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What it is
Jenny's blinders
01 May 2007, 11:21

Jenny Lewis (center)(I don't know about those porcelain freaks with the lascivious stares surrounding her) first came to my attention by way of Nintendo, by way of a film about Nintendo called The Wizard (she's the girl)(and I'm the dude in the rad glasses)(in all my fondest dreams). So then I forgot about her until a couple months ago when I heard a song she sings (probably in the company of those lascivious porcelain freaks) called "You are what you love" (!!!). I can't say nothing about this. What's become of our beloved nation and my beloved dream girl in the mere 17 years between the respective product release dates that could twist and pervert all her goodness (Haley: Hi, I'm Haley. If you don't tell me what you're doing, I'm going to scream. Corey: Could you scream quietly? Haley: What, do you think I'm stupid?) into delusion-enhancing, sweet-sounding (backed by sickos) conflictedness?*

I can't answer that. But I can answer a question you might ask later, if you're bored or ponderous enough to continue wondering about things like this after you're through reading things like this: you are not what you love. Or, you are what you love only to the extent that your love informs your actions. More, you are what you do.

Like this: I love my dragon blanket. It's green and red and white and black and is covered by this giant dancey dragon with a mustache and many different flames and flowers and other rococo signs I'll never care enough to research. But I am not a dragon blanket. I'm not a blanket of any kind. Actually, my ex-girlfriend preferred my (plain) yellow blanket as a blanket more than she preferred me. Apparently, I'm boney. (When we split, I kept the yellow blanket.)

Like this: I love cream puffs. I've eaten every cream puff ever offered me. I've eaten entire bags of cream puffs in one night that I didn't buy and in fact were not even offered but were in the pantry. But, despite what certain manly men might say about me behind my back or in front of it, I am not a cream puff. Not even a jelly-bean.¤

Like this: I love drinking. I love skipping rocks. I love staying up all night for hours talking or typing or doing head stands. Thus, I am a tippler, a rock skipper, a pale sicko that stays up all night talking or typing, and a head-stander. I just threw away some torn up socks. I am the kind of person that throws away torn up socks.

This past weekend in Austin I was a criminal, a free-wheeler, an effusive lush, a screamer, a demander, a high tipper, an aggressive driver, a wader, a cheese eater, a sweaty tired trail hiker, a disrupter of an exclusively feminine gathering, a book schlepper. Nobody was harmed.

And today I am an invalid. I am recovering. I am late for work.

* She's not absolutely mendacious. But her truths are halves and obtuse, i.e., "Not nobody, not a thousand beers / Will keep us from feeling so all alone". There's one person in and for your lifetime that can keep you from loneliness.

¤ "You are what you eat" is a truer maxim than "you are what you love"—after an entire bag of cream puffs, not only am I sugary sweet in conversation and gassy in general, but I am noticeably fatter. And then I am a dedicated runner and eater of rice cakes.

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