Caterwauling

*updated to include tunage*

As a storyteller by nature, I know that my ultimate editing project is myself. And, when others are self-editing, I can spot it a mile away. I wonder, then, if they know that I am holding back on them, too … or that I want so desperately to share more. And that I will, in time, if the door opens a bit more. That’s a big IF, though.

And, what a loss to the world it is — all the creativity and originality and random bursts of brilliance that are squelched during our everyday existences. All the words — so many glorious insights and dreams and questions we all have — that remain unspoken, all the feelings left unacknowledged, all the chances we missed to give someone the inspiration they needed.

Let me insert the caveat that the people who should think before they speak (or act) don’t give us that courtesy. Bertrand Russell once said that “The trouble with the world is that the stupid are cocksure and the intelligent are full of doubt.” I had an ex who was dumb as bricks (I wasn’t exactly dating him for his intelligence. *wink*), and never again will I associate myself with someone who doesn’t mentally stimulate me. He was the first one to babble incessantly about the nothing in particular that fascinated him (and only him). And that taught me a bad lesson — I wondered what if people were compelled to cut off their hair and hang themselves with it while they were listening to me?

In a politically correct society, we have so many laws against indecency and harassment that broadcast entities are only permitting the most vanilla messages to go live. Men and women are afraid to speak to each other for fear of lawsuits and gag orders. And, that has all seeped down to a more fundamental level — where we tend to figure it is easier to keep to ourselves than to share ourselves with others. We silence — or, at the very least, censor — ourselves instead of waiting for a day when someone else might fight to silence us.

We all have legitimate secrets, and that’s how those should stay — secret. But so many of us stop in the middle of our sentences. That to me is usually the flashing red light indicating that something fascinating was just prevented from coming to light. Like I said, I spot it in others and, quite honestly, will try to drag it out of them if I am interested in hearing it. And if I don’t ask, well, I might have started to form the words but censored myself for whatever reason. Or, worse, they might have shared something and I bit back the words I needed to say in response because I was terrified how my sentiments would be taken. And, on a truly personal note, it’s possible I wasn’t ready to deal with what I felt at that moment and wasn’t ready to be heard saying something I wasn’t expecting to feel.

As a writer, I study human nature. I absolutely feed off of what others might consider mundane personal details (remember, I am a budding author — I write character sketches and need storylines!). Everyone (real) is a puzzle to me — well, everyone worthy of note, which isn’t a whole lot of people, quite honestly. And that’s not to say that I want to get people figured out right away so that I can either compartmentalize them or write them off and move onto other victims subjects of interest. Oh, hell no — it’s the person who throws me a curve ball now and again who will cause me to keep my eyes and ears open for the next tidbit — it’s that person whom I will approach and ask what’s new … because I know I will enjoy hearing about it.

I liken my sense of curiosity to my method of receiving/opening presents (which just doesn’t happen too much lately!). Everyone who crosses my path is my gift — I might admire the exquisite wrapping and, after a little while, rattle the box a bit. But if the gift is to be saved for a holiday or to accompany some special occasion, I am totally cool with that. I will never slit open the tape, peek at the gift and put it back where I found it, pretending I’d left it undisturbed all along. I can’t do that because my reaction needs to be genuine. I’m not going to Google you to find information you aren’t ready to give me just yet. I’m not going to give you a line of bullshit because, if I am lucky enough to have you consider me to be trustworthy, I don’t want to jeopardize having you confide in me again and again.

It’s just funny how we can all have extensive conversations with each other and somehow manage to say nothing. And, I’ve never been a fan of idle chit-chat. Sure, I can (and do) ramble at length about nothing at all, but know that it’s not how I prefer to spend your time and mine. Of course, again with the caveats, with some people it’s just wonderful to bask in their presence and, if conversation is mind-numbing but it keeps them in the room or on the phone with you, well then, I’ll take “Let’s Discuss Network Television” for $100, Alex.

The thing about having an active imagination is that I tend to wonder what goes unsaid in many of my conversations. For example, I can share a story about a guy I knew in college. He was able to bullshit everybody but for some reason adored me because he knew I’d see right through him if he even tried — I guess I didn’t let him get away with much. (He gave me way too much credit — I wasn’t even listening half the time. *wink*)

Years went by and we lost touch before one of our mutual friends revealed to me that the guy carried a torch for me for the longest time. Well, who fucking knew?!?! To say I was intrigued was the understatement of the century — I’d never even considered the possibility because it didn’t even occur to me that it WAS a possibility.

