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The Absolutely Unofficial Angry Hillary Rodham Clinton Playlist

“Sophistafunk, aristocats
Distinguished dogs, clean up your acts
Pull up your pants, ladies and gents
Please, act like you got some sense”*

Don’t stop here if you’re looking for feel-good inspiration. Only one uplifting anthem to be heard today**. I’m not posting about being stronger and braver. Being confident, happy, outstanding fighters with full hearts and the eyes of tigers, together.

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Don’t worry HRC, we got you. (photo by Keith Kissel***)

I don’t want to roar or rise so much as smash.

And try to convey through song the utter stupidity, venality and ridiculousness of the past 12+ months. Like Luther to Barack, I am here to translate Hillary Rodham’s Clinton’s anger. She’s held her tongue long enough. Her reserves of superhuman patience must be wearing thin. The insults, dismissals, muckraking and lies, lies, lies. It’s time for release. Time to ask Trump, the GOP and all of its supporters: What. The. Fuck?

I have prepared well because hey! HRC would expect that.

I searched, I googled, I listened to a lot of Metallica and Nina Simone. And most importantly, I called my Mom – age 76, lifelong Democrat, family rebel and self-proclaimed bleeding heart liberal. For many years, she lived in small-town, conservative Texas so you can imagine how often she had to hide her true feelings when talk turned to politics. She also likes to play her music real loud and was once front-row with me at a Pretenders’ concert. Helpful. She chose Pink Floyd’s ‘Us and Them’ for this list and suggested some James Taylor and John Lennon for further listening. Then she told me a story about when she’d gone back to college (after having 4 kids), and a young girl, fresh out of high school, came in to class all excited, carrying a new album. She showed it to my mom and said, “Doesn’t he look like Jesus?” The singer on the album cover was Cat Stevens.

Well, it was a Catholic university, a long time ago. But I digress.

Funny thing – as I found out, most angry women songs are about lovers and being scorned, betrayed, spurned, cheated, done wrong.

But what if you’re just tired of dealing with fucking idiots? Under-qualified, over-compensated, hypocritical, heartless bullshit artists who mansplain their way through life. Where’s that playlist?

Here it is.

*Words by Andre 3000 from OutKast’s ‘Behold A Lady’.

**That would be Monica’s ‘Still Standing’ (guest rap by Ludacris).

***Hillary Clinton photo licensed via Creative Commons & Keith Kissel. Find him at: https://www.flickr.com/photos/kakissel/

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Focused, Fearless, Feckless or Reckless? You in Your ‘20s

So I was walking through the IFC mall in Central (Hong Kong’s business district), and I couldn’t help but notice this good-looking guy walking by. Just noticing, mind you! He was nicely dressed, well-groomed, good hair but his entire neck was covered in a tattoo. A huge tattoo! And all I could think was: thank God I’m married! Because, if I were in my ‘20s, dating, that would be my worst fear: to fall in love with a guy with a neck tattoo.

(With all due respect to anyone with a neck tattoo reading this: I’m sure you’re a nice person but, ahem, why? Why that body part? Because, to me, it says ‘ill-conceived and stupid’ more than it says ‘bold and audacious’.)

Later, sitting in traffic, I wondered: if I were truly, say, 26 years old in 2013 and not some time-traveling 40something, would a neck tattoo even be a deal breaker? Would I care? You know, maybe I’d find it attractive, like cropped trousers on guys, Twilight fan fiction or those baggy-ass jeans that Justin Bieber wears. Hey, I’ve been to water parks in the U.S. and Australia, I watch the NBA. I appreciate that ink – big ink – is not just for Navy Dads or yakuza. Preppy boys and girls in twin sets go for it! But just how much tat is too much tat?

Luckily, I had the opportunity to pose this existential question to an entire group of women – ladies in their ‘20s and ‘30s, all young professional types – after many glasses of wine on a night out with my (field) hockey team.

