Ani DiFranco entered my life when me and the ol' lady were dating the first time and we would have dates that were basically buy an 18-pack and drive her Jeep Cherokee into the country in Cumberland County and sit in a hay field along a gravel road with a bonfire. Sometimes, I would've been fucking up or fucked up and passing out from a pill or three and she'd have to drive us back into the city at daybreak, by herself with me in Lala-land in the passenger seat, drooling all over my shoulder, and she'd pump the Ani DiFranco, singing along with it. I never really liked the Ani back then, mostly because I think it plucked my sore nerves of being a shithead. Now, we're settled into a happy wacky household with multiple offsprings, and I'm doing right by her and she's doing right by me, and honestly I probably listen to Ani DiFranco more than my wife does. I'm not sure why. The angry ass woman part of it doesn't override how good it is, some simple ass bus-riding chick banging on an acoustic guitar with the anger of a pussy stabbed by evil dicks a few times too many. I know how them evil dicks think, because I possess one, and they are a crazy thing, and many dudes never learn how to control hearing the evil things it'll speak into your brain, on direct connect mode. Ani herself isn't the most beautiful chick in the world, conventionally speaking, but that bus station-savvy smile with those little dreadlocks, man, that's the type of girl I'd be all up in the health food store buying cous cous and collard greens with, hoping we could be sharing a couch part-time in full nudity by the end of the month.
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