Jenna's House of Idiosyncrasies Version 9.0 // Critical Darling, Commercial Flop

There is a discussion on the much lauded opium² about the best songs to do the deed to. I was asked to weigh in by the Roommates™ (I have this undeserved rep as a mixtape aficionado) and offered this:

What you need to understand is, the key to a good sex mix is the fact that the seduction music is part of it. You can't stop someone in the middle of, um, whatever they are doing so you can run over to your CD player and pop in your “Music for Humpin” mix. You have to start it up when you get them back to your humble abode, and act like you're not trying to imply anything with your HOTT background music.

It also shouldn't just stop abruptly at the end of the act. Think about a story arch. A climax is simply the major turning point, not the end.

So, presented with notation, a chronological sex mix:

Arrival. "Come on in, sorry about the mess."

1. Strong As Death (Sweet As Love) // Al Green
2. Lover, You Should've Come Over // Jeff Buckley

Smooching begins.

3. Love Letters // Jude
4. I've Been Loving You Too Long (To Stop Now) // Otis Redding

Clothes start coming off. Nakedness and related activity is in full swing by track 7.

5. I Want You // Elvis Costello
6. Sugar Pill // Ambulance Ltd
7. I Remember // Damien Rice

Climax.

8. We Looked Like Giants // Death Cab For Cutie

Hopefully at this point you have wooed the honey to the point where they want to have breakfast with you in the morning. There is none of that "I have to get up really early" stuff. And you fall asleep.

9. Falling Away With You // Muse
10. Drown In My Own Tears // Will Hoge

This puts the whole act, from start to finish, at about 45 minutes. While that might be a lot to expect from men at my age, it's certainly not impossible. A girl can dream.

It should be noted that my obsession is not sex, it's mixtapes—pacing, timing, and flow. It has many of the same concerns as sex I suppose.

Christmas Eve dinner at the Tollerson house was a low-key affair. My father had purchased one of those cooked rotisserie chickens, and the side dish was apples. Not baked, not fried, just whole apples sitting next to the chicken on a paper plate.

Such is the level of cuisine on this very special occasion from my normally culinarily triumphant father. Without anyone to impress, however (my mother was absent from the holiday, staying at her mother's house in California), he seemed to be off his game.

Early on in the night, I presented both Dad and Sarah with the Christmas mix (cover, liner notes, back) I made as stocking stuffers for a dozen or so people, and my father liked it so much that it was played about 27 times over the course of the next 48 hours. I was flattered. I also can't listen to it again for at least another year.

When not listening to Merry Christmas (I Don't Wanna Fight Tonight)—also referred to at HQ in Winder as “The Tollerson Christmas Theme”—we intermittedly switched around channels in on the tele, me periodically harassing my father to stop on TBS's 24 hour marathon of A Christmas Story. He keeps asking us to watch Dawn of the Dead with him. Sarah and I repeatedly refuse, retorting that it's not very Christmasy.

No tree, no stockings, no lights, and we had the audacity to claim that Dawn of the Dead wouldn't be Christmasy enough. But it worked.

At about 10:15 pm, Sarah suddenly shouts, without provocation, completely from nowhere,

“Eggnog!”

“What?” My father and I were appropriately dumbfounded.

“We forgot eggnog. We need eggnog!”

I agree. “Dad, let's go.”

“Well if we are going to get eggnog, we need booze. Let's go to a liquor store.”

What must be noted is that my ‘deddy’ is not really a big boozer, so his declaration of buying liquor, and furthermore, once we were in the store, insisting on whiskey, was foreign to me, in a hilarious way. I was delighted.

We were in our first liquor store, one of six stops, less than 5 minutes after Sarah made her initial random interjection. When it comes to partying, Tollersons are apparently your go-to guys.

We picked out a whiskey, and then inquired at the counter about eggnog. The cheerful family working pointed us to Old St. Nicks Alcoholic Eggnog in a Noel-decked bottle. My father bought the whiskey and the eggnog while ignoring my suggestions to add on a bottle of Jager. Then we were off to search other locales for a non-alcoholic version of holiday cheer to... add alcohol to.

We are a strange lot. Read More »

Today, I practiced my right to vote. I am part of the system now, as flawed as it is.

In celebration, I made an election day mix.

1. Hey Mr. President (Anyone But You) - Will Hoge
2. Young America - Jump
3. Bleed American - Jimmy Eat World
4. If 6 Was 9 - The Jimi Hendrix Experience
5. Know Your Enemy - Rage Against the Machine
6. MOSH - Eminem
7. Politik - Coldplay
8. Oppression - Ben Harper
9. Bible Vs. Gun - Will Hoge
10. Rainy Day Women #12 & 35 - Bob Dylan
11. Bombs Over Baghdad - Outkast
12. Who's To Blame - Ozomatli
13. Let It Be - The Beatles
14. The Times They Are A-Changin' (Bob Dylan Cover) - Will Hoge
15. Mercedes Benz - Janis Joplin

Today I woke up two minutes before my alarm would have gone off at 8:00 am. I pulled myself out of bed in the darkness, stumbled down my ladder and got into the shower.