And, looking back, maybe I can pinpoint a few conversations that I perhaps took too lightly. Which leads me to make sure, now, that I don’t miss much when I’m talking to others. Don’t worry, guys, that doesn’t mean I’m attaching any extra, fabricated meaning to anything — I’m observant, not delusional!

In any event, you may be wondering if there is, in fact, some hidden meaning behind this post? If so, I’ll never tell. 😉

On iTunes: Tom Waits, “I Hope That I Don’t Fall In Love With You”

Had a $200 oil change today.

Now, don’t worry, that’s not all I got. I was prepared to pay the $35 for an oil change because my regular place (where I haven’t gone in awhile because I needed to do the uber-cheap oil changes during the last half-year) rocks and actually gives decent service. Read: They at least kiss you while they’re fucking you.

All told, I have some new filters, new steering fluid and a new fuel injection system. Which is grand, because the inside of the car smells like vanilla and the outside smells like a fucking grease fire. I look forward to that heinous scent wearing off one day soon.

To top it off, when my car was done, not only did the mechanic park it facing the wrong direction on a one-way street, but he also Left. It. Running. And it took like 20 minutes to get rung up because the cashier kept charging me incorrectly (although I would have been happy to pay below the $208 that it turned out to be). Even worse — the tank was on “E” (I swear, I go through two and a half tanks a week — yay rising fuel prices. Not.) and the mechanic told me to get some gas in it so that the fuel injection system had some, well, fuel to inject.

Before I get too mad, I’m just glad I actually had the money (read: have not paid bills yet). And whether or not they recognized the car and knew a chick drove it and they upsold me pretty fiercely, well, at least I know Samantha is in top shape for NASCAR the Capital Beltway. I guess it’s a good thing I don’t actually go out and spend money on things I want — this car practically eats paychecks as quickly as it eats $2.10/gallon unleaded!

But, alas, there was a mild bit of humor. I pulled in at about 100 mph (I had to beat a traffic light and do a hairpin turn). As soon as I walked into the office, the cashier said, “You must be the Sunfire.” Now, there were 10 other cars there. I said yeah, and she proceeded to rattle off my license plate number. I was slightly amazed, but again, she said, “Yeah. Hard to miss YOU pulling in!” LOL. That’s why I don’t question needing so much work on that vehicle — I know I drive like a maniac! 😉

On iTunes: Madonna, “Sky Fits Heaven”

Last week, I told you I was going to start rating my commutes by the cups of java consumed. You heard about the two-coffee commute. Today, we have the no-coffee commute.

Why was there no coffee? ‘Cause I was an idiot and didn’t make any on the way in, but I figured I’d get *good* coffee once I was in the vicinity of Dream Job. Anywho, I left the Bachelorette Pad at 6:52 a.m. (I still have makeup to apply — it ain’t pretty right now).) I hit my 32nd and final mile at — get this — 7:21 a.m. Yes, less than a half hour! w00t!

I could get used to such an easy-breezy commute, but yeah, 6:52 a.m. departure time? Don’t think so. I am too BITCHY in the mornings to pull this off for anyting but a special occasion. 🙂

Anyway, it took that exact same 29 minutes, however, to stand in line at Krispy Kreme to wait for one freaking glazed donut and a coffee (a motherfuckin’ LARGE). Dear keepers of the piping-hot, crack-like beverage we so desperately crave: Hand us coffee at the door. Seriously. You are lucky we don’t kill anyone before taking that first, glorious sip. 😉

OK, now I have to go function. Happy Friday!

On iTunes: k.d. lang, “Suddenly”

Happy Paddy’s Day from the Irish goddess princess at this domain. 🙂 Not like my freckles, pale skin, green eyes and red hair didn’t give me away as being Irish or anything. Here’s to hoping that this is the year I discover that magic pot o’gold (magic pot would be just fine, too!).

If you’re in D.C. and not working late, Tom posted some recommended destinations for your pint o’Guinness. I highly recommend the shepherd’s pie at Four Courts, if you’re so inclined.

And, because we’re all about the tunage ’round here, we’re gonna turn off the sexy music and get our drinking music on (NSFW, duh). Slainte!

