A Royal Mess, Royally Avoided

I’m about 400 pages into Charlotte Simmons, and I’m not anxious for it to end. If I didn’t have Nick Hornby’s latest and the new Harry Potter waiting, I might slow down my reading. It isn’t that I’ve found my literary soulmate -- I have problems with some of Tom Wolfe’s stereotyping (sluts vs. virginal beauties; athletes vs. geeks), but CS is a college-campus tale, and my college-campus days weren’t that long ago. Wellesley sure didn’t echo with frat-party hollering and “Go, team, go!” but we had the requisite bump ‘n’ grinding and Rugby Chicks. As I told my friend HTS, “they” say every stereotype has a grain of truth. Once in a while, “they” are right.

This morning I awoke to the not-so-distant voices of young men, and for a few seconds I thought Charlotte Simmons had infiltrated my dreams. Was I really in my bedroom, or had I snoozed myself into a Saint Ray fraternity gala with Wolfe’s Greeksters? I rubbed my eyes and looked around: dirty laundry, childhood stuffed animals; unpacked PA boxes….definitely my room.

The voices belonged to the two bachelor remodelers (meaning “young, single men who are in the process of remodeling our house,” not “people who are in the process of remodeling young, single men,” syntax, syntax).

Yup. They’re back.

I quickly changed out of the mismatched wife-beater/saggy pajama bottoms ensemble I’d worn to bed, and put on running shorts and my “Bob Ross Happy Trees” t-shirt. I save my humorous-message t-shirt collection for just such emergencies. The funny t-shirt says, “Hey! No worries! I’m not gonna get drunk and stick my tongue in your ear!” It’s low-libido casual.

From my bedroom, I slunk into the den, where I planned to check e-mail (of course) and maybe play Solitaire for an hour or so. “Funny T-Shirt” was Plan B. “Avoidance” was Plan A.

Enter: Mom. “Why don’t you go say ‘hi’ to Kevin and Alex? If you don’t talk to them, they might think you’re a snob.”

So, Plan B it was. I might encounter total humiliation, embarrassment, awkwardness…but God forbid anyone think I’m a snob.

“Hey, how’s it going?” I waved at Kevin and Alex from our second-floor landing. “What are you working on today?”

Installing screens on windows and fixing a doorknob. “Ha!” I smiled, descending the stairs and displaying my Bob Ross shirt (see? No libido!) “Seems like the work never ends around here.” And in Kevin’s 22-year-old mind, he probably added: "you have no idea."

With that, I hoped the guys would turn back to window screening. But they didn’t. More conversation seemed obligatory, so we chatted about Prince. I mean, naturally.

I don’t remember how we got on the topic of Mr. Artist Formerly Known As. If I recall correctly, Alex’s live-in girlfriend’s friend works at a Nashville hotel where Prince once spent a few nights. Got that?

Anyway, Alex declared, “That guy is really strange,” and—based on my People-magazine knowledge of Prince—I agreed. He’s very short. He wears sparkly outfits. Alex says he (Prince) won’t shake hands with anyone, for fear of germs. Also, he called Alex’s live-in girlfriend’s friend at 3 a.m., requesting a hairdresser. An on-call hairdresser doesn’t seem like a bad idea to me, but I suppose 3 a.m. is pushing it.

While the guys and I ruminated on “Purple Rain” (which is, apparently, a song AND a movie. News to me.), some part of my brain conjured this happy Prince memory: March 2004, Austin, TX -- HTS, Jessica, and I shimmied, bumped, and white-girl-overbited (overbit?) to “Pussy Control” on a lit-from-beneath dance floor. First time we’d all been together since before college (I think), and we haven’t reunited since. But every time I play “Pussy Control” (“a tale that will soon be classic, about a woman you already know…”), or “Kiss” for that matter, I get a slice of that hard-partying, sweet-reminiscing night.

Which brings me to my two favorite things about music:

1. It fills weird silences, in ways that funny t-shirts can’t.
2. It marks memories, for better or worse (but usually for better).

I own few albums. The majority of my CD collection consists of mixes, compiled from MP3s and friends’ tune stashes. I have more mixes than a depressed 15-year-old wannabe poet, which is why I rarely share my CD collection with anyone. It’s embarrassing. Grown-ups buy albums, you know?

The thing is, there’s nothing quite like listening to David Lee Roth’s “I Ain’t Got Nobody” next to Joan Jett’s “I Hate Myself for Loving You” next to Adam Sandler’s “Love Stinks” when you’re heartbroken. And Cake’s “I Will Survive” next to Whitney Houston’s “It’s Not Right (But It’s Okay)” next to Eamon’s “F-ck You, I Don’t Want You Back” is great for the upswing.

“Ice Ice Baby” (on my “Feel Good Mix”) reminds me of cruising around the Murfreesboro roller rink, circa 1988, hoping to out-skate the preteens. “You Can Do It” by Ice Cube is also a “Feel Good” song, with its Highlights-style affirmative title, disguising PG-13ish lyrics (Goofus must have written it). Vanilla Ice right next to Ice Cube. Word to your mother.

Since I listen to my mixes more often than I tune into the radio, I’m not exactly current on the “next wave” of music. Postal Service, the Killers, the White Stripes, Death Cab for Whatever….not on my radar yet. But as long as Prince keeps bridging the conversation gaps, I’ll stick with him. I just won’t shake his hand.