of LAST year.  I am hip, which is to say, "I know how to use the SoundHound app while watching movies and cutting edge TV programs, like 'Parenthood.'"  I recognize that I am not actually RESPONSIBLE for the coolness of the music I like.  I did not WRITE this music, and I did not PERFORM it.  I do not OWN songs or bands just because I heard them before you did.  But I did, in fact, hear them before you did.  I know that you are about to open your piehole to protest.

Don't.

Unless you are some underground pump-rat whose dad surfs with Eddie Vedder, accept that I have heard EVERYTHING before you.

I stay up all night dancing alone in my apartment while illegally downloading French rap.  You have children and a mortgage, and if we could trade places, I would probably go for it, so let me have this:  For a lady of a certain age, I AM hip.

First, an education: The recordings that are up for "Record of the Year" are "songs," as are the recordings that are up for "Song of the Year," but "Record of the Year" goes to the performance artist, and "Song of the Year" goes to the songwriter.  If you have ever been to the Bluebird Cafe in Nashville (it's a real place, not just something they made up for the new TV show "Nashville"), then you know that songwriters are the fucking BOMB.  They even have great voices.  I don't know why they sell their songs, but probably someone who knows something about music has a blog about that.  Look it up.

Carole King is the baddest-ass example of a prolific songwriter who no one heard of until she recorded "Tapestry" in 1971.  I was not then alive, but that album was so great, my mom made me clean the house to it all the way into the 80s.  Scrubbing a toilet is infinitely more bearable when you’re doing it to "I Feel the Earth Move."

[This is a neat coincidence that occurred after I wrote the section above:  On February 9, Carole King was given a Grammy Lifetime Achievement Award.]

There would be no "I Will Always Love You" without Dolly Parton, and no "Nothing Compares 2 U" without Prince.  It's not a surprise that such a gorgeous song was penned by Prince, but because he is very small, the artist formerly known as The Artist Formerly Known As Prince was not a fan of the song being made famous by Sinéad's cover of the track.  The last time I heard "Nothing Compares 2 U" in an uncontrolled environment, I was spooning on pecans at a salad bar at the Jewel on Des Plaines in Chicago.  I started crying and the pecans were falling off the spoon.  I'm leaky, and it's very hard not to cry when I hear that song.

Although songwriters are the shit, they aren't the ones in the videos, so let's talk about the nominees for Record of the Year.  I can hardly wait because I know who's going to win, just like last year.  Even though I was wrong, I still think I was right because, weirdly, as I am sitting in a Starbucks on Kaslo St. in Vancouver, my iPod just started playing "All of the Lights," which is pretty fucking crazy, since I need 4 different iPods, an iPhone, an iPad and two lap tops to contain my music.  Granted, you would be alarmed at how much space Deadmau5 will take up on a 64-GB iPod, but still, Adele's "Rolling in the Deep" won 87 Grammys last year, and you couldn't PAY me to listen to that song all the way through right now.  But "All of the Lights"?  I drove a good stretch of Montana listening to that song exclusively (except when I was listening to This Will Destroy You, because there are occasions when you really need to FEEL things).

1. Lonely Boy, The Black Keys

This one was part-produced by Danger Mouse, which can't be a bad thing.  I'm not sure if I like the song because of the song, or because of the video.  The video makes me uncomfortable because I am not sure whether we are "with" the dancing guy, or laughing at him.  I don't want to be laughing at him because he's so dignified.  I like this song, but I judge songs by whether, when I hear them, I want to hear them again.  I heard this song once, and I can't say that I would go out of my way to listen to it again.  I saw the video for this song on September 30, sitting in a hotel room in Ann Arbor while my friend was blow-drying her hair.  I pulled her out of the bathroom to help me assess the song, and we couldn't reach a conclusion whether we liked it or didn't like it.  That isn't a winning endorsement for a "Record of the Year" nominee.

Also, I will forever associate The Black Keys with a strange argument I heard while having dinner at a Mexican restaurant the night before Lollapalooza in 2010.  The couple sitting next to us got into an all-out yelling match about whether The Black Keys or Lady Gaga had more talent.  The argument seemed like it should have been jokey, but as hard as we tried to find it funny, the couple got louder, and it became clear that when they went home, someone (the guy) was gonna get a beating.  The girl (I can’t remember whether she was pro- or anti-Lady G) was really dominating the fella, but the fella was still arguing his point.  It was making the people around them so uncomfortable that we considered entering the conversation in a light-hearted way, but then feared physical violence, so we focused on the guac and waited them out.  (We went to see Lady Gaga.)  I'd seen The Black Keys at Lolla two years prior, and while they were really great live, I don't care for them not-live, and Lady Gaga playing to a pile of sweaty, mud people in Grant Park was clearly the bigger spectacle.

I listened to "Lonely Boy" for the second time just now, and it is fine, but it is not the Record of the Year, and I'm not concerned that anyone else will think it is either.  I'm not saying who has more talent, but I'd rather listen to "Poker Face" than "Lonely Boy."

