© 2012 Josh fortune-cookie2

Don’t you just love music?

Screwed.   You’re just screwed from the outset.

You sit down from each other across the table, nice restaurant, first date, formalities aside, and your first real piece of conversation is…

“I love music, you know?  Don’t you just love music?”

I mean, what else can you do? Just get up from the table and go home, it’s impossible to be sincere from this point forward.

You try to make a conversation out of it… “Oh, really, Adele, your favorite?”, and stammer, trying to remember the name of that song that you’ve heard every day for the past three months pouring out of taco shack speakers and prius windows.  “Someone like you, yeah, I guess.  Hey, wouldn’t it be funny if that song was about, like, from the perspective of a serial killer.”

“Ew.”, and thus ends dinner.

Meanwhile you spend the rest of the night thinking about “Don’t you just love music?” as you have flashbacks to high school in the 90s, and your friend with the hemp backpack covered in 1970s punk pins and sharpied band logos, layering the flannel shirt over the velvet underground t shirt, and corduroys patched at the knee with the nirvana dead smiley face, walking across the cafeteria, bobbing his head and mouthing along to wu tang clan ain’t nothin to fuck with wu tang clan aint nothin to fuck with, sits down across from you and swaps headphones without saying a word, careful not to make the discmen skip.

“Don’t you just love music?” Bitch, what do you know about music?

The entire social hierarchy of your youth has prepared you to bury another human being in ninety nine cent bin sub pop references aand crackly bootlegs from impromptu performances from some portland speakeasy that the only remaining member of Sunny Day Real Estate showed up at and did a set with Jets to Brazil. You remember seeing Modest Mouse at Brownies in manhattan with a crowd of 45 people singing along to ‘Teeth like God’s Shoeshine” back when they were just some weird midwestern band that sounded like Built to Spill drunk on stage and probably tripping, but secretly listening to J’ai Deux Amores on the drunk train home.

So sitting across from “Music is my favorite”, your head is spinning looking for the right fucking thing to say, when you know you should just be up and out the door because all sincerity must be sacrificed to the twin gods of polite conversation and eventual sex.  While you’re grasping at the loose threads of the frayed edges of your thoughts, and picturing a puffy pink unicorn floating through star shaped smiley face clouds while fireworks spell out “music is good”.

And you dive in, because the only other option is to leave, and you wrack your brain to find some common ground, and the only thing you’ve got is “Oh, I like that High Contrast remix of Hometown Glory”, because you remember it was on some compilation you downloaded back in january of 2011, and when she doesn’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, you realize you were never actually cool. Ever.

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