"Don't Think I Don't Think About It" - Darius Rucker

(The following blog was sent in by a Grimm Generation fan. If you would like to contribute to The Grimm Generation Sings! submit to thegrimmgeneration@gmail.com for consideration.)

Timing is everything. Somehow, in the case of this particular pair, timing was anything but kind. She stumbled across him recently, and a smiled washed over her. The same smile that used to be painted across her face every time she would see him running down the halls in their junior high school. He was the cutest boy she had ever seen and she was the biggest chicken in the world. He was loud, obnoxious, athletic, and maybe the funniest person she had ever known. Everybody liked him. Students, teachers, coaches, everyone.

She heard a song the other day. One she had never heard before and honest to God it made her cry. It made her remember things she had long since forgotten. Things buried so deep into her subconscious that she forgot they were there. She remembered walking her dog on Saturday mornings, going way out of her way just to see if he would be outside shagging balls on the field or having a catch with his partner in crime. She spent endless summer days splashing around in the local pool hoping that he would show up for a swim. Many times it paid off because there he was. It didn't make a difference, however, because she was too afraid to speak to him. The only time she ever got close enough to him to have a conversation is when he was with said partner in crime. And even then all her conversation was directed toward his friend. I don't think she ever once looked this boy in the eyes.

She saw him one night at the local drive-in. She was coming out of the girls room and she heard this loud laughter going on just outside the doors of the concession stand. She and her best girlfriend decided to walk in that direction to see what was so funny. There were the boys, cutting up and having a great time. One boy pushed another and he lost his balance and stumbled right into me. I almost fell over. I surely would have had he not grabbed my arm to get me back in balance. “Oh my God” she thought as she looked up at his handsome face. She had never stood so close to him before. He was so tall!

“You okay?” he asked in a quiet voice that she had never heard before. He was always laughing or yelling or acting a mess but quiet was a new one on her.

“Yeah” She manages as she felt him release her arm. She was sure her face was beet red. Thank God for dimly lit drive-ins. Her friend had know this boy for years and had no problem picking up the conversation. She wasn't sure what they talked about. She just stood there as the words faded to silence and she watched his lips move. Insane, the crush she had on him.

She didn't see him for years after that. She was moving away that next day. Yet another move she didn't want to make, but was not given the option to stay put. She thought about him as she drifted off to sleep on the car ride to her destination. Soon, he was a distant memory.

Listening to this song, over and over, more memories came flooding back. She had moved back in state and during her lunch break one day she heard the whine of a very fast motorcycle. It was close and it caused her to look up. She could not believe her eyes, for there he was...all grown up. She had grown up as well and her inability to speak to him had left her. She smiled that smile, the one she always got when he was around. The smile she thought for sure he had never noticed. They talked awhile and laughed a lot. They talked about getting in touch and they exchanged numbers, but as fate would have it, she was moving again. This time her journey would take her clear across the country. Pretty soon he was back to being a memory.

After a couple years away, she moved back home. She got a job and life was ok. She thought about that boy from time to time. She tried to look him up every now and then too. She ran into a mutual friend at a concert and she asked about him. He was married and had a couple kids. Timing was just as unkind as she had ever been. She was glad that he was doing well and felt a little silly for the tinge of jealousy she felt over her childhood crush being married. Soon, he was a distant memory once more.

The song she heard the other day was one that he had played for her. You see, she ran into him again. Timing being what she has always been caused this encounter to be bittersweet. He was single having gotten divorced but that was not the case for her. She was married. He was still as handsome as he ever was and he still had a smile that would light up the sky if the sun should ever decide to go on strike. The things that killed her about him playing this song is that for all those times that she was afraid to speak to him, for all those opportunities she didn't take to just say hello, for all those extra miles she walked just to catch a glimpse of him...she found out that he felt the same way about her. If timing was unkind, irony was a bitch.

He played this song for her because he remembered that day in the bank parking lot. He remembered the laughter and the smiling. He remembered the exchanging of numbers. He remembered it as being the day that he never saw her again and over the years he has thought to himself about how he should have once again grabbed her by the arm and asked her if she was okay. She would have answered differently that time. Behind her tears there is a smile in knowing that way back where it all began, the shy girl with the huge crush was being crushed on herself.

