Guest Blogger: Tulane Chris! (Not to be confused with Co-Blogger Chris)

Picture it. The Pacific Northwest, this spring. A young man turns to his friend and says "What the hell ass is this song? It sounds like the showstopper from Heteronormativity: The Opera." The friend turns to him and says, "You are a terrible homosexual, and a worse American. Everyone knows this song." Dorothy, that man was me. And the song was "I've Never Been To Me," by Charlene.

This song is fantastically bizarre, and gets more disturbing every time I hear it. And so, former literature major that I am, I've decided to perform the most horrifying of acts:

A close textual analysis. My comments in red, as befits a grader, and the video, for those who want a multimedia experience:



I've Never Been To Me
( Charlene )

Hey lady, you lady, cursing at your life
The narratrix of the song is accosting a strange woman in a rude and presumptuous fashion.

You're a discontented mother and a regimented wife
The narratrix proceeds to make assumptions about post-partum depression and spousal abuse.

I've no doubt you dream about the things you'll never do
Like escape this increasingly surreal conversation.

But, I wish someone had talked to me
Like I wanna talk to you.....
Ravingly, and apropos of nothing.

Oh, I've been to Georgia and California and anywhere I could run
The narratrix is unaware that Georgia and California are both fairly populous, popular vacation destinations, economically strong, and contain airline hubs, and that having visited them both is unimpressive.

I took the hand of a preacher man and we made love in the sun
The narratrix is a whore, and either not of Northern European descent or unconcerned about skin cancer or a sunburned cooter.

But I ran out of places and friendly faces because I had to be free
The narratrix has been everywhere and alienated every pleasant person she knows, probably by asking them to put sunscreen on her vulva.

I've been to paradise but I've never been to me
The narratrix reiterates that she is, in fact, a madwoman.

Please lady, please lady, don't just walk away
The audience is beseeched not to take rational action.

'Cause I have this need to tell you why I'm all alone today
The narratrix does not understand that her tendency to pigeonhole strangers and bore them with long-winded, poorly-connected stories alienates her acquaintances.

I can see so much of me still living in your eyes
The narratrix is a bad poet.

Won't you share a part of a weary heart that has lived a million lies....
It wasn't until I read these lyrics that I realized it was "lies" instead of "lives." The narratrix is tired, but reaffirms her devotion to bad poetry.

Oh, I've been to Nice and the Isle of Greece while I've sipped champagne on a yacht
The narratrix is unaware that Greece contains thousands of isles; she may have been too drunk to realize she was merely on the Staten Island Ferry.

I've moved like Harlow in Monte Carlo and showed 'em what I've got
The narratrix showed her breasts to some French people. (Side note, while we're talking about the south of France: I had a fling with a Greek guy a couple of years ago. He had been shot in the head during the Yugoslav Wars, but was none the worse for wear. I once metioned Monaco in some context, and he said "My parents used to go there a lot." I asked if they were rich or just strange, and he said "Both.")

I've been undressed by kings and I've seen some things that a woman ain't supposed to see
The narratix slept with an Elvis impersonator.

I've been to paradise, but I've never been to me
The narratrix continues to confuse herself with a destination.

[spoken]
Hey, you know what paradise is?
It's a lie, a fantasy we create about people and places as we'd like them to be
But you know what truth is?
It's that little baby you're holding, it's that man you fought with this morning
The same one you're going to make love with tonight
That's truth, that's love......
The narratrix reads a lot of greeting cards, "Love Is...," and Chicken Soup For The Garrulous Lunatic's Soul. She also assumes that a stranger's marriage is mostly about acrimony and sex. She is probably right, since most are, but it's still a strange assumption.

Sometimes I've been to crying for unborn children that might have made me complete
The narratrix has had multiple abortions, and now regrets them, because had she carried the children to term they might now be paying attention to her.

But I took the sweet life, I never knew I'd be bitter from the sweet
The narratrix, unlike the present writer, does not have a colorful father who says things like "You have to take the bitter with the sweet."

I've spent my life exploring the subtle whoring that costs too much to be free
The narratrix thinks she's been subtle about her whoring. She is not correct.

Hey lady......
I've been to paradise, (I've been to paradise)
But I've never been to me
The narratrix is conflating "Heaven" and "some tacky places in Europe."

(I've been to Georgia and California, and anywhere I could run)
I've been to paradise, never been to me
(I've been to Nice and the isle of Greece while I've sipped champagne on a yacht)
I've been to paradise, never been to me
(I've been to cryin' for unborn children that might have made me complete)
I've been to paradise, never been to me
(I've been to Georgia and California, and anywhere I could run)
I've been to paradise, never been to me

The narratrix recaps some of her adventures for the store police, who have rescued the woman with the post-partum depression and failing marriage. This will become a staple story for church socials and bridge night.