Louisa went through a Mountain Goats phase during our one year of co-habitation. We were living in crap second floor apartment that my mother described as a tent— the windows looked and felt like they were going to fall right out, which often left us with $200 heating bills*. The only saving grace was a back patio that we practically lived on 9 months a year. It was our favored location for drinking, smoking and enjoying a morning cup of coffee, usually with the music blasting.
When it was Louisa’s turn to pick the music, she often went for the Mountain Goats. I would wail, “this is like music to commit suicide to!” until we compromised with a little Regina Spektor. I was reading a book this morning in the comfort of my polar fleece sheets reading a book** when I came across the quote below. I subsequently laughed my ass off, decided I liked the author a tiny bit better and then went in search of my Chinese food leftovers. I leave you with this:
“There were differences— the kind that have nothing to do with him liking that band the Mountain Goats when you feel like here that guy’s singing voice is like being stabbed in the eye with a shrimp fork over and over again.”
-Julie Klausner, author of I Don’t Care About Your Band
*Please note, $200 and we were still freezing out asses off. I studied in hats and mittens. People wouldn’t come over.
**A real one! Not on my Nook.