Timing can be as unkind as she'd like, but she can not steal her smile, her memories, her crush that silently exists...still. Don't think she don't think about it.

~Anonymous

"Roxanne, Roxanne" - UTFO

Catholic School Kids
It's a big finished basement. The pool table dominates the room. A few of the guys are playing a game. I'm with Daphne. We've been friends since we were four years old. We both moved out of Frog Hollow when we were nine. My family stayed in Hartford, moved to a neighborhood right on the West Hartford/Newington town line. Her family moved to West Hartford. Her high school life includes dating the captain of the football team and a plethora of well-to-do friends. I date the burn outs until they drop out of school and join the service.

I'm sitting on the couch with my bi-level haircut, my favorite blue, Forenza V-neck sweater, black tank top, two-toned Gasoline jeans and my low-heeled, pink leather pumps. The rest of the kids have their jeans tucked into their slouchy socks and white leather high tops. Their crisp buttoned-down shirts have the collars turned up. As usual, I don't fit in.

Suddenly, there's talk of an eight ball, and I know they aren't talking about billiards anymore. A permanently flushed-cheeked boy leaves the house for a bit. When he returns, the room tilts and flocks towards him. Lines are cut and the snorting begins. On the stereo is UTFO's, Roxanne, Roxanne. The city life I am trying so hard to escape from drowns me; my swimming pool of irony. At least I have a straw.

'Frankenstein' by The Edgar Winter Group

To Build The Perfect Love

Well, first he had to build the Lab
Which was trickier than it looked

Suspending the chains from the ceiling alone
Took a whole afternoon

Then to find the pieces
To Build The Perfect Love
He took the eyes of the saddest girl that he knew
And the hands of the cagiest
The legs of the most graceful
The breasts of the most motherly
The brain of the funniest
And heart of the darkest
And arranged them in a perfect order
Not a stitch was shown
The skin was perfect, uninterrupted
Or maybe just good make up

And raised her to the storm
Coils flashed and beakers bubbled
Thunder and Lightning tore the night sky
To Build The Perfect Love

He lowered her to the floor
Kissed her (like in fairy tales)
she awoke, she arose
And asked one word 'How?'

He told her she was created out of desire
Birthed of electricity
But born of his heart
She kissed him deeply

And crushed the life from him
To go about the business of collecting his heart
Having her own desires
To Build The Perfect Love

"#1 Crush" - Garbage

It was a Tuesday afternoon in December. She had just gotten out of work and her phone rang. She looked at her cell and saw that, sure enough, it was him. It always was.

What started as a whirlwind romance in October was quickly turning into a shit storm. Declarations of love and being transparent, peppered with grandiose plans both near and far into the future that never seemed to come to fruition were starting to wear on her. Any free time she had was being spent with him. It was all too much, too fast. The last time they were together he gave her the key to his house. She said she had no use for it. He insisted she take it. He asked for her key in return, as he always seemed to be forgetting things at her place. She was reluctant, but thought, “Well, what could it hurt?”

“Hello.” She answered the phone. Thankfully he had his children that evening so she knew he wouldn’t be asking to see her. She spoke to him plainly. Mentioned her feelings that things were moving too quick. She needed breathing space. She and her roommate had recently begun writing together again, and now they were singing together too. This excited her to no end. She wanted time to devote to her craft. She was feeling especially creative again. Could they just move a little slower? When she hung up the phone, she felt great. He understood where she was coming from. “No worries.” He said.
Her roommate and she had decided to practice that evening at 8pm. She looked at the clock. It was 4pm. She had four hours to herself. Her children were at their father’s for the night. It was cold and she was tired. She decided a hot soak in the tub, a deep conditioning hair treatment, followed by a nap would be the perfect relaxing interlude before practice. She set her alarm, turned off her phone, got under her flannel sheets and quickly fell asleep.

She awoke to the sound of her name being called. The room was dark. She was groggy, confused. Did she sleep past 8pm? Was it her roommate in her bedroom? He had never stepped foot in her bedroom. They were both very respectful of each other’s privacy. She was confused. No. It was her boyfriend, standing in her darkened house, her dark bedroom, over her bed.

