I spent much of the weekend avoiding social functions where I'll have to deal with seeing people I don't want to see, who ask me questions I don't want to answer, usually in regards to my perpetual state of singleness.
You'd think that people'd have something more thrilling to talk about than the love lives of people they barely know but this seems to be universal.
One of the crushing realities of adulthood is that while life is not the hell it was when everyone hit puberty, people really don't ever change. Those yearbook exclamations really did end up ringing true and not in the best way.
My aunt came up this weekend and we ended up talking about this over coffee and wine. We were both English majors and have overlapping musical and literary tastes, and while she's in the corporate world and I'm in the humble land of Peon, sometimes things don't seem that much different.
I look at the people in the board room at these meetings and I feel like I'm on the playground again. That guy was the bully, that girl was the mean girl, that guy was the weak one who hung out with the bully so he wouldn't get picked on, that girl was the one who started drama, that guy was the one who never got it. It never really changes!"
Thankfully, after a couple decades of cooking in the social incubator, I've developed a thick skin over my sensitive soul. It doesn't mean that I don't feel anything, but that it doesn't get so epically blown out of proportion anymore.
When I was in library school, me and a fellow youngish miscreant coined the term "Steve" to describe many of our fellow classmates who were incredibly arrogant and simultaneously extremely ignorant. There will always be Steves everywhere. I can tell which ones are the Steves at the license bureau or the checkout line or wherever I go.
Just as long as I can continue to ignore their foolishness and not become what I see, I think I'll be okay.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Friday, January 28, 2011
he's like a detuned radio...
In half an hour, I'll be running across the parking deck down the stairs to catch the bus to the train to the car to make art and commiserate with good friends over an as-yet-undecided dinner, pondering and doubtless pots of tea and perhaps a bottle of wine or ludicrously fruity beer.
I caught the earlier Rapid today, which had no teens on it, and mostly people older than me including a guy and a lady who were talking about having an affair with each other and he thought he was way deep for saying that he bases his entire life philosophy off of Led Zeppelin's "Good Times Bad Times" but I don't know how that works, though in all honesty I was listening to Jimmy Page's guitar and that amazing John Bonham drum sound than the lyrical content so maybe I'm missing some kind of esoteric deeper truth other than not caring about what the neighbors say and the rhyming of "heart" and "part."
RTA seems to be experimenting with their background noise... it was straight up Smooth Jazz for awhile which is supposed to make the masses soothed and complacent but reminds me of working in Retail Hell, and then it was some kind of lame talk radio, and then it's something like one of those 80's, 90's and Today stations, but with really terrible smooth jazz covers of "With or Without You" and "Have You Ever Seen the Rain?" U2 & CCR are just fine, you know.
So now I'm waiting for the Rapid to come and it's Neil Young's "Southern Man" and "Time of the Season" which is probably one of my favorite songs of all time just because of that awesome keyboard solo in the middle and the general pop spookiness. But it leaves me a bit confused at the same time because I just don't know what's going on and wish they could save money by not having any music and at least keep the fares where they're at instead of raising them all the time.
Meanwhile, the BBC is entering austerity mode and cutting most of its World Service broadcasting, and while I don't listen to it much, not having an Internet connection at home, it makes me sad, especially being at a radio station where there is an incredible diversity of music and culture and my life has been so enriched by hearing current events from other perspectives, and music from all over the world.
Since the American populace is often too busy getting worked up about culture wars and such, we really don't have any clue what's going on in the rest of the world half the time, and especially now there's a whole lot going on, in Israel/Palestine, Yemen, Albania, Tunisia, Lebanon, Egypt and such. While I like to giggle about bunga bunga and chicks with guns and Pooty-Poot, this stuff really is important...
I caught the earlier Rapid today, which had no teens on it, and mostly people older than me including a guy and a lady who were talking about having an affair with each other and he thought he was way deep for saying that he bases his entire life philosophy off of Led Zeppelin's "Good Times Bad Times" but I don't know how that works, though in all honesty I was listening to Jimmy Page's guitar and that amazing John Bonham drum sound than the lyrical content so maybe I'm missing some kind of esoteric deeper truth other than not caring about what the neighbors say and the rhyming of "heart" and "part."
