Your Teenage Dreams

 

One lucky fan who orders the "Deluxe" version 

of her latest album will win Katy Perry, 

delivered in a giant sock.

Rather than delving into the reasons that it’s been 551 days since my last post, I’m going to barrel into a recent happening that brought humor to those close to me, myself included. After all, who’s closer to you than you.............man?

It’s a Wednesday and I’m high. Now before your mind wanders into “Brad’s high all the time” territory, I should clarify that the days of The Beast have been few and far between for quite some time. I get high maybe once a month nowadays. And it may come as a shock to a few of you readers, in the Blah Blah Blahg’s heyday, I’d toke maybe twice a week. So your daydreams of Brad blazing every day are tales based on your personal inferences, which probably developed from my heavy implications. Regardless, for the past 551 days or so, I’ve scaled back my marijuana participation quite a bit.

Anyway. 

It’s Wednesday. And I just so happen to be high. 

 

I’ve had a few beers to boot, and the mood strikes: OH MY GAWD I SHOULD LISTEN TO MUSIC ON MY NEW FANCY HEADPHONES (an indulgent tax return purchase)! The stereo is out of the question because apparently (finger quotes) “Wednesday has been statistically-proven to be one of many nights that roommates are likely to be sleeping."  Headphones are clearly in order. I lie in my bed, and float from song to song, eventually landing on Katy Perry’s “Teenage Dream.” 

And the fucking choir sings.

"We were going for the 'Not a cult' theme. 

How'd we do?"

I’m lost in "Teenage Dream." 

 
In its melodies. Its beats. 

In Katy’s tenderness.

And vulnerability.  

AND RAW SEXUAL PLAYFULNESS!

Possibly the most important song written in a generation. At least.

“Karaoke!”

I shoot upright with a brain bolt. It has been decided: I will do this song at karaoke.

“And I need to practice my moves for when I do this song!” 

I roll out of bead, clumsily ejecting from computer into phone.

Quick Update: we moved. Several months ago, the best friend and I left our place in Park Hill Denver for South Denver; to a plusher, more comfortable, more non-basement-flooding-balls-hot-summers-asshole-landlord house. And naturally the best spot in the new house to practice dance moves to Katy Perry is in the basement, in front of our giant wall of mirror closets. Perfect.

I meander down to the basement, Katy guiding my way. I start the song over.

And then I dance. 

Maybe you need a refresher on this gem. Fucking glorious.

I dance while mouthing the words. And I hit the high notes. And I drop drama when drama needth be dropped. And when the song ends, I play it again, pressing the repeat button.

I am having a ball.

On possibly the fourth repeat of what many call her magnum opus, I decide that seeing myself in the mirror is a little too much. Sincerity is something I hold dear, so seeing me play to the mirrors more than feeling the music becomes intolerable. Come on! Where’s the passion? We need more love of the song and less love of you performing the song!

So the lights go off.

If I had to guess, I’d say I listened to the song, and practiced it in the dark, 5 more times.

Another brain bolt: practicing the moves is just one component of this drop-the-mic karaoke performance to be.

“I need to sing it.”

But the roomies are sleeping. 

"I got it! I’ll drive to a dimly lit part of our neighborhood and belt out the tunes. FUCKING BRILLIANT!"

 

JACKPOT!

Now, before you get M.A.A.D., know that I don’t drive intoxicated. Yes, I was under the influence, but I was far from dangerous. The Princess Perry dance fest shed the beer and I was certainly sober enough for a 0.5-mile swing around the neighborhood.

But 0.5 miles turned into 1 mile. And 1 into 2. And 2 into 4. I'm trying street after street after street. "WHERE THE FUCK IS A GODDAMN DIMLY LIT PLACE IN THIS FUCKING CITY?" I begin to realize our neighborhood is lit better than a gangbang porn.

I finally decide to just sing en route to this mythical dimly-lit place, and I quickly remember that weed, when smoked, destroys the vocal range. So this trip was all for naught.

Now when I left, I said to myself that I’m just going to wing this adventure, that I won’t need my trusty sidekick Google Maps, because I’m sure if things get confusing, I’ll eventually find a main road that can lead my senses home. 

Oh Google Maps Street View. 

You get me every time.

I was wrong. I’m fucking lost. "Main roads? How about these fucking perfectly-lit ones in this rats nest of humanity!" So Google Maps, and (duh) Katy Perry (have you even been reading this?), lead me home.

It’s still Wednesday night, I’m still a smidge high, and I definitely have to work in the morning.

But that doesn’t mean I can’t read political news until 2 am. Right? 

Did you enjoy this blagh post? Well you better fucking cherish it. I cannot promise more. 

Relax. It's from this.