For a couple of weeks now, I’ve been waiting on a response to an e-mail I sent to the Honors College, telling them about how I’m pretty much one B away from eligibility and, having said that, there’s this one class I really need to take for one of my majors, but because of the time restraints placed on me by the other, the only section I could possibly take is an honors section, and please God put me in it I will totally make you cookies (which could involve literally making cookies, but I’m happy to turn it into a metaphor for sex if that’ll help) if you do, but if you can’t, I understand. While all of this is true - I do need to take international political economy, but between my theatre classes carrying over to next semester and the fact that I can’t take classes after 6, the only section I can feasibly be in is that one - I’m mostly jumping through these hoops because an old professor I was practically in love with is teaching it, and I think if I can pull out the stops for one more semester, I can easily pull a recommendation for UVA out of him. Since I hadn’t heard back for them for a while, I’d assumed that they brushed it under the rug, it being the relatively strange request it was. When I got back from class a couple of minutes ago, I sat down to check my e-mail, and it’s there. Apparently, they can’t let me register now, but I am a lock for admission, and I should submit all of my shit the minute my final grades come back. I had not yet taken out my iPod from the walk back to my apartment, and as I learned that my complete lack of morals would live to see another semester, what else was fucking playing but the Police’s “Don’t Stand so Close To Me”.
My life is ridiculous.
On the drive back to Richmond today, I got a bit of a wild hair and decided to listen to Pinkerton all the way through for the first time in years. I was a huge (I mean HUGE) Weezer fan for most of my adolescence, and it wasn’t until they put out the Red Album and I was so disgusted with this Weezer that wasn’t really Weezer that I didn’t listen to more than the previews on iTunes that I finally decided to give up. Hell, I even made a concerted effort to find songs on Make Believe that I enjoyed, just so that I could try to believe that they might one day come a little close to recapturing whatever spark under Rivers’ ass made everything they put out in the ’90s so unbelievably good. But that is not the point. From the feedback that starts “Tired of Sex” to the last ‘I’m sorry’ in “Butterfly”, I was absolutely thunderstruck by just how incredible this band had the ability to be. And seeing as I hadn’t heard some of these songs since I was 15 years old, I couldn’t help but be a little taken aback by how poignant, sweet, heartbreaking, even tangible the words are, and how the music really is a higher reverberation of its lyrics. Of course I was flooded with every memory I made to these songs, and some were a little difficult to handle - the mere fact that I was riding around in a red subcompact listening to “El Scorcho” was enough to make Pay 2006 look around the car just to make sure she wasn’t actually in the back seat, looking into the rearview mirror to stare at the driver’s eyes. But I suppose the strangest thing was how perfect I timed my wild hair. I’ve got a thing or two going on in my tiny body that makes a record about something gasping for breath while a new thing you didn’t count on becomes something nice that you *really* didn’t count on more than a little relatable.
I know I always loved the solo in “Falling for You”, but I guess I didn’t know just how much until I was.