RTA seems to be experimenting with their background noise... it was straight up Smooth Jazz for awhile which is supposed to make the masses soothed and complacent but reminds me of working in Retail Hell, and then it was some kind of lame talk radio, and then it's something like one of those 80's, 90's and Today stations, but with really terrible smooth jazz covers of "With or Without You" and "Have You Ever Seen the Rain?" U2 & CCR are just fine, you know.
So now I'm waiting for the Rapid to come and it's Neil Young's "Southern Man" and "Time of the Season" which is probably one of my favorite songs of all time just because of that awesome keyboard solo in the middle and the general pop spookiness. But it leaves me a bit confused at the same time because I just don't know what's going on and wish they could save money by not having any music and at least keep the fares where they're at instead of raising them all the time.
Meanwhile, the BBC is entering austerity mode and cutting most of its World Service broadcasting, and while I don't listen to it much, not having an Internet connection at home, it makes me sad, especially being at a radio station where there is an incredible diversity of music and culture and my life has been so enriched by hearing current events from other perspectives, and music from all over the world.
Since the American populace is often too busy getting worked up about culture wars and such, we really don't have any clue what's going on in the rest of the world half the time, and especially now there's a whole lot going on, in Israel/Palestine, Yemen, Albania, Tunisia, Lebanon, Egypt and such. While I like to giggle about bunga bunga and chicks with guns and Pooty-Poot, this stuff really is important...
suburban angstas "we're not the first and we know we're not the last..."
One of my friends from the hallowed slacker Tri-C days of yore, who made the Cleveland Scene for Dumbest Quote of the Year for selling a parental-advisory-stickered CD to a grade schooler saying he'd "sell it to a fetus if he had to," declared that if he was elected Mayor of Strongsville, he would change the mascot on the downtown water tower to the Wu-Tangs instead of the Mustangs due to the high volume of suburban hip-hop fanhood in said land to the south.
My east siders find it supremely ironic that the white kids of the southern suburbs adored the crew while mostly oblivious to the whole Five Percenter thing, but it was what it was. And ODB's stage crash was infinitely more awesome than Kanye's. For the children, indeed.
There will always be suburban kids who love hip-hop for the same reason that white kids have always turned to African-rooted music. It's danceable, freaks out their parents (see: jazz, early rock and roll, etc), and is eventually co-opted into a sanitized mainstream culturally acceptable form, usually getting whiter in the process. The next musical form that freaks out/totally annoys the future white suburban parents my age who loved A Tribe Called Quest and the Roots will probably have African diasporic roots too.
My dad can't stand hip-hop but loves Beck, and made up parody lyrics to "Loser" when it came out that became an inside joke with his fellow truck-driving coworkers whose careers involve purveying bread of all kinds to the good people of the hood.
Meanwhile, in Crackerland, as it's been since the 1960's, there will always be disaffected youths who will turn to loud music with electric guitars that may or may not freak out their parents even if they don't understand this new sound that the Kids are into these days.
While the medium on which the music is recorded may change (see cassettes, vinyl, compact disc, MP3), The Kids will more or less look the same regardless of decade and are somewhat interchangeable, as what's basic yet never terribly fashionable can never go out of style. Jeans, black t-shirts, basic footwear usually of the Converse variety, zip-up hoodies, the occasional Joey Ramone leather jacket? The haircuts may vary in volume, the glasses may look different, but the basics are still there.
The Kids may not be getting stoned, but they love kung-fu movies, played Stratomatic in the 60's and 70's (because in the inner suburbs, it's still acceptable to be into sports and music), videogames from the 80's until now, guitars if they were available, and still probably spend a lot of time driving around aimlessly listening to music and discussing high school politics, and dishing snarky pop/subculture commentary at an all-night diner or the nearest coffeeshop.
One of my fellow peons from a generation old enough to have birthed me claims that in another 15 years, the Kids will no longer be listening to Slayer, but I disagree. For one thing, Slayer's older than I am, and their first record came out the year I was born.
17 years later, The Kids in my day mocked me for my love of U2 while extolling the virtues of Hell Awaits at the lunch table, while we regretted that we were too young to see Minor Threat or Nirvana or Led Zeppelin way back when and wondered if that new Alice in Chains song on the radio meant that maybe Layne Staley wasn't totally far gone yet.
