Sometimes when I am idly surfing the web or pondering the next sentence to write and Liz Phair or Lucinda Williams shuffles up on Evangeline I start arguing with myself. It usually goes like this.
“If I could be any rockstar on the planet, I would totally be Lucinda Williams,” I say.
“Right on, right on,” Myself says. “Lu’s cool.”
“And she’s like 50 and she still kicks all kinds of ass,” I say.
“But you know,” Myself says. “What about Liz Phair?”
“That last album was shitty,” I say.
“So shitty that you don’t want to be the woman who gave the world Exile in Guyville?” Myself says.
“Yeah, well, but,” I say.
“I think we should totally be Liz Phair if we could be any rockstar on Earth,” Myself says.
“But I really love Lu,” I say.
“and I really love Liz,” Myself says.
And the discussion goes on and on and on:
“Lu’s friends with Paul Westerberg,” I say.
“Liz wrote “Whip-smart” which is pretty much responsible for every word we write,” Myself says.
“You’re an idiot,” I say.
“You’re dumber,” Myself says.
Then I start to weep about all the time I spend arguing with myself about something that won’t/can’t happen.