March 3, 2005
Jill Brooks, INtake columnist

A friend tipped me off about the INtake advertisement seeking the next Carrie Bradshaw. I distinctly remember my blank, pop-culture-name-lacking stare when I asked, “Who’s Carrie Bradshaw?” Oh, that Carrie Bradshaw. I’m hip to INtake but sometimes slow on the uptake, and I haven’t owned a television set in nine years. But wait, that’s a lie. After a weeklong bout with the Martian flu, I recently purchased a pretty silver one with a built-in DVD player that takes up way too much room on my dresser. I refuse to get cable, however, so it suffices to say I have a monitor that plays an occasional movie. Exceptionally occasional: I’ve watched a total of one.

I grew up watching little TV and constantly listening to music. My Dad listened to Johnny Cash and Waylon Jennings, my Mom, Johnny Mathis and Neil Diamond. Because of this, I believe, their marriage took a beating and fizzled. There were three of us kids, so to help spread the wealth I moved in with my Dad in eighth grade because, frankly, I liked his brand of music. His “band” (friends who came over to jam and drink) set up in our living room, and so began the early days of my groupie tendencies. I’d fetch snacks for them, beg to sing backup or offer a few notes on my clarinet. I toggled between genres, and kept Waylon a secret from my friends; it wasn’t cool listening to him when Kool & The Gang was burning up the airwaves. I never knew any of the songs on “Name That Tune,” and I was completely flummoxed by why anyone chose listening to “hair” bands.

This all, of course, led to my choice in men. My parents want me to settle down, but I remind them that this goal comes with costs. Sure, my standards are a little high—an issue I’m currently working through. I often judge men based on their musical preferences and, in fact, am too embarrassed to tell my younger brother—I’d never live it down—about the guy I dated who had Golden Earring among his car’s rotation.

I took said guy to a concert where he wanted to stand in the ‘way-back’, and my eyes rolled every time he shifted and sighed from boredom. I’ve learned to stop telling my parents boys’ names. My Dad will ask, “How’s so-and-so?” and I’ll answer, “He hated Wilco.” Dad then says something like, “Poor, clueless man; but at least you have your priorities straight, honey.”

There are four additional children in our family now, quadruplets (equal parts boys and girls) belonging to my dad and stepmom. They comprise a new generation of musicians, and at age fourteen are living a childhood similar to my own. The band has moved from the middle of the living room, but on my last visit I noticed a guitar, violin, trumpet, mandolin, banjo and keyboards set up in the basement. When allowed, video games leave them in a contemporary trance of middle school interests, but for the most part we remain a family of treble and bass, words and lyrics, books and conversation, and an occasional movie. It’s a good life if you can get it.