I’ve seen a few movies in the past few months in which a young guy, usually well-read and sensitive, in to hip music and obscure authors and filmmakers, meets a similarly hip young woman and they fall in love. I always have a sneaking suspicion (often later confirmed in an interview with the film’s screenwriter or director) that the story is only slightly fictionalized autobiographical, which pinpoints to me why the film fails for me on some level. I teach my creative writing students this, that when they write stories, every character has to want something, and every character has to be partly right and partly wrong (even if that breakdown is 90/10) and often in semi-autobiographical fiction, the author’s stand-in is usually 100% right about everything, behaves without flaw and those working in opposition to what they want are 100% wrong. It makes for a terrible story.
I’ve been talking about it so much recently, that I decided I’d write a song about it.
“She Has Good Taste In Music”
We met on the campus bus, she had good taste in music. The Shins introducing us; we hummed to whole way home. By then it was getting late, she went to room 208. I went to my room alone.
She admired the books I read, she read the titles to me. I had them stacked by my bed; she sat at my desk. She said she loved Lord Byron, all the while I was trying to get things off my chest.
We got drunk behind the caf. November air was chill. I kissed her and I made her laugh; she said that I surprised her. She was as good with clues as Shaggy or Scooby Doo. She said there were other guys but that I was kinder. And then she went down on me.
Somebody may have seen us. I ran my fingers through her hair. The night it was everywhere.
Then it was Christmas break, although my family is Jewish. I called on the 28th, now it’s New Year’s Day. If what I heard was true, she’s transferring to NYU. She told me that, but I thought she might stay.
There’s nobody in this town, three weeks with my parents. We go to my brother’s games, we watch the Amazing Race. I sleep in the cellar, and if I could I’d tell her I dream of how she tastes.
In winter the light’s so dim the sun is like a stain. I jerk off to ‘Phantom Limb’ it’s better I guess than crying. The school won’t release my grades until the library gets paid for their “Complete Works of Byron;” I must’ve left it on the train.
