Yeah, so, since I was a ruined girl at age 7, might as well be bad ass.
And I still have my Warren Zevon albums.
In college I live for a year with M and G, and their two sons. I am 5'3" and 125 pounds of fighting bitch muscle, but M is 5'10, G is 6'5 and the two boys are in junior high and high school and already past 6 feet. I am the family midget.
And M is an audiophile. She is from Shady Valley, Tennessee and went to college with my parents.
"I like the Supremes," I say, a bit proud that I know a woman group not of my generation.
"Oh, yeah." says M. "But they aren't my favorite. I like the Shirelles better." She starts pulling out albums. I've never heard of most of them. I promptly start taping them. Holy crap, I want to tape her entire collection: at least 400 albums, not just women.
"Let's go see Warren Zevon." says M. By now I am listening not talking. Of course. I've never heard of Warren Zevon. I was in college from 1980-1984, and this is in Madison, WI.
Werewolves of London and Roland the Headless Thompson Gunner. Send Lawyers, Guns and Money. It's perfect, dark music that fits the dark feelings that I have to hide. I suck at hiding them. I am not a very socially acceptable girl in the US, though the older I get, the less I care.
A headless man who finds the person who killed him and takes revenge. How delightful is that?
I still have my albums and a turntable. Thank you, Warren, for your darkness.
For Tender Lumplings Everywhere: The 2018 Halloween Horrorquest