They Changed What “It” Was

I hung out for the first time in epochs with my two greatest friends last night and I am left this morning with the kind of satisfied feeling one can only get from talking crap and listening to music until 3am with the guys who know you and like you the best (and me them). I’m also confused as to why our meetings have become so rare and number two New Year Resolution must be to re-institute our Sunday afternoon coffee sessions.

Number one is to continue my development on a new kind of musical instrument played by the feet that produces a sound like angels on high singing exultation. It must be powered by C size batteries and fit in a standard holdall gym bag. Development is coming along nicely and I hope that the Christmas Number One in 2005 will feature the Zoomio heavily in its bridge.

We discovered many things we had not previously known about music last night. The first of which is that Jay-Z based his “rap” in Beyonce’s shamefully brilliant song about the Uh-Ohs on annoying people behind you in the cinema who talk and talk right through the movie. Listen to it again. Pretty much he talks with a slightly “rap” attitude and mumbles incoherently. Beyonce grinds beside him while the car burns in the background. She is wearing a mink coat.

It breaks the great Uh-Oh-iness of the song. We much preferred the other bits with photographic bulbs flashing on a New York roof and scantily, illuminously clad girls stride purposefully away from an industrial fan.

If you try to describe music videos in a dry, academic sort of a way, their true nature as preposterous crap is revealed. At least it does with the hippity-hop music. If my thesis didn’t have to specifically deal with Ireland, I might try to discover the formula for hip-hop videos. I am sure that there is a mathematical function underneath the frequency and timing of the girl shaking her butt picture and the cleavaged girl leaning over shot and the male rapper saying something like “Alright alright!” and a female singing a “Uuuuuuuuh-Ohhhhh” at the start of the song like she was a street version of Christiana Skankuilera or Celine Dion.

My fiancé is returning from the back of beyond today. Who-hoo!

The three of us, when we are together, are referred to as the Triple Entente. We’re nerds like that. But last night leaves me convinced that it should happen more often. The highlight of the evening had to be A’s musical performance. A started on the guitar around the time that I started on the Christianity, five years ago. If we’re being honest, his motivation was to be more like Dave Matthews and to score chicks. To be honest, my motivation was to be more C.S. Lewis and to score chicks. For the last couple of years you couldn’t talk to either of us without us boring you to tears about it; him about the difference between widdling and shredding the guitar (The Darkness as opposed to Korn) and me about the difference between orthodoxy and orthopraxy (what we say we believe and what we do because we believe). Yet, now, we have both reached a level of comfort with our passions that we are engaging and amusing instead of freaky and abnormal and this was shown last night by A playing us a song that was the highlight of the evening.

He introduced it as a horribly sad Tom Waits song. Then he proceeded to blues-down Oops I Did It Again! with a perfect mimicry of Tom Waits’ singing style. So much more impressive than the years of chorus lines to Crash Into Me and Sympathy For the Devil on repeat that we endured. It was all for good though and he can expect a windfall of chicks his way before long.

On my home last night I bumped into Stigmund; another great friend I see far too rarely. His mom owned the Montessori school that I went to when I was 3 and there I met A who now plays Britney songs as tragedies. Stig was walking home from some kind of a crazy foreign exchange student party and he had with him his two great friends- Laura and Joey. My friends are from Leixlip, a suburb of Dublin. His two friends are from a compound city in the middle of a Columbian desert and they are fluent in three languages and studying classical art in Paris. They were freezing their southern hemisphere asses off in the frosty Irish night but its their fault for having had it so good most of their lives. Hopefully I can hang out much more in the coming weeks with them too.

The problem with that plan however is that my fiancé returns from the countryside today. Towards this event I actually have butterflies in my stomach. In the Mediterranean they say that you get mushrooms in your stomach instead of butterflies. What matters is that in one episode I remember, McGyver told a little girl with butterfly stomach to think of ice-cream and it would go away. I always liked viewing McGyver as primarily an alternative healer as a child. Maybe he was a crack hero as a day job to facilitate his study of Celtic herbery by night?

So when she returns I may forget about the rest of the world and just stay with her as she drinks herself into oblivion, as is her Saturday habit. She is preaching for the first time tomorrow so I am sure we are going to talk about Identity all night. That is the topic of her sermon. She will argue that the search for identity can end in Christianity because we are made full through belief in Christ. We are going to re-work her text to add more jokes and to include some words that one should always use in public speaking of any kind; which include plethora and smorgasbord.

-Your correspondent from Commerce, Tx.

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