My friends often had to turn their band t-shirts inside out (this was the post-Columbine era and any band t-shirt suggesting anything involving death and destruction was suspect), made fun of our valedictorian who didn't know what a pentagram was, and one of us, who also played on the football team, bore a startling resemblance to Kerry King, especially when he got tattoos post-graduation.
Even if you didn't know how to play anything else on the guitar, you knew how to play "Iron Man," and "Smoke on the Water." Every hardcore punk band I saw threw in a few bars of "Reign in Blood" when requested.
Maybe we Parmanians were just 20 years behind the times, but I'm sure there's kids sitting in a cafeteria right now listening to 70's punk, classic rock, and 80's thrash, just like we did. My little sister likes all this weaksauce indie, but her boyfriend's skater bros look just like my metalhead friends from back in the day.
I got the warm fuzzy feeling when I watched two teenage girls at My Mind's Eye buying pre- Blood Sugar Red Hot Chili Peppers albums on vinyl because I remember being that age and starting to delve into the underground gradually, or when my cousin posted pictures of his first electric guitar and is now presumably wailing away.
So boomers, thanks for Hendrix and Black Sabbath. We don't want to admit that we're still kind of like you (because who doesn't become their parents eventually?), because we insist that the sounds of our youth are the best they could be, but we have to give credit where it's due, and we have you to thank for spearheading the soundtracks and subcultures for disaffected and usually brilliant loners. Now, go retire so we can pay your pensions and stay employed.
Thanks.
My east siders find it supremely ironic that the white kids of the southern suburbs adored the crew while mostly oblivious to the whole Five Percenter thing, but it was what it was. And ODB's stage crash was infinitely more awesome than Kanye's. For the children, indeed.
There will always be suburban kids who love hip-hop for the same reason that white kids have always turned to African-rooted music. It's danceable, freaks out their parents (see: jazz, early rock and roll, etc), and is eventually co-opted into a sanitized mainstream culturally acceptable form, usually getting whiter in the process. The next musical form that freaks out/totally annoys the future white suburban parents my age who loved A Tribe Called Quest and the Roots will probably have African diasporic roots too.
My dad can't stand hip-hop but loves Beck, and made up parody lyrics to "Loser" when it came out that became an inside joke with his fellow truck-driving coworkers whose careers involve purveying bread of all kinds to the good people of the hood.
Meanwhile, in Crackerland, as it's been since the 1960's, there will always be disaffected youths who will turn to loud music with electric guitars that may or may not freak out their parents even if they don't understand this new sound that the Kids are into these days.
While the medium on which the music is recorded may change (see cassettes, vinyl, compact disc, MP3), The Kids will more or less look the same regardless of decade and are somewhat interchangeable, as what's basic yet never terribly fashionable can never go out of style. Jeans, black t-shirts, basic footwear usually of the Converse variety, zip-up hoodies, the occasional Joey Ramone leather jacket? The haircuts may vary in volume, the glasses may look different, but the basics are still there.
The Kids may not be getting stoned, but they love kung-fu movies, played Stratomatic in the 60's and 70's (because in the inner suburbs, it's still acceptable to be into sports and music), videogames from the 80's until now, guitars if they were available, and still probably spend a lot of time driving around aimlessly listening to music and discussing high school politics, and dishing snarky pop/subculture commentary at an all-night diner or the nearest coffeeshop.
One of my fellow peons from a generation old enough to have birthed me claims that in another 15 years, the Kids will no longer be listening to Slayer, but I disagree. For one thing, Slayer's older than I am, and their first record came out the year I was born.
17 years later, The Kids in my day mocked me for my love of U2 while extolling the virtues of Hell Awaits at the lunch table, while we regretted that we were too young to see Minor Threat or Nirvana or Led Zeppelin way back when and wondered if that new Alice in Chains song on the radio meant that maybe Layne Staley wasn't totally far gone yet.
My friends often had to turn their band t-shirts inside out (this was the post-Columbine era and any band t-shirt suggesting anything involving death and destruction was suspect), made fun of our valedictorian who didn't know what a pentagram was, and one of us, who also played on the football team, bore a startling resemblance to Kerry King, especially when he got tattoos post-graduation.
Even if you didn't know how to play anything else on the guitar, you knew how to play "Iron Man," and "Smoke on the Water." Every hardcore punk band I saw threw in a few bars of "Reign in Blood" when requested.
