Wednesday, April 23, 2008
So if you are really, really bored ... jump over there and catch-up. Really. You'll see I'm much less lame there. Well, kinda less-lame. But I do have friends. Really. I swear *lol* Dude, I'm pathetic.
Thanks! Love you muches and long time. Promise. I'm good for it.
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Our guilty pleasures make us giddy. They titillate the little school girls in us. They tickle the pooh bear buried in our bellies. They are what we watch and listen to when the doors are double-locked and no one has access to our hidden-in-plain-sight On-the-Go 4 iPod playlist.
Instinctively we should keep the gps on the qt. But, you see, I have a condition which requires me to share. It's a combination of attention-seeking and cries for acceptance. Work with me, here.
So in the spirit of full exposure, here are a few of mine. I'm curious if any of ya'll will pony up and admit your share them or add some of your own. Just, you know, porn doesn't count. Really.- These things should have little to no sense of cool (like you can't say "Princess Bride" or "Diff'nt Strokes" - they have that 80's retro cool thing going on). Guilty pleasures are things that probably don't add any prominence. No nice patina to your aging. They just highlight your geekiness. Your freak flag flying high.
My Top 5 Guilty Pleasures:
1) Train's "Drops of Jupiter" - Oh, c'mon and lie to me and tell me you don't crank that shit up when it comes on the radio and you're alone in the car. Try to convince me of that. When Pat hits his vocal-stride ( 3:00 on the vid below), how can you NOT pound the steering wheel and cry out with him, "Tell me, did the wind sweep you off your feet?!" This IS always on my 'Most Recently Played" and "Top 25 Played". No hiding there.
2) PerezHilton.com - I soooo want to be better than the commoner I am. But damn it, Janet, I can't resist the gossip. I can't!!! And though he can be cruel, he can also be, well, sweet. I actually think he cares for Britney. He is right-on most of the time, too. Like Simon on "American Idol". Just instead of articulated musical critique, Perez likes to draw dribbles and penises. Who doesn't?
3) "Constantine" the movie- I put this here because, well, after living with a fan-boy comic-freak for 11yrs, you learn a thing or two. Though we broke up, I took away a deep understanding of these guys. And they are harsh f'n critics. Oh they love hard. And they will take you down with their replica-sabers if you mess with them. I still can't get the voices out of my head about how "they" [Hollywood] are sooo going to mess-up "The Watchmen". So trust me on this, those that matter, are rather 'eh' about this movie. Me? I can't get enough of it. I don't know what it is. I can't turn away when it's on HBO. It's like I'm Iggy Pop and it's a big o'dish of multi-colored good-time capsules. And it isn't Keanu. I promise. There is something in this movie that makes me watch. Every. Time.
4) Dance-movies in general - i.e. "Step up and Bring It to the Server" or whatever - I'm waaay too old to want to see these movies. I stash them in my Netflix queue. I offer to take my fourteen-year-old niece and cousin to see them. I check IMDB to make sure Channing Tatum is over 18 (he is - 28 to be exact, I mean, if you needed to know). I have issues. I know. And again, I'm not going to believe your lie that you haven't dropped it to the floor after hearing "Low". I'm calling you out, punk. Show 'em what you got. Go hard!
5) Peanut butter from the jar - See? I'm giving ya'll the whole truth. This is a disgusting habit, but I swear I don't double-dip. Give me a spoonful of natural Skippy (no stirring!!!) and I'm a happy-happy-happy girl. :) Work that with some apple, and dang. It's the simple things ya'll :)
Enjoy these clips!!
Thursday, March 6, 2008
I often refer to my blogs as random up-chucks of consciousness. If you've read more than two, you've probably got me figured out. Pegged. Though I control what I put down, what goes up is as much me as anything else. Snaps, Jason, Koka, and Matt can attest to that. There's a certain life-bond created when you hold someone's hair while they're puking. When you make them laugh through tears over a miserable little boy, generally referred to as Satan - you know the one who broke-up with you in your dorm parking lot because he was "bad for you", but not before giving you a case of Zima (I like my drinks bubbly, sue me!) and stating "You'll probably be needing this". When the dirt gets aired, it is those people who will get the big payday.
So, really, what do I have left to hide? I'm a plebeian with uptown tastes and a smackering of education. I'm an attention starlet who name drops philosophers so you don't think she's small-town. I want you to look while I cover my eyes. Seriously, this is basic psychology kids. Don't stress yourself.