“What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be home with your kids. Why are you in my house? You’re not supposed to be here.”

He saw the look of horror on her face.

“I’m sorry. The kids wanted to go to their mom’s. I thought we could hang out. I tried calling but your phone went straight to voicemail.” He was spitting out excuses.

“I turned my phone off. I was taking a nap. We had just spoken.” She said this as he was backing his way out of her bedroom. “I’m sorry.” He kept muttering. And he left.

Well, she was awake now and distinctly uncomfortable. She headed downstairs to the kitchen, turning all the lights on as she made her way. All the lights were off. Her car was parked in the garage. For all intents and purposes, it didn’t even look like she was home. And he just came in, crept through her home and up into her bedroom. It sent shivers down her spine.

She received a text then. He wanted to come back and explain. No, please don’t. She responded. Yes, he was turning his car around. She told him in no uncertain terms was he to return to her house now. She found herself staying out of sight of any of the windows of her house. She was thankful her roommate was home. He came upstairs from his basement apartment. She explained what had just occurred; and then a loud knock on her kitchen door. She felt anger then.

She opened the door but did not invite him in, told him to leave. He wanted to explain.

“Please, you need to give me time to digest this.” She said. “You don’t want to hear what I’m thinking right now.”

“Yes. Tell me what you’re thinking.” He answered.

And she did.

“You were unable to reach me by phone and you drove to my house. You didn’t see my car in the driveway. The house was dark. And you thought it was okay to just come on in. You were not invited! You walked through my house. You came up into my bedroom and what? What did you think you were going to find? It’s fucking creepy! Get out of here.”

And he did.

Later that evening, practice commenced on time. They had decided earlier in the week to do a cover song, their first. Her roommate hit the four-track recorder and started strumming his guitar. Her cell phone, on mute, glowed insistently the entire time. She started to sing:

I would die for you. I would die for you.
I’ve been dying just to feel you by my side.
To know that you’re mine.

"Supernaut" - Black Sabbath

I spent my 13th year alone, in seclusion. I blew off my few friends, stopped talking to my family (they didn’t notice...), stopped showering, ate too much; my skin a minefield of bad teen living. I did think about girls...but being an utter mess and fairly self aware of it, I figured that would be some other decade.
 
It was a conscious decision. I didn’t need friends or sunlight any more. I didn’t need vitamins or conversation or kissing or any of that low rent crap. I discovered Black Sabbath's 'Volume 4'.

It was a match made in teen heaven. Me, being a curious, dark and fat lil monster, albeit a bright one, I read obsessively, usually dark fat lil books about the Paranormal, ESP, UFO, as well as some classic Anglo (The Black Arrow, Beowulf and Ivanhoe come to mind). My mind was a jock, nimble, quick, good for short distances and long. My body, on the other hand, was a wreck.
 
Which didn’t matter anymore. I discovered Black Sabbath. That year made me what I am....
 
That's the thing the 'cool kids' don't get about metal; It’s a flag, it’s a place. Zeppelin's Valhalla, Deep Purple's Montreux, Black Sabbaths' Candle Lit Graveyard. It’s all a place to us, it’s a place of salvation, sanctuary. It’s where the geeks are muscle-bound and scoring chicks by the yardarm. Where a girl a little too big, in a dress a little too small, can be hooted at and wolf whistled at from the top rows of the New Haven Coliseum (RIP). It’s where you could scream things you never could say, and be joined in unison from the rabble around you.
 
It’s the biggest gang on the f*****g earth.
 
Punk is for college. Indie is for magazine writers. Rock is dead.

Metal perseveres, because there are always gonna be 13 year old boys. In seclusion, and a bit too bright for their own good

'If I Ever Lose Myself In You' - Sting

I went to the party. I went alone. He didn’t want to attend…again. He didn’t like my friends. I don’t think he particularly cared for me either, but we were married and he made do.

