Hi Darling Ones,

Guess what? I’m still really angry about Ryan Adams. I discovered this the other day when someone on Twitter was giving Jason Isbell shit about how his “Ryan Adams hate was tiresome.”

The fuck?

That’s when I realized that Ryan Adams had a new record come out yesterday and that I got to cancel a bunch of social media men of my acquaintance because the shit they will tolerate from men is more than I can tolerate. I get it, this isn’t easy. It’s hard to evict someone whose art has taken up residence in the corners of your heart. I loved me some Ryan Adams for a very long time. I liked Ryan Adams so much that I went to his concerts alone. Alone. Because these things happened before I had Ryan Adams’ liking friends. I liked him so much that he hearted one of my tweets once and that shizz gave me shower-nozzle masturbation material for weeks.*

I present this as evidence to show that I wholly understand how hard it is to cancel someone. I present this as evidence because men frequently say to me that I didn’t like an artist enough if I can so easily cancel them. It is not easy. I miss the song “Dear Chicago” as much as I miss some of my old friends. “When the Stars Go Blue” is on repeat in my head as I type these words.

Honestly, I don’t expect to ever be able to purge my soul of his music. However, it will be forever asterisked in my brain, and next to that asterisk is the word dirtbag. One of the unfortunate side effects of being a GenX woman is there are a lot of asterisk dirtbags in my brain.

So while I don’t expect people to carve the songs of Ryan Adams out of their souls, I do expect them to not let new ones in. Like I said, I cancelled a few people yesterday which is sad and disappointing, but not as sad or disappointing as I feel when I think about what he did to Phoebe Bridgers and Liz Phair and teenage girls. Fuck that.

You know what those bozos shoulda done instead of listening to a new Ryan Adams’ record? Listened to Emotional Motion Sickness on repeat and every time she sang I hate you for what you did, and I miss you like a little kid. I faked it every time but that’s alright. I can hardly feel anything. I hardly feel anything at all their balls would withdraw into their own bodies.

I am still so angry. I might never not be angry about this.

Though, I do want to say, that I am fortunate enough to have a few good men in my life. Yesterday I was complaining to Wolfdogg about one of our mutuals listening to the new record. “Doesn’t surprise me,” he said. “He also rarely mentions female artists.” And Areg, another of my Westernerd pals, told me how he sold all his old RA records back to the record store awhile back.

And my heart grew two sizes.
Jodi
 
*This is a “Heathers” reference, obviously. My shower is the size of a phonebooth (youth, google it) and ain’t no claustrophobic got time for masturbating while in there.

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Hello Darling Ones,

I spend roughly six to eight hours a day listening to music. This isn’t an exaggeration. I usually put my headphones on as soon as I’m done with breakfast and don’t take them off until it’s time to make dinner. Sometimes I put them back on after dinner. It’s why 90% of my selfies include headphones, my hair has a permanent headphone divot in it.

My sisters laugh at me because I wear headphones all the time even though I’m the only one here and I won’t disturb anyone with my loud rock & roll music. I like them. I find it nearly impossible to work without headphones on. I blame all those years in corporate America.

After rediscovering The Kooks, I decided to take a stroll through the music I loved in 2006 via my Top 25.

For many, many years I would keep track of the Top 25 most-played songs in my iTunes. It is a wonderful time capsule and as I was perusing 2006, I wished I had kept up with that. I had kinda given up the ghost when I stopped using iTunes in 2012.

Since I only had 30 minutes of work to do today (for real, the lack of work is killing me) guess what I did? I logged into last.fm and then I created seven years worth of Top 25 lists. It was the most fun I’ve had, well, I had some fun when I woke up at 6 a.m. this morning and couldn’t get back to sleep, but other than that it’s the most fun I’ve had all week.

So far. I think I might watch “Twister” tonight while eating a frozen pizza, because this spinster knows how to party.