In all my efforts to not be what I am, I suppressed. I beat down and bruised my inclinations and my instincts. I recited, hand over heart, that being the good little cube-dweller would bring me the peace that they sold on SUV commercials. I could make a mix-CD of Led Zepplin's "Black Dog" and the Stooge's "Search and Destroy" and be cool while living my American dream.
As you probably have figured out, that didn't work for me. Maybe I'm missing a gene. A little burp during mitosis. I'm impatient. I gotta think my DNA is as well. Like when I hear a bad sound in my car and I just turn the radio up louder, I developed on, ignoring the grinding and whining timing belt.
And, so, here I am. Throwing up on you, but, you know, in a good way. The way that doesn't charge-up a cleaning bill or leave a bad smell. Well, usually not.
I write here not because I think I'm better than you or that my opinions matter. They don't. I do it 'cause I'm selfish. I do it because I like doing it. Like I've said, I'm Veruca. I'm a kitten. I want it now and I want it to be pleasing to the touch. -Scratchy scratchy. Break the skin. Itchy Itchy. Let it in. - My same drunk friend told me that his gf found me "alien" and that she just doesn't get me. Awesome. I need that. I like the thought of being alien. Enigmatic and armed to the teeth with pop banter and fan-boy wit. It makes me feel cool. Crank the New York Dolls. Let's get our glam on.
Oh, and post-script here darlings, I sincerely thank you for reading. For commenting and msging me. I don't want to be your Messiah. Just your idol. I'm done with saving souls and turning water into wine. I'm just after your stroke and your thoughts. Trust me, I want you much more than you want me. I think you're beautiful.
Feel the lovin'. Feel the cool. - Black Dog - 5:35
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
While the PTA blasts videogames for their violence and movies are slapped with sexual-situations and adult-themes warnings, no one calls classic literature out for what it is. What it does. Where was Tipper Gore when I needed her? "As Nasty As They Wanna Be" was comedy. Did she listen to that whole album? "Dirty Nursery Rhymes" wasn't going to hurt anyone. But unrequited love for your stable-boy played out against fields of sweeping heather and forbidding class-structure? That does no damage? Bullshit. I say bullshit on thee.
I want my fucking Heathcliff. I want a love that transcends normalcy. I want a love that lasts. I want fucking-forever. And these people, these grand and great authors of lit class masturbation and holier-than-thou sentence structure (let's be honest, I've never met a run-on-sentence I haven't loved), they owe it to me.
How am I supposed to function in the real world when my first crush was Bronte's brooding, angry Heathcliff? I read "Wuthering Heights" when I was 11. I've been trying to save every boy I've met since. Do you know how messed up that is? - Aloysha Karamazov. Prince Andrei Bolkonsky. Count Vronsky. Jude Fawley. Yeah. I tapped all those asses. And they mind-fucked me back.
No one ever stepped in and told me they were just fantasies without the elves and the pixies. That they were unachievable examples of love and passion. That they have all the realism of porn just in much more acceptable Penguin Classics packaging. Catherine Earnshaw was just Jenna Jamison giving it up to her adopted brother and the rich-boy next door. - Heathcliff deserved better. He deserved me.
I'm trying to be better. Giving up the "leprechauns". The misunderstood 5'10", scrawny boys who can quote "Crime and Punishment" but can't hold down a job. - I know I can't blame my unrealistic views of love and relationships entirely on the books I read. They're called fiction for a reason I suppose. Still though. If such things weren't possible, if no one ever really had that sort of love, then we wouldn't be affected by them, would we? We wouldn't read them over and over and make them into movies. We wouldn't still believe the lie, would we?
I don't believe in the Easter Bunny or Santa Claus. But I believe in one-and-only and forever. I still want my Heathcliff. "He's more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, we're the same"
Here's "Wuthering Heights" in 1:09 minutes:
Monday, March 3, 2008
"Did you ever get the feeling that everything in America is completely fucked up? You know that feeling that the whole country is like one inch away from saying 'That's it, forget it'. You think about it. Everything is polluted. The environment, the government, the schools, you name it. "
I didn't see "Pump Up the Volume" when it came out in 1990. I had to wait for it to hit video. Then watch it in secret. Southern Baptist are like that. We like our sinning done in the dark so there are no witnesses. Maybe that's why I like "talk hard" so much. "A dirty thought in a clean mind".