Maybe we Parmanians were just 20 years behind the times, but I'm sure there's kids sitting in a cafeteria right now listening to 70's punk, classic rock, and 80's thrash, just like we did. My little sister likes all this weaksauce indie, but her boyfriend's skater bros look just like my metalhead friends from back in the day.
I got the warm fuzzy feeling when I watched two teenage girls at My Mind's Eye buying pre- Blood Sugar Red Hot Chili Peppers albums on vinyl because I remember being that age and starting to delve into the underground gradually, or when my cousin posted pictures of his first electric guitar and is now presumably wailing away.
So boomers, thanks for Hendrix and Black Sabbath. We don't want to admit that we're still kind of like you (because who doesn't become their parents eventually?), because we insist that the sounds of our youth are the best they could be, but we have to give credit where it's due, and we have you to thank for spearheading the soundtracks and subcultures for disaffected and usually brilliant loners. Now, go retire so we can pay your pensions and stay employed.
Thanks.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
connections and directions
There are times the thoughts come out spiraling so intensely, in ways more suited for a conversation over coffee in person than something sent out into the little corner of cyberspace and it is all too easy to regret what was said, look back and wonder what the hell was I thinking, and why did I get so worked up.
So many others express their ideas of politics, economics, and social issues with way more expertise and articulateness than yours truly, who tries desperately not to be all nerve and no brain, but often end up being a big icky mess of ritually sacrificed bleeding heart most of the time, cut through the sharp obsidian of cynicism that some mistake for unredeemable negativity.
Unlike most of my generation who seem to prefer soundbytes and emoticons, interaction using abstract boxes and abbreviations, I still love face-to-face discourse and banter, just like I enjoy going into actual record stores to buy actual music, prefer printed pages to reading online, real coffee to instant.
So 20th century right? I've made my concessions bit by bit, but I really hate text messaging, Twitter, and consider the whole facebook thing a necessary evil since The Kids don't tend to do email much anymore and it occasionally provides a good avenue to keep in touch real time with old friends scattered across the globe who don't check their email.
I love the dialogue of diametrically opposed points of view, where there is give and take, snarky asides, unfinished thoughts and half-formed solutions. There's lots of that in this forum, but something gets lost in translation when there's the lack of spontaneity and face-to-face response, connections that have little to do with fiber optic cables and infinitely more to do with eye contact.
There's a part of me on here that really is what I'm made of, but there's a whole lot more that is unseen, just like the voice on the radio you hear at 5am. I'm really not all that cool and exciting when it comes down to it, but I keep writing, to remember, to process, to connect, and I guess most of the time there's nothing wrong with that.
Also, this Elastica was very dear to me in my teenage years and that first record still gets a lot of play come warm weather. Girls not just singing, but playing guitar too and not being Kathleen Hanna was a revelation. We all don't want to sing about feminism. Sometimes we just want to sing about whatever. I still kind of want Justine's haircut.
So many others express their ideas of politics, economics, and social issues with way more expertise and articulateness than yours truly, who tries desperately not to be all nerve and no brain, but often end up being a big icky mess of ritually sacrificed bleeding heart most of the time, cut through the sharp obsidian of cynicism that some mistake for unredeemable negativity.
Unlike most of my generation who seem to prefer soundbytes and emoticons, interaction using abstract boxes and abbreviations, I still love face-to-face discourse and banter, just like I enjoy going into actual record stores to buy actual music, prefer printed pages to reading online, real coffee to instant.
So 20th century right? I've made my concessions bit by bit, but I really hate text messaging, Twitter, and consider the whole facebook thing a necessary evil since The Kids don't tend to do email much anymore and it occasionally provides a good avenue to keep in touch real time with old friends scattered across the globe who don't check their email.
I love the dialogue of diametrically opposed points of view, where there is give and take, snarky asides, unfinished thoughts and half-formed solutions. There's lots of that in this forum, but something gets lost in translation when there's the lack of spontaneity and face-to-face response, connections that have little to do with fiber optic cables and infinitely more to do with eye contact.
There's a part of me on here that really is what I'm made of, but there's a whole lot more that is unseen, just like the voice on the radio you hear at 5am. I'm really not all that cool and exciting when it comes down to it, but I keep writing, to remember, to process, to connect, and I guess most of the time there's nothing wrong with that.
