I loathe jazz.

Maybe that makes me some kind of Philistine. I don’t know. I don’t care. I utterly detest it. “Smooth” jazz, classic jazz, jazz fusion–it all gives me a giant headache.*

This is despite–or because of?–the facts that 1) I was once, at least a lifetime ago, married to a guy whose dad used to play in Woody Herman’s Thundering Herd. (I know–who didn’t, right?) We’d go over to my ex-father-in-law’s for dinner and he’d play Woody Herman records all night and I’d leave with the only migraines I’ve ever had; and 2) for about six months, in my early-early 20s, I “dated” a jazz bassist 20-some years older than me. “Date” is a strong word for what we did; I went to see his crappy jazz band every Tuesday night at the local bar, got super drunk, and then went home and had mediocre sex (and absolutely no conversation, ever) with him. What can I say? Winters are very, very long and boring in Homestate.

Anyway. I tried to go to Starbucks today to do some writing, but they were playing some jazz CD (probably something “classic” that I should know or whatever) really freaking loud and I was too miserable to concentrate. (I did, however, write about 1200 words today–go me!) And they don’t have a bathroom! What Starbucks doesn’t have a bathroom? Eeeesh. A horrific experience.

And I drank a decaf nonfat mocha. I know. Why even bother?

Anyway. That’s my deep dark confession for the day. Got anything you want to get off your chest? Tell me all about it.  I’m feeling bitchily sympathetic.

*I like Ragtime, which is kind of jazz. Or a jazz precursor, maybe? Anyway, there’s my exception.

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