There were lots of people there. Shelly had outdone herself; hired a piano player and a bartender to entertain and lighten the load. I got there. I’d forgotten who everyone was. I busied myself lighting the tea lights that covered every spare inch of counter top, table and sill. People began arriving, piano and ice tinkled in the background. Appetizers were pulled from the oven and refrigerator; the night began in earnest. Shelly checked in and asked if I was having a good time. “Absolutely”, I replied and made a beeline towards the restroom. There was a line. I smoothed back my hair which was pulled back in a high pony tail. Me, in my black, velvet jacket and dark leggings suddenly felt garish and out of place amid the tall, lithe women with their short skirts and shiny straight hair. The bar was set up by the loo. I asked for a drink. “Sure. What’ll you have?” The young and striking bartender asked. “I’m not sure.” I answered. “What’s good?” He offered to make me a margarita. I accepted. The line inched along and he and I started to talk. How did he know Shelly, I asked. And he told me they had met in school. He was handsome, a bit younger than me. The line to the bathroom got shorter. I thanked him for the drink and excused myself.

The night progressed. The piano player packed his things and left. Someone turned on the stereo, cued up some CDs. Sting was in the mix, Ten Summoner’s Tales. I had wound my way back in and out of conversations with the guests, back to the bar. How was the margarita, how was the party, he wanted to know. And I started talking to him. Conversation turned to music and he told me about his studies in music, about his side jobs as a roadie, including being on the Road with Sting himself. I got lost in the conversation; forgot that I was unsure and awkward to be at a party by myself, babies sleeping at home, a husband who didn’t want to be there. I smiled and laughed, excused myself to check on the guests.

The party was winding down. People started to clear out. I hung out, stayed around until the end to help Shelly with the clean up. I don’t even know how it happened. I barely can remember. The bartender was packing up his wares, cleaning off the bar. We talked all the while. Laughed, shared jokes. He was leaving, did I want to join him. “Oh, no thank you” I said. “My husband’s at home.”

“A hug then. It was really nice talking to you”

He wrapped his arms around me. God, I can still remember how he smelled, how he felt. I was so starved for affection, for conversation, for anything from a man. He tried to kiss me. I pulled away. I was married.

If I ever could lose myself though…

'Dazed And Confused' by Led Zeppelin

It's the only time I ever was in a VW van, freshman year in high school, the spring of 1982. He had graduated two years before. He played the drums in a local rock band. And he was so cool. I couldn't even fathom talking to him, never mind actually sitting in his van. But Conchetta was a sophomore and ran with the cool kids. For some reason, she had taken a liking to me. So there I sat at 6:45 in the morning, getting ready to smoke a bowl. I'd tried pot for the first time over the summer. This would probably be my fourth time smoking. Of course, I didn't want to look naïve.

I sat in the back seat. Mr. Cool and Conchetta were up front. They made out for a while. I kept tugging at my navy blue uniform skirt pretending not to look. When they were done, Mr. Cool pulled out a plastic baggy filled with big, fat green buds. He had a small silver bowl. I watched as he broke down the buds, carefully separating the weeds from the seeds. And then there was a problem. He didn't have a screen for his bowl. Shit! We couldn't smoke it without a screen. I spoke up from the backseat.
“Your lunch bag.” I said.
“What?” Mr. Cool looked at me with near disgust.
“I see you have a lunch bag there.” I motioned to the space between the two front seats where a brown paper bag was jammed next to a stack of cassettes.
“What about it?” he asked.
“Well, is your sandwich wrapped in tinfoil?” The smile that broke out on his face told me he was now comprehending.
“Yeah, it is. You're pretty smart.”

I sat there glowing that this nearly 20 year old guy not only spoke to me but actually thought I was smart. Mr. Cool pulled out his aluminum foil wrapped sandwich. It was ham, I think. He tore off a piece of the foil and fashioned a screen.

“Do either of you have a safety pin?” He wanted to know.
“No.” Conchetta and I answered simultaneously.
“We need to make holes in the foil.” We all looked around the van for something small enough to do the job. He had a Led Zeppelin lapel pin stuck in his sun visor.
“Oh, look.” I pointed, thrilled that it was me again who solved the dilemma“Now you're thinking!” was my praise. Mr. Cool finished packing the bowl and lit up.

The smoke curled and emitted a pungent smell. Before it was even passed to me, I was flying high.