Also, this Elastica was very dear to me in my teenage years and that first record still gets a lot of play come warm weather. Girls not just singing, but playing guitar too and not being Kathleen Hanna was a revelation. We all don't want to sing about feminism. Sometimes we just want to sing about whatever. I still kind of want Justine's haircut.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
the post looks way more gothy than it really is.
Though I don't know where the goth kids disappeared to... I don't see nearly as many teens around who seem to dig the Cure and Bauhaus, even in Lakewood. Vampire novels, guyliner, and bands that your parents and older siblings just don't understand, sure, though the teenage angst soundtrack seems to do with overly long band names and a whole new kind of bad haircut.
I don't even know what's big anymore, though my teenage cousin just discovered the existence of G'N'R and Van Halen and my younger sister complains about all the wannabe "indie" girls she works with.
Black clothing, due to its timelessness, slimming qualities, and ability to coordinate well with anything, will probably always exist in one form or another, even for those of us who are now Grownups in the Working World.
Meanwhile in grownup land, I'm trying to straighten out a rent money snafu with my landlord, got over being a little salty at the lazy boomer fellow peons, and thankfully scored some free fruit, checking for new concert listings, I'm now holding down the office and waiting more or less for the phone to ring.
The rest of the world rages on, for people who are trying to actually change things instead of buying into their dear leader's platitudes, the talking heads continue to blather, and I just want to go out into the beautifully dreary grey with a camera and drive around listening to music. I drove past Lakeview Cemetery last night listening to the song below just as they were closing the gates and realized I haven't been there in almost two years and never in winter.
And as many times as I've been there, I still haven't found or shot this lovely monument that's probably showed up in every angsty kid's black and white photography class portfolio. The place is just so big and it's generally not a good idea for young females to wander lonely as a cloud through graveyards bordering East Cleveland near sundown.
Can't wait for a few more hours of sunlight to get out there again.
I don't even know what's big anymore, though my teenage cousin just discovered the existence of G'N'R and Van Halen and my younger sister complains about all the wannabe "indie" girls she works with.
Black clothing, due to its timelessness, slimming qualities, and ability to coordinate well with anything, will probably always exist in one form or another, even for those of us who are now Grownups in the Working World.
Meanwhile in grownup land, I'm trying to straighten out a rent money snafu with my landlord, got over being a little salty at the lazy boomer fellow peons, and thankfully scored some free fruit, checking for new concert listings, I'm now holding down the office and waiting more or less for the phone to ring.
The rest of the world rages on, for people who are trying to actually change things instead of buying into their dear leader's platitudes, the talking heads continue to blather, and I just want to go out into the beautifully dreary grey with a camera and drive around listening to music. I drove past Lakeview Cemetery last night listening to the song below just as they were closing the gates and realized I haven't been there in almost two years and never in winter.
And as many times as I've been there, I still haven't found or shot this lovely monument that's probably showed up in every angsty kid's black and white photography class portfolio. The place is just so big and it's generally not a good idea for young females to wander lonely as a cloud through graveyards bordering East Cleveland near sundown.
Can't wait for a few more hours of sunlight to get out there again.
music, soul, emotion
Tuesdays are long days, getting up at 4-ish to get down to the station, working, and then usually coming home to crash early, but I'd heard from a reliable source about some good medieval-ish music on Case's campus last night, and drove out that way to pick up some printing ink and crazy expensive yet beautifully luminous paint at the art supply store, met up with a friend for dinner at the usual place, and walked over to the beautiful chapel over there to sit in the darkness and listen to 12th century French choral music.
I almost fell asleep at certain points because soothing voices in a dark church are good for that kind of thing, but it was beautiful and interesting and it's intriguing to realize that our ancestors 800 years ago were just as snarky as we are and that political and clerical corruption are nothing new and that satirizing religious culture is probably almost as old as religion itself.
While I play several instruments a little better than decently, I'm still no good at attempting to write songs, and admire those who can put something together that's amazing.
I'm on a rotation of people who are in charge of doing music at church, and in all honesty I don't listen to much in the way of modern Christian music. I honestly just don't have the patience for it, as either the style is so strictly codified in its own way or it's trying to hard to sound like one of its usually superior secular counterparts. And half the time, it's just too damn perky and I'm not really a perky music person. I always assume there's some kind of dark secret hiding underneath that perfect smile.