“Fuck You, I’m Drunk”
“The Pub With No Beer”
“O’Fugger’s Mean Green Irish Creme Ale”
“Kiss My Irish Ass”
“Bugger Off”
“Beer, Beer, Beer”
“Fuck the British Army”

All this talk about music reminds me of the song I played repeatedly in the car tonight. Click on the “On iTunes” line at the bottom for the song. Wash the car, pop the sunroof and dream while everyone else around you goes apeshit. And, promise me you’ll sing. For me, OK? 🙂

Shan and I used to play this song (among a thousand others) when we’d hang out at Benny’s, so it reminds me of good times. It also keeps my mind, well, occupied in traffic with those random, errant thoughts that I can’t share. 😉 Maybe it’ll *do it* for you, too!

On iTunes: Dr. Hook, “Sharing the Night Together”

So my grandfather was a country musician in his day. He just turned 79 a couple of weeks ago, and for his birthday, mom gave him a little amplifier and got his guitar out of storage. He is getting new strings put on the guitar right now, and he’s excited and nervous about trying to play again after a good number of years of being out of practice.

And his hands — the hands that used to pick me up and twirl me in the air when I was a little girl — are getting older, along with the rest of his body. He’s so hopeful that he will be able to strum and play a few melodies, but he knows he may not be able to do much of anything. For his sake, I hope he can play the way he did when he was my age. I hope it all comes back to him and that his hands don’t betray him because music was such a love of his.

He was never taught how to read music or sing or play — he just figured it out on his own. He started out after the war (World War II), playing guitar and singing backup in a local (Pittsburgh) country band. So the story goes, he would take over more and more lead vocals, to the point of annoying his friend (the lead singer) because people would cheer for him and request that he sing a few songs.

And the songs he wrote! I don’t know what happened to all of them — throughout the years, when my grandmother got sick, Mom had to throw out a bunch of things. We’d been renting a house in White Oak (we rented a lot of places when I was growing up; I’ve learned to move around a lot myself now that I’m an adult) when the owner died and his kids gave my family 30 days to pack up and leave. I’d been at college and was working two or three jobs to stay alive, so I was of no assistance. My grandmother was bedridden after a stroke and diabetes hit simultaneously (although her mind was as sharp as severed glass), and my grandfather kind of mentally checked out for awhile over that and some crazy legal issues that turned out to be nothing. So, Mom had to find a place, get the money together, decide what could go to the new, tiny apartment and chuck the rest. Years of furniture, artwork, memories … down the shitter. It still eats away at her, knowing that my grandparents watched her drag the tangibles from her parents’ life together out to the curb.

But the guitar? Kept it. You never saw my grandfather without it. And even though it’s been in storage for the past near-decade, my grandfather has always known it would be for them when he was ready for it again.

And now he has it — it’s in pristine condition and it has been waiting for him to remember it, of that I’m sure. We spoke last night, and I have to say I’ve never heard him so excited about something … he will get to be creative again. He told me a story about when I was a wee lass, how he wrote a song about little girls, just for me. He said I started crying and couldn’t stop sobbing, and he was so devastated that he’d made me sad. I asked him if it were maybe just his singing that had driven me to tears. 😉

Recently, I’d spoken with someone about country music, and I think I may have surprised this individual with the fact that I am a fan (shit, just check the “On iTunes” signoff line at the end of every blog entry — you’ll see country, R&B, chick music, pop, rock, etc. — I love it all!). But what I felt bad about was that I never thought to say how much of an influence my grandfather had on me in that regard. My girlfriend A. and I, to this day, will get together and sing Barbara Mandrell songs in the car (we also sing songs about grammar and, yes, we are easily amused!). Recently, I got my hands on a crapload of country songs from my formative years, and I enjoy belting out tunes by Martina McBride, Trisha Yearwood, Pam Tillis and many others for my neighbors to not enjoy.

Creativity runs through my immediate family. My grandmother had brilliant penmanship — I learned how to do calligraphy by watching her. She always made sure I had the pens and proper stationery, along with anything she thought would help me to stimulate my brain. Anything from Barbie dream houses to paintbrushes to any writing utensil I ever wanted, she made sure I had it. My grandfather gave me a guitar when I was younger, but I got very frustrated because I couldn’t learn how to read music and there went that hobby, sadly (I also played in the school orchestra and sang in the chorus — but 12 years of smoking a pack of cigarettes a day killed THAT off, not to mention that I could only sight-read the music).