It was fun watching my musical taste evolve. The early aughts lists are very dude dominated and you can watch them virtually disappear once the Turnip was elected. You can also tell when I switched from just listening to songs to listening to entire albums. Here, I’ll show you, these albums show up nearly in their entirety on that year’s Top 25:
2010: “The Wild Hunt” by Tallest Man on Earth
2011: “Wild Flag” by Wild Flag
2012: “Gossamer” by Passion Pit
2013 “Southeastern” by Jason Isbell
2014: “Somewhere Else” by Lydia Loveless
2015: “Short Movie” by Laura Marling
2016: “My Piece of Land” by Amanda Shires
2017: “The Nashville Sound” by Jason Isbell & The 400 Unit
2018: “Historian” by Lucy Dacus (Though Phoebe Bridgers’ entire “Stranger in the Alps” is on the list too)
2019: “The Highwomen” by The Highwomen

2008’s list is probably my favorite because it makes no sense. It’s The Decemberists, Liz Phair, The Hold Steady and then randomly “Peg” by Steely Dan. Who was I?

The one thing I tripped over that broke my stupid heart was Ryan Adams’ “Dear Chicago” showing up six times over the years. I fucking love that song and I have failed thus far at carving it out of my heart. It’s so hard to do and something I struggle with when I have fallen in love with art made by men who turn out to be bad people. Like, I get that he is a dirtbag extraordinaire, but my heart doesn’t nor do all my memories and associations with this song. WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO?

Barf,
Jodi

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We all do it. Talking in whispers because to say it out loud might make it true. It’s kind of like a #MeToo version of a celebrity death pool. Who would really surprise you if they were outed as a misogynistic, abusive, sexually predatory dirtbag?

I thought the revelations about and subsequent resignation of Al Franken threw me for a loop.

Then news broke today that Ryan Adams is also one of the worst kinds of power-abusing dirtbags. To put it lightly, I am shattered. I’ve written frequently and with much enthusiasm about my love of Ryan Adams’ music over the nineteen-year tenure of this blog.

I’m furious and sad and guilty and sick to my stomach.

Fuck you, Ryan Adams. Fuck you. None of your songs, no matter how much or how long I loved them is worth any of the things you did to that girl and those women. None of it. Not even “Dear Chicago,” which I have a very special relationship with and according to Last.fm is the song that I have listened to the most since I joined Last.fm in 2007.

I will now commence carving “Dear Chicago” out of my heart, which sounds like it would be easy since you broke my fucking heart, but it will not be easy. It will be very difficult and I will forever mourn the loss of something that once meant so much to me.

Extra special fuck you with fiery hot sauce for this: The lawyer added that “if, in fact, this woman was underage, Mr. Adams was unaware.” He pointed to her performances in clubs and provided photos of Ava from that time, saying she looked “approximately 20.”

I say this as a woman who has looked “approximately 20″ since she was a 5’10” ten-year-old girl. A GIRL. Thanks for reminding me of all the shit I’ve put up with from men at very young age because I looked “approximately 20.”

As I read about Phoebe Bridgers tears poured from my eyes. I lover her music so much and I think of just how close it came to not happening. How many women’s voices has he silenced beyond the ones brave enough to come forth in the article.

My rage is incandescent.

Whenever a man I once admired for some reason or another is revealed to be the absolute worst, a dirtbag of epic proportions I think of a passage from Catcher in the Rye.

That’s the whole trouble. You can’t ever find a place that’s nice and peaceful, because there isn’t any. You may think there is, but once you get there, when you’re not looking, somebody’ll sneak up and write “Fuck you” right under your nose.

Goddamn you Ryan Adams for writing fuck you right under my nose.

