“Are you even old enough to remember when ‘Dookie’ came out?”
— A seemingly innocent Green Day reference that invariably results in a barrage of juvenile (and hilarious) riffs
Someone actually asked my daughter that question. And she was able to tell them this:
Back when Dookie came out, I was only vaguely familiar with Green Day. I dismissed them as another pop punk band that was going to ruin the reputation of punk music and didn’t bother with them. Then came this album and suddenly Green Day was all over the radio. I resisted the call of the catchy songs until about a year later, walking through an outdoor flea market with my daughter, who was about five years old at the time. She reached up to a display of cassettes and said “DOOKIE! Mommy, buy me Dookie! Please!” It was pretty obvious she had been influenced musically by her uncle, because she did not learn the name of that album from me.
When your kid is standing in the middle of a very crowded market screaming for dookie, you do the only logical thing. You buy it for her, and bite your tongue on the “this is not punk rock” lecture that would be lost on a five year old who only wants to sing When I Come Around.
She played that cassette endlessly and I learned to appreciate Green Day for what they are: Catchy, simplistic rock music with punk rock roots and pop sensibilities, sung by a guy who sounds like he a nose full of snot. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
She still has the cassette.
I <3 Green Day. I have a LOT of respect for bands that put on a kick-ass live show, especially when it sounds very close to the studio recording.
My boyfriend “works with computers.” Maybe you have a spouse/partner who “works with computers.” Maybe you “work with computers.” It doesn’t matter what exactly you do with the computers. For instance, my boyfriend is an engineer. Maybe yours is in IT. Maybe you are a programmer. Maybe your wife manages a help desk. Someone close to them - a friend or family member - will know only that they “work with computers” and therefore, they are available to work on their computer. For free.
They’ll just call during the week, on the weekends, at work, at night, on a holiday. They’ll corner the computer person at a party. At 7-11. At a funeral.
“Can you look at my computer? It’s not working right.”
“I’m having trouble connecting to the internet.”
“I think I have a virus.”
“Can you hook up our new computer?”
And what can they say? It’s a mother in law, an uncle, a close friend, his father’s boss. And he “works with computers” so he can definitely fix that problem. For free.
He goes to their house. It takes two, three hours because the person who wants their computer fixed is hovering over him, watching his ever move, throwing out phrases he heard someone say so it seems like he sort of knows what’s going on.
“Yea, I thought it had something to do with motherload. Errr. Motherboard. Yea, that’s it. I knew it.”
“Why are you doing that? What’s that wire for? Why is that one green?”
After three hours of this, the person says thanks and shakes his hand and sort of laughs as he says “I’ll call you when I have trouble with this again. hahahha.”
And he does call again. Because the “computer person” will patiently explain to you how this program works or what you have to do when this happens the next time but the person is not really listening because, hey, he’ll just call when it happens again. Because this guy who “works with computers” is a really nice guy and he won’t mind if you call again. And again.
And really, most of the time he doesn’t mind. He likes you. He wants to help you. Then you call and say “Gee, I really want to get this fixed right away. Can’t you come over on your way home from work?” and he just spent all day in front of a computer and all he wants to do is go home and eat dinner and NOT sit in front of the computer. But he does it anyhow. He does it on a Saturday when we should be kicking back. He does it on a holiday when everyone is in your backyard enjoying a barbecue and you dragged him into the house to show him how your AOL doesn’t load up.
On behalf of my boyfriend, and all other people who “work with computers” and get asked day after day to fix things for free, here’s a few guidelines.
Be thankful. If he spent three hours at your house fixing something you fucked up that would have cost you $200 to get fixed by the Geek Squad, show your appreciation. Offer him a 50. Offer him dinner. Send him a damn thank you card or something. Don’t just say thanks and promise to call him again next time something screws up.
Be considerate of his time. Don’t get pissy if he can’t attend to your problems immediately. Ask him when it’s good for him to come over.
If he tries to explain what your computer’s problem is, listen. If he is teaching you how to use a program, listen. Don’t blow him off just because you think you can call him every time you are using that program so he can explain it to you again.
Don’t treat him like he’s at your beck and call. What do you do for a living? What if he asked you to drop what you’re doing on a Friday night to come over and do his taxes for free?
I’m sure computer people aren’t the only ones who go through this. I’m betting mechanics get their fair share of “Hey, can you look at my engine?” so apply this liberally.
I don’t work with computers, but I’m one of the most knowledgeable computer/tech people in my circle of friends, so I can relate.
This song brings me back to a time when James still knew how to growl without sounding like he lost his balls in a freak accident involving Jason Newsted and a butt plug shaped like Dave Mustaine. This can make my head move faster than the speed of light and have my son roll his eyes and tell me to leave the head banging to the kids and then I say something like I WAS LISTENING TO METALLICA BEFORE YOU WERE EVEN BORN, YOU UNGRATEFUL LITTLE…
God, the three layered acoustic guitars in the intro of this song are so amazing.
There is a certain power in being the only one awake in a sleeping house. Padding around the house silently, hesitantly, reveling in the peace and utter quiet that wraps you up and holds you in its spell, like a spider in her web, it’s almost comforting with its sanctity, yet unsettling. Like every single noise, every audible utterance is almost sacrilegious, breaking with some sacred pact made between heaven and earth, promising that a blanket of momentary quiescence would shroud the house and its inhabitants, a gentle, not-so-subtle reprieve from the chaos of a busy house, to give the land itself a rest, those few hours of glorious noiselessness, when even the drone of the television lowers until it’s almost muted by itself in reverence. Respect. With that I melt into the silence, join the pact without the lowest whisper of regret.