Bad Metaphorical Scotch

There used to be a sub-category on this blog titled, "In Which She Drones On and On About Justin-Fucking-Currie." In that sub-category you could find warm and loving tributes to the man, such as, "I hate that prolific little fucker," and my personal favorite, "I'd lock him in the garage for the month of February to assure he is sufficiently miserable to write songs."


This is how I talk about people when I think they're pretty great.


No, I don't wonder why I'm single: It's because I'm awful. It's well established.


Another thing I wrote: "He ain't pretty. When you listen to his music, though, you get the strong impression he is actually so beautiful that he has to shaggy-up so the whole world doesn't paw him to death in adoration."


The compliment wrapped in an insult. Classic. I slip out the side door during the ensuing confusion.


OK...it wasn't all bad:

When you have been listening to a musician for a long time, and, if they're any good, you can't help but feel their progression, album to album. It’s like watching your kids grow up, I suppose. You've always liked them, from the first moment, and as they get older and get better, you find yourself feeling proud. It warms your soul.

Some days...I feel very much like I watched Justin grow up. And calling it 'growing up,' while somewhat insulting, may be the only way to describe it. He simply came to know a few things that he didn’t know before.

We all start off toddling, don't we?


Things Del Amitri recorded 20 and 30 years ago, I liked a lot, back then, but he was a fucking infant by comparison. Babies…they positively glow with potential. I hope he knew what an incredibly skilled songwriter he would one day become.

I sometimes joke he's my second longest relationship, right behind Paul McCartney. Men in real life? 3-4 years and my eyes start to glaze over. Random musicians I never have to meet? 30+ years of carved-in-stone loyalty. Let's face it--it is a lot easier to adore Paul McCartney from afar than it is to love anyone up close...up to and including Paul McCartney himself.


Limited exposure. It's a beautiful thing. The entire relationship consists of them saying, "Hey, I wrote this song," and me saying, "Shut up and take my money." Even a dysfunctional fuckhead like me can handle that level of commitment.


I've long since stopped trying to figure any of this out. You like what you like. I like the way his writing brain works. He is as cleverly caustic as Paul is sweetly coy. I like most of his characters (not that irredeemable cheating dirtbag from Be My Downfall, though...fuck that guy).


However...that bloggy sub-category no longer exists and won't be revived. Sorry. Those words I wrote over the course of many years are tucked in a draft folder--just like a lot of things I peeled off in a flippant flurry and later reconsidered. Honestly, I think it was maybe 10 mentions in over 500 entries...? (Much like on the shelves of music I own, there are around a dozen pieces with his name on it and some 500 without.) Yet, that name was somehow the #3 searched topic on this stupid blog.


First of all...who are you? Searchers never say "hi." Jerks. Second, I must be so terribly disappointing...probably why they never say "hi."  I mostly talk about other stuff, like that time on my wedding anniversary where I got dressed up for dinner but ended up busting up a frog orgy in my back yard, and, not surprisingly, never had another wedding anniversary after that. It's not exactly fan site material. Plus I re-read every piece in the J-to-the-fucking-C category and was underwhelmed. We all start off toddling. I have the great luxury of un-publishing things I no longer enjoy, so off you go. Don't get me wrong, I think the line about locking him in the garage is fucking hilarious, but you know how things get once they're out of context...people begin huddling and murmuring and acting like it's all so serious. It's not.


I will say that for the most part, I am incredibly jealous of Justin--good stuff seems to pour out of him like it's nothing, and it holds up for ages. (Except The Heart is a Bad Design. That one doesn't hold up...and probably a couple others, but I can't get started talking about this shit or I'll end up having to devote a fucking category to it. And if I do that, then I'll end up having to confess how I excuse myself to the beer booth whenever Queenie Eye comes up in Paul's set list, because I can't stand that song. I realize all of this makes me a terrible fan in worshippers' circles. I'm prepared for my stoning--I've probably already been ostracized, I just haven't received the paperwork, yet.)


Maybe Justin's writing isn't as easy as he makes it look. Maybe he sweats word choices and chords.


I don't know. I don't particularly care. Shut up and take my money.


The rest of you? Please enjoy this hilarious story about sex-starved frogs and their insidious plot to destroy my marriage. It's funny because it's true.




***Bad Metaphorical Scotch = A reference to getting rid of things that are not of your preferred quality, based on that time my sister found a gallon jug of Scotch with the words "Aged 3 years" on the label, in one of the cupboards of her house. She wondered if she should save it, just in case someone might want some one day. We all have stuff like that sitting around. It might be bad whiskey, might be a bad blog post. The answer to "Should I save this?" is No. The answer is always No. Keep only that which makes you happy--chuck the rest.