She's a quirky and complex woman, which makes loving her so gratifying, like solving a thousand-piece puzzle without the box for reference. She is unique in very many ways, but also not so odd that she isn't one of the most well-balanced and grounded human beings I've ever had the pleasure of befriending.
Usually, that tends to get under her skin when I tell her how much I appreciate how normal she is -- something I find to be one of the highest compliments you can pay a person, especially one whom you will assimilate with the rest of your life. But anyone who has ever met a woman would know that this would eventually lead to an bout of haughty exasperation.
What I am really saying to her is that I find her aims in life as a strong woman, wife, and mother, to be traditional and charming -- normal, in the ancestral sense of the word -- which I think that is something many, if not all, females in such a role would like to pull off with as much class as she does.
Sure, she aspires for the vivacity of a life filled with clever anecdotes and interesting coffees with bearded intellectuals -- and she has that biography scripted in her catalog as well -- but its her fundamental notion to do the right thing, that makes her an anchored spirit. You know, normal.
But, you know, maybe she is right -- that inclination to do right by family and friends isn't such a natural or inspired inclination anymore -- and this practice actually makes her beyond comparison. She is a sweet and caring woman, a wonderful friend and companion, and an immensely fantastic mother. I am very proud of her, and especially that she only presents with about a 3 on a scale of 10 in the amount of cray in her eyes. She's the best. But son, you already knew that.
Here are six songs that you should know represent and celebrate your mommy's character -- and, sure, tracks that daddy finds agreeable as well. After all, he compiled this master list, and sometimes your mother likes some weird-assed shit. That was the thing I was saying about the drummer and the other side of town.
A funny story about the beginnings of my pursuit of your mother -- and this was before I had really even had a legitimate conversation with her that didn't involve some work context -- but I initially thought she was the gonna be the indiest chick who ever indie'd, one who was gonna school me on the insights of Belle & Sebastian, opine on Wes Anderson's Rushmore, and say things like "adjectives are so mainstream, I only use interesting verbs to communicate."
I wasn't at all disappointed to know that she was more MoTown than MoMouse, because this would give us a huge opportunity to share volumes and volumes of ideas about our backgrounds. We would sit on our balcony in downtown Phoenix and go over our histories, drink wine for hours, and listen to music -- which was awesome for me because I had a captive audience five floors up and a shitload of wine to keep her occupied. I was totally gonna educate her on all of my musical bullshit. And after all the filtering of the Morrisseys, Animal Collectives, and of Montreals, it was Bright Eyes' First Day of My Life that I attribute as her gateway drug into her part-time indiehood which she reflects at certain intervals in her life. I think she would tell you the same.
When we finally found a common ground between her love of Soul and R&B and my fixation on Electroclash and Shoegaze, it was presented in the form of a great uniter: Hip-Hop & Rap.
De La Soul -- and specifically Rollerskate Jam named "Saturdays" -- was the musical bridge that spanned our aural territories. This allowed for a peaceful invasion of each others musical government, a collaboration of forces in which we still enjoy today.
As I was poking around in this newly discovered sovereign state of Melissabaijan, I encountered a startling quandary that threatened to dissolve peaceful negotiations: Reggae.
Oh snap. Who the fuck likes reggae this much? This was a difficult treaty to render, but one that I timidly accepted at first, then later enjoyed to the maximum extent possible for someone unswayed by Jamaica or Michigan. Though Bob Marley was a college-era (and tragically trendy during our days at University) staple, I was fine to never look back on it afterward, really. I thought of him like Elvis: satisfied of his existence, but outside of a theme party, I was never gonna revisit his influence.
Marley appears to be your mother's favorite artist, so I was eager to welcome him back into the fold as long as we didn't start buying a shitload of Papasans and candles. What I learned, though, was that reggae was so much more than Bob Marley, and the really good stuff tended to be very melodic and agreeable. Stir It Up, though well-distributed amongst college stoners and faux-rastas, was also highly regarded by actual people, like, music experts and admirers alike. I found appreciation in that. We even played it at our wedding as an entrance song -- just don't ask me why an entrance song is even necessary.
Turns out, that same wedding also bore the origin of this track, which was the song that your grandfather and mother danced to in a small Italian cafe in Greenwich Village called Gradisca. Maybe your mom can speak more to its relevance between she and Grandpa, but I do know that I was fascinated with the idea of naming you Otis for a long time afterward. I think a late-hour interjection by mommy got your name naturalized to its current form of Enzo, a change I fully endorsed and totally love, but sometimes wonder if your life would have been different as a result of a simple thing like that. Its something we'll talk about later, because I'd be interested in your opinion.
When you were in mom's tummy, we wanted to saturate your environment in music, music, and more music, so we took you to a slew of live shows throughout your hibernation. You really seemed to enjoy this based on the amount of choreography you were maintaining inside your tiny man cave. But I'll write about those at a later time.
After you made your grand entrance into the post-natal side of residency, the opportunity presented itself to make Jimmy Cliff not only your first gig of all time, but your first SXSW appearance. I was impressed with the calm disposition you displayed in the presence of a legend. Mommy would play this on vinyl ALL THE TIME during your time in the clink, and I attributed this to her sheer laziness in refusing to change the 5-stack of records, but as it turns out, she just really wanted you to know this. Good foresight, I'm thinking.
And finally, we come to the encore of mommy's set. I won't speak to the ambiguity of that sentence, but know fully that it is an important song that we won't share together, you and I, for one hundred years.
So, bud, love your mommy and tell her those words often, for leaving her is not the great escape you will envision it to be. Her love for you is a perfect calamity of hope and devotion -- ferocious and brilliant in the preservation of our little family, but vulnerable in the prospect of surrendering your dreams to the cosmos. But above all, just go see the doctor for fuckssakes. Your mother is worried about you and I'm having to hear it.
(but, do not worry, you will never have to become a vegetarian.)
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