My parents both studied Psychology as undergraduates in the 1970s. When my mother told her father she was majoring in Psychology, he asked, “What are you going to do? Sell Psychology?” That anecdote has nothing to do with my point, but makes me smile. My point is that my parents both studied Psychology as undergraduates in the 1970s when Freudian analysis was the “it”mode of psychotherapy.
Flash-forward thirty-something years later when, at age sixteen, I was perusing the bookshelves in our basement and found their combined collection of $2 paperbacks of Freud’s works. I felt like Ariel in The Little Mermaid: “Look at this trove! Treasures untold!”
The timing was somewhat fortuitous because suddenly, Freud was everywhere. I was about to study Oedipus Rexin English class. When reading Federico García Lorca’s La Casa de Bernarda Albain AP Spanish Literature, I struggled to adequately translate my thoughts, but was ultimately able to smugly announce that la caña de Bernarda es un símbolo fálico. One day in History, my teacher told one of the popular boys to stop playing with his lacrosse stick; I loudly offered, “Well, you know what Freud would say.”
Welcome to the inaugural post of My Week In Music, a (hopefully) recurring feature in which I describe my past week with…well, music. (Also, apparently I like naming things “My Week In ____.” Go figure.) Sometimes these posts will be thematic, sometimes they may just be the tracks I listened to most that week, sometimes…yeah, I don’t know. Let’s do this.
Vaguely insecure but charmingly self-deprecating artsy-type seeks creatively-inclined adult male (human), preferably steadily employed, in the New York City area for something in between a one-night-stand/friends-with-benefits situation and a full-blown, instant relationship. (This is possibly called “dating,” a retro trend that apparently died out around 2008.) Alcoholics, narcissists, misogynists, mansplainers, doctors, codependents, neo-Nazis, or any combination of the aforementioned need not apply.