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Jett Superior laid this on you on || June 18, 2003 || 6:22 pm

I was driving the eighty-millionth load of boxes to the new house yesterday (we got a big-ass truck on Sunday to move all the big-ass furniture and didn’t have quite enough time to get all the cartons moved, or even packed, to tell the bitter truth, before returning it….in short, I live with four packrats and they are making me fucking nanoo-nanoo with their hoarding of shit) when I was struck with the out-of-nowhere urge to listen to some Spin Doctors. More specifically, their most commercially successful album (and a damned fine one), “Pocket Full of Kryptonite“.

The out-of-nowhere thing happens quite often, as I have somewhere in the neighborhood of a thousand ceedees. To some of you this may seem excessive and you may remark, “How in the holy HELL does she listen to all those? I bet she doesn’t,” but I’m here to tell you I do. Some with more frequency than others, sure, but let’s break this down here: There are twenty-four hours in a day. At a minimum, I most generally am awake approximately seventeen of those twenty-four hours. If one ceedee, on average, takes sixty minutes from opening hum to closing howl, there is opportunity for listening to twelve to fifteen ceedees per day. At this rate, it would take me approximately three months to give the entire collection a listen-through before having to start at ‘A’ again.

Yes, I am manic. I organize my ceedees alphabetically. I used to order them according to genre, then alphabetized them within their categories, but my spouse and children kept fucking that all up, and rather than have systematic apopleptic fits about the order in which my ceedees were to be kept, I just sorted them all into ay-bee-cee order and prayed for everything that everyone had been taught in kinnygarten to be put to use.

So anyway, I was surprised that so much time had passed since my last listen-through of that album, because I really do like it quite a bit. One explanation could be that every time I load it into the changer, Maxim feels overwhelmingly compelled to tell me that the PFoK tour was the one where he smoked a spliffer with Chris and Aaron gave him his sticks. I’m usually all forshitsakesMaximI’veheardthisonefortytimesalready. It’s strange, really, Maxim gushing all fanboy over those guys; we, as a rule, typically don’t gush over anyone. Admire them crazily as fellow toolers of sound, but gush? Blecccch.

So I put the disc in the tray, hitting play, and went on to start dinner and begin beating on my thumb pointy things into the wall with a hammer and cursing like a sailor with blue balls so that I could hang pretty things (no, smarty, not the Superior children) on them.

Things were going well until ‘Little Miss Can’t Be Wrong’ came on, then I was yanked back some seven or eight years to an afternoon that found me standing in the parking lot of my then-spouse’s place of employment. We were, of course, having our forty-eleventh argument of the week. There he stood in his greasemonkey get-up, gesticulating wildly (probably spitting…he was a spitter when angry), there I stood in my sundress and boots, arms crossed and defiant, ‘I-want’ line* furrowed deeply across the bridge of my nose.

“You know what you are?” he spluttered, “You’re the girl from that song. Yep, you’re Little Miss, Little Miss, Little Miss Can’t Be Wrong.”

I swear to you, dear readers, he said it just like that…verbatim from the song. I couldn’t help but do the thing he hated the most, the thing that emasculated him the quickest: I laughed loud and long and hearty in that ‘fuck-you-you’re-so-fucking-laaaame‘ kinda way. Then I got into my car and drove away.

It might surprise you to hear that Biff helped us take immensely heavy things out of a box with windows and place them onto a box with wheels before putting them into yet another box with windows for about nine hours on Sunday. He volunteered, and since I had to work, my current husband and my ex-husband spent long hours together grunting and sweating and even shared a couple of meals. Despite the fact that he and I couldn’t stay married (no matter how purty the man is, and no matter how phenomenal the sex was, he was a real headfuck to deal with when off his meds), ole Biff’s a stand-up guy, or at least tries to be, which is more than I can say for the bulk of the populace. He does right by his kids and part of doing right by his kids, to his way of thinking, is to make sure that any transitions or changes in their lives go as smoothly as possible. Suffice it to say, this was not always the case, but it is here and now and the here and now is all I’ve got to go on, you know? The man tries, period.

