You Can’t Always Stop Getting What You Don’t Want

I grew up in a Beatles-loving household. So when I learned that there are really only two types of music-lovers—those who like the Beatles, and those who like the Stones—I just sort of accepted my place as a Beatles fan, and never really bothered with Mick and Keith and whatever the other guys are named. Slightly unfair I guess, but I never hated them; it was more of an acquired indifference.

That said, I’ve had You Can’t Always Get What You Want in my head for three weeks straight now, and I think I’m gonna freak out. Especially ‘cause it’s my own goddamn fault.

Not sure if other folks do this, but when confronted with stupid mundane information that I need to recall later on, I create little mnemonic brain nuggets to help grease the gears. For example: BMW. That’s how I first remembered the names and order of the East River bridges: Brooklyn, Manhattan, and Williamsburg. Feel free to spread that one around.

Another one was about this girl whose name I could never remember. It was either Sharon or Shannon, and my first instinct was to call her Sharon. Turns out, her name was Sharon, and since that instinct was always the first thought to pop into my brain, I latched onto it: whenever I’d see her, I’d think, Are you Sharon?... R you Sharon? …which would remind me, Yes, she is Sharon, with an R. (This one got totally screwed when I shared it with the EL guys, who instantly mocked me and made me confuse it with other stupid phrases like “N you Shannon?” so I could never remember if it was Shannon or Sharon again. A-holes.)

Anyway, when I moved into my new place a few weeks back, I got two new keys—one for the front door and one for my apartment door—and they look pretty much identical. After a few days of trial-and-errorring, I examined the keys more closely. Turns out, the building key is much thicker than the room key, which in turn is a little more spiky and jagged. So instead of memorizing something like Thick key first, Spiky key second, I figured it’d be easier to remember a simple, ordered phrase like Thick Jagged. Or, even better: Mick Jagger.

Hence, the initial inadvertent humming while walking up the stairwell, and three weeks later, having that goddamn Rolling Stones song lodged into my brain every time I enter or leave my apartment. And now, whenever I see a picture of Mick Jagger, I want to stab him with my keys. But, as the song goes, you can’t always get what you shut the fuck up.