I did, at one time, care about politics. Oh, I was a little Campus Republican (they had the best parties). I was a volunteer on the campaign trail. I could whip out the Reagan and bring you to your fucking liberal knees with my jedi-mindtricks of voo-doo economics and SDI/MAD diplomacy. - Then I met Ralph Reed, who creeped-me-the-fuck-out when I shook his hand. A week later I met Nadine Strossen of the ACLU on campus and I burned my contract with America and went out and hugged some trees. I even started thinking Bill Clinton was kinda sexxy hott. And that summer that Monica was interning, well, uh, that was the summer I was supposed to be interning too. Though I ditched that to spend the summer with my idiot boyfriend at the time. F'n boys. - Still though, part of me thinks Bill would have liked me. We'd have gotten along. As anyone who has funneled with me knows, as all good Southern girls do, I know how to drink and I always swallow. It would have been good times.
Somewhere though, I've lost it. I just don't care. Maybe it was Clinton proving he was a real-boy after-all with the faults that go along with that. Then Bush did not help. Maybe it was the year or so spent agonizing over the daily casualty reports from Iraq. Relieved that it wasn't my baby brother or my friend Adj. Then realizing that it was someone else's someone. Maybe not mine today, but someone's heart was ripped out so I would cry anyway for being selfish and for their pain.
I know Barack is inspirational. I've seen theater. I've seen religion. I've even bought tickets to both. And I know Hillary has experience and contacts and knows how to get things done. I also know that John McCain is a good guy. Really. I can't imagine the shit he went through over there. - Still though, I can't help but think that what was true in Harry's 1990 is still true now. How sad is that?
Don't get me wrong, here. I WANT to care. Really I do. I've been letting this play out gladiator-style and we are coming down to the final contestants. President of the United States. Yeah, I should care. But really, I'm not feeling the warm and fuzzies for any of them. No one is making me want them. No one has licked me right and set me off. And I want that. I WANT to be in love with one of them. I want to believe that my teenaged view of isolation and melancholy hasn't come full-circle. That there is hope. Problem is. I'm old enough to know that hope is air. That's it's something you believe in when you don't have anything else. It's all that keeps you going when you're drowning in the shit and flotsam of life. Maybe I'm not drowning just yet. Or maybe I'm already under and I just don't know it.
As Harry says, "All the great themes have been used up and turned into theme parks." And right now, I don't feel like dealing with the crowds just to toss my cookies on the 3rd loopty-loop.
But then again, maybe my political soul can still be saved. Go ahead. Give it a try. Seduce me. Show me what you got, little mama. Show me what you got, big baller. - - - Until then, I'm breaking out the Leonard Cohen and mellowing to "Everybody Knows". Talk to me hard, babies.
Here are a few "Pump" clips for your enjoyment (1st two: 27 and 33 secs). Including the yummy Cohen song, which is a bit longer at but very enjoyable :)
Friday, February 29, 2008
For the record, douchebags are everywhere. New Jersey doesn't have an exclusive first-look deal with them, as the equally entertaining site "Hot Chicks with Douchebags" confirms (thanks, Matt!). - The state just gives them the perfect environment for their douchebaggery. It's God's little Garden State for asshole breeding. If only we could get pandas to screw like these guys.
Maybe it's the whole bridge-and-tunnel mentality where Manhattan is the cooler, older step-brother and we're just trying to get his attention. Apparently that is best gotten with barely-buttoned silk shirts, over-producted hair, and 'roiding attitude. In NJ they know every Bruuuuce song, is kin to a Bon Giovanni, and can get you a deal on a dozen, no less, leather jackets. The "Sopranos" wasn't just good TV. It was Sunday evening at the Globe. It was Shakespeare's pen and Maya Angelou's soul. They were telling the story of your uncle, your cousin, and all that you secretly wanted to be. In New Jersey, the last 3 governors have all ended up in the hospital in some sort of "accident". In New Jersey, strippers are dancers and dancers are always landing-stip waxed. You so want to bang that.
I think NJ is kinda proud of its douchebags. It's like, "Yeah, ok, we're douchebags, but at least we ain't fags. Whoa!" - I think that should be the new state motto. "At least we ain't fags". Nothing sums up the douchebag mentality better than that. - Though, of course, saying that, dressed as they are, might be the gayest thing ever. And trust me, I've seen some really gay shit. Can I get a "sweetie, darling Amen"?
