The Refreshments and The Principles of Attraction

I finally, finally, finally got a new copy of the Refreshments Fizzy, Fuzzy, Big and Buzzy which is one of my all time favorite albums and one I haven't had in far too long. Since, in fact, the, um, cassette got slow and creaky and then disappeared altogether (they'll do that when they feel death approaching, you know.) So in a moment of carefree spending in January I ordered it from Amazon, kind of thrilled & surprised to see that it a) existed and b) was on CD, even. Then I waited and waited and waited and now I am ROCKING OUT, DUDE! Hee hee. I love them so much, they just are this sardonic kind of mean guys who sound like, I don't know, your college boyfriend, or the guy you wish was your college boyfriend, incredibly cool and sexy in tight black jeans and a guitar. Sigh. Plus I love their lyrics, plus I just love them. And if was cooler/geekier my own self, I'd upload some music for you. But as it is you will have to search them out. It's worth it. Whoever said there's nothing new under the sun never thought much about individuals but he's dead anyway. Let's go down together. . .

So, thinking about this image that the Refreshments summon up in my mind, the guy with the jeans, the guitar, the bottle of bud on the battered Peavey amp, the cigarette. The garage, or somebody's basement, or the small smoky bar, or just the couch your roommate got from the Goodwill and that old acoustic. This is an irresistable image for me, this is the ur-guy, the one I always, always fall for. Still, you know. To this damn day. Despite the undeniable fact that my misspent life of dating musicians hasn't exactly worked out to make me healthy, wealthy, or, obviously, wise. But I can't help it, and I don't know what it is, why, while other women date lawyers, or guys with jobs, I end up dating 5 left handed Leo musicians named Michael. Not, thank god, recently. I avoid Leos & Michaels like the plague now. And the only reason is that there is nothing, noone sexier to me than a guy with a guitar, even if he is just sitting on the couch noodling around and only knows three chords and the beginning of Freebird.

Clearly this is some terrible issue with my brain: I'm going to the sporting goods store to buy you a really big baseball bat so you can knock these thoughts out of my head. . . because I know from painful experience that these guys do not great boyfriends make. I think, though, that I was imprinted or something, like a duckling, I must have glimpsed a beatnik musician at the exact moment of my sexual awakening. Which is odd, since I have always kind of traced that to seeing Robert Redford in Three Days of the Condor, the first R rated movie I ever saw. Yum, btw. I have, in the past, blamed a lot of my relationship problems and scary marital history on the fact that I saw not only Lady and the Tramp but also The Aristocats at a very impressionable age and got imprinted hopelessly and helplessly on working class heroes with musical talent. Actually, this theory explains a lot.

So here I am. I have a date with G on Friday night, well a tentative date, they always are, with, sigh, musicians. He's an artist (and a fiddle player) so I'm branching out. A little. Not much. Ah well. Sometimes it's just too much fun to bother changing patterns. I still like them. They still turn me on. And there's just not much you can do to argue with your hormones. I wish there was, sometimes.