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There are some smells that always elicit the same reaction. Unless you had some really unfortunate incident involving baked goods as a child, the aroma of freshly-baked cookies will most likely make you think “Ahh… Cookies…” and perhaps increase activity in your salivary glands. Other smells, like the telltale odor of skunk, consistently have you gasping for fresh air or wondering if the person riding shotgun or walking next to you ate something gastrointestinally horrifying. Maybe you love the smells of spring, like cut grass and flowers, but because you have allergies you have conditioned yourself to think “Oh jeez. It’s that time again. Where did I put my Claritin?” and you can’t enjoy it like you wish you could.

But there are other smells that evoke myriad memories and reactions; in one situation, the smell could be quite pleasant and appetizing, while in another, repugnant and nauseating.

Tuna fish.

I have never gotten a whiff of this fetid fragrance and thought “Mmm… Just smelling that makes me want to open up a can myself!” It’s always “Ugh… Who ate that and why didn’t they take into consideration the fact that other people will have to endure that smell for days?”

Now if I happened to be in the mood for eating a tuna sandwich, then I would find nothing wrong with releasing the pungent fish from its aluminum stasis chamber. I would contentedly whip out the can opener, squeeze the tuna “juice” from the soppy chunks, mix in some mayo until it reached the desired tuna-mayo balance. It would be a savory meal once plopped onto a slice of bread (or toast, as I preferred it) and covered with another. Maybe I’d like a pickle on the side. But to me, as I sat down to eat my tuna sandwich, there would be nothing wrong with my choice of lunchfood.

It would be left to others to decide whether or not I had made a grave mistake by unleashing Tuna Smell.

How many of you have ever been on a first date with someone? A lot of you, right? OK, so let me set this up for you all.

You meet each other in front of a public place. A restaurant, maybe. You greet her with a smile, and she smiles back. You make clumsy small talk before holding the door open for her as the two of you head inside. You both take time to deliberate and eventually place your orders. You lead her over to the quiet booth in the corner and wrack your brain for a topic so you can begin your get-to-know-yous.  Once you start the ball rolling, you realize things are going well– very well, actually. You let her do most of the talking, but that’s fine since you find yourself becoming more and more infatuated as the minutes pass. She’s saying all the right things, she’s letting you know she’s intelligent, and you’re all too bummed to hear her say “Well I’ve had a wonderful time, but I have to get going now.” Since things went so well, you set up a second date right there.

After a few days pass, it’s time to meet again. You grab your orders and head to the same corner booth, but this time you notice something is different. Not soon after she opens her mouth to speak, you wonder how the hell you could have found this woman attractive or interesting. Everything she says annoys the crap out of you, and you eventually make some excuse– first to yourself and then to her– about how you have to leave. You left the iron on. As you grab your things and make for the door, you wonder what could’ve made you believe you and this stranger had anything in common.

Let me tell you about the relationship I had with Natasha Bedingfield.

About 4 years ago, her single “These Words” came out. I found myself to be impressed with both the lyrics and the melody, which was catchy without being stuck in my head all the time. This song had me thinking to myself “Neat! An artist that couples pop sensibility with a semblance of intelligence!” She knew not only what a chord was, but what the progression in her song was. She dropped names like Byron, Shelley, and Keats. She admitted that she had trouble finding that “killer hook” that would make her song a hit. She even correctly used the word “hyperbole”. So I, along with everybody else in America, obligingly listened to “These Words” for about a year or however long it was on the charts.

And then we went on a second date. “Unwritten” wasn’t that bad. I thought “Meh. It kind of wears on me. It’s less smart.” This one seemed to stick around even longer, so I could feel my frustration mount.

This should have been a 2-date deal. I hadn’t asked her to call me and hadn’t told her I’d call her. She just showed up. This time she had with her a “Pocketful of Sunshine”. I was revolted. I was irritated. I resisted the urge to claw the ears of not only myself, but of everyone around me. Her faux hip-hop beats and dancehall tempo only succeeded in enraging me more. I’ve heard this superproduced musical illegitimacy on the radio perhaps twice, but the threat of having to endure approximately 4 minutes of aural torture has caused me to fear the exposure of a pop rock station for any length of time exceeding the commercials. Natasha Bedingfield has quite possibly ruined not only my memory of her once intriguing lyrical ability, but any hope of being impressed with her in the future.

Natasha, if you are reading this, please, for the sake of all who love true, honest music in all its forms, remove yourself from your current profession. Unsign yourself. You got yourself signed and damnit you can get yourself unsigned. Do it for us, the people who would have liked you had you shown any real promise. Do it for the children, without whom we may have no hope of good music in the future, and who are at this point impressionable enough to believe you are an honest to God musician.

Well hello there and welcome to Titty Tangents, where you come to see what’s up and leave asking the same thing.

I can make no guarantees about subject matter or tone of future posts at this point (as this brainchild was conceived less than 24 hours ago), but that’s the beauty of Beta!

Things here are going to develop, and grow, and get bigger– as things tend to do in the womb, if we’re sticking with the fetal metaphor. But regardless of the nit-picky details that have yet to be determined, I think this will become the Place to Go whenever you’re looking for some –(tittilating?)– er–(titallating?)– uh–(tittillating?)– Titty Tangants!