So next time you're at a bar, the Port Authority at 1am, or karaoke night (they fucking love those places), take a look around. Find your state's douchebags. Don't get too close. Just watch. Marvel at how they wedge their off-the-truck Versace shades between spike#4 and 5 on their head. Be stunned at the ladies who line up and laugh at their jokes and witty lines that always end with, "so, you wanna check out the back of my cousin's Escalade?". - - We've got some pretty awesome, top-notch douchebags in the NJ. We're talking Olympic athletes. How good are yours?
Thursday, February 28, 2008
I post them as I complete them so they are in reverse order. The dates are listed with the episodes so you can use the myspace date filters on the blog to pull up the section you want.
Input is always welcomed and appreciated. Thanks!!
Oh, and I should mention that there is language and sex. But it isn't what you think. Some of my red state friends freaked out over Part I. Like it was all about sex. No no. Just had to establish that up front. *laugh*
Parts I, II – 12/30/07
Part III, IV – 12/31/07
Parts V, VI – 12/31/07
Part VII – 1/22/08
Part VIII- 1/22/08
Part IX- 1/27/07
Part X – 1/27/07
Parts XI, XII - 2/27/07
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Yep, our lovable tomboy-cum-Poison Ivy vixen-cum Wiccan Badass has been sold to the proverbial dark-side. The Sithy dark-side, not, you know, the Eddie and the Cruisers one.
I really, really. really adore Alyssa Milano. I think she's spunky and feisty. I think she could have been lost in the shuffle and been a throw-back punchline. I love that she and Holly Marie Combs took control of their show and it really became something they owned and cared for. I love that she seems to "get" herself. You can't discount the power of getting your own reference. So yes... I enjoy Alyssa Milano and wish her only the best.
So, yeah, imagine my horror when I hear the commercial proudly proclaim, "Alyssa Milano in her first Lifetime Original movie...". FIRST?? First would seem to indicate that there were more to come. As if a second, nay, even a third was in the bag. WTF?! Like there will be one for every season.
!See Alyssa come home for Easter for the first time in ten years. She quit college, a privilege her whole family sacrificed for, one semester shy of graduating with a degree in psychology to pursue her dream of art design. Mother is sick in bed, her heart more broken than under attack. Her sister is pissed that she had to keep everyone together and Daddy is waxing simple-philosophy while whittling intricate puzzle boxes. Can Alyssa put the pieces of her daddy's toys and her mother's heart together again?!
!Set the DVR to romantic-comedy as the recently-divorced and relationship-jaded Alyssa, determined that they will, in fact be a happy family and have happy family memories, takes her young brood on a hijinks-ridden vacation at their summer rental in the mountains. Just wait until the hungry mama bear shows up! Only by working together can Alyssa and the hunky, single ranger save their summer and give Alyssa back the love, and desire, she thought she had lost.-!
Ok. Maybe I'm being a bit tangent skirting. And yes, this obviously deserves the observation that, well, to have even seen the commercial, I was probably watching Lifetime. And further more, in order to rant about the banality of Lifetime movies, I've had to seen a few. - So yeah, fuck, ok... I find Lifetime on my TV. Sometimes. Like, you know, right now. It's "Will & Grace" people! I had given up on it on season 3 and now, well, now enough time has passed and we can be friends again.
I don't know. Maybe it'll be a good movie. I trust Alyssa. I'm going to go with her. Ok. So it's Lifetime. But you know what, I got ovaries. So, yeah. And, honestly, I'd whore myself out to Lifetime too. If they would have me. I can logline like a bitch, baby. Like a cheated-on, angry, bitch ready to get back at my husband by running over his golf clubs, screwing his friends, and besting his business. - You can msg me here ;)
Friday, February 15, 2008
Are you f'n kidding me? WTMF?! And what are you doing now? Asking me did I mean something else? - And what was that, Suzy Sunshine? Maybe I should try again, putting quotes around grouped words? Seriously? You're advising me on how to compose a query? Ok, yeah, uh, bitch, now's whens you best be stepping the fuck off. This isn't my first rodeo.
