I had this album by Shonen Knife. It’s called “Let’s Knife.” The songs popped into my head this morning while I was jogging. These girls were from Japan. I feel like they were f**king with us — Americans — it’s great! It’s in the same vein as the names on those hole in the wall Chinese restaurants they have in Manhattan with names like U-Like, Broadway China and — this is a kicker — Yuk Fu! Ahahahahahahaaaaaaaaaa!! They sell fried chicken and macaroni and cheese! But I’m off on a tangent — here are two songs I like from the album. I include the first verses from both of them:
Correction: My sister is MOROCCAN Debbie, not EGYPTIAN Debbie. She called to remind me. Something did seem off about “Egyptian Debbie.” My mind’s foggy. I don’t sleep, so I don’t remember properly. How could I forget she’s Moroccan Debbie? Sorry sis for confusing these North African regions and the origin of your make-up stylings. I was on the right continent though. She would never forget that I’m Kabuki Sandee.
People often ask why the area under my eyes is red. “What’s that there?” They say pointing. “Oh, it’s just some ‘ol rouge,” I tell them. It’s embarrassing but what am I supposed to do? I like rouge high on my face – never did really learn how to put make-up on. Rouge is all I wear, usually. I fell in love with it a very long time ago. My cousin Cheryl used to make my face up when I spent the night at her house. “Ohhhh, look at Sandee. Now what is that you have on there?” My Auntie Lillian said. I was six. “Cheryl put mascara, eye-liner, lipstick, blue eye shadow and some marouge on me,” I said. My hair was in cluster curls and I felt like Shirley Temple — Shirley Temple–black (tee hee!). They thought it was so cute that I’d said that. I found out later that you say rouge, not marouge. My little cousin once called a roach a roacher.
I bet I messed up a lot of words when I just learned how to talk. I remember when I was two and had my diaper changed on the sofa. I can’t recall who changed my diaper but whoever it was used powder. I also remember the same year that I waddled to my baby brother’s crib and snatched the bobo out of his mouth and he cried. I don’t remember saying anything during these two incidents, so I can’t tell you how I might have butchered up any words. These are very early memories and a lot of people don’t remember anything at all even from when they were six or seven. (Why is it that I remember being two but can’t remember Debbie being Moroccan Debbie?) It may seem odd that I remember being two, but my ex told me about a man who claims remembering coming out of his mother’s vagina. My ex is on the serious side and he said it with a straight face. I laughed so hard that I started to choke. I wish I had been there to hear it when the man said it. I wrote a poem called “Your Room Looks Like the Inside of a Vagina.” If I find it, maybe I’ll post it on my blog so you can tell me what you think.