Under The Wagon

The first time I saw this, I stared wide-eyed and amazed for a full 60 seconds, before yelling to Jay in the other room, “JAY! You wanna see the most perfect rock song EVER?”

For those of you without speakers on your computer (or if you’re dying to know what those two bleeped words are), I proudly present the lyrics in their entirety:

Kid Rock: So Hott

You got a body like the devil and you smell like sex
I can tell you’re trouble but I’m still obsessed

Because you know you’re
SO HOT I wanna get you alone
SO HOT I wanna get you [stoned]
SO HOT I dont wanna be your friend
I wanna [fuck] you like I’m never gonna see you again

You’re like the kiss of death, like the hand of faith
I can tell you’re trouble but I still wanna taste

Repeat chorus 4 times, sundry “uhhh yeahs,” “nnnghs” and “yeowwws”

The entire song has a total of 41 unique words, and that includes minor words such as “the,” and “of.” For reference, research shows that the average dog knows about 165 words (some dogs understand up to 300). It is conceivable I could teach Orwell and Edison “So Hott,” and they would not only have their little faces rocked off, they would understand every word.

There are only 10 polysyllables in “So Hott” (none in the title, obviously), and there is not a single word in the entire song consisting of more than two syllables. There are only two verses, each made up of a single couplet.

This folks, is fucking ROCK EFFICIENCY.

The message is simple (”I would enjoy having intercourse with you”), the drums throb under a generic but thrilling guitar riff, and the video touches on every thing that is fantastic, and fantastically cliched, about rock music.

Warehouse fight club: Check

Strip club (possibly also in a warehouse): Check

Fireworks behind the drum set: Check

Federal agents and helicopters swooping in to break up all the rocking: Check

Kid Rock getting it on with two chicks in the back of a Lincoln: Check

Quite simply, and I am not mocking when I say this, “So Hott” might be the most perfect rock song ever. Is it reinventing the wheel? Blazing new ground in musical innovation? Of course not. But not every song needs to, you know? Christ, too many bands out there are trying way too hard anyway. Kid Rock has made a song that strippers will get into catfights over who called first dibs on it. That’s just what he does. It might be the only thing he does, but that’s beautiful.

If nothing else, give it up for the line “wanna fuck you like I’m never going to see you again.”

That’s just poetry, people.

Tags: Essays, Manifestos, & Unsolicited Opinions, General Musings by Karla Pacheco
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This might just be the perfect day. Well, the perfect day would probably include my husband,* but other than that, today’s been pretty fucking awesome.

Paul came by at 7:00am this morning, and helped me wrestle Orwell and Edison into his car. I was about as bright eyed and bushy tailed as you’d expect at this time, and also heavily laden with snacks and sodas (it’s genetically impossible for anyone related to my mother to NOT over-pack a whole bunch of treats for road trips). We dashed back to his and Jeff’s place and dropped off the dogs with our friend Christian, who, in a fit of previously undiagnosed brain damage, had agreed to watch all 4 collective dogs for the day while we frolic in the snowy mountains.

It was a sleepy, but utterly blissful 2 hour drive up to (or I guess down to, I’m still pretty hazy on Washington geography) Crystal Mountain. The clearest blue sky you ever saw soared over a twisting mountain road fringed with deep pine and bubbling icy streams. Sheer cliffs glazed with still-life waterfalls of pure ice looked down upon us. My first glance of Mount Rainier came as we turned a corner at the same time the sunrise did.

Basically the whole thing looked like a beer commercial. Or a painting from an insurance company calendar. It’s legitimately breathtaking stuff in person, but when you try to describe it, it’s all so exceptionally lame and cheesy.

Anyway, we made it up here, and I’m now sitting with a frosty pale ale, looking up at a FUCKING MOUNTAIN covered in snow and pine trees. Seriously, this thing is like 10 feet from the window of the lodge I’m sucking down pints in.

I cannot even express how cool this all is.

Living in the city, I always forget how much I miss the woods, and wide open spaces, and just…nature. When we go to visit Jay’s folks in the backwoods of Ontario, I spend most of my time ecstatically looking at trees.**** Just driving up here, I started reminiscing about how my dad used to take my brother and me hiking through the Flint Hills of northeast Kansas, and the times we tracked deer across the Kwanza plains.