When I read the translations of the writings of Hildegard of Bingen, when I listen to Bach or Arvo Part, there's a reverence, depth and a beauty there both lyrically and musically, with such detail paid to the composition of both, that is so far removed from that of my culture, where being happy and positive is often more important than dealing with real love and truth lived out.
When I listen to old gospel recordings by Blind Willie Johnson, or read the words of old spirituals in a hymnal one of my friends picked up for me at a place in East Cleveland that sells both gospel music and insecticide, there's a realism that says not everything in life is easy and fun but God is good and there's something more than what we see in front of us.
In Pakistan, believers have taken the entire book of Psalms (which is gorgeous writing in its own right) and sing them in traditional forms like qawwali, a style with Sufi roots made famous here in the west by Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan.
Having been a lifelong literature geek, I love words that are strung together beautifully, and I can't bring myself to sing things that don't mean much or are repeated mindlessly. I know not everyone can write like Julian of Norwich, T.S. Eliot, or Gerard Manley Hopkins or necessarily have the skills to compose something amazing. I know I can't like I'd like to. Having played music in one form or another for about half my life, I love the way it moves me, but I also know that it's manipulative.
While I never liked mumbling through the songs at Mass when I was still Catholic, I was just as squeamish in more charismatic congregations that some of my friends went to where the same song would go on for fifteen minutes and I'd look up and people would be passed out on the floor or just kind of dancing around and would start praying for me because obviously I wasn't letting the Holy Spirit move me like I should.
I try to take the whole loving God with one's heart, soul, mind, and strength, and when I feel like it's suggested that I check my mind in at the door and just let the emotion carry me along, I don't see where that's a good place to be, because how truthful are emotions half the time? Just because I feel something, doesn't always mean it's the truth.
I almost fell asleep at certain points because soothing voices in a dark church are good for that kind of thing, but it was beautiful and interesting and it's intriguing to realize that our ancestors 800 years ago were just as snarky as we are and that political and clerical corruption are nothing new and that satirizing religious culture is probably almost as old as religion itself.
While I play several instruments a little better than decently, I'm still no good at attempting to write songs, and admire those who can put something together that's amazing.
I'm on a rotation of people who are in charge of doing music at church, and in all honesty I don't listen to much in the way of modern Christian music. I honestly just don't have the patience for it, as either the style is so strictly codified in its own way or it's trying to hard to sound like one of its usually superior secular counterparts. And half the time, it's just too damn perky and I'm not really a perky music person. I always assume there's some kind of dark secret hiding underneath that perfect smile.
When I read the translations of the writings of Hildegard of Bingen, when I listen to Bach or Arvo Part, there's a reverence, depth and a beauty there both lyrically and musically, with such detail paid to the composition of both, that is so far removed from that of my culture, where being happy and positive is often more important than dealing with real love and truth lived out.
When I listen to old gospel recordings by Blind Willie Johnson, or read the words of old spirituals in a hymnal one of my friends picked up for me at a place in East Cleveland that sells both gospel music and insecticide, there's a realism that says not everything in life is easy and fun but God is good and there's something more than what we see in front of us.
In Pakistan, believers have taken the entire book of Psalms (which is gorgeous writing in its own right) and sing them in traditional forms like qawwali, a style with Sufi roots made famous here in the west by Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan.
Having been a lifelong literature geek, I love words that are strung together beautifully, and I can't bring myself to sing things that don't mean much or are repeated mindlessly. I know not everyone can write like Julian of Norwich, T.S. Eliot, or Gerard Manley Hopkins or necessarily have the skills to compose something amazing. I know I can't like I'd like to. Having played music in one form or another for about half my life, I love the way it moves me, but I also know that it's manipulative.
While I never liked mumbling through the songs at Mass when I was still Catholic, I was just as squeamish in more charismatic congregations that some of my friends went to where the same song would go on for fifteen minutes and I'd look up and people would be passed out on the floor or just kind of dancing around and would start praying for me because obviously I wasn't letting the Holy Spirit move me like I should.
I try to take the whole loving God with one's heart, soul, mind, and strength, and when I feel like it's suggested that I check my mind in at the door and just let the emotion carry me along, I don't see where that's a good place to be, because how truthful are emotions half the time? Just because I feel something, doesn't always mean it's the truth.
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