It didn't occur to me until the second “Lather, rinse.” that Abie would get up in a moment and begin yelling up to my empty bed.

“I'm awake. Isn't this cool?”

“Did you not sleep?”

“No way, man. I totally went to bed at 1:00.”

“Seriously? I thought you were going to stay up all night.”

We went to class, and had a weird and confusing review session for the test on Wednesday. I have no idea what the hell is going to be on this test, like whoa.

Afterwards, as per usual, I walked to work. I ran into Neil (works with me, previously mentioned in one way or another, total sweetie) in front of the chapel, and he was, as per usual, far too cheery for not even 10 am. He has these crazy orange mirror sunglasses that for some reason make him look both happy and really awake, and in combination with this amazing smile he always keeps on, seeing him for 15 seconds made me feel happy and awake, even pre-coffee.

So I went into work ready to kick ass, and my Web Account Manager, Phillips, expressed genuine happiness at my being back.

“I'll tell you what—you sure make my job a hell of a lot easier.”

“Are you serious?”

“Damn right.”

I go to my desk, and a completely random plush dog toy is sitting next to my phone.

“Can someone explain this to me?”

Everyone refuses, telling me that I'll just have to talk to Chris Brown.

The dog is a puppet. You stick your hand in the back, move it's mouth, and it barks the tune of “London Bridges” in time with your movement.

I am so not kidding about this.

Eventually, I get out of somebody that sometime last week (while I was out sick), CB was approached on the street by a woman trying to sell him kitchen knives.

Yes, kitchen knives.

Finding he had no use for kitchen knives, she randomly pulls out four of these dogs (brand new in original poly bags, I assure you) and offers to sell him the set for $10.

Here's the crazy part, kids: he buys these crazy-ass dogs off the strange woman. He gifted one to Neil, one to Bobby, one to me, and kept one for himself. We have jested that the four of us are obviously now a clique.

A clique with the incredible power of annoying coworkers beyond belief... with plush dogs. Sounds like something you'd like to be a part of, right?

I thought so.

Right before I clocked out for lunch (lunch consisting of sitting in the tire place, more on that later), Neil comes in, finds the mix CD I made him sitting on his desk, and proceeds to give me one of the most zealous reactions I have ever received for any gift.

“What is this?!? This is so cool!!! New music!”

Overwhelmed with the enthusiasm, I left, bound for Snow Tire Company on Hancock. I had chosen Snow Tire based on some glowing recommendations, and the fact that it's location made the whole ordeal something I could get taken care of on my lunch break.

I go in, tell the guy that if possible, I would like to have my tire repaired rather than replaced, but I would defer to their judgement on that. I sat in the waiting room for about 30 to 40 minutes, mostly staring into space thinking, sometimes looking through the plate glass to see what they were doing to Russo (which was a lot), and halfway watching an auto race playing on the tv. It was about twenty minutes into the staring/observing/not really watching body of activity that I realized I was watching a low-rider truck race, which I didn't even know really went on, let alone was televised with real announcers doing play-by-play and commentary. This is officially the most white trash “sport” I have ever come across, and that includes cow tippin.

The guy comes back in and motions to me. I get up and follow him to the counter. “You're done. It's going to come to a dollar fifty. ”

“Are you serious?”

“Your stem valve was busted, we replaced it. That was all that was wrong with it.”

“Wow. That. Is Awesome.”

No labor, no charging me for the air they put in the tires, no bogus administrative charges, just a $1.61, with tax.

Holy beejesus.

The rest of the workday flew by like nothing. I went home, made dinner, and went grocery shopping. A series of awfully mundane activities, but there are some things that just have to be taken care of.

I went out at about 10:30 to study in 24-hour coffee shop on Washington known as Hot Corner. While I must express my new love for this place—which is warm and inviting and not pretentious at all in the different but equal ways that Blue Sky, Starbucks and Espresso Royale all are—I should totally make sure to wear headphones next time. I had to fore go music this go round because my CD player was non-charged, and as a result got fuckall done, although I did draw a little, and get to eavesdrop on some rather hilarious conversation.

“I really resent it when people tell me I look like Jason Schwartzman.”

“He's not a bad actor.”

“He's not a great actor.”

“He has redeeming qualities.”

(Said with some obvious, self-effacing irony) “My mom says I look like George Clooney, but better.”