C'mon, I'm not being crazy, am I? If there is one grand truth to the world, one shining point of light of Athenian promises and Herculean strength that makes the daily drop-to-your-knees, lips rounded and parted, suck-off acceptable it is this: Someone, somewhere, has posted it.
That's the moist smack of the Internet, no? That all information is available, you just have to look. That for every freak, there are 1,000 more just like you,huddled and whacking off to, well, whatever it is you are whack off to. The Internet is the Bushiest of uniters-not-dividers. Spread wide and ready for the insert of your query, your manifesto, your fanfic, and your family reunion pictures of Uncle Tommy passed out in the lawn chair, Heiny in hand, covered in silly-string.
It isn't a particularly picky lover but there's an agreement. An understanding between the Internet and us, right? We feed it. We put our petty shit out there. We lube up and shove in our secrets and our lusts. We disrobe and prance and feel pretty behind our avatars and our clever nom de jeu and give up the layers we have until we are a raw nub, just right for the mutual rubbing.
All the Internet has to do is be there for us. To never let us down. To hold us and let us freak out and cry we aren't pretty enough. That our friends don't really like us. That we are disappointed in life, ourselves, and our parents. It should be there to tell us how to find Mulberry Street and what is the highest Zagat-rated Thai joint in Chelsea. It should alert us when sad things happen and when Britney makes her 3am Rite-Aid run.
And, mostly, it should always be there, and have handy, any bit of information we are wanting. Because really, we've come to expect that. We've come to deserve it. We've given it our souls, our social security numbers, and our credit history. So, honestly, no matching documents found? Fuck you Internet. I never loved you in the first place. I've been fucking the NY Times Print Edition anyway.
p.s. I still love you, Internet. I still love your Google, it's just that... well, I can't be with you right now. Give me some time. Yeah, I remember when you won me that netsuke on eBay. Yeah, we've had some great times. We'll always have this Winona clip. - Fuck, baby, you know I love you. Come here. I just put on a fresh coat of lip plumper. Let's see how that feels on you. Let's see if I can leave a mark.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
But like a 6yo tossing back Pixie Stix and Juicy Juice chasers, I can't seem to get enough of this song. Why must I love stuff like this??? Miley Cyrus??? Are you f'n kidding me? Am I not the person who, just last night, posted a blog confessing time spent on my evening drive contemplating if people watch porn while in their cars?
C'mon though. With it's steady throb of a bass line and catchy lyrics and head-bopping, how can you not love this Corey Hart recall of a song? It's got some undercurrent of wink-wink-nudge-nudge Lolita charm and enough poppiness to make the most painful of rain soaked commutes bearable... even sunny.
I couldn't find a video (which is probably a good thing). But I did hear this on the radio last night and had to run and look it up online. Yeah, that would be the same drive that prompted the adult-viewing blog. I'm a very complex person, people. - Anyway, yeah, if you're having a bad day, just take a listen. C'mon, tell me you aren't all Rainbow Brite after this. And if you aren't, then well Peculiar Purple Pie Man (yes, I know I just mingled my Rainbow Brite and Strawberry Shortcake references ... it's BOGO in Kristy-land today, enjoy the 1/2 off sale) , then you can stay in your Pie Tin Palace and console yourself with Coldplay. :P
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
What circumstances do you so badly need to watch porn in your car anyway? From the backseat even.
Are you one of those swinging couples that have merry-dear-Penthouse-I-never-thought-this-would-happen-to-me type of entertainment? And say maybe your tag-team duo is in the back, warming up. Would that be a case?
Or are you feeling particularly amorous and you let your partner slither in the back, to get a head start while you adjust the rear-view mirror just right for the show?
Or maybe you’re alone and you got one of those portable units that slip over the headrest? You casually put it in the empty passenger seat. Just a little thought. A titillation that makes you giggle and blush. Exposed and protected by metal, paint, and oh-so much leg-room. You are riding high in your SUV. Why not whip it out or slide down , hand inside, in the double-sewn leather and grind one off?
Safety concerns of a distracted driver aside, what if someone saw? Not the act itself. But what if they could see the screen? What if they innocently slowed behind you at the traffic light and slowly realized that what at first just seemed like a steady ebbing of flesh-colored pixels was really digital-quality fucking? Is that a public display? And do you, the victim in all this who came to a halt, fidgeting with the Sirius, pick up your cell phone and report the tag number? Or do you follow them? Trailing to the next light. The right turn and then another. Do you need to see where such a freak lives? What your community neighbors are doing on their way back from Pilates, dinner at Café Amici, or a late night at the office?