That said, most of my family and I are pretty adamant that “Karla’s the ‘Big City’ Pacheco.” I am an urban creature. I like not having to drive, or leave a two block radius for anything I need. I’ve lived in the country before, and I was fucking miserable (of course, I was also in Nebraska, so I would have been miserable regardless of rurality). But when you spend a heartbreakingly gorgeous day soaking up crisp, clean air, snow-topped mountain views, and the spicy aroma of a vibrant pine forest…ditching Seattle’s urine stained downtown and moving to a log cabin in the woods seems like a brilliant idea.

Of course, I’ve also been drinking since 10:00am, so my judgment is not to be trusted. And my view out the lodge window is of the bunny hill and the entrance to the chair lift. So half the time I’m watching stupid little kids fall on their asses, and the other time I’m watching hot-shot douchebags in expensive snow pants misjudge their approach, resulting in them falling on their asses, usually with even less grace than the kids.

What I’m saying is, I’m pretty much having the time of my life. Bravo, Crystal Mountain, bravo.

Much thanks to Paul and Jeff for inviting me to tag along, letting my dogs hang out at your house, and apparently seeing nothing wrong with a tiny woman’s plan to get quietly drunk at a ski lodge all day. I apologize that you didn’t realize that a day of beer, fried foods, and my previous days’ menu of frozen burritos and box wine would require us to drive most of the way home with the window open in 18 degree weather.

In case I was being too subtle, I am sorry that I farted up your car.

But skiing. Dude, that shit is AWESOME. Maybe next time I’ll even try it with skis on.

*If you needed any more proof that I’m completely dick-whipped** it’d be that the entire day I’ve been going “Wow, I bet Jay would LOVE this.” “Jay would be out of his head with this view.” “Oh, man, Jay would probably really like skiing,” and finally…”I wish Jay was here.” Shut up.

** Interestingly, “pussy-whipped” is such a common term, but “dick-whipped” sounds…not good. Which is weird, because technically you CAN whip someone with your dick (the prosecution hereby submits to the court: the entire history of pornography, when guys do that little cock tap thing***). Why didn’t “dick-whipped” ever catch on as an expression? You guys should all start saying “dick-whipped” a lot.

*** By the way, the cock-tap is ridiculous, and if you do it to a girl/boy in real life, you look like an utter tool. It’s not sexy, it’s not cool, and anyone you’ve ever done this to thinks you’re an idiot. Just so you know.

**** And then, burning said trees. I’m kind of famous for my bonfires in Kingston at this point. Jay’s dad actually made that fact the highlight of his speech at our wedding reception.

Tags: General Musings by Karla Pacheco
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Jay took off Sunday night for Burbank to help supervise the voice-over recordings for the video game.  He’ll be gone all week. 

 ”I’d take you with me, but it’s…Burbank.” 

“Yeah, no thanks.  I’m cool.”

Which might not be entirely accurate.  The last time Jay went down there, he was barely in the cab before I regressed into the disgusting little slattern I was before I met him.  By the time he made it to the airport, I think I was already half passed out in the middle of a filthy living room, spooning a near-empty box of chablis and singing along to the “SpongeBob SquarePants” theme.  SpongeBob SquarePants was not on the television at this time, nor do I know any of the lyrics to the aforementioned theme song.  I let neither of these things deter me.

Basically, I’m saying that at any given moment, I am approximately 5 minutes away from Jay leaving me before I surrender to utter sloth and total inebriated devastation.

That said, so far this week’s been great!

Oh, the house is disgusting.  Seriously, it’s gross.  For the most part (despite my promises to Jay to stick to our diet) I’m living on frozen burritos, fistfuls of Cheetos, and boxed wine…but, unlike last time, I’ve been showering and leaving the house, and talking to people, and everything.  I had a really nice cooking class/supper club thing last night, and tomorrow I’m going skiing with my friends Jeff and Paul!

Well, they’re going skiing.  I’m going drinking. 

While Jeff and Paul are up here:

 

Doing this: 

Or maybe even this:

I’ll be down here:

Hopefully by this:

Drinking copious amounts of these:

I mean, I don’t know how to ski, I don’t have the proper clothing and equipment and little hats, or whatever it is you need to ski.  But I definitely know how to drink, and despite what my last physical said (”You have the liver of a 78 year old Polish coal miner”) I feel fairly well equipped in that area as well.  I’ve never been anywhere near a ski…club?  Lodge? Resort mountain thing?  However, since I assume most everything is as shown in the movies, I imagine while Jeff and Paul are freezing their asses off fighting international jewel thieves and Russian terrorists on the peaks of Mount Rainier, I’ll be drinking mulled cider by the fireplace of a charming Swiss chalet while enjoying the harebrained antics of the local ski patrol.  I’m pretty sure hot tubs figure heavily into it too, at some point, so I should probably bring my swimsuit.

