Banjo Dreaming

By Juli

Before I die I want to learn to play the banjo.

It now tops my list, plucking “finish writing that godforsaken book and be the writer you’re supposed to be” and dropping it to the number two spot. A musical goal at the pinnacle of my bucket list is admittedly odd. I’ve never played an instrument beyond grade school lessons for the violin. Never been in a band, don’t have a natural ability to play or sing really anything. But I have an ear. When life has been more rock climbing than joyriding, music has been that well-placed handhold for me, the will to hang on and keep going. I love music.

But not all of it.

I’m not a huge jazz fan (sorry), don’t love me that punk metal shit from the 80s. And I’m all for a good dose of pop (and that’s probably what my car radio is set to right now), but it’s manufactured, packaged. Don’t you dare play Madonna at my funeral or your ass is haunted forever.

Not that the soundtrack of my life would have direction or focus to a casual observer (hmm, telling?). Paul Simon, Lynyrd Skynyrd (not kidding), Tracy Chapman, Ella Fitzgerald, M People, The Bridge, John Denver, Carly Simon, James Taylor, Queen, Fleetwood Mac, Sinead O’Connor, Sonia Dada, Lauryn Hill, Alison Krauss (her album with Robert Plant is FANTASTIC), The Bridge, Ray LaMontagne, Pink. I mean, really, who is this person?

Give me a musical Rorschach, and this is what you’d learn: I’m a hillbilly.

I did not grow up in the south, nor the hills, nor the country. I did grow up poor white folk. Which, if you know your banjo history, throws another curve into the mix, since the banjo was originally developed by African slaves in the U.S. But I digress.

My mother told some pretty vivid stories of growing up in the hills of California and can probably really claim to be a hillbilly at heart. Maybe I’m a hillbilly at heart too because of the invisible umbilicus that transcends all dysfunctional mother/daughter relationships. Or maybe, it’s because my grandmother’s funeral when I was five, my first big loss, was punctuated by folksy, bluegrass music. And sometimes I think that’s what we always go back to. Wherever we go, there we are. Trying to fill in that first hole.

This may seal my fate forever as tragically unhip and uncool, but my three favorite voices of all time are Emmylou Harris, Dolly Parton, and Johnny Cash. Diamond in My Crown and Sweet Chariot can make me cry instantly. Emmylou Harris has the most distinctive, beautiful voice I’ve ever heard. Go listen to Where Will I Be right now. And then there’s Dolly Parton’s I Will Always Love You, Coat of Many Colors, and Jolene. They are all lovely, simple, human, real, genius. And Johnny Cash’s quirky baritone. Flawed, perfect. Ring of Fire, Walk the Line, A Boy Named Sue, When the Man Comes Around. I love them.

Tapping this all out now, in little clicks instead of picks, I just realized something. I gravitate to music that’s rough around the edges, that tells a story. And maybe that’s why there’s the banjo, waiting for me someday. Because there are stories I won’t ever be able to tell on paper.

The Idiot Purse

By Juli

I want to do a new reality TV Show called "The Idiot Purse." So for all you friends in the industry, I need a hook-me-up right now. Here's the idea.

We follow people who are making plans to piss away their money. Large sums, small sums, medium sums. We go through the whole planning process with them, right up to the point before they actually let it loose. The audience gets really, really invested in wanting to beat them senseless at the thought of that much waste and idiocy in any economy, let alone today's. And then we stage an intervention. We make them see the light. Even if we have to tie them to a chair in a dark room with a mysterious drip and shine the bulbs of Sweet Jehovah right into their eyeballs. . .

Like, take Paris Hilton's doghouse for instance. $325,000 for a DOGHOUSE. Okay, it's her money, she can do whatever she wants with it, I get it. But what if we could have reengaged a couple of neurons for a split second and gotten her to scrap the plans, realize that if she's gonna waste that much good goddamn money, she could at least make some unsuspecting soul really, really happy in the process? Her dogs didn't want or need a house, don't give a shit about it, and will never give a shit about it, that's for sure.

So, we get Paris to put 325,000 smackers in a sweet little Gucci overnight bag and stroll down some street in Anytown, U.S.A. Go into a Walmart, hit up a soccer game in the suburbs, knock on the door of an antique colonial in need of a paint job, whatever. Go up to someone she would normally not even blink at, give them a big old Midwestern Hug and say "Here you go. I was going to fritter this money away on stuff that would send my Good Karma Meter into the Beyond Redemption Zone for the rest of my life. You have it instead." And then she just walks away.

The nice thing about this Idiot Purse idea is that it's totally scalable. Like next time I think about taking my kids to The Rainforest Cafe, I could take the 40 or 50 bucks and just hand it to the woman relegated to walking around her mallcart with that fake cigarette hanging out of her mouth. I could say "You, here, take this. I was going to waste it on soggy, cold food made three days ago. I can whip up more food, better, for five dollars at home. Thank you for saving me from gaining a pound or two, stuffing my kids with trash, and near freezing to death under the electromagnetic dust dungeon that is The Rainforest Cafe. God bless." And then I'd kiss both of her cheeks a la francais, pivot on those black flats I got on sale at Target, and head for The Exit. A little lighter in the wallet, but with a lot more coin in the Juju Bank.

I would watch this show with tears in my eyes.