And, it turns out, neck tattoos are pretty much deal-breakers for most generations! Loads worse than a pierced lip or eyebrow, ranking slightly above full-sleeve tattoos but not quite as bad as an internet porn addiction. Whew. That does make me feel a lot better about the younger generations’ taste in body art and men.

Feminam humana brooklynicus: white, brunette, unsatisfied.

Feminam humana brooklynicus: white, brunette, unsatisfied.

Speaking of tattoos, porn addiction and dating, let’s talk about Girls. This month the HBO show that everybody wants to award and applaud released its first volume of music from the series. Note that they’ve labeled it ‘Vol. 1’ in anticipation of many more compilations to come. Because they’re just so cool, I suppose. I’m curious about the music on offer, but I have my doubts. In the world of TV soundtracks, how can these selections be as awesomely fun as the tunes that came out of that great guilty Fox pleasure – The OC. A show that introduced me to Benjamin McKenzie, the bagel cutter and Death Cab For Cutie.

The bar has been set high. You’ve got to compete with all those funky show compilations coming out of New Orleans – True Blood, Treme, etc. You’ve got to evoke a lovelorn wistfulness without being as cloying as Grey’s Anatomy. And you’ve got to capture that cool New York vibe even better than Gossip Girl.

So what kind of music, you ask, goes with narcissistic twenty-somethings who talk a lot and engage in cringe-worthy sex? No, there’s no Drake on the album, sorry. I don’t think they could afford Kanye either. Except for Santigold, the music here is white, white, white: Fun., Belle and Sebastian, Tegan and Sara, Grouplove, Sleigh Bells and, not surprisingly, White Sea. It’s a whole loaf of sliced white!

I’ll give them credit for including – super yeah! – Fleet Foxes’ ‘Montezuma’ as well as an old favorite, Michael Penn. I haven’t heard from him in ages! His ‘On Your Way’ is a gorgeous piano ballad that closes the album and sounds like a father’s bittersweet words of wisdom to his daughter.

The rest of the album is, unfortunately, severely underwhelming. There’s the ubiquitous hipster cover tune – Tegan and Sara’s take on the Stones’ ‘Fool to Cry’, which is, well, meh. And a shout out to the New York singer-songwriter legacy, with the inclusion of Harper Simon, son to Paul and pretty much a carbon copy of his Dad’s sensitive longing. The Vaccines make an appearance, but they’ve chosen one of their absolute shortest songs – Wreckin’ Bar (Ra Ra Ra). The tight pop punk tune is great, but it gives only a slight edge to the proceedings. For a show that’s supposed to be groundbreaking and revelatory, they really could have used more of that attitude. Where’s the angry girl confessional music? You know, a Liz Phair number or something like Meg Myers’ ‘Curbstomp’ to match Jessa’s perpetually pissed-off scowl?

And some soul, please! Santigold is alright but she’s no Mrs. Carter. You can’t tell me that one of those girls doesn’t bust out the Beyonce or Andre 3000 every once in awhile. Mix it up, Girls! You name-checked Missy Elliott in a recent episode, so let’s get some Misdemeanor fo’ sure. Something groovy, something feisty. Something more than what I’d call MOR alternative. But, hey, I’m not a millennial looking for work in NYC in 2013. What do I know?

Speaking of, it’s always interesting to watch a show when you know you’re not the target audience. Whether it’s Girls late at night with my husband, or Drake & Josh in the afternoon with YO, I can’t help but deconstruct and analyze the characters and the message. It’s an annoying film school holdover I realize. Just ask EO, who says she can’t watch anything with me.

For us older women watching Girls, we’re either going to pine for our younger years (Oh, to be single and experimental again) or we’re going to count our blessings – like the nurse Hannah talks to in the clinic – that we’re beyond it all (Thank Christ I got through that weird boyfriend phase without an STD).

Definitely more of the latter I’d say, less of the former. But what the show ultimately tells me is that there’s a fine line between being a fearless artist (as Lena Dunham fancies herself) and just, ahem, over-sharing for attention. It’s a battle, I confess, that I often fight on Twitter.

Kind of like a big ol’ tattoo on your neck. Seemed like a good idea at the time.