But I did start songwriting, and that I loved. Mom is completely the artist of the family — I have never seen somebody tackle large-scale art projects with such fervor, with only a vision in her mind (never a sketch), and with such love. She gives away everything she does. I have a fantastic holiday wreath she made recently — I keep telling her she either needs to make stuff and sell it on eBay or she needs to open a catering company. From her, I got a knack for throwing parties and making sure my guests go home with full bellies and doggie bags full of leftovers for the next day’s lunch.

And I guess creativity never goes away, no matter how much we try to squelch it or how much the world strips away our former abilities. When my grandmother had her stroke, she couldn’t really write on paper, so she skywrote. She was ambidextrous (and so am I, although I favor my right because it’s just quicker), and when she lost the use of her left hand, she would write her name and whatever she was thinking in the air. And you could just see the swirls and curls that would have accompanied any correspondence she would have done on paper. She swore like a sailor, but she had impeccable taste that made her such a brilliant dichotomy — and I, as a Gemini and her protege on many levels, have become a modern-day version of her. She was defiant and unapologetic; someday, I will be like that again, because being like her was never a bad thing, in my mind’s eye.

I guess the lesson I take from all of this is to enjoy being alive and energetic and able right now in my life. My creativity that is all my own is writing volumes — whether journal entries, blog entries, poems, books, greeting-card one-liners, etc. Those came to me on my own. And I am glad to have them and to combine them with my grandfather’s love of rhythm and verse, my mother’s knack for pulling together masterpieces from a thousand otherwise small details and my grandmother’s flair for making ordinary things extraordinary. I like to joke with my family about how I inherited all of their *bad* traits, like contempt for boundaries and oftentimes authority, a need to do things in my own time — whether it’s instantaneously or whenever I fucking get around to it, and a need to let everybody know exactly what I’m thinking in no uncertain terms and often with whatever sailor-speak I feel like using. But, you know what? Creative people get away with that kind of stuff. Editing oneself is bad for the creativity, I believe.

The thing I’ve found about being creative is that it gives me a better grasp on reality. Or, maybe it just gives me the courage to face life because I know that it’s my escape — that I can go bury myself in a project that is done on my terms — work for which I don’t have to apologize. Sure, you can read my journal or a poem, for example, and get pissed off because you believe you see yourself in it somewhere. Guess what? I cared enough about you to write about you, or I cared enough about you to not kill you and instead channeled my fire into a written work that will surely go up in value once this tortured artist leaves the planet. 😉

In any event, I don’t want to be lying in a bed, wishing I could still write. I don’t want to be 80 years old and hoping that my weak hands will be able to produce something beautiful again. I don’t want to be so consumed with what I could have been that I never took advantage of who I was. I. Don’t. Want. To. Be. Forgotten.

And my job is to make sure that this name will be up in lights, with fireworks (or photographers’ cameras) flashing all around.

And, if ever I lose my senses and decide to have a kid (where’s that Prozac dispenser? I done lost my mind!), I know that he will be able to write, sing, dance, cook, paint, draw, dream, live, love and design a rocket that will take him to the moon, if that’s what he wants to do. But one thing’s for sure, I wouldn’t let him waste a drop of his genius on trying to live a quiet life. Perhaps the greatest talent in my family is quietly setting aside one’s gifts to instead support the talents of the youngest generation — perhaps that is the greatest sacrifice made in every family. Maybe that’s why I’ve not been overly inclined to have kids (yet, anyway) — I have a lot to give this world, and my hope is to meet someone just like me so that we can spin this planet off its axis and change it forever with what comes naturally to us.

My friends are few, but they are dynamic. And so will the person who will eventually capture my attention … someone gifted who will encourage me to keep up with him … someone I can eventually inspire, too. Maybe that will be my greatest challenge yet … and it’s one to which I look forward. And I will owe any and all successes to my family who gave me the gifts that might not have come wrapped in a big bow but that grew with me and want to be shared with anyone brave enough to want to experience them.

On iTunes: Barbara Mandrell, “If Loving You is Wrong”

Is it that time of year again already? And it’s in its third year — has Hallmark issued a card line for it yet?

On iTunes: Garbage, “Why Do You Love Me”

I have a personal to-do list that is a mile long — or, rather, it would be, if only I would take the time to write it. 😉

Bounty — finally
A fantastic opportunity came my way yesterday, and I’m going to take it. Not to sound like an ass, but the universe owes me for inflicting 2004 on me. 🙂 I have a lot of hard work ahead of me, but it will be a pleasant diversion. I always get slightly terrified before I start a new journey, but I feel really good about this one. It is one of those opportunities that found me, not the other way around.