2. Stronger (What Doesn't Kill You), Kelly Clarkson

This is a good song for standing in airport security lines, for catching the last half of the first verse and part of the chorus when you are a passenger in someone else's car before they skip it to listen to another song, or when you are doing something in your house and it comes on in the middle of a playlist and you don't even notice that you just listened to it and even danced to it a little bit.  I like this song.  I would like to hear it all the way through and be aware that I am doing so, but.... oops, I just instinctively skipped it on my iPod.

3. We Are Young, Fun. feat. Janelle Monáe

I do not like this song, but I know that YOU love it, and I won't try to take that away from you.  I don't actively hate "We Are Young," but it does nothing for me.  I can't dance to it.  I can't sing along with it (because I am not a natural-born asshole, or a drunk 20-something who thinks her voice sounds better the louder she sings).  "We Are Young" is sad and/or happy; it changes pitch and pace with every verse; it sounds like four different songs; and it's either about being awesome or about being a loser or about being so drunk that someone the size of a Keebler elf thinks he has to stuff you in the trunk of his Vespa and take you to his tree house.  Also, I don't want Fun. to get into the habit of winning Grammys tonight, because Fun. is going to be hard to write about for obvious reasons.

[the period in their name]

I don't want you thinking I don't know how to punctuate shit.  I like the use of the period, and I like Fun., and I like their other songs, but not this one.  The Grammys don't give runner-up awards, but I think this one is a second runner-up for the win, because as far as I can tell, I am the ONLY person on the planet who doesn't visibly inflate with enthusiasm when this song comes on.  It does have an anthem feel, so I understand why people go all "You Oughta Know" about it, but I can't get anthematic about a song that I've watched my nephew rock out to on a daily basis for a year.  He is 3 years old.  He IS young.  He spits his food out, and I CAN carry him on my back.  He’s SUPPOSED to be small, so it's OK that he's the same height as the lead singer of Fun.. (There are two periods there for a reason.  Note that.)

All right.  Opinion reversal.  I've forced myself to listen to this song 10 times while writing this post, and I find that as long as I'm not looking at Nate Ruess, I don't get as upset.  I still can't sing along with it or dance to it, but it doesn't make my skin crawl the way it did when it came out.  This song is a contender.

4. Somebody That I Used To Know, Gotye feat. Kimbra

"Somebody That I Used To Know" is to 2012 what "Umbrella" was to 2007, but better.  SO.  MUCH.  BETTER.  "Somebody That I Used To Know" will win.  If you don't love this song, you're barking up the wrong blog.  This is the song of the fucking DECADE.  I first heard this song on a music blog in December 2011, and I was so sad that it would never be popular because there is NOTHING not to LOVE about this song.  But then one night in March, I heard it playing on WXRT, and I couldn't believe it got out!  "Yay, Gotye feat. Kimbra!"  I don’t know anyone who, upon hearing this song for the first time, doesn't want to listen to it 44 more times in a row.  (Except all of my girlfriends, who, when I tried to play it for them, were like, "yeah, OK, I mean, it’s… put on Jim Croce.") (My girlfriends don't appreciate music, which is why I have to go to concerts by myself and single-handedly raise the mean age of the crowd above 30.)  This song was performed incredibly well by Gotye feat. Kimbra at the Aragon in Chicago on April 4.  It was also covered by EVERYONE in the five months following its release.  This cover by Walk Off The Earth is a hoot.  I could write an entire post about how fun it is to watch JUST the guy with the beard on the far right.

And, in case you were wondering, yes, I am disappointed that the title and the chorus of this song contain an unfortunate grammatical error.  Direct objects of the preposition “that” are things, not persons.  People are prepositionalized (that's not a word, but I'm writing about music today, and ain't no need for grammar when you writin' 'bout music) with "who."  It hurts my ears to sing "somebody that I used to know" instead of "somebody who I used to know," but I forgive Gotye feat. Kimbra.  The song is good enough to let it go.  I've spent a good deal of the past two years with love in my legs for Ke$ha, and she is clearly illiterate, or her songwriters are LOL cats.

5. Thinkin Bout You, Frank Ocean

This song listens like a strawberry-banana smoothie.  It goes down easy, and the effortless octave changes wash over you like beams of sunlight.  Powerful voice, but SO chill.  Like most songs, this one can get me to crying if I let it.  I heard Frank Ocean was blind, or there's something about him that’s kind of extraordinary.

No.  Wait.  He’s bisexual.  A bisexual artist/songwriter/ performer/creative.  That’s so CRAZY!

This is a lovely song, and "channel ORANGE" is a great album all the way through, but mostly I have the urge to start a rumor that he is related to Billy Ocean, a favorite of my brother's during a phase when he had to simultaneously have a binky in his mouth, carry a yellow blanket, and wear a fireman's helmet.

6. We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together, Taylor Swift

No.