And so these are things I pondered tonight. On my way home from the gym, high on endorphins and bored by the rain. Line of cars ahead of me with their “Proud Parent “ and “Ask me about my honors student” bumper stickers posing as EZ-Passes for the Happy-Average-Normal Turnpike. Cruising the NorthSouth corridor with their innocuous Wiggles, Veggie Tales, and Toy Story giving you a 30second drive-in-Saturday peek show that reconfirms that is, indeed, what they are, thank you very much.
Is watching porn in your car a serious cry for something more? Or is it just another way to get your circus-freak-on?Technology can put them in your dashboard, right next to your Tom-Tom and Garmin. Toss one off and you can still make it on time. You can’t tell me that someone isn’t doing just that right now. Think about that next time you pile into super-multi-tasking Mom’s mini. And then check the 31compartments for the Ritalin that her kids ain’t taking and the unlabeled, black DVD cases.
Sunday, February 3, 2008
A friend posted a comment on my mysp in reply to my "mood status" there stating that I " just got a msg that constituted some "quick" "drunken love". Ahh, it's like being back in college. And he was a Sig Ep even! ;)". My buddy Adj was up late and apparently he had been enjoying the weekend. He's a Lt in the Army. He's earned all the beer he ever wants.
The comment I got said, "i hated frat boys even though one of my best friends was one. the vile excuse to be in gang with greek lettering".
I get what he is trying to say I do. - But still... could any of us stand-up to scrutiny based on the oh-my-God-it's-so-huge-tools we were when we were younger? I mean, all of the world is an asshole at age 20. We are all scared, insecure, cocky bastards, weebling around, trying not to fall down. Either geared with keg-stand skills or armed with self-righteous schooled insight ("it's Knee-che people, like Che Guevara" - dude, I hate those people), we all pick teams, gather for warmth, and just try to survive. Accountability can't really start until you're 30. Everything before is just a testing-ground, Double-Dare obstacle course. There's bells to ring, slip-n-slides to belly-flop, and a shit-load of goo to be dived into, all with the intent of finding some ticket. Some thing that will get us to the next round.
I've known frat boys in my day. Some super-awesome. Some not so much. Even the worst of them had something to offer. I still remember the night one certain arrogant, womanizer broke down and "shared" something (ok, at 20 I had a real bad case of the messiah-complex ... that each of these guys had a sensitive poet inside them and their homophobic fuck-machine exterior was just window-dressing... yeah, I know. I f'n know.). He said, "You know, all women are beautiful... from the back of their head." - Yeah. They should put that on pillows and sell them with Thomas Kincade pics. But still, I love that moment. It taught me so much about boys.
Jeremy Piven has it right in this clip below. "PCU" is my favorite college movie. Maybe it's because I was in college (my first time, back in TN) when it came out and the political correctness was in full-swing. "Feed us drinks! Get us Laid!" - Geeks. Feminazis. Stoners. Jocks. And, yes, Greeks. - Basically at 20 we are all assholes. Who want to get drunk. Get laid. And forget that we are really just children thrown into an adult world we aren't ready for and the only equipment we have on hand is whatever we brought with us.
Friday, February 1, 2008
Thursday, January 31, 2008
So my nephew Chase needed help with his Calc homework the other night. Which meant I had to reteach myself. While it's kind of a Captain Obvious statement, unless you are like a scientist-y kind of person, you really aren't going to be using advanced math that much. I told this to Chase. He was relieved.
But sometimes we do learn things we'll use. Sometimes, we do have moments, lessons, that end up defining us. They just aren't mathematical. Well, not for me. :) For me they are "shifts" where my world perception changed. Where yellow became sunburst and red became crimson. We all start out with the same 8 crayons. Me? I keep wanting to upgrade. Get more colors. Get a bigger box.
In 1st grade I was given permission to go to the "other side" of the library. Beyond the Berenstain Bears and into the Dewey Decimal realm. I was allowed to use the Encyclopedias. The Reference Room. I was reading before kindergarten so they thought I needed more of a challenge. The first thing I did was look up 'stars'. I wanted to read about celebrities. I ended up starting a love-affair with astronomy, constellations, and, from there, Greek mythology. My life changed. Within a year I was obsessed with Alexander the Great and thought up my own stories.
