And I can't listen to that cd anymore

You know how certain music can remind you of specific times in your life? It can be both awesome and devastatingly unfortunate. Sometimes, circumstances are not in favor of your ever enjoying that song again. Smells have the same effect. Washing my hands with Vanilla Sugar handsoap induces a heart-dropping fear. I don't even know why. When I hear Built to Spill's “Big Dipper,” I feel cold and somber but with a hint of sunshine on the horizon.

I've decided that every song I hung my hat on from 1998-2004 sums up an era that, while never-to-be-forgotten-and-never-should-be, lends me fantastic and prevalent reminders of times both meaningful and heartbreaking.  It's as if each song, CD, and radio edit creates a timeline by which I recall my past.

I remember listening to S.C.I.E.N.C.E. on the P.A.T. to and from CCAC and thinking to myself, "What is with all the gd acronyms, eh?" There was a boy who often waited at the same bus stop and I never did muscle up the courage to say anything to him. Just eye contact seemed to be a paralyzing thought.

I remember wondering if only Guster's “C'mon” had been released before high school and a select few people had been able to sing along, they'd have realized that every time they chose me (or didn't) from a lineup, it would become such a fading blip on my radar when I got out of there. Or so I thought.

I remember a boy who gave me new ears to the tune of Surfer Rosa, but couldn't quite reach in and give me his heart.

I remember being told that "Tiny Cities Made of Ashes" sounded like garbage, to which I replied with a click over to Garbage's “I Would Die for You” and he thought that was pretty witty. That kid had a sweet pet mouse.

I remember begging my dad to let me listen to Silverchair in the van. Crooning loudly, without a care because no matter how loud I sang, I was still drowned out by the originals.

I remember crying in the corner of a janitor's closet to Weezer's “Across the Sea” because I finally understood.

I remember an odd friendship that started with "nice hat" and Sonic Youth's “On the Strip”. . .followed by first beer. Jellybeans. Second beer. Third beer. Puking jellybeans. A breath mint and surprisingly trustworthy pals.

I remember when my town's entire population of 15-16 year olds went to the DMB concert at the I.C. Light Amphitheatre. . .and I stayed home and played Tomb Raider to Placebo's “Without You I Am Nothing.”

I remember trying to learn Oasis songs on my acoustic and slamming the thing down when anybody came within 8 feet of my door.

I remember that butterscotch street lamps mark my path.

I remember taking the midnight train to anywhere.

I remember the comedy is that it's serious.

I forget what my friends look like and they forget why they like me.

Some of these memories are happy ones.  Some are quite embarrassing.  Others remain neutral and lay dormant in my brain - there for reasons unspecified.  I often wonder if, music had had nothing to say about it, I would remember any of these moments.  If I hadn't had that awful and yet predictable breakdown in which all of those stupid love songs started to make sense.  Would I remember falling in love the same way?  If Hey Jude hadn't been playing when that rotten college girl thought I was spending too much time on the boys floor and started rumours of impropriety.  Would her face appear in my mind whenever that song comes on?  If I hadn't danced with my new husband to Louis Armstrong's "I Get Ideas" at my wedding.  Would I still be able to get ideas?


We're a strange breed, we humans.  Shaped by memory association.

It's too bad about that Vanilla Sugar.

*Drawing by Natalie Dee