Me and Sister Ray

I have had about enough. I’d been behaving rather well making sure that between guests and life most of the critical things had been accomplished and no one’s feelings had been ruffled, basically keeping the trains running on time. I’d stifled many a thought and comment and was feeling a little pent up. Standing at the kitchen window, overlooking the olives and doing dishes (the view is above), the Velvet Underground’s “Sister Ray” comes up on shuffle. (According to Spotify, I’ve had quite the year with the Velvet Underground, with it coming up as my most listened to band.) But even though I am a fan, “Sister Ray” pushes it. At 17 minutes 29 seconds it covers all the basics of rebellion and then some—some transvestites bring home some sailors for a drug and sex orgy when one gets shot and killed. The main concern seems to be whether the carpet will get stained. They recorded it in one take and the sound engineer left midway, saying he’d return when it’s over.

But there was something about this song that saved me in that moment. I turned it up, loud, and revelled for all of those 17 minutes and 29 seconds in being bad. Well, bad adjacent. In reality, I actually have no desire to have an orgy with transvestites and sailors, kill one, and shoot up heroin. But when I was describing this moment to John and Sebastian last night at dinner I realized that I wish I’d been badder in my life. They asked how I would define my sense of bad and I had no answer at that moment. They said that it was like I was holding up an empty container labeled “bad” and there was nothing inside. It reminded me of what I just wrote about my mother and the beer garden and Mom wanting to rebel but never doing it. I guess that this apple hasn’t fallen far from the tree, indeed. What a terribly frustrating realization.

I’ve been thinking about what caught me with such power that afternoon and what kind of badness I aspire to that doesn’t scale to transvestites, orgies, or murders. I am not sure I have the answer but it does include caring less about whether I am pleasing people, taking care of things, doing things right, and always, always trying to be perfect. Frankly, it’s getting a little old. So if you happen pass our house and you hear “Sister Ray” being played with the volume up, watch out.