In 4th grade I was assigned to read "A Wrinkle in Time" for my book report. Good Lord, it was if I had never really existed. Following the mad-crave that Madeleine L'Engle unleashed, I started writing. Putting carbon to paper, childish smudges where chubby-hand and pencil blended. Two years later my 6th grade teacher asked me for stories to take to her Master's class. I had an audience, attention, and stroking. I was hooked.
The next moment took a bit longer. It took some crawling out of my small town, some binge-drinking, and, sadly, some really really bad poetry written backwards, with dry-erase markers, on my suite windows to get me there.
I was 22 when I first went to Manhattan and went to the Met. I went up some stairs in the modern art section I took a right and there was "Autumn Rythm (Number 30)", Jackson Pollack's 8ft high, 17ft long, drip masterpiece. No fake-drama. I started crying. Thankfully there was a padded-seat to lessen the public display. Suddenly things made sense. This 50yo painting did something nothing else in my life had ever done. It put a peace in me. Controlled chaos. It explained so much. Chopin. Dostoevsky. Pollack. Humanity was, again, for me only maybe, controlled chaos.
If you've never been moved by music (and if you've read any of my blogs recently you know I'm not a music elitist in any sense), literature, art or philosophy or any of the other beautiful outlets we are gifted with, then I'm sorry. I can't fathom an existence without such passion. Without such reaction.
I think that is part of what Koka calls my "wanderlust". The drive that keeps me unsatisfied. The push to get a bigger, brighter Crayola box, sharpener in the back. Sometimes I do wish I didn't have it. Sometimes I think it would be simpler, easier, if I could just be happy with a comfy job and seek out the house and kids. But those are just moment of weakness. I can't imagine not crying before a painting. I can't imagine not wanting more and believing it is still possible. Suppose I just can't imagine not being me.
Normies and bunnies. *pfft* You ain't got nothing on me. :)
Arggs! NKOTB. New Freddy K. movie. K T Tunstall goes all cover on "Walk Like an Egyptian" and now I can't get this damn song out of my head!!! What a week so far.
I like Radiohead. Really I do! And I can so go punk-a-punk with you. I've exchanged rent money for David Bowie Madison Square Garden tix. I've traversed hipster Brooklyn neighborhoods for Sarah Vowel readings, TMBG secret shows, Dave Cross improv, and avant-garde shit involving silence, a strobe light, and two guys dressed like Sendak creatures reciting "Jabberwocky" over slowed-down, barely recognizable N.E.R.D tracks from "Fly or Die".
All it takes is a nasty hook, pulses, and Underworld-style black-slick to undo all my assumed credentials. Maybe I should just embrace the contradictions and stop the analysis. *sigh* F'n existentialism and ethos.
Go ahead ... Enjoy .. No one is looking. Go ahead... Download. Your player won't tell.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
That being said ...
OMG!!!! Break out the banana-clips, girls, 'cause it looks like Jordan, Donnie, Joey, Jon, and Danny are going to be getting out on that floor and doing The New Kids Dance.
As described to some friends, I am dancing around like I just got a Butterscotch My Little Pony, still in the original packaging (prrreeettty). As Mark wisely observed, I'm so retarded and I'm unashamed.
And to think I normally do verbose blogs citing the influence of Rousseau in episodes of "Married With Children". Kristy is a complex-critter.
I'm upside-down, victory pose on the sticky stripper-pole that is pop-culture. Throw some dollar bills, ya'll. Make some noise! Are you tough enough??
So yeah... I was down today. Beaten and bruised by the grinding of life. Me cigarette. Life big old shit-kicker of a steel-toe.
So like a modern girl with high-speed internet and time to spare, I sought out motivation. Not from the Bible. And not even from Oprah. Oh no. I need my go-girlfriend to come from a TV show. 'Scrubs' to be exact.
When this first aired I remembered thinking, "A-motherfuck-yeah". Eloquent I know. Putting that Rutgers education to use.
But I challenge any girl out there to not have this moment in their head. Where they shake off the little and razor their ends and get all rocked out. Ok, and I'll even fess up this is the haircut I started with, though it's grown out.
Boys got their Wiis and their Guitar-Hero. I'll take an Elliot Reid make-over any day. Tom Petty suh-weet bonus.