[Uh, listen, if you are under eighteen, you need to get one of your parents to read this and see if it is okay for you to read it. I'd suggest you ask your dad. If he says it's okay, then go ahead. If you ask your mom, she's going to say no, but only because she's going to get excited herself, and she'll be embarrassed, and, to tell the truth, she's not going to want to share her excitement with you. She's going to want to keep it as her guilty pleasure. And that's okay. But, like I said, ask your dad]
One of my contacts (I think she likes me) asked me recently, "What kind of music do you listen to?" I told her a few things, but I also said that I was going to talk about it generally, to all my flickr friends. I feel kind of presumptuous talking about my musical tastes, and I will tell you, in my experience, girls have more imaginative soundtracks playing in their pretty little heads than guys do, but there you go.
Anyway, this summer, I haven't listened to one particular cd or one particular kind of music. I've listened, obsessively, over and over, to one song. And this is the story of that song.
Okay, the phone rings one day. It must have been 1986, because she was born in 1968---in fact, it must have been August 9, 1986. There's this girl on the line, and I had no idea who she was. She says, "Hello, is this John? This is Gillian Anderson."
Okay, so what? I had no idea who she was, and I have no idea, even to this day, how she found me.
She said, "Listen, it's my eighteenth birthday, and I'm coming over, and we're going to finish a record together."
I liked the sound of her voice. It was girlish, but assured. She seemed to know how to handle herself.
I said "Okay." I told her where I lived, and she said, "Give me forty-five minutes."
When she got to my apartment, she knocked on the door. She was as cute as twenty-five buttons. She was as happy as a crow in a frog patch. This is just one of those transcendent moments that life is all about. She said, "Come out to my car, I need you to help me carry the gear in."
She had alll this fancy recording equipment. A big fancy tapedeck, microphones, cords, amplifiers, all this stuff. It took her about half-an-hour to set it up. "Listen," she said, "I want you to look at my driver's license."
The driver's license confirmed that this day, August 9, 1986, was in fact her 18th birthday. "Okay, now what?" I say.
"You'll see," she says. Then she proceeds to stand in my living room, with me in a chair, and she takes off all her clothes. I mean, ALL her clothes. She had on little pink panties, and she took those off and she kicked off her sandals and she was buck naked.
"You like?" she said.
Of course I like. Was I an idiot?
"Well don't like too much," she says, "because you've no doubt got the wrong idea. Whatever you're thinking, that's not what this is all about."