November 22, 2004


More inspiration from kid lies is on me, all me and my sister talked about for three days. The one about stealing medicated lip gunk was great, but the one about the girls dad coming out of the tornado ASTRIDE A COW is classic, and I just tried to think about every lie of substance I ever remember telling. They are alternately more shameful and banal as I get older, not worth sharing, only worth forgetting, or only sharing with drunk people who will forget.

When I was about five, my parents had been divorced for some time. My dad was working in El Paso, TX, living in the barrio and freelancing. My mom and I lived in Mueskegon, MI - a quiet town that smells horrible. I knew what my dad looked like, I remembered, though I had not seen him in maybe a year. He had dark, thick brown hair and a big moustache typical of 1982. One day, after seeing Hall and Oates perform on Solid Gold, and was struck with an idea. I went and told my friends, all three of them, that the reason my dad was not around was he was the guy with the moustache in Hall and Oates. I showed pictures of my dad taken from far away, and they believed me.

This is not funny like the cow story. Though, it is made a little more funny when I think about that I was five, obsessed with Santa, collecting nutcrackers, pretending my dad was in Halls and Fucking Oates, rebelling against my moms insistance that I only wear gender neutral outfits in gender neutral colors, and had taken to wearing Wonder Woman under-roos with near exclusivity, eating a lot hot dogs and watching re-runs of Gomer Pyle. Context helps, I suppose.

My two better pranks of teenage-yore, one I can tell, the other, proprietarily, belongs to Britt and involves a bottle of Blackberry brandy filled with refrigerated urine and a very high pizza delivery dude mistakenly showing up at our house. It is Britt's story, she can tell it. The one I can tell goes like this:

There was a Sebadoh show coming to Minneapolis - this is right around Smash Your Head, or Bubble and Scrape, and so everyone in town wanted to be the opener on the bill, because it was the nineties and anything Barlow was big-shit.
A few weeks prior to this show, The Blues Explosion or someone "big" was in town, and everyone-everyone would be at the show, all the cool adults, the record store people in bands, scenesters etc. It was in a bar, so I could not go. I was in 11th grade at this time.

So, while everyone in town is out at the honkey blooze show, a friend and I took the tape player I had stolen from school, the one with pitch control, and recorded a message: "Hi... uh, this is Lou Barlow, from Sebadoh. I hope I have the right number. I got a tape of your band, and I think you guys are fucking awesome, and I want you to open for us when we come through town next month" -- etc. We slow the recording down so my chirpy teen girl voice became a suitably stoned approximation Lou Barlow. We call everyone in every band we have a number for in town, which was maybe about 20 bands. We sit back and wait for the shit to hit the fan. Embarrassing squabbles break out over the next few days, as people go out and floss about how they have been hand-picked by Barlow himself to open the show.

That is my story for today.

If you send me your notable lies, I will post them for you, anonymously, if you so desire, or would like me to apologize for any lies or pranks I have pulled on you, please email me at the yahoo account on the side of the page. I will even apologize on behalf of people that have lied to you, if it will help you feel better, just let me know. I will be really sincere about it, you will feel redeemed, and you will not have to keep on drinking yourself to sleep. Just try it, it will be our little experiment.


Posted by Jessica at November 22, 2004 11:05 PM | TrackBack