I Warned You

Don't let me fool you. I don't listen to half the albums I buy. They're like charm bracelets. Like tchochkes in tourist traps. Look at them once and toss them aside to moulder in a forgotten luggage pocket for decades. I buy albums that should interest the idealized me who is hip and smart. The real me samples one or two songs on a dark evening after work, and returns to Goldfrapp and Jeff Buckley and Madonna the rest of the month.

So if you ever hear me describe new art I love, new music, new anything, don't believe me. Whatever it is, I listened for thirty seconds and then put on Morning Sci-Fi or Haunted or I'm Not Dead. I read for twelve pages and set it down and forgot about it. I'm a shameless liar; a blatant manipulator; a cranky diva. I'll tell you not what I like, but what I want you to think I like, because I like the idea of me liking it.

I want you to think I'm quirky and fun. Don't let me fool you. I want you to think I'm cultured and sane. Don't let me fool you. I want you to think I'm the kind of woman who listens to the Future Sound of London and Samuel Barber and Aimee Mann. I want you to think I'm the kind of woman who watches Mulholland Drive and Repo Man and Singing in the Rain.

I lie. Half the time I even lie about lying. Believe me at your peril.