There was a time I could have killed this song.
If I was capable of such a thing, I could have killed this song down to its lyric sheet and musical notes.
Back in 1992 I was sorta dating, going out with, chasing, this unavailable Hmong chick from Orange County. Unlike most pleasant Asian chicks, she was slightly hard and rough around the edges. She was unavailable not because she was married or had a boyfriend or hated Mexicans. She was unavailable because she was simply not willing to spread herself thin for any man. Our first date was magic. We ate at some chain restaurant and we quickly fell into a demented state of superficial love. We talked on the phone non-stop for the first few days after our date. I was a desperate dork and willing to submit my manhood and dignity to a piece of ass that could not be bothered to look at me. On our first date, we had come back to her weird back lot one bedroom bedroom. That’s what it was. A bathroom and no kitchen or even an attempt at a kitchen. It was like a whore den. She pulled out an acoustic guitar and began playing and singing for me. It was magical. God, I was in utter love. I thought I had found the One. We made out and got naked but she held fast to some principles and since I was not equipped with a condom, I would not be dipping my stick tonight!! It’s OK, the warm and magnetic atmospheric vibe of our union promised to be more fruitful next time I came slithering around here as long I was packing some serious latex in my wallet with which to cover my member and its hard-earned spills.
We talked on the phone forever those first few days. I was working in a bar and I talked to her on the bar phone a few times (I worked the slow day shift) and finally we planned to meet again, I believe it was a Thursday night. She would drive to my parent’s house east of Los Angeles where I lived. I rushed home and showered and prepared for her arrival. She drove a red Sentra and she called that she was almost there a few minutes ahead. I waited anxiously in the house on the precipice of an indefinable life-altering Love. This was it. We had spoken in raptured whispers. We spoke of our hearts and soulful longings. We were amazed at the magical spell that had fallen upon us. She told me she felt as if I had put a spell on her. When she arrived, she parked across the street and I rushed to her car. The minute she opened the door, the magic crashed to the ground like a brittle sheet of glass. It was gone. It was unspoken and physically embodied, this feeling. The sensation was visceral. A sensation of loss, of nothing, of electricity diffused, an empty barren sense of failing to find something that had sat under my nose a week ago. Gone. We still embraced, talked a little, but the hushed electric and sexual overtone was gone and she left and I felt empty. I reminded her that she told me she would bring me a gift. She said “oh yeah” in an less than deliberate manner and handed me a box of something. After she drove away, I stood in the street, spiritually dismantled.
Over the next few months I soldiered on against her cool, implacable female armor.
The magic was dead but I was playing the part of romantic Frankenstein. Trying vainly to reassemble the cadaver of the love we felt the night of our first date when she played guitar for me. She pushed me away the best she could, and being the clingy and creepy compulsive player I was, I continued to conveniently and blindly overlooking her distance, her emotional games, and I kept pursuing her heart and she did everything but shove NO down my throat. Still I persisted like a despicable stray, and she played with me, knowing she had a pathetic subject before her. During this time, that fucking song began hitting the airwaves and this Hmong chick would go uncharacteristically out of her way to sing it for me. Tell me what a great song it was. And I knew, I knew so well, but still. I convinced myself love was enough and the bitch kept singing.
And if this song was a living human being, I would have strangled it for my life’s misery. Beat it to a bloody, fleshy pulp.