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March 9, 2000
1:13:47 pm


beck-alicious

I have a question. You know that song "I am the man" by the Philosopher Kings? Who's it about again? O wait, I just remembered. It's about ME, because I am the muthafucking man (err girl)! Since monday this new radio station xfm has been holding a contest to win tickets to the beck concert plus a chance to go backstage and meet him. The deal is, they play one of his songs and stop it wherever the hell they damn feel like it, then you have to sing the next few lines. So I've been desperately trying to win tickets, calling in everyday. Monday I missed the first call out because I missed the phone number, so I called in once I got the number and asked the dj when would be the next round. Well, 2 minutes after I got off the phone with him, he plays back our recorded conversation over the airwaves. Guh, my first taste of radio play lust for fame. Anyways, that day I called in and was caller 2 and 6, but they were looking for caller 10 so no rejoicing for sad pathetic little me. Plus, the bastards who are lucky enough to be number ten never know the damned lyrics! Then tuesday I decided to hard core it and brought my walkman to school so I wouldn't miss any contest announcements. Sure enough, as I'm outside walking to my electrical circuits class, "Crash Kincaid" (what a slick radio name eh? If I was on the radio, I'd wanna be named "Smack Whore".) called for contestants. So I run/waddle to the nearest public phone and dial those little digits like there was no tomorrow. Bop-boo-bee-bop-bop-bee-bop. Eh-Eh-Eh-Eh. Click. Reinsert quarter. Begin again. That day I was caller 8. Fuck.

Then yesterday I decided, I can't bear with this public phone shit. What if I'm in my car driving to school when they have a call out? So I borrowed one of my mom's three cellular phones (being easily accessible, for both phone and booty calls, rank up there on my mom's list of priorities. At the bottom? Buying us kids dinner and keeping us clothed. What a frivolous spender. What mom actually needs to spend hundreds of dollars on herself buying the latest in Tommy Hilfiger gear whilst her kids are barely getting by on ketchup packets for lunch?). La di da, I'm driving to school and ta-da, they ran the contest. I dialed but because I'm such a cell phone virgin, I couldn't figure out which button to press the send the damned call. I screamed at it, cursed, belittled it, and banged it a couple times on the dashboard... whatever it was, it worked. Ring ring (thinking Omigod omigod) ring ring (i'll sell you my soul. i'll sell you my soul.) ring ring (answer you fucker!). Someone finally answers with "So you think you're a beck fan!" Me: "Hell yeah!". We were off air so he took down my information and prepped me. Told me to act all excited and that if I won, he'd ask me "Where do you go for the best listening?" and I should yell XFM! We're on air and he immediately adopts his deep radio voice. "Well, we're gonna do a popular song from the Mellow Gold CD. Ready?" "yahoo!"

"...(music starts playing mid song) he hung himself with a guitar string, slab of turkey neck and it's hanging from a pigeon wing. Get right if you can't relate trade the cash for the beef for the body for the heat -- (music cut off)."

I immediately chime in with my tonedeaf voice and beatless rap style

"and my time is a piece of wax, falling on the termite, who's choking on the splinters."

The dj started screaming, I started hooting, he then asked me the "Who do you listen to?" question to which I promptly hollered XFM. Although I was wondering what would have happened if instead I yelled "The crazy voices in my head who tell me to do bad bad things!" I probably wouldn't get the tickets. And that would have been terrible. Sigh...I'm ever so pleased with myself. So now my Beck concert tally will be up to three. I can't wait. Please come to me my sweet sweet emaciated funkdafied pink jean wearing robot dancing dream lover!



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