Ode to Billie Joe

My students are always shocked to learn that I've heard of Green Day.

They are, after all, and extremely cool band, and I am, after all, an old person.

The notion of me, the middle-aged lady who nags them about when to use well and when to use good, having a working knowledge of this band is just too much for their little brains to handle.

"Seriously, I have been listening to them since before you were born, Whippersnapper."

Anyhow, a few years ago I saw one of those Behind the Music shows about Green Day, and a comment that Billie Joe Armstrong made just kind of stuck with me. He was talking about "Good Riddance" and how people were so surprised to hear the quiet little acoustic song that could coming from Green Day. Everyone thought they knew what to expect from them: fast, loud, and irreverent. Then they went and hit us with "Good Riddance". I believe gobsmacked is the term the British use to describe our collective reaction to it.

While explaining the process of writing the song and choosing to release it as a single, Billie Joe said that putting out that song at that time was "... the most punk rock thing we could do." It was shocking. It upset the status quo. It flew in the face of the conventional wisdom that says keep doing what's been making you money all along.

I've been thinking about Green Day and this comment a lot lately.

You see, I'm remodeling my kitchen.

I have always been one to pride myself on my lack of fear when it comes to color. There are rooms in my house painted dark brown, lime green, and Caribbean blue. Up until a couple weeks ago, my kitchen featured terra cotta walls and bright red cabinets. I love the drama of these bold hues and enjoy seeing the look of shock on color-shy people's faces when they first experience my home.

But I wanted a change.

I'd been leafing through Dwell magazine, watching snippets of the design shows on TV, etc. and came to an unexpected conclusion: I was craving beige.

So the red cabinets came down, replaced by sleek, sedate ones.

And the terra cotta paint disappeared under two coats of primer and two coats of what Valspar calls Honeymilk. (It reminds me of a freshly opened carton of vanilla ice cream. Yum.)

I love it.

It's clean.

It's modern.

And it's the most punk rock thing I could do.