I do hope I will do well with it — it’s a HUGE book project that will undoubtedly give me the confidence I so desperately need to do this for myself. Because I want to get back to my ill-fated novel — the first in a consecutive series of six. My life situation prevented me from immersing myself in the conjuring of ideas time that was so necessary. I tend to punish myself by not allowing myself to dream and to run free within my mind, where are there are typically neither stop signs nor traffic congestion. And boy, did I punish myself back then … it’s a wonder I was able to even pull it together to attract/finish my freelance projects and interview for the fabulous job I got.

I never really talk about my book, but because it’s been on hold indefinitely, I can say that it has a lot to do with people my age (29+1) and pop culture. But I’ve never known how to break into the pop culture world, research-wise. I had one connection that went sort of bust, but I may have found another one. I’m starting to get the hint that the forces of nature have positioned me “just so” for me to cross paths with people who are going to be influences in a variety of areas. I just hope they are OK with the responsibility because I can be really persistent when I need something. 😉 It’s just good to know that the puzzle pieces eventually come together and that my real role is to superglue them together. 🙂

Inspiration — at long last
In any event, the Muse has rescued me and she is two steps behind me, kicking my ass to move forward again. She has ordained me to bury my old journals and start a new one — she says you can’t pick up writing in a book that only brings you pain when you look at it — even if you’d only written on 12 pages and have the rest of the book available. She’s right, as always. I thought I was supposed to pick up where I left off, but the fact of the matter is that, when you’re handed a clean slate, you can pick your new starting point. So your golf ball gets stuck in a tree, so what? Shake that bee-yotch and put the ball where it needs to be and drive it on home from wherever you are.

Seriously, the link above? It’s called “Everything can be fixed in the rewrite.” I have finally, finally been blessed with the chance to make revisions to the screenplay of my life. And while I can’t change the plot or the characters so far, I can end their scenes and write in a fantastic ending, surrounded by light and life and love. It’s great to have the ability to go back and see how far you’ve come — I’m not in the same place that I was last June when I made my last journal entry. I’m not the same girl who wrote my last blog (so get off my new site, trolls — you won’t see it again so please disappear from my referral log!).

And that new journal? Contains visions that I want to come true. Now, the conundrum lies therein whether I will, in fact, be OK if things do NOT happen the way I am seeing them. I’d talked to a friend awhile back about whether a vision is actually a premonition or simply wishful thinking. He’d given me a lot of insight without answerng the question directly — that you see visions and if you like them, then you work to make them come true. And if you aren’t so pleased with what you see, you were lucky enough to see what the future could have been, and you have plenty of time to paint a new picture.

Mmm, java
When I started my freelancing odyssey (ugh. Never again!), someone had remarked to me that I was so fortunate that I would be able to lounge the day away at S’Bux while everyone else was trapped in their windowless hell. Honestly? Never did it. Marketing yourself takes 25 hours a day, and I never really even opened the curtains because my self-punishment for not achieving certain things was to deny myself sunlight (I am beginning to sense the onset of psychosis here! LOL).

But I did take a trip to S’Bux this weekend. And I wrote and wrote and wrote in my journal long past the finishing of my venti caramel macchiato. There was a really cute guy there, flirting up a storm (we’d walked in together and even walked out together!), but that was that. And I take it for what it’s worth — a feel-good moment. But I wonder if I am unapproachable because I expected him to at least ask for my number (I won’t ever call a guy. Never ever never. Don’t even ask me about it — I need to be worth it for them to chase). In any event, it was like my pen were possessed — I did not stop writing for an hour. And, re-reading it, even my journal is cryptic. I don’t use names or places or direct quotes — it’s like my blog! LOL. I guess I have had my personal journals (online and off) invaded so many times that I cannot trust that it will always remain in my own hands.

Lost art
In the coffeeshop, I sat opposite a girl with a laptop. She was fascinated how my hand couldn’t stop writing. Even when I was looking out the window into the parking lot, I wrote and wrote and wrote. And despite the fact that she had a Dell (I have better taste!), I was covetous of her having a laptop. And she didn’t type much at all. I guess it’s something about putting pen to paper. It’s a lost art. I can be a computer enthusiast when I want to be, but let’s face it, whipping out a bound journal on a whim (even in traffic *cough cough*) can be quite therapeutic.

