Partying like it's 1996

The CD changer in my car broke a few weeks ago. I'm sure that it can be repaired, but because my commute to work is so much shorter than it used to be it's not nearly as high a priority as it would have been at this time a year and a half ago.

My console holds a few mix-tape treasures from the mid- to late-1990s, that period of time spanning college and the immediate post-graduation years. As you might imagine, these mix tapes are bitchin'. Though they contain some songs that I can't stomach in 2007 ("Moondance," by Van Morrison and "Because the Night" [the 10,000 Maniacs MTV Unplugged version -- not the Boss/Patti Smith version]), most of what I hear when I get in the car are delightful little surprises, tunes I haven't heard in years for no particular reason.

Some of them are quality compositions: today I enjoyed Morphine's "All Wrong" and the Beastie Boys' "Shake Your Rump" (Paul's Boutique being one of the most brilliant and fabulous albums of all time). Also, "The Dreaming," by Kate Bush, which I admit maybe not everyone loves but I do because it is the sonic equivalent of Australia, an entire Southern continent condensed into song.

Some songs are guilty pleasures: "One Night in Bangkok," from the Chess soundtrack, is AWESOMELY cheesy; "Does Your Mother Know," by Abba, is the campiest song about statutory rape that I can name. But taking the cake this morning: "You Oughta Know," by Alanis Morissette. I feel compelled to mention this song because when it came out, it was every woman my age's motivating fuck-you to those guys who had wronged us (as if life was so difficult). It perfectly captured the angst of rejection from the female perspective; its rage was significant, harsh, simultaneously profound and petty. Whoever she wrote that song about had to have been one bad-ass motherfucker.

But then I learned that the song is quite possibly about "Full House" "star" Dave Coulier. WTF?!? Every time she scratches her nails down someone else's back she hopes this guy feels it?!?


Knowing its potential subject removes a little of the song's credibility. I suppose it's possible that Dave is a raging beast of a lover; perhaps he is also an incredible actor whose "Full House" purity masks his white hot sexuality. But that doesn't really make sense and, as Judge Judy says, when something doesn't make sense, usually it isn't true. So thanks a lot, Alanis, for getting a generation of women all revved up about...Joey Gladstone.

Anyway, nothing I've written here is new or particularly relevatory. It's just what I was thinking about while I careened mindlessly to work this morning.