The Windy City/I hate California girls
For today, not Chicago but San Diego. (Well, okay. It very well could be and probably is very windy there. But seeing as how I’m not quite there and not quite experiencing the weather, and how rarely it gets this windy here, let us pretend.)
I’m generally not a fan of Sundays (nor Tuesdays). It is far too easy to fall into meaningless/fester filled depression, or become so plagued with the idea of school and homework that the day ends up wasted with procrastination, and staying up late to finish essays become habit, making Monday morning all the more horrific. Although I lack homework today, having work in the middle of the day…slow, slow, with not much to do…clips the day in two and makes the evening stretch on forever. Not necessarily a good thing when one doesn’t quite know what to do. The highlight of every weekend, at this point, is generally feeling a little better when reading Post Secret. Today isn’t an exception.
Cold lazy Sundays like this can only get better by curling up with a good book, a hot cup of tea and a fuzzy album…perfect time for The Magnetic Fields! (Then again…really, when isn’t a good time for things like that?)
photo via Flickr
I’m in love with more than a few of the songs from Distortion, but this one, in particular, has a particular line in its lyrics that rings especially true. The repeating refrain. “I hate California girls.” Yes, they who are blonde and tan and seventeen. Every day, I see them, and every day this sentiment plays out in front of my eyes. It’s not just the superficial exterior, not just their ugg boots and miniskirt in the never appropriate weather. Not just the way they crowd the bathroom mirror during breaks, smoothing out too tight tops and pumping on lip gloss. Not just the way they giggle and talk, the way they dress in the typical SoCal style and justifies every stereotype slapped on them. Not just their tight knit groups of friends who look the same and their desires to be nothing more than a pretty face…everything, everything in their attitude on life, that’s what makes them unbearable.
And this song, distorted, fuzzy, vocals floating beneath layers of fuzz, an unassuming voice, perhaps, not one of the tan and blonde and seventeen. Someone who observes them and their coke snorting, teeth bleaching ways. Someone who understands that being a part of the O.C. is nothing to strive towards, someone who is willing to someday take revenge with her brand new battle axe…