Our Love is an Open Door

The title of this post comes from this wonderful freestyle song on the Sirius cable service right now: If You Leave Me Now by Jaya. For those of you in Minnesota and other non-PR having states, freestyle is a particularly complex genre of music for me to discuss: a source of shame, guilty pleasure and disgust, all wrapped up in a silk shirt.

Before we discuss freestyle in any depth, let me give you a few examples of freestyle or freestyle-ish songs that you may recognize:

1. Let the Music Play by Shannon might be the most recognizable freestyle-ish song ever. Funny- I'm pretty sure Shannon was neither PR nor Italian, but somehow she got it right.

2. The Point of No Return by Expose- or was it The Cover Girls? So hard to keep these groups straight, except that Expose had a member named Gioia. Definitely Italian.

3. One particularly insidious and hateful freestyle song was Take Me in Your Arms by Lil Suzy. Where to begin? The spelling of 'Suzy'? Her hair? Her grill? The playground setting? Oh, it's just too damn good to pass up.

In short, the Wikipedia article Lerla and I consulted several months ago referred to freestyle as a genre of music enjoyed by PRs and Italians, featuring heavy synths and syncopated rhythms. The reason we had to look this up on Wikipedia in the first place was so that we could offer her man a sensible explanation for the atrocities he was experiencing as we pranced down memory lane via YouTube and iTunes. For Lerla and myself, our relationship with freestyle is like relationship between the Rev. Jeremiah Wright and Obama: we don't necessarily condone the message (although that is some ridiculous bullshit, and there's not enough time to discuss it here anyway) but we're not ready to denounce or reject it. In fact, we're prone to play it at parties at which other West Siders are in attendance, or when relaxing at home after a heavy Saturday brunch. It really works any time of day or night! It brings me back to gold chains, turtlenecks and high bangs. Actually- why do we play this shit?

Anyway, I must add that a ubiquitous stylistic feature of freestyle is out-of-tune singing. Whether or not that feature is due to cheap production values or cheap musical values, I'm not in a position to say. I suspect that it is a combination of both, but at this point, it would almost be un-freestyle-ish to make a freestyle song where the singing was in-tune and good. (Let the Music Play is partially exempt from this- not because the singing is incredibly in tune or good, but because that song is so good that I refuse to talk shit about it in any way, shape or form.) The out-of-tune singing is actually a feature of backup singers and horns in reggae, and is akin to slang words and incorrect spellings and constructs becoming legitimate in language. Something to celebrate or hate? You decide! (This really demands a musicological study- especially in reggae. Fuckin A- I can come up with paper topics for days unless it's a topic that would actually help me complete my own degree.)

August past, in celebrating my sister-in-law's 40th birthday, the DJ threw in a couple of freestyle sets to placate the 40-something PR crowd. It was shameful for many reasons. First of all, dancing to freestyle is an all-or-nothing proposition. On one end of the spectrum, you have the folks who know how to pull off the almost breakdancing-type moves that require alot of physical ability- something sorely lacking in a room full of 40-something drunk PRs. On the other end of the freestyle spectrum is the good old step-touch. How much step-touching can you realistically suffer before you want to bash your head into the cheap parquet dancefloor? To add insult to injury, the freestyle sets interrupted the salsa and merengue sets to which we were dancing so well. Oh well- step touch it was.

The best/worst part of the freestyle set was when my cousin Jessica's song came on. About ten or fifteen years ago, when freestyle had not yet completely died its necessary death, Jessica recorded a song or two, in the style of Lil Suzy. I don't mean that she wore an inappropriate black knit catsuit with a gold chain belt. I do mean that she sang that shit completely out of tune, may the Easter Bunny bless her loving heart. Jessica was in attendance at that party- lovely girl, really- and what made the whole thing really clutch was that when the DJ put the song on, those of us already on the dance floor had to remain there to show our support for Jessica, and those who were not on the dance floor had to either:

a) completely ignore the entire situation in a brazen fashion- something PRs are good at; or

b) get on the fucking dance floor and fucking dance to this damn song we've fucking danced to at every other fucking party that Jessica is at. (I exaggerate out of hate.)

Thank Easter Bunny the song was only eight minutes long- I don't know if I could have step-touched one second longer!

The last thing I thank Easter Bunny for is for playing that song on the TV. When I logged on, I knew I needed to update badly, but had no idea what to write about, and look- a wonderful entry on horrid/wonderful/shitty music. Just let the juices flow, yo.

In other quicknews: I finally am catheter free! Yesterday, the Russian Jew doctor (I could be making up the Jew part, but I'd be surprised with a name like Veniamin and such hair on the chest) who put that tube into my chest so many weeks ago removed it in a most unceremonious fashion. Unlike the insertion procedure, which involved x-ray machines, drugs, scalpels, and nurses, the removal was a quick, informal affair: he cut the stitches that held the tube in place, yanked it out, and held some pressure over my jugular so that I wouldn't bleed to death. This all took place in a glorified hallway. Ten minutes later I was on my way home. When he inserted the catheter so many weeks ago, he was very vocal about how well-endowed I was in the jugular region. While I complained about this previous ogling of my jugular in an email to BCSM, I have to admit that I did kind of miss the attention my juicy vein brought me the first time around. Oh well- I guess I'll have to find another redeeming feature to flaunt about town.

The significance of the catheter coming out is huge! Showers are now manageable, as I don't have to worry about getting the dressing wet. I can sleep and toss and turn without taking the catheter into account. I don't have to remember to flush the darn thing with blood thinners to prevent clotting. I don't have to worry about picking up an infection through the hole in my chest. I don't mean to disturb you all with the gory details- the point I'm trying to make is that these little victories are huge for me in my quest to feel like a normal person again. I won't be reminded daily that treatment wasn't really that long ago, and I won't feel like some weird Frankenstein with a tube in his chest when he goes to the gay coffeshop and wants to look cute for the menzeez. I should make it clear: I'm grateful, o Great Catheter, for what you did for me. You made treatment possible and blood draws painless. Now please kindly fuck off.

In otherother news, next weekend, I will travel to Buffalo where dearest Bioletta will be performing at Kleinhan's with the Buffalo Philharmonic. Bioletta is my homegrille, and I'm hoping to take her on a tour of the ghettoes where I grew up. I'll try to get her to the gig without getting shot, but I can't make any promises. Also, if the weather cooperates, a walk on the American side of Niagara Falls would be super clutch, and good for the spirits. The sound of rushing water on that scale does a great job of cleaning out the brain, no?

Last, but not least, Cuca made some amazing shrimp pastelillos tonight for dinner. I would have captured the whole process in pictures and posted to the food blog, but she made them before I had any idea of what was taking place! Too bad for you all- fortunately, Lerla was available to crush a few pastelillos, so you'll have to live vicariously through her.

Holla!