I’ll let you know how it goes.

Tags: General Musings by Karla Pacheco
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(Legal Disclaimer:  The City of Seattle probably doesn’t hate me, my husband, or the next 365 days, I mean, they really don’t even know us that well.) 

December 31st, 11:35 pm, 2007:  Jay’s been in bed for almost an hour.  I informed him before he went to bed that I’d most likely wake him up at a quarter to midnight.  We already sorta rang in the new year at 9 pm EST, since both of us believe that East Coast time is the only real time zone in the country (and also we’re both sleepy, lazy bastards that wanted to go to bed already, like the lame asses that we are).  That said, I heard there were gonna be fireworks at midnight in Seattle, and the roof deck (that we’ve never visited) of our rather costly apartment complex allegedly grants an amazing view of the Space Needle (where many amazing fireworks are alledgedly launched on New Year’s Eve).  I thought Jay and I watching said fireworks would be really romantic and cool.  A nice ending/beginning to one of the best, most exciting years of our lives.

December 31st, 11:48 pm, 2007: I drag Jay’s sleepy ass out of bed.  “Dude, there’s gonna be really amazing fireworks shooting off the Space Needle!  Wake UP!”  Jay grumpily but obligingly puts on his slippers and coat, I toss a pack of smokes (our last, since we’re quitting tomorrow) and a couple of beers (my last, since my doctor said I should “Really quit drinking.  Like, forever”) in my coat pocket.  We head over to the building that has the roof deck, which isn’t the building we actually live in.  On our way, the street is jam-packed with drunk idiots waiting for the countdown and fireworks. I stupidly take this as an “awesome sign that everything’s gonna be super awesome.”

December 31st, 11:52 pm, 2007: I struggle with the keys that allegedly let us into the section of the building that we don’t actually live in with the roof deck.  After way too many anxious minutes, the lock finally gives, and we get onto the elevator with a family with 2 dogs, a 4 year old child, and an assortment of slightly drunk parents and relatives, all talking about how incredible the fireworks are gonna look from the roof.

December 31st, 11:59 pm, 2007:  I offer Jay one of my pocket beers, and a cigarette.  He sleepily, but politely, refuses both.  The roof deck is festively adorned with Christmas lights, inebriated adults, and a couple of roaming dogs that have no idea what the fuck is going on.   People inquire as to what time it is, and if anyone knows the exact countdown.  They don’t, but we all assume that the Space Needle will alert us when the proverbial shit starts going down.

January 1st, 12:00 am, 2008:The Space Needle briefly lights up with fireworks as several people shout out at least three differerent countdowns for the New Year.

 January 1st, 12:00:12 am, 2008:  All fireworks end.

January 1st, 12:05:07 am, 2008:  I apologize to Jay profusely, and we head down a dark stairwell to street level.  Jay is still half asleep as I sheepishly mention I heard there were gonna be at least 10-15 minutes of amazing fireworks, and that like, 20,000 people were supposed to be over at the Space Needle, checking all this awesome shit out.  So it was supposed to be really cool.  And we would have seen it all from our roof deck, like no one else.  If it had actually happened.

 January 1st, 12:07:00 am, 2008:  While walking back to our building, we hear a huge amount of rocket retorts and explosions.  They can’t be seen from where we are, and they abruptly end, right before…

 January 1st, 12:10:00 am, 2008: We get home.  We keep hearing explosions, and see a few lights reflecting off high-rises near us, but we can’t see anything. 

 January 1st, 12:20:00 am, 2008:  We turn on the T.V., and learn that the Space Needle apparently had massive technical difficulties, resulting in all fireworks being delayed by at least 10 minutes or more, ending with the “Official Firework Technicians” having to go through and light every rocket and blast cap by hand. Which by all accounts looked disappointing and retarded.

 Whatever time it is now, January, 2008:  Gahhhhh.  I’m writing crap for a goddamn blog while my husband sleeps soundly, and I despise the entire city of Seattle for ruining what I thought was gonna be this awesome, totally romantic evening, where Jay and I would look deep into each other’s eyes, and talk about what an amazing year it’s been, and how awesome we thought this next year would be, and maybe we’d make out a little bit.  So fuck you, Seattle. 

Fuck you in your stupid ass. 

Tags: Essays, Manifestos, & Unsolicited Opinions, General Musings by Karla Pacheco
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