Plus, I think it was like a karmic thing, but I don’t want to go into all that, as all three of you are prolly throwing things at your screens and hollering, “For the love of FUCK, you certainly are a WORDY BITCH today!!”

I walked into the old house Sunday evening to find the two of them fiddling with the refrigerator, looks of perplexity on both their faces. The doors to the frig were off, and they both looked to me expectantly.

“Baby,” Maxim said, “how did you and Kandy get this thing into the kitchen when we moved in? We’re having trouble getting it out.” When we moved in, he and Mike (Kandy’s husband) had trouble also, so when they left to get another load, Kandy and I took the situation in hand and got that fucker settled and humming in the kitchen before they got back.

I looked at him levelly and said, “We just said, ‘Fucking men‘ and got to shovin’.” I shrugged. Apparently Maxim did not revel in this answer, because he muttered something under his breath and looked at Biff, saying, “See?”

Biff replied, “Hey, you don’t have to tell me, man, I was married to her,” and eyed me with appreciation.

My ex-husband eyed me with appreciation. It weirded me out, and not just because my current spouse was in the room.

*I-want line: a furrow across the bridge of my nose that is horizontal and almost exactly between my eyes; the base of the I-want triangle that appears between my brows when I am particularly vexed. Term coined by my father when I was in the neighborhood of three years old: “Ohhhh, there she goes with the I-want triangle!”

::: :: ::: :: :::

Been a whole lot easier since the bitch left town / Been a whole lot happier without her face around / Nobody upstairs gonna stomp and shout / Nobody at the back door gonna throw my laundry out / She hold the shotgun while you do-si-do / She want one man made of Hercules and Cyrano / Been a whole lot easier since the bitch is gone / Little Miss, Little Miss Can’t Be Wrong

Little Miss, Little Miss, Little Miss Can’t Be Wrong / Ain’t no body gonna bow no more when you sound your gong / Little Miss, Little Miss, Little Miss Can’t Be Wrong / Whatcha gonna do to get into another one of these here / Rock ‘n’ roll songs

Other people’s thoughts they ain’t your hand-me-downs / Would it be so bad to simply turn around / You cook so well, all nice and French / You do your brain surgery too, Mama, with a monkey wrench

Little Miss, Little Miss, Little Miss Can’t Be Wrong / Ain’t nobody gonna bow no more when you sound your gong / Little Miss, Little Miss, Little Miss Can’t Be Wrong / Whatcha gonna do to get into another one of these here / Rock ‘n’ roll songs

I hope them cigarettes are gonna make you cough / Hope you hear this song and it pisses you off / I take that back: I hope you’re doing fine / And if I had a dollar, I might give you ninety-nine

Little Miss, Little Miss, Little Miss Can’t Be Wrong / Ain’t nobody gonna bow no more when you sound your gong / Little Miss, Little Miss, Little Miss Can’t Be Wrong / Whatcha gonna do to get into another one of these here / Rock ‘n’ roll song

Little Miss Can’t Be Wrong…

// Spin Doctors, “Little Miss Can’t Be Wrong”

4 worked it out »

  1. jen 6.19.2003

    so…did they get the fridge a runnin’ – or did little miss step in an fix her up?

    great post, btw….now, if you’ll excuse me while i go dig through my categorically UNALPHABETIZED cd’s in search of some Spin Md’s…..

     
  2. John 6.19.2003

    I always thought the Spin Doctors were like Stone Temple Pilots except without the herorin, a sense of humor, and a totally different sound.

    I’m not sure what this says about my thinking.

     
  3. Kate S. 6.19.2003

    Hey! I was just gonna ask somebody who the Spin Doctors were because they’re coming to town this Sat. for the Solstice 24-hr. long party we have up here every year in Fairbanks! Maybe it’s worth $20 for an all day (and night) concert? Yeah. A cooler, a tent, bug dope, sunscreen and wishing I was 20, no, 30 years younger.

     
  4. Dean 6.20.2003

    Loved the post – and I think Little Miss suits you just right!

    I had to just plain give up organizing my CD’s – I’m convinced my wife mixed them up just to piss me off. So now I have them all ripped on to my computer, and I can categorize and organize to my heart’s content …. I’m such a loser.

     

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