I don't Even Know You But I Hate You*

TB gives a lotta linklove to this lady here, of whom I have become an anonymous Internet fan.

Hey there, Spliffe, think I'm creepy? (I kinda am, sorry about that.)

Anyhow, I thought of you this morning as I broke out the iPod for the morning commute and decided that I must fire up the most cheerful music possible to get me through the day -- and landed upon that most airy confection, the delicious, cream-filled, sugar-topped beats of one mister JT (whatcha got for me).

And I respect it when you (and those of my peers you're currently representing in my mind, as an unelected official -- I appointed you. Congrats on that.) say:

And Justin Fucking Timberlake is a joke music producers are playing on the listening public. 'I know, let's buy some crap boyband dancer with a smurf voice and park him in front of some good beats. People will think he's not total shit and buy all his albums. It'll be hilarious!' And it is.

I respect what you're saying.

But I love pop.

And JT -- he is the king of my pop addition.

And, as a girl who clawed her way out of the fields of Southern Indiana propelled by the sounds of everything from the Beatles to Jane's Addiction, I understand the need to cling tenaciously to the integrity of quality rock and roll. I get the need to cleave the masses into designations (worthy/not worthy) based upon the music they listen to.

And if it means I'm not worthy, then so be it.

I will not cower in the shadows; I will not be intimidated; I will not fear your scorn.

I will stand proudly and say "I love Justin Timberlake, Goddamnit."

Happy fucking New Year, people.

*I don't hate you. This just popped into my head, because it was one of the most prominent phrases woven throughout my early-to-mid twenties. It's from an Eve song that Johnny and I heard one time. Literally. One time. When he had a beat-up old white Taurus that he used to deliver Dagwood's sandwiches to stoned frat boys throughout Bloomington. When he would come visit me in my Chicago studio apartment, unannounced, and take me on weird adventures, many captured on his super 8 (JT - think we could digitize that shit? Would love to revisit, eh?). Anyhoo, it was the same day we heard Jumpin' Jumpin' for the first time as it blasted flatly from the boom box sitting between us on the bench seat (don't know what happened to the stereo in the dash).

(I'm rambling like an old man now, ain't I?)

The next song we heard was this stunning missive.

We were hungover, the day was one of those sapphire bright sunny winter post-snow reflective sparkling freezing gems that exist only in Chicago.

And she just jumps right in over the sweet twang of a guitar with "I DON'T EVEN KNOW YOU BUT I HATE YOU. HOW YOU LIKE IT IF MY GIRL TIED YOU DOWN AND RAPED YOU."

We were stunned with delight. An anthem was born.

Over the years, it morphed in our minds as a screaming punk masterpiece -- we sang it, our friends sang it, we pretended the neighbor's dogs were saying it to us as we walked past, and we didn't hear the song until years later, when the Internet brought us the miracle of FREE STOLEN DIGITAL GOODS.

Johnny and I, drunk one night identified and downloaded it -- and were treated to the greatest disappointment since Santa.

Eve was totally singing it wrong.

What the hell was this? The song had melody? It was slow tempo R & B?

Eve, I don't even know you but I hate you.