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• I get to see my niece Jaycie tomorrow because she’s coming back for prom. I could weep I’m so excited.
• Saturday I get to spend five hours in a minivan with Wolfdogg, Heather, and Vodo as we venture forth to Milwaukee to see The Replacements. Try to contain your excitement. Yes, I will live-tweet that shizz.
• There’s a hipster Yeti with headphones & a Walkman in Lumberjanes Vol. 1, and now I want to be a hipster Yeti when I grow up.
• Today is Sister #2 & Ben’s 20th wedding anniversary. How rad is that? Yes, they pretty much got married as children.
• I ate all the avocados before they had a chance to go bad.
• Laura Marling’s Short Movie. Damn, I love the shit out of this entire record (I’ve listened to it 23 times in the past month according to last.fm) but specifically the song Lost Hope. That opening bit “Is it still okay that I don’t know how to be alone? Would it be okay if I just came home tonight?” just guts me every time I hear it. So good.
• Ryan Adams covered Summer of 69 so we can all die fulfilled now (even though I still kind of hate this song, I hate it a little less because of Ryan).
• I’m probably gonna go on another date next week with Bachelor #3. Why yes I did sneak in a Bachelor #2 when nobody was looking. I’m the One Date Wonder. By the end of summer I will have gone out on one date with every eligible man in Minnesota.
• Also, Ryan Adams, Jason Isbell, and Amanda Shires played Jacksonville Skyline because the universe loves you and wants you to be happy.
• Did I mention I get to see Jaycie tomorrow? Because I am super excited about that.
• Also I get to have Pad Thai with FFJ.
• Also, I’m writing a post about sex and fetish and such good juicy things in the back of my head. Try to contain your excitement.

The post Anti-Bummers: Because, Fuck, Man, the News is Just Full of Bummer appeared first on I Will Dare.

Etiquette has been on my mind a lot lately. I ponder its nuances on a daily basis.

Living alone as I do and being in the midst of Angry Hermit season I often fear I have gone feral. As if I don’t know how to conduct myself with actual humans at all. Sometimes when I am with people my face is talking to them but my brain is running through a constant list of things I should not do or say. It’s exhausting.

Editorial Aside: I just discovered the Ryan Adams/Jenny Lewis episode of Austin City Limits and he is playing Dear Chicago and now I have to rewind like 88,999 times (see this regarding the song).

So today I was chatting with my pal Vodo on Twitter. That’s how we chat, using the direct message feature of Twitter. I’m not entirely sure how that venue was decided but there you have it. I guess everyone has their preferred method of communication. I always googlechat with Wolfdogg & Sister #2. I talk on the phone with my mouth to FFJ. I email a million kabillion people who are willing to indulge me in that ancient form of communication.

At some point in our conversation Vodo announced he was going to go read a book now. Then a minute later he comes back with, “Do you say goodbye on Twitter and just stop replying?”

I told him that I usually said goodbye but that I’m like a hundred when it comes to things like this. The truth is I really have no idea how to conduct these new-fangled endless conversations that just go and on forever with no beginning, middle, or end but with very distinct episodes.

See, I’ve recently begun texting with someone. Like I’ve texted before because I’m not an Unfrozen Cavewoman Angry Hermit. I gots the latest tech and whatnot. But most of my texts have been purely informational. “On my way.” and “Okay.” Sometimes the sisters would get me embroiled in a multi-textual, never-ending gossip session, but usually after two or three I’m out. But now I text all day every day and it never ends. There’s no hi, goodbye, or be right back, when the textee disappears for hours on end. Its just talk whenever the mood strikes and the old lady in me is all “I need clear boundaries and rules about how this works.”

And the need for clear rules and boundaries in this area of my life is really just spillover from the excruciating process that is querying agents for The Beast, where the rules are myriad and not always clear.

Each agency has its own submission guidelines and sometimes those vary based on the agent you are querying. And I want an agent so badly that I obsess about the guidelines and whether I am interpreting them correctly and the biggest fear: the slightest breech of this mysterious etiquette will get me and The Beast blackballed from literature for all time.

And even more than that, it’s like how much do you reveal about the process as you’re going through it and does anyone even care? Because really is there anything more boring than writing process blah blah blah? Probably not.

So this is just to say that someone asked to read my entire manuscript (aka The Beast) and I’m so fucking thrilled that I’ve been smiling for 23 hours in a row now.

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