dear south charleston blockbuster

Hello. It’s been a long, long time since we’ve seen each other, but you know how that goes. Turns out I got a job offer far away from the friendly confines of Kanawha County and I haven’t had any reason to come see you. I know, I was a really good customer. I rented a ton of stuff from you during the cold winter. But then spring arrived, I moved and I knew our relationship couldn’t continue. Rather than just break things off with you, I abandoned you. I figured you’d just go away quietly.

But like any bad relationship I’ve had, you don’t go away quietly. Sure, you go away. You even disappear. But then you rear your ugly head once more.

After all of our years together, I’m stunned to find out you don’t even know me at all. For you to accuse me of trying to hold on to a copy of ANY movie starring Katherine Heigl tells me you never listened to a word I said. And what’s even worse was you never even called me to accuse me. You had a cold, emotionless nasty gram sent to me asking for your DVD back.

Well, Blockbuster, I’m here to tell you … I don’t have your stupid DVD. I don’t know who has your stupid DVD. It’s someone who obviously thinks a night well spent involves vapid chick movies.

Now, before you call me out on my rentals of all three Amy Fisher movies, just know I’ve never rented a movie that involves Meredity Baxter Birney or the phrase “Not Without My Daughter.” Just because I spend lazy Saturdays watching Lifetime Movie Network doesn’t mean I’d ever have the desire to pay for a new release.

Again, it’s like I said — It’s like you never knew me at all.

So, understand that demanding the return of something I don’t have will get you nowhere. In fact, you should be thanking me for preventing someone else from having to watch that movie. But you won’t thank me. You never did.

I miss you, but only when there’s nothing on TV. I know I have one of you just down the street, but it won’t ever be the same. Nothing compares 2 u.

Love (but tinged with hate),

Jacque

life is a rock, but the rick rolled me

I’d say by now, everybody knows what it  means to get Rickrolled.

In case you don’t, Wikipedia sums it up with more information than you’d ever need.

This morning, I sort of rickrolled myself. It wasn’t bad enough that I sort of rickrolled myself, but I actually took the extra effort to play the song again on my iPod.

I’m not sure when I put that on the iPod, but I remember exactly when I downloaded that song — it was at my old job and I did it in one of my “this would make a great theme song for” moments. I also will sheepishly admit that I didn’t mind having the song on my iPod. There’s something just whimsical and fun and a special feeling you get when you hear Rick Astley’s soulful voice tell you he’s never going to let you down. It’s like you can almost believe it. So far, it’s true. I can’t think of a single time Rick Astley’s ever let me down.

I have a friend who observed that everybody on public transportation looks defeated. I wanted to believe this wasn’t true, but after nearly eight months of daily exposure to public transportation, I can’t dispute his observation. At 8:30 in the morning, every single one of us getting on the train at Greenbelt have that same “back to the grind, please shoot me” kind of face. If you see someone without that face, they’re a tourist who came to Greenbelt for the ample parking. Or they’re new at their job downtown. I was that face of shining optimism once.

Once.

I didn’t use my iPod for a while after I moved to DC because I didn’t have a charger and I lacked the drive to ask my co-workers if they had one. Finally, when I could stand no more conversations about anybody owing any other aggrieved party child support for any number of children, I dusted it off. I brought in my external hard drive, loaded it into my work computer and found an iPod charger from a co-worker. I have about 1,000 songs on the iPod and I just hit random when I get on the train and let it go.

It started out normally enough with some Collective Soul, followed by Rolling Stones, some Pearl Jam, a song by a band I love from Arizona called Radiofix. I figured pound for pound, it was a better music day than I’d had in a while. I had a seat to myself until Georgia Avenue-Petworth when an ill-tempered looking girl who glared at me with that “I hate you for being alive” face sat beside me with a heavy sigh. When she sat down, I was deep in a Dave Matthews Band zone thinking about the lyrics of “The Best of What’s Around.” But that’s neither here nor there.

Less than 10 minutes later, I heard the sweet beginnings of “Never Gonna Give You Up” and laughed. I didn’t intend to actually laugh out loud, but it happened, and “I hate you for being alive” girl looked at me with such harsh judgment I was tempted to turn it down. I’m sure that on a quiet, inbound train, she could hear that it was Rick Astley. It was written all over her “I hate you for being alive” face.

But I didn’t let her shame me into turning it down. And when the song ended 3:36 seconds later, I proudly hit the back arrow to play it AGAIN. No, “I hate you for being alive” face girl. You’re not going to get inbetween me and my unintentional quasi rickroll. I was going to enjoy every sweet Astley moment whether you judged me or not.

But then the train ride’s over. And you come out of McPherson Square to see traffic backed up on both I Street and K Street and realize what’s coming. And you need some Rick Astley to make it better again.