two stories of sam

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tonight a song came up on shuffle that triggered so much shit in my twisted psyche i had to write a post. by the time i had worked through the memory, consumed some alcohol and written the post, it occurred to me that i'd already gone through this exact same process, triggered by the same goddam song, at some point in the past. i went back, found the old draft, debated which version i should publish, decided probably neither, and then went with both. it's obvious which was written first, right?

 

 1. 

he read me from day one. he'd suck me in, take me hard and deep while he looked up at me with those wounded-doe eyes like i was the first guy who'd ever had him. sam was good that way. and then when he sensed my incipient disinterest, he'd pull back, ignore my calls and have nothing to do with me for a week or two until i was crazy for him again--he was good that way, too. we went through a few of these cycles before i wised up. whatever--this post is about the day we were sitting on his absent boyfriend/benefactor's couch in silverlake and he begged me to listen to an obscure version of a popular hit by his favorite artist, because "this is the one she really meant." i gritted my teeth, did as i was asked, and was surprised. you were bad for me, sammy, and i was bad for you. but thanks for this, anyway.

 

 2. 

so maybe [if you're cynical like me] this song can be reduced to the following: rich bitch closing in on middle age all of a sudden realizes she needs a kid to make her life complete, meets resistance from the universe, brings all her considerable resources to bear and pulls it off--a boy, as it turns out. difference between her and the countless other infertile women in the western world is, she's got (a) some songwriting ability, (b) a recording contract with a major label, and (c) that voice. so she encapsulates her feelings about the experience in a song, presents it to the powers-that-be and meets resistance once more--it's way too long and way too slow, so they insist on snappily repackaging her heartfelt sentiment for radio. fast-forward several years: i'm sitting in the living room of a house in silver lake that sam shares with his checkbook/benefactor--crazy about him, wanting to steal him away from this place, wishing he felt the same way about me and knowing he doesn't because he can't--and he pulls out this cd, tells me i have to hear this song and gives me the background [he spins it nicer than i just did, of course]--but when he tells me the artist and title he emphasizes it's not the radio cut; what he's gonna play for me is the way she meant the world to hear it, just-listen-pleeease-you'll-like-it-i-promise. and, since it's sammy--but only because it's sammy--i choke down my reflexive distaste, sit back, roll my eyes and say fine, put the bitch on. and he does, curls up against me, closes his eyes--and despite myself she blows me away. and yeah, maybe my feelings about this recording are overly colored by my long-dead passion for a guy who loved it so much--but if this cut doesn't move you, then all i can say is: experience a major life event, write it up in song, arrange and record a work of similar or better quality and then get back to me.

* * * * *

yeah, it's celine; listen without prejudice. and i mean all the way to the end, to the quiet before the storm when she brings it home and sends the chills up your spine whether you want her to or not. and if not for me or celine, then at least listen for sam--because trust me, if he took your hands in his, pierced you with those wounded-doe eyes and asked you to do it, you totally would.