countryfied

It’s Tuesday in Seattle.  It’s overcast and slightly drizzling, which always causes a panic to Seattlites.  Out come umbrellas despite the damp drizzle evaporating before touching their over-priced mod haircuts. 

Seattle days like this make me crazy.  I realize my Seattle quota has reached capacity and occasionally the urge to stand of the corner and yell “You AREN’T GETTING WET!  Stop the panic, put away the umbrellas” is overwhelming.  Times like that I listen to country music and walk real fast.

The country music is out.

It’s made a big comeback on my Sansa!, that I always say Sansa! really fast like I’m saying ‘samurai’ or some other deadly thing, like ‘ninja’ and with an exclamation point because you can’t contain the enthusiasm I have for this little red device.  I downloaded some dude’s Country hit list from Rhapsody about a week ago and can’t get enough of it.  It’s Fleur’s stress relief.  It’s the equivalent of a cigarette, if I still smoked.  Or a martini.  There are times I climb into an elevator and into someone’s mundane conversation about indie bands or vegan doughnuts and I my hand trembles for some Dwight Yoakum.  I get the shakes and if my Sansa! isn’t on me, well I just have to start conspicuously humming “She think my tractor’s sexy” by Kenny Chesney.  And for good calming measure I do the neck thrusting to the beat.  It’s akin to rocking yourself back and forth while repeating “everything’s okay” and trying to find your ‘Happy Place.’  Only less crazy looking.  Key word: looking.

I don’t know what it is about Seattle, but I am getting uncontrollable feelings of disdain for those that occupy the same area as me.  Things are looking muted.  People are looking personality-less.  And at the same time highfalutin’.  (I learned that one from Travis Tritt)  There’s a level of trying-to-impress that just never goes away.  Look at how ‘green’ I am, look at how I save the environment, look at all the yoga I do, look at how vegan I am, look at how tight my tight-tight pants are, look at how mod and indie I am, look at how buck tradition, look at how gay I am.  I don’t care.  Not everything is a statement.  Look at me, I’m not making a statement, my clothes/hair/persona don’t say lesbian chic! or non-traditionalist! or vegan consumer! 

It’s supposed to be sunny and 60s on Saturday.  I wanna invite over all my rowdy friends and throw a big redneck barbeque.  Mudwrestlin’.  Pig chasin’.  Smashin’ beer cans against foreheads.  Talk hemis and tires with our hands down the front of our pants.  I want to see someone chug a cheap ass beer, spike it off the grass while issuing a rebel yell.  That will encourage others to get crazy.  Maybe a couple unprovoked beatings, and beer-bellied guys strutting with their shirts off.

I guess that’s a Nascar event, but we don’t have those in Seattle.

I don’t even have any rowdy friends.

To hell with it.  I’m taking the Rabid Beast to the roof of my high-rise condo building, which is the only area with actual grass, bringing some Miller Highlife (it IS the champagne, ya know) and just start my own barbeque.  Me and my dog.  I’ll say ya’ll and I’ll try to smash a beer can, and I’ll probably even pee on the grass ‘cause I won’t want to leave my own party to use the bathroom.  I’ll grill up some hot dogs, and get mustard down the front of my shirt, that I will try to get out by dumping beer on it.  I’ll do my own rebel yells.  And I’m gonna blast Boot Scootin’ Boogie AND dance along WHILE singing.  I make my own fun.