What’s interesting, though, was how we ended up staring at each other off and on. No, it wasn’t an attraction thing (I don’t think so, anyway!) — it’s just a quirk that writers have that is totally acceptable when they are around each other. When you’re looking around the room or wading through your “happy place” in your mind, your eyes often fall on something or someone interesting or, at least, someone within your direct view. And I think we both rather enjoyed the other swearing, laughing or otherwise grumbling at ourselves and/or what we’d written. I love the writers’ community and need to spend more time in it!

Priorities
I am gazing at my pile of jewelry-making shit, the to-buy list of paints and canvases and whatnot, the folder full of poetry, the unread books, the unhung curtain rods/curtains/pendant lamps/artwork, and the less fun stuff like unpaid bills, unorganized closets and shit that needs to find a home other than on one of my many decorative tables. And it’s disconcerting. Really. The reason I cannot face my tasks is because there are so MANY of them. I only do basic maintenance anymore — the lightest of cleaning, the least amount of work that needs to be done to the car, etc.

But I’ve found that by adding journal-writing, it’s like whistling while you work, so to speak. I have a fun chore, because I do treat it like volunteer work more than anything. I expect that someday, someone will read my journal. I don’t want it to be public knowledge, of course, but my hope is that the *right* person will read it and *get* it because they *get* me — that maybe the writings will somehow fill in the blanks that I wasn’t able to clarify otherwise.

Anyway, that day’s about a hundred years from happening, if at all, but I guess what I wanted to say was that maybe I need to chuck the side projects and focus on my writing as my full-time hobby. Because while I enjoy everything I tackle, I save my love for imagining the world in which I aspire to exist. And I’ve been long overdue for love of any kind — maybe this is where it starts; maybe I will finally know it when I see it because I finally think I believe it exists .. and that it can, even for me. …

On iTunes: Melissa Etheridge, “I Want to Be in Love”

I cannot TELL you the last time I consumed an adult beverage — probably twice in the past six months MAYBE. Amy had encouraged us to get our goof on, but instead, Tiff and I got our DRINK on and were pleasantly tipsy despite the, um, COW we ate. And those sweet potato fries. … *drool*

Speaking of our beloved Snarling Marmot, it is her 29th birthday today! (With a couple of years of practice. *wink*) We drank in your honor, girl, and next time, we will drink WITH you! And bring the Teletubbies. 😉

And, it’s also Isabel’s 25th birthday! What a splendid day indeed. 🙂 Happy birthday, girls!

Overheard at Cap City last night:

Me: “Mmmm, this bacon is so good, I could just dip it in some sausage.”
___

Me: “I really want the 17-inch.”

Tiff and me together: ” … Powerbook.”

Me: “Right.”

Tiff: “Because 17 inches would hurt.”

(Discussion about how one only needs *enough* to reach the G-spot.)

Me: “Where’s **** when I need him?”

(Much laughter and pinky fingers wiggling.)
___

Server: “What would you like to drink?”

Me, wide-eyed and thrilled. “What’s your specialty drink?”

Server and Tiff look at me funny. “It’s a brewery. Beer.”

Me: “Then I will have beer.”

On iTunes: Montell Jordan, “Let’s Get it on Tonight”

I promised to share some driving music. This is only for people who can multi-task. 😉

Get ’em while I’m they’re hot — I’m only going to leave them up ’til tonight (Update: all gone! But more will come!) because they’re bandwidth hogs. If you can, right-click-save-as. But for those of us with optical, no-button Mac mouses, well, know that I love you for your choice of operating platform and invite you to use all the bandwidth you want. 😉

Now, on with the ‘ho show! See the track name by running your mouse over it — I’m committing some white-collar crime and am trying to NOT be found! 😉

Can’t Get You Off My Mind, Lenny Kravitz
All Night Long, SWV
Essence, Lucinda Williams
Kissing You, Faith Evans
RightTimeOfTheNight, Jennifer Warnes
Everybody Here Wants You, Jeff Buckley
Freak Me, Silk
Taste, Melissa Ferrick
Drive, Melissa Ferrick
Ooh Baby La La La, Shije
Nice And Slow — Booty Bass Remix, Usher

(Note: Much gratitutde to Lach, Swirl and GrooveBunny for introducing me to some of these!)

On iTunes: Rob Thomas, “Lonely No More”