[If the Grammys want to go this route, and I know this is based on chart performance, but if this song is one of SIX recordings of 2012 up for Record of the Year, and it is about female empowerment, there are at least 400 better recordings that fall into this category.  Please see: P!nk's "Blow Me (One Last Kiss)," Katy Perry's "Wide Awake," and Alanis Morrisette's "Guardian" (I have no idea what this song is about, but I  think Alanis is contractually REQUIRED to write songs about female empowerment, and when I hear "Guardian," I certainly FEEL like I could tear a goat into shards with my teeth.)

These are just a few pop artists.  I didn't have to dig around in an indie cellar to find any of that.  Can we let Taylor Swift grow up for a few more years and then see what she has to say?  With even TWO more years of life experience, I could almost take this girl seriously.  "We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together" song IS catchy, but I want Taylor and her hair and her SO BIG guitar and her boy drama to go away and not come back until she graduates from having crushes to HAVING HER DREAMS TORN ASUNDER AND HER HEART PULLED OUT OF HER BODY THROUGH THE TOP OF HER SKULL AND THEN FLATTENED ON THE CARPET IN FRONT OF HER WITH A ROLLING PIN WHILE THE DICKHEAD WHO IS DOING IT IS LOOKING AT HER WITH DEAD EYES AND PRETENDING HE ISN'T THE ONE HOLDING THE ROLLING PIN.  When this happens, you know you are a woman.  And when this happens to Taylor Swift, I am confident that she will write something that will make our eyes bug out of our heads, and THEN she will have my Grammy respect.]

Some final preliminary notes:

Carly Rae Jepsen MUST win a Grammy. I have been listening to "Call Me Maybe" (just like you have) for the past nine months, and it makes me SO HAPPY every time I hear it.  But funnily, right now is the first time I've ever seen the video.  I didn't even know what she looked like behind those bangs.  I like the song even more now that I know that the story that goes with it is the story of my life from age 10 to age 23.  It's up for "Song of the Year" and "Best Pop Solo Performance."  It was also up for "Most Embarrassing Two Seconds of My Life" when my neighbor across the alley caught me dancing to it LONG before I saw him.  And I was dancing HARD, my friend.  VERY HARD.

Also, I like a lot of music, so it's difficult to make a statement like this without feeling like I'm neglecting other loves, but it is my opinion that Madness, by Muse, is not only the coolest song of 2012, but has the KILLINGEST video.  It's up for "Best Rock Song."  I flew to another country, walked around that country, and took the Blue Line home from O'Hare listening ONLY to this song.

Finally, although I ADORE Fiona Apple's "The Idler Wheel Is Wiser Than The Driver Of The Screw And Whipping Cords Will Serve You More Than Ropes Will Ever Do," (a/k/a "The Idler Wheel..."), and "Making Mirrors" by Gotye, because you can listen to them all the way through, over and over and over, I personally NEED M83's "Hurry Up, We're Dreaming." [M83, like Fun., is into periods] to win "Best Alternative Music Album."  (I listened to and saw M83 live more than any other band in 2012.)

Download a ballot

OK.  Christine, Jared, Cole, and I are settled in having our breakfast and watching the Grammys.  Something pretty cool has just been announced:  We are being joined by friends of Christine, one girl called Katie, and another named Vicki Tickle.  I don't know Katie’s last name, and I assume she prefers it that way.  However, Vicki Tickle has the great fortune of having a first and last name that you must ALWAYS ALWAYS say together.  I bet NOBODY calls her just "Vicki."  I bet Vicki Tickle's Grandma calls her "Vicki Tickle."  Some people have names like this, to wit:  Susie Spies (pronounced “spees”).  That's so fun to say, especially when you say it really fast!!  Susie is a fun name to say anyway, but "Susie Spies" just takes the cake.  Also, I went to college with a guy named "Wolf Tone."  I'm told repeatedly by my girlfriends that I have met Wolf Tone a number of times, but I don't believe that's the case, because there is NO POSSIBLE WAY that I could have met a person named "Wolf Tone" and not asked him a thousand questions about the genesis of his AWESOME name.  I would have remembered that.  I envy people with names like this, because they don't NEED nicknames.  Their parents blessed them with built-in remarkableness.

I don't know this Vicki Tickle, but she is from Australia, and based on my experience with Australians, I think that she won't mind having her first and last name included in a non-important person's blog post about the Vancouver police and the Grammys.  I am very much looking forward to meeting Vicki Tickle, (Katie, not so much), and so we are all in luck, because Vicki Tickle is, at this very moment, entering the building!

Frankly, I am more interested in Vicki Tickle right now than I am in Dave Grohl's "political statements" about auto-tune and garages.

There are few musicians as appealing as Dave Grohl,

so I wish to make clear that I am not disrespecting Dave Grohl, but I am hoping that this year he may be a bit less heavy-handed.  Dave Grohl is a Foo Fighter.  He should know, to each his own.  I doubt his recording-studio garage looks like the garages I have known, and a little auto-tune goes a VERY long way.  

Here we go: