'Tis Halloween! I love Halloween so much I could just squeeze the Charmin until that toilet paper is no longer fit for ass wipings!
Tonight is the big party. Last night we spent hours decorating the house and hanging up lights and stuff. I love Halloween. Even here where it's warm and doesn't really feel like Halloween, it's still a good time.
Myth dispelling time. A common misconception people have about actors is that they always want any excuse to get into costume, so they of course love Halloween. Sure, that's true for some, but most actors I know are just excited about getting blasted and gossiping. Actors actually have the least reason to dress up on Halloween because they dress up all year long. I've got some people that are worried about showing up at my party because they think it's going to be nothing but flamboyant elaborate costumes. To that I say in a loud, theatrical voice: "P'shaw!" Come on over anyway. We're gonna have Fuck Cupcakes.
Well, damn. I am not wearing a costume to work today. I thought about wearing some of my regular clothes, like my red and black skull sweater, but that's really not Halloween-wear, per se. No one is wearing a costume, save Rob, who is wearing his Minnesota Vikings helmet and jersey today. Oh, and all the schools I drove past today on my way in were closed. What the fuck? I would have given my right kidney to have no school on Halloween. The kids out here get goddamn October Break. What?? They are never in school, those little shits. In my day, we were there all the freaking time. We'd get a couple measly "snow days" allotted each year, and if we exceeded the snow days allowed, we had to add more school days at the end of the year so we wouldn't get out of school until it was practically July. Out here, they are on breaks about 4 times a year and then, to add insult to my injury, they're done for the year in May. And what have they got to show for all this time off? Oh yeah, shitty test scores...high dropout rates...sideways sun visors and baggy pants...cell phones for second graders...I HATE IT! I think we need to take a look at the fine school system of say, New Jersey, as a model of what to do, Arizona. Fucking lock those kids in 180 days a year and make them work. Kids today gots no respect. Or smarts. Goddamn kids. And yeah, they need to get the fuck off my lawn, too.
Anyway, I hope they appreciate Halloween this year. And I hope they actually trick or treat. The whole time I have lived in Arizona, we have had practically no trick or treaters, which is so bizarre. All the kids seem to go to the malls or to indoor events for their Halloween candy needs. How messed up. But then again, I think I grew up in an insanely safe whitebread town, so my own childhood was unrealistically perfect. I actually got to trick or treat in a neighborhood with people who made homemade popcorn balls and made haunted houses for the kids to walk into. Mischief Night was a cause of celebration. My own mother supplied me with TP to go paper the neighborhood with. Trish even wrote on the street with chalk at the tender age of 2 on a particularly mischeivous Mischief Night. We'd eat candy corn and don cheery costumes. Afterwards, Wally and the Beav would come by and we'd play a little Everly Brothers on vinyl and get wasted behind the shed on glue fumes. Sweet, sweet times.
But really, what fun is trick or treating in a MALL? I seriously don't get it. Why, if we continue to let our children trick or treat in the malls of America, then the child molesters and murderous psychopaths have won. Can we let that happen?
I will be stationed at my house this afternoon by about 2:30PM. I have candy on hand and ready. The dog will be quarantined to the bedroom, lest she scare off would-be goblins and Pokemons. Damn it, kids! Come over to my house! Renew my faith in this fragile generation of motor-scooter riders and Christina Aguilera lookalikes. Don't make me come out on my porch and smack y'all with my fists of fury and possibly molest you in the process. Kids...!
Friday, October 31, 2003
Thursday, October 30, 2003
There's a faint grayish tint to the sky today, and yesterday when I was driving home from work I saw a huge gray cloud-mass in the West in my rearview mirror. It's the smoke coming here from Southern California.
I got depressed today when I heard the story of the guy who had loaded his four Irish wolfhounds into his RV to drive away from the fire, and he never made it. They only identified the guy's body because the tags from his dogs were the only things left after the fire hit them. Holy crap.
This whole thing is pretty sobering to think about. A chunk of land the size of Rhode Island is burned. Of course, I am far enough away from the fires to not be in danger myself (until Sunday, that is, when I am supposed to fly into Palm Springs for another bus convention), and I have seen the effects of some bad wildfires here in Arizona in the past few years, but some of the images coming in from this one and the stories are just horrible. Whole towns are gone or in danger. All that land will take years and years to recover. All those animals--livestock, wildlife, pets left behind-- killed. Especially sad was this old man they showed on the news... he had a whole collection of classic cars that he'd been restoring for the past few decades, and the fire engulfed them all. He was left with nothing but charred remains. He stood there on the news in his overalls and his lower lip quaking and said, "That was all I had and it's gone now." Damn.
I would really like to be cheerful and happy but right now the fires are on my mind. I'm praying often these days for all those people there.
I got depressed today when I heard the story of the guy who had loaded his four Irish wolfhounds into his RV to drive away from the fire, and he never made it. They only identified the guy's body because the tags from his dogs were the only things left after the fire hit them. Holy crap.
This whole thing is pretty sobering to think about. A chunk of land the size of Rhode Island is burned. Of course, I am far enough away from the fires to not be in danger myself (until Sunday, that is, when I am supposed to fly into Palm Springs for another bus convention), and I have seen the effects of some bad wildfires here in Arizona in the past few years, but some of the images coming in from this one and the stories are just horrible. Whole towns are gone or in danger. All that land will take years and years to recover. All those animals--livestock, wildlife, pets left behind-- killed. Especially sad was this old man they showed on the news... he had a whole collection of classic cars that he'd been restoring for the past few decades, and the fire engulfed them all. He was left with nothing but charred remains. He stood there on the news in his overalls and his lower lip quaking and said, "That was all I had and it's gone now." Damn.
I would really like to be cheerful and happy but right now the fires are on my mind. I'm praying often these days for all those people there.
Wednesday, October 29, 2003
Oh my gosh! I have missed blogging. I was in Las Vegas for a trade show until yesterday, and then catching up on work all morning so I couldn't write until now. I had no clue I would be struggling with the urge to blog while sitting in our tiny little trade show booth, eyeing up the free internet cafe like a fiend. (Unfortunately, I didn't want anyone I worked with to catch me blogging at a trade show so I was good... but it was not easy.)
First things first. The yard sale/clothing sale was a big success. Trish and I really benefited from our previous yard sale experiences. We were all efficient and made signs the night before, planned a strategy out on paper for where we would hang them, sorted everything and organized piles, and even bought garment racks and clothesline to display our fine clothes all over the driveway and porch. The next morning, we sold! Sold! Sold!
A lot of clothes went early in the day. Many Mexicans descended onto our property and purchased armloads of clothes and shoes. Trish put out a bunch of jewelry and almost all of it sold as well. My Mom brought over old pajamas, and the funny thing was, the cheap-ass K-Mart pajamas sold faster than the more expensive, nicer pajamas. And of course... drum roll... ALL THE USED BRAS SOLD! We only had about 3 out there this time, but they did indeed sell. We were all finished and cleaned up by 2 pm, and we each cleared about $78 after we figured out expenditures. Not too shabby.
Next, on Sunday morning Tom and I brought the dogs to the dog park. Callie is really getting good at running around with the other dogs, and seems to show an interest in ther biggest dogs there, like the Great Danes. Malcolm on the other hand, cowered around my ankles and refused to make eye contact with the dogs. We were, of course, in the "small dog" area of the park, and they are just high-energy, crazy dogs in there. At one point, Malcolm was surrounded by three dogs who were all sniffing him at once and he was all stiffened up and eyeing them (and me) out of the corner of his eye, like he was thinking, "I will NOT put up with this." A small teacup Yorkshire terrier that was half his size (hard to imagine) was running around humping every dog in sight. It was pretty amusing to see a little two-pound dog tearing through the dog park with a furious, horny abandon. (Luckily Malcolm escaped his advances. He's not gay.)
I also watched "Lilo and Stitch" this weekend. Yeah, so?
And on Monday, I flew out to Vegas for the bus convention. The line for security was so long at the airport; I have yet to see the line that far back. I was nearly late to my plane. In Vegas, I realized that they haven't taken down all the Seigfried and Roy signs and billboards, which is sort of spooky. Outside the Mirage there's a huge sign showing S&R with one of the white tigers, and the odd thing is Roy is pictured wearing a white shirt with an open throat. And there's the tiger right next to him. Kind of eerie. Before, I would have thought, "Wow, that shirt looks so gay. Roy looks so gay." Now I think: "Wow, that shirt looks so gay, and so eerie in a victimy way. Roy looks so gay. And so much like a victim." The Mirage also runs a "get well soon Roy" message on the sign out on the strip, sandwiched in between their flashing announcements for the Danny Gans show or whatever and the price of their buffet.
By the way, I wanted to say that yet again, I did not see an Elvis impersonator. I have been to Vegas more times than I can count now, and I have yet to see an Elvis! What gives?
First things first. The yard sale/clothing sale was a big success. Trish and I really benefited from our previous yard sale experiences. We were all efficient and made signs the night before, planned a strategy out on paper for where we would hang them, sorted everything and organized piles, and even bought garment racks and clothesline to display our fine clothes all over the driveway and porch. The next morning, we sold! Sold! Sold!
A lot of clothes went early in the day. Many Mexicans descended onto our property and purchased armloads of clothes and shoes. Trish put out a bunch of jewelry and almost all of it sold as well. My Mom brought over old pajamas, and the funny thing was, the cheap-ass K-Mart pajamas sold faster than the more expensive, nicer pajamas. And of course... drum roll... ALL THE USED BRAS SOLD! We only had about 3 out there this time, but they did indeed sell. We were all finished and cleaned up by 2 pm, and we each cleared about $78 after we figured out expenditures. Not too shabby.
Next, on Sunday morning Tom and I brought the dogs to the dog park. Callie is really getting good at running around with the other dogs, and seems to show an interest in ther biggest dogs there, like the Great Danes. Malcolm on the other hand, cowered around my ankles and refused to make eye contact with the dogs. We were, of course, in the "small dog" area of the park, and they are just high-energy, crazy dogs in there. At one point, Malcolm was surrounded by three dogs who were all sniffing him at once and he was all stiffened up and eyeing them (and me) out of the corner of his eye, like he was thinking, "I will NOT put up with this." A small teacup Yorkshire terrier that was half his size (hard to imagine) was running around humping every dog in sight. It was pretty amusing to see a little two-pound dog tearing through the dog park with a furious, horny abandon. (Luckily Malcolm escaped his advances. He's not gay.)
I also watched "Lilo and Stitch" this weekend. Yeah, so?
And on Monday, I flew out to Vegas for the bus convention. The line for security was so long at the airport; I have yet to see the line that far back. I was nearly late to my plane. In Vegas, I realized that they haven't taken down all the Seigfried and Roy signs and billboards, which is sort of spooky. Outside the Mirage there's a huge sign showing S&R with one of the white tigers, and the odd thing is Roy is pictured wearing a white shirt with an open throat. And there's the tiger right next to him. Kind of eerie. Before, I would have thought, "Wow, that shirt looks so gay. Roy looks so gay." Now I think: "Wow, that shirt looks so gay, and so eerie in a victimy way. Roy looks so gay. And so much like a victim." The Mirage also runs a "get well soon Roy" message on the sign out on the strip, sandwiched in between their flashing announcements for the Danny Gans show or whatever and the price of their buffet.
By the way, I wanted to say that yet again, I did not see an Elvis impersonator. I have been to Vegas more times than I can count now, and I have yet to see an Elvis! What gives?
Friday, October 24, 2003
I realized today that if it weren't for the drive into work and then happenings on my lunch hour, I wouldn't witness very much to write about. Because there are so many days where I think, "Hmmm, what the hell can I write about? I don't think I have done or seen anything of interest in the past 24 hours. I'm so bored." If I ever worked from home, this would be a downside. All I would see would be dogs and my own self. And who wants to write (or read) about that all day long.
Tomorrow morning is the Big Clothing Sale. Us ladies are selling off a bunch of our old clothes and stuff in a yard sale in my driveway. I figured it would be a quick way to make some cash to cover Trish's cat Fizzie's vet bills and the expenses for the NJ trip next month.
Gosh, yard sales. Boy, now that's a subject right there. We have had 2 since we moved out here and we made a lot of money off of our old junk. Over a grand on the first sale, even. It's amazing; the people just kept on coming and with them they brought the whole family crammed into the back of a old dented-up 1986 Sunfire. We had a lot of stealing going on, too... I saw an old Mexican woman blatantly slipping some jewelry off the table and into her purse, and a little kid run off towards his parent's car with some toy they didn't pay for. Price label swapping, people haggling down something marked 5 cents, people asking to use the bathroom (so they could case the joint, no doubt) and creepy wanderers who just look over your stuff and don't buy anything for about an hour until, finally, they take that old Great White cassette single of "Once Bitten Twice Shy" and peddle away on their dilapated old bike... we have seen it all, and we have seen it more than once.
Now, tomorrow, we sign up for more insanity. I don't know why we do it, really. It's always a hassle. Making the signs, lugging all that shit outside, pricing it, getting change at the bank, guarding the money like a Gringotts goblin (sorry, had to throw that in), and then the horrid clean-up. But then you see that cash and you're like, oh wow. (That's the best way I can write it. It's Friday.)
The first yard sale, I did a couple of sociological experiments, if you will. I brought out some of the most hideous old clothes I could find, and then some used bras. That's right, used brassieres. I wanted to see if anyone would actually look at a used bra; or, even worse, buy one.
To my shock, horror, dismay and amusement, all of my used undergarments sold in the first two hours of the sale! Some mexican lady hauled them all away for about $3.50 or something. It made me wish I had more used bras I could sell. But used bras are a precious commodity, as we all know. They can also come in handy for slingshot-based sports, cheap bungee cords, splitting atoms, hostage gagging situations, and iron smelting.
My ugly clothes sold, too. And some man bought my jeans. These were "Gloria" jeans, and he was holding them up to his hips to see if they'd fit. I guess they would, because he coughed up the 50 cents to take 'em home. Who wakes up in the morning and says, "I'm gonna cruise the yard sales and see if I can find me some used women's jeans."
Well, tomorrow, we will find out. I will try to document as much as my sunburned mind will allow me to recall. Wish us luck. Especially this year, as we try going the "used granny panties" route.
Kidding.
Maybe.
Tomorrow morning is the Big Clothing Sale. Us ladies are selling off a bunch of our old clothes and stuff in a yard sale in my driveway. I figured it would be a quick way to make some cash to cover Trish's cat Fizzie's vet bills and the expenses for the NJ trip next month.
Gosh, yard sales. Boy, now that's a subject right there. We have had 2 since we moved out here and we made a lot of money off of our old junk. Over a grand on the first sale, even. It's amazing; the people just kept on coming and with them they brought the whole family crammed into the back of a old dented-up 1986 Sunfire. We had a lot of stealing going on, too... I saw an old Mexican woman blatantly slipping some jewelry off the table and into her purse, and a little kid run off towards his parent's car with some toy they didn't pay for. Price label swapping, people haggling down something marked 5 cents, people asking to use the bathroom (so they could case the joint, no doubt) and creepy wanderers who just look over your stuff and don't buy anything for about an hour until, finally, they take that old Great White cassette single of "Once Bitten Twice Shy" and peddle away on their dilapated old bike... we have seen it all, and we have seen it more than once.
Now, tomorrow, we sign up for more insanity. I don't know why we do it, really. It's always a hassle. Making the signs, lugging all that shit outside, pricing it, getting change at the bank, guarding the money like a Gringotts goblin (sorry, had to throw that in), and then the horrid clean-up. But then you see that cash and you're like, oh wow. (That's the best way I can write it. It's Friday.)
The first yard sale, I did a couple of sociological experiments, if you will. I brought out some of the most hideous old clothes I could find, and then some used bras. That's right, used brassieres. I wanted to see if anyone would actually look at a used bra; or, even worse, buy one.
To my shock, horror, dismay and amusement, all of my used undergarments sold in the first two hours of the sale! Some mexican lady hauled them all away for about $3.50 or something. It made me wish I had more used bras I could sell. But used bras are a precious commodity, as we all know. They can also come in handy for slingshot-based sports, cheap bungee cords, splitting atoms, hostage gagging situations, and iron smelting.
My ugly clothes sold, too. And some man bought my jeans. These were "Gloria" jeans, and he was holding them up to his hips to see if they'd fit. I guess they would, because he coughed up the 50 cents to take 'em home. Who wakes up in the morning and says, "I'm gonna cruise the yard sales and see if I can find me some used women's jeans."
Well, tomorrow, we will find out. I will try to document as much as my sunburned mind will allow me to recall. Wish us luck. Especially this year, as we try going the "used granny panties" route.
Kidding.
Maybe.
Thursday, October 23, 2003
In Subway today, at the table behind us, there was a little kid and his Mom eating lunch. The kid looked about three or four.
Anyway, he was talking so much. Just talking and talking and talking. But the best thing he said was this:
"Mom, this is how a super-fast sandwich moves towards your mouth!" And then he repeatedly jammed his sandwich against his mouth, his eyes squinted up and his teeth bared, as mayonaisse and bread went everywhere on his lower face.
I so wanted to copy him! But that's when the cops usually show up, for me.
Anyway, he was talking so much. Just talking and talking and talking. But the best thing he said was this:
"Mom, this is how a super-fast sandwich moves towards your mouth!" And then he repeatedly jammed his sandwich against his mouth, his eyes squinted up and his teeth bared, as mayonaisse and bread went everywhere on his lower face.
I so wanted to copy him! But that's when the cops usually show up, for me.
As I was driving into work this morning, there was a guy standing on the side of the road facing the traffic. He was probably about mid-forties by my estimation, because he held himself like a young scrappy guy, but his skin was very tanned and cracked-looking, making his face look older when you got closer. Anyway, he stood there waving the traffic on. That's all he was doing: directing the traffic to keep driving. There was no accident ahead; no obstructions in the road; he was not wearing a road crew vest or anything... nope, he was just waving people to keep driving past.
I felt glad on some level that I was able to follow his directions. It probably made him happy that the cars kept moving on this busy street. He must have felt partly responsible for all of us getting to work on time. Good for him.
I felt glad on some level that I was able to follow his directions. It probably made him happy that the cars kept moving on this busy street. He must have felt partly responsible for all of us getting to work on time. Good for him.
Wednesday, October 22, 2003
Last night I watched Bowling for Columbine: good movie. And then, today I am doing an interview with a bus owner for the magazine and the guy starts talking about all the "what ifs" he is afraid of; such as little kids carrying guns onto the bus in their backpacks for school trips and shooting everyone on the bus, or someone slipping into the garage while a bus is being repaired and putting an explosive underneath it. Culture of fear. I couldn't stop thinking about the movie while I was talking to this dude.
Allow me to talk a little now about comics.
Lately I have been all about the X-Men. I have been staying up to watch X-Men Evolutions on Cartoon Network (except last night I missed it). I recently only just figured out who Wanda is: Magneto's daughter. Cool. Tom has been doing the comic book store runs these days and stocking up on some cool shit. Here's some recommendations of good comics to read:
* Y: The Last Man. Really very good stuff. It's a Vertigo title, so of course it's a no brainer that I would love it. Vertigo does the schweetest comics ever (like Sandman and Preacher) so if you're not into superhero stuff, Vertigo is a good place to start because it's always more about the characters and story. Anyway, YTLM is about a virus that kills every living thing on the planet that carries a Y chromosome, so it's speculative about what the world would be like with only females. And I like this story because the women aren't all peace-loving and calm about things: there's all sorts of uprisings and trouble everywhere, with some very violent women on the rampage. The comic follows the one guy who seems to have been immune to the virus and his pet monkey. I highly recommend this one!
* Blood and Water: A vampire comic with some twists. I haven't read much of it yet since it's sort of new, but it seems pretty good.
* 1602: OK, this is VERY fun 8-part series. It's basically a "what if" story; what if the X-Men were alive during the Spanish Inquisition? Neil Gaiman is the writer, so it's not cheesy or corny. Peter Parker also makes an appearance, showing a strong interest in spiders on a pub table. There's no sign of Wolverine or any of the more man-made mutants but it's really fun to see how Gaiman is melding the Marvel universe to actual history. The names are all different, slightly, but it's fun figuring out which character is which... character.
Also do your best to try to catch all the "Fray" comics that came out from Dark Horse this past couple of years. In case you don't know what it is, it's from Joss Whedon, who is the guy behind Buffy the Vampire Slayer... Fray follows a slayer in the distant future. I heard there may be more Fray comics in the future, which would be very nice to see happen.
Whew... I have been wanting to geek out on the comics on here for awhile now. That felt good. And now you all know who I really am. Heh.
Allow me to talk a little now about comics.
Lately I have been all about the X-Men. I have been staying up to watch X-Men Evolutions on Cartoon Network (except last night I missed it). I recently only just figured out who Wanda is: Magneto's daughter. Cool. Tom has been doing the comic book store runs these days and stocking up on some cool shit. Here's some recommendations of good comics to read:
* Y: The Last Man. Really very good stuff. It's a Vertigo title, so of course it's a no brainer that I would love it. Vertigo does the schweetest comics ever (like Sandman and Preacher) so if you're not into superhero stuff, Vertigo is a good place to start because it's always more about the characters and story. Anyway, YTLM is about a virus that kills every living thing on the planet that carries a Y chromosome, so it's speculative about what the world would be like with only females. And I like this story because the women aren't all peace-loving and calm about things: there's all sorts of uprisings and trouble everywhere, with some very violent women on the rampage. The comic follows the one guy who seems to have been immune to the virus and his pet monkey. I highly recommend this one!
* Blood and Water: A vampire comic with some twists. I haven't read much of it yet since it's sort of new, but it seems pretty good.
* 1602: OK, this is VERY fun 8-part series. It's basically a "what if" story; what if the X-Men were alive during the Spanish Inquisition? Neil Gaiman is the writer, so it's not cheesy or corny. Peter Parker also makes an appearance, showing a strong interest in spiders on a pub table. There's no sign of Wolverine or any of the more man-made mutants but it's really fun to see how Gaiman is melding the Marvel universe to actual history. The names are all different, slightly, but it's fun figuring out which character is which... character.
Also do your best to try to catch all the "Fray" comics that came out from Dark Horse this past couple of years. In case you don't know what it is, it's from Joss Whedon, who is the guy behind Buffy the Vampire Slayer... Fray follows a slayer in the distant future. I heard there may be more Fray comics in the future, which would be very nice to see happen.
Whew... I have been wanting to geek out on the comics on here for awhile now. That felt good. And now you all know who I really am. Heh.
Tuesday, October 21, 2003
I am making a public appeal to my sister: write in your blog soon! I know for a fact you gots stuff to talk about these days.
Last night we had a great time making up some stuff for a possible comedy routine. (Add that to the list of projects we talk about doing but hardly ever actually do) It had to do with sorority sisters and it was damn funny stuff. You all should have been there.
We also made fun of actor Brian Krause, who was the star of the runaway hit "Sleepwalkers" and is now on Charmed with Alyssa Milano and her new ugly-ass man haircut.
Yes, it was a grand time. Now, schwester, please write about something! I can't take this boredom anymore. Need to read stuff, soon.
Last night we had a great time making up some stuff for a possible comedy routine. (Add that to the list of projects we talk about doing but hardly ever actually do) It had to do with sorority sisters and it was damn funny stuff. You all should have been there.
We also made fun of actor Brian Krause, who was the star of the runaway hit "Sleepwalkers" and is now on Charmed with Alyssa Milano and her new ugly-ass man haircut.
Yes, it was a grand time. Now, schwester, please write about something! I can't take this boredom anymore. Need to read stuff, soon.
It's OK. I'm with the band.
Today during a random e-mail I remembered I was once a band dork. And I thought to myself, "Self, I bet people would like to know your viewpoint of the band dork experience." So without further ado, I will give you the facts, straight up:
Fact: I joined the Middletown HS North marching band in 1991.
Fact: I was in the color guard (meaning, I spun flags around)
Fact: I wore a heavy, ill-fitting band uniform that I carried around in a blue garment bag like a badge of honor.
Fact: I, like the other color guard members, had to french braid my hair and tuck the bottom under with bobby pins before we attached a huge corsage-looking flower arrangement thing to the backs of our heads, all as part of the uniform.
Fact: I attended band camp.
Fact: I suffered a color-guard-related injury.
Fact: I opted not to return to color guard duties once I got wind of the "hideous new uniforms" they were going to switch to the next year. (Also, a crush on a band dork had died down by that point.)
So that's the basics. In truth, being in the school marching band was fun. I make no pretenses of being hip, cool, with-it or bad-ass. I am just a little geek at the end of the day. So deciding to try out for color guard was a no-brainer and I certainly wasn't worried about not being "cool" all the sudden. Besides, my friends were doin' it, and we had other friends that were instrument-playing band dorks, and we could go to all the football games with free transportation this way... so in the summer of '91 Karen and I tried out. And we made the cut.
It was extremely satisfying to be given a long metal shaft... um, flag pole, yeah, flag pole!... with a shiny flag attached and being told you could swing it all over the goddamn place. I remember practicing my flag spins in the backyard and getting quite good at it. At band camp, they gave us plots of the halftime show we were going to perform (that year it was the award winning "Phantom of the Opera," mighty hot stuff) and we spent several days and weeks walking through our places on the field and how we were supposed to move on the beats.
We even had a "Phantom" and a "Christine" (the dame that the Phantom stalks mercilessly) that ran around amongst the band and flagits during the half time show out on the field. It was supposed to add something to the show. I sure hope it did. I never saw them, really. I was too busy trying not to hurt anyone with my large metal shaft.
Here's what you need to have in order to be a "flagit":
* Be able to count to 4, and 8.
* Be able to "mark time" and walk in line with everyone else
* Good hand-eye coordination
* Smile
* An attitude that everything in the Disney store at the mall is "so cute"
* Be willing and ready to kill a man
I made a lot of friends among the flagits. We laughed, we cried, we froze to death out in the bleachers. Seriously, I think that quiet girl, the one with the teeth, what-was-her-name, is still underneath the bleachers dead at Piscataway high school.
Best of all, we got to take our sweet little halftime show to Giants stadium for a band competition. Which, suffice to say, we won. There were even celebratory windbreakers proclaiming us the "CMBC Champions 1991" in the school colors of black and orange. I only just gave mine away to Goodwill back in January. (I think I always thought a day would come where I'd feel a certain chill in the air, and I'd think, "Hmm, it's cold, but not cold enough for a jacket, yet it's too cold for just a light sweater, and there is a chance of drizzling rain... wait, I know! Where's that CMBC Champions 1991 windbreaker! THAT'S what I need!") Because we won the Cadet Marching Band Cooperative championship, we were invited to perform a halftime show at a Giants game. And on the day we did our show, who was standing on the sidelines giving some commentary during the half-time show... none other than OJ Simpson himself (pre-murders). I can now brag to my grandchildren (dogs) that I once was only about 10 feet away from OJ Simpson (pre-murders).
But, like all carefree playthings of youth, I had to put the flags aside and concentrate on other pursuits, come winter. My crush on a boy in the band had waned, so there was no need to infiltrate the secret marching society any longer. Besides, we heard that the following year's show was going to be to the music of "Beauty and the Beast" and we'd be forced to give up the traditional uniforms for one that included blue shiny leotards (I DO NOT wear leotards) and yellow bows in our hair, and we knew the flagits were not in our future for 1992-93.
Plus, there was the final crushing blow, so to speak. It was winter, 1991. Pep rally. Which had been moved inside to the "old gym" due to inclimate weather. During the pep rally, the band played a song and we were to do our flag routine in straight lines, due to space constraints of the old gym (which was very old). So there we are, performing our routine in a hot, crowded gym, face to face with the bored faces of the entire school, when at a key moment in the routine, Christine Thomas brought her flag pole down right on top of my skull, causing me to drop my flag and look around, confused. Half the gym burst out laughing (the other half weren't watching anyway, they were too busy cutting LSD tabs and writing notes) at my misfortune. And at that moment, I decided I didn't need this humiliation anymore. I wanted to be cutting LSD tabs, too. So that was the end for ole' Lisa.
Senior year was all about the Women's Chorale, but that's a story for another day.
Today during a random e-mail I remembered I was once a band dork. And I thought to myself, "Self, I bet people would like to know your viewpoint of the band dork experience." So without further ado, I will give you the facts, straight up:
Fact: I joined the Middletown HS North marching band in 1991.
Fact: I was in the color guard (meaning, I spun flags around)
Fact: I wore a heavy, ill-fitting band uniform that I carried around in a blue garment bag like a badge of honor.
Fact: I, like the other color guard members, had to french braid my hair and tuck the bottom under with bobby pins before we attached a huge corsage-looking flower arrangement thing to the backs of our heads, all as part of the uniform.
Fact: I attended band camp.
Fact: I suffered a color-guard-related injury.
Fact: I opted not to return to color guard duties once I got wind of the "hideous new uniforms" they were going to switch to the next year. (Also, a crush on a band dork had died down by that point.)
So that's the basics. In truth, being in the school marching band was fun. I make no pretenses of being hip, cool, with-it or bad-ass. I am just a little geek at the end of the day. So deciding to try out for color guard was a no-brainer and I certainly wasn't worried about not being "cool" all the sudden. Besides, my friends were doin' it, and we had other friends that were instrument-playing band dorks, and we could go to all the football games with free transportation this way... so in the summer of '91 Karen and I tried out. And we made the cut.
It was extremely satisfying to be given a long metal shaft... um, flag pole, yeah, flag pole!... with a shiny flag attached and being told you could swing it all over the goddamn place. I remember practicing my flag spins in the backyard and getting quite good at it. At band camp, they gave us plots of the halftime show we were going to perform (that year it was the award winning "Phantom of the Opera," mighty hot stuff) and we spent several days and weeks walking through our places on the field and how we were supposed to move on the beats.
We even had a "Phantom" and a "Christine" (the dame that the Phantom stalks mercilessly) that ran around amongst the band and flagits during the half time show out on the field. It was supposed to add something to the show. I sure hope it did. I never saw them, really. I was too busy trying not to hurt anyone with my large metal shaft.
Here's what you need to have in order to be a "flagit":
* Be able to count to 4, and 8.
* Be able to "mark time" and walk in line with everyone else
* Good hand-eye coordination
* Smile
* An attitude that everything in the Disney store at the mall is "so cute"
* Be willing and ready to kill a man
I made a lot of friends among the flagits. We laughed, we cried, we froze to death out in the bleachers. Seriously, I think that quiet girl, the one with the teeth, what-was-her-name, is still underneath the bleachers dead at Piscataway high school.
Best of all, we got to take our sweet little halftime show to Giants stadium for a band competition. Which, suffice to say, we won. There were even celebratory windbreakers proclaiming us the "CMBC Champions 1991" in the school colors of black and orange. I only just gave mine away to Goodwill back in January. (I think I always thought a day would come where I'd feel a certain chill in the air, and I'd think, "Hmm, it's cold, but not cold enough for a jacket, yet it's too cold for just a light sweater, and there is a chance of drizzling rain... wait, I know! Where's that CMBC Champions 1991 windbreaker! THAT'S what I need!") Because we won the Cadet Marching Band Cooperative championship, we were invited to perform a halftime show at a Giants game. And on the day we did our show, who was standing on the sidelines giving some commentary during the half-time show... none other than OJ Simpson himself (pre-murders). I can now brag to my grandchildren (dogs) that I once was only about 10 feet away from OJ Simpson (pre-murders).
But, like all carefree playthings of youth, I had to put the flags aside and concentrate on other pursuits, come winter. My crush on a boy in the band had waned, so there was no need to infiltrate the secret marching society any longer. Besides, we heard that the following year's show was going to be to the music of "Beauty and the Beast" and we'd be forced to give up the traditional uniforms for one that included blue shiny leotards (I DO NOT wear leotards) and yellow bows in our hair, and we knew the flagits were not in our future for 1992-93.
Plus, there was the final crushing blow, so to speak. It was winter, 1991. Pep rally. Which had been moved inside to the "old gym" due to inclimate weather. During the pep rally, the band played a song and we were to do our flag routine in straight lines, due to space constraints of the old gym (which was very old). So there we are, performing our routine in a hot, crowded gym, face to face with the bored faces of the entire school, when at a key moment in the routine, Christine Thomas brought her flag pole down right on top of my skull, causing me to drop my flag and look around, confused. Half the gym burst out laughing (the other half weren't watching anyway, they were too busy cutting LSD tabs and writing notes) at my misfortune. And at that moment, I decided I didn't need this humiliation anymore. I wanted to be cutting LSD tabs, too. So that was the end for ole' Lisa.
Senior year was all about the Women's Chorale, but that's a story for another day.
Monday, October 20, 2003
A simple plan.
I spent the weekend cleaning up my various messes around the house. And I am not finished yet. There are still piles of junk and other crap lying about. I am determined to organize it all and live a simpler, neater life. Why is it that organizing and downsizing feels like it should improve your life? Kind of like a Zen thing. I don't know. It's funny. But either way, I am looking for a more streamlined, less-cluttered existence so I can spend time on creative things easier. Right now, if I wanted to paint, I would have to first dig out my paints and brushes, find where I stashed my canvasses (canvasi?) and then clear off a place either on the table or the back porch where I could paint. But if I were neater, I could just pull that out and start paintin'. Well, that's the idea, anyway.
I am just a schlep. I realize this. I buy Total and Special K cereal because it's healthy, but switch it out every few days for a sugared cereal. I make a concerted effort to always use my blinkers, even in a one-way-only turning lane, but sometimes have to jam on my brakes because I am daydreaming as I drive and not totally always paying attention. I work in an office with white walls and gray carpeting, and my desk is boring gray. Yet I hang up the random colorful picture (or in my case, Bill Murray's picture) to lighten the mood and inject personality. I make feeble attempts. I try.
Speaking of being ordinary, I actually went to Target the other night and thought for the hundreth time: "They really have nice stuff in here!" I am a sucker for the cheap consumerism machine that panders to the masses. And the kicker is, I really don't mind. They have some really nice stuff in there! You should see the cute lamp I bought, it's so 'different'! Really.
I spent the weekend cleaning up my various messes around the house. And I am not finished yet. There are still piles of junk and other crap lying about. I am determined to organize it all and live a simpler, neater life. Why is it that organizing and downsizing feels like it should improve your life? Kind of like a Zen thing. I don't know. It's funny. But either way, I am looking for a more streamlined, less-cluttered existence so I can spend time on creative things easier. Right now, if I wanted to paint, I would have to first dig out my paints and brushes, find where I stashed my canvasses (canvasi?) and then clear off a place either on the table or the back porch where I could paint. But if I were neater, I could just pull that out and start paintin'. Well, that's the idea, anyway.
I am just a schlep. I realize this. I buy Total and Special K cereal because it's healthy, but switch it out every few days for a sugared cereal. I make a concerted effort to always use my blinkers, even in a one-way-only turning lane, but sometimes have to jam on my brakes because I am daydreaming as I drive and not totally always paying attention. I work in an office with white walls and gray carpeting, and my desk is boring gray. Yet I hang up the random colorful picture (or in my case, Bill Murray's picture) to lighten the mood and inject personality. I make feeble attempts. I try.
Speaking of being ordinary, I actually went to Target the other night and thought for the hundreth time: "They really have nice stuff in here!" I am a sucker for the cheap consumerism machine that panders to the masses. And the kicker is, I really don't mind. They have some really nice stuff in there! You should see the cute lamp I bought, it's so 'different'! Really.
Friday, October 17, 2003
Tom gave me sublingual B-12 tablets. Right now I have one under my tongue that is still in the throes of dissolving. The funny thing is, I first placed it there at 7:45, and now it's 9:03. Shouldn't it have broken down by now? Most of it is gone, but there's still a little nub in there.
Maybe I have a mouth that is a harsh environment for vitamins; perhaps my saliva is chemically different than other people's saliva. Maybe I can't break down things with it. Any scientists who are reading this, take note: you cannot trap me in, say, a leg trap, and then harvest my spit for research into cancer cures. I won't abide by that. Simply ask me nicely-- I might share some of my spit with you, neatly and civilized-like, by spitting into a cup for you. No need to turn to violence, all right? Good.
Maybe I have a mouth that is a harsh environment for vitamins; perhaps my saliva is chemically different than other people's saliva. Maybe I can't break down things with it. Any scientists who are reading this, take note: you cannot trap me in, say, a leg trap, and then harvest my spit for research into cancer cures. I won't abide by that. Simply ask me nicely-- I might share some of my spit with you, neatly and civilized-like, by spitting into a cup for you. No need to turn to violence, all right? Good.
Thursday, October 16, 2003
If I was a cartoon, I think my character would be named Bloaty McBloatbelly. That's because I am getting to that age where I start to complain about "bloat."
What is bloat? I know, scientifically-speaking, it's water-retention. But does it really make that much of a difference? Can people visibly notice the bloat, or is it all in the eye of the bloat-ee? I always wonder that. Because when people say, "Oh, I am so bloated today," I look at them and think to myself, "Well, damn, she doesn't look any different than all the other days I see her." I always think this.
Anyway, today I feel like I have a case of the bloats. But I think I can track the reason. I ate a bowl of something yummy called Lasagna in a Bowl today for lunch. Then I had soda. I feel like my stomach looks about four months' preggers, but I know if I asked anyone they would say, "Oh, you look fine." Because either a)bloat doesn't really show or b) "they" are liars.
My cartoon would have me saving kittens from fires, and prying open elevator doors (even when people aren't trapped). The theme song would be something like this:
"Ole' Bloaty McBloatbelly/ she will save the day
Bloaty McBloatbelly/ look out, she's on the way!
She always has an answer
Can always lend a hand
But watch out for her bloated belly
It's the largest in the land!"
A superhero who saves the innocent, and those that maybe don't openly "want" to be saved. The catch is she has an enormous bloated belly. I have a feeling this will be very big in Japan. And if not there, probably some other market like Finland would do the trick.
I honestly wish right now I had some brownies. Anyone got a brownie? Preferably with frosting? Mmmmm. Must. Complete. Bloat. Cycle.
What is bloat? I know, scientifically-speaking, it's water-retention. But does it really make that much of a difference? Can people visibly notice the bloat, or is it all in the eye of the bloat-ee? I always wonder that. Because when people say, "Oh, I am so bloated today," I look at them and think to myself, "Well, damn, she doesn't look any different than all the other days I see her." I always think this.
Anyway, today I feel like I have a case of the bloats. But I think I can track the reason. I ate a bowl of something yummy called Lasagna in a Bowl today for lunch. Then I had soda. I feel like my stomach looks about four months' preggers, but I know if I asked anyone they would say, "Oh, you look fine." Because either a)bloat doesn't really show or b) "they" are liars.
My cartoon would have me saving kittens from fires, and prying open elevator doors (even when people aren't trapped). The theme song would be something like this:
"Ole' Bloaty McBloatbelly/ she will save the day
Bloaty McBloatbelly/ look out, she's on the way!
She always has an answer
Can always lend a hand
But watch out for her bloated belly
It's the largest in the land!"
A superhero who saves the innocent, and those that maybe don't openly "want" to be saved. The catch is she has an enormous bloated belly. I have a feeling this will be very big in Japan. And if not there, probably some other market like Finland would do the trick.
I honestly wish right now I had some brownies. Anyone got a brownie? Preferably with frosting? Mmmmm. Must. Complete. Bloat. Cycle.
I just called my dad at work. During our conversation he said he doesn't really listen to music anymore. A few minutes later, I distinctly heard Dido's new single playing in the background, just ringing out in his shop. It was so loud I could even make out the words.
I just never fancied my father a fan of Dido.*
Huh.
(* denotes unnecesary usage of alliteration. Please accept my apologies)
I just never fancied my father a fan of Dido.*
Huh.
(* denotes unnecesary usage of alliteration. Please accept my apologies)
Wednesday, October 15, 2003
While I hadn't intended to have so many mentions of Germans in my blog-- this last week I have talked about the Deutsch a lot, I realize-- I need to bring up one more thing I came across today: the Heil Hitler dog.
In summary, a German man has trained his dog, who happens to be named Adolf, to give the Nazi salute. Here's a picture.
Well, um, what can you really say about this? Not only is it "wildly inappropriate," it's just wrong. Really wrong. Say this man comes to an untimely end, Adolf-style. Which is likely, because who really likes the neo-Nazis these days, right? Now the dog will have to go to a shelter. Guaranteed-- a dog that "shakes paws" or "rolls over" is going to be a lot more appealing to adopters than one that "gives the salute." So this guy is limiting his dog's career options, as well. Which is not fair.
I have to wonder something, though: do you think that maybe the spirit of Hitler has gotten trapped inside this dog? If you believe in reincarnation, it could have happened. About a year ago, we went on a little road trip to San Diego and while at Sea-World, Tricia and Kane started talking about "the Hitler Manatee." Basically, they speculated on what would happen if Hitler had been sucked into a cosmic whirlwind of torment and punishment, and at some point it was decided to reincarnated into a harmless, adorable manatee. For, as a manatee, he would be forced to keep his evil silent as he floated along languidly just below the surface, too heavy and slow to do much of anything but be a manatee, swimming. Inside his head, all you could hear would be his evil thoughts and lots of loud, screaming German. But as a manatee, what could he really do with all his evil thoughts? Nothing. That's why it's a perfect torment.
The Hitler Manatee was, quite possibly, living at the Sea World in San Diego last year. We watched one manatee slowly eating cabbage leaves and turning slowly on its fat back, and we knew that the cute, chubby exterior was a possible front for pure evil.
In summary, a German man has trained his dog, who happens to be named Adolf, to give the Nazi salute. Here's a picture.
Well, um, what can you really say about this? Not only is it "wildly inappropriate," it's just wrong. Really wrong. Say this man comes to an untimely end, Adolf-style. Which is likely, because who really likes the neo-Nazis these days, right? Now the dog will have to go to a shelter. Guaranteed-- a dog that "shakes paws" or "rolls over" is going to be a lot more appealing to adopters than one that "gives the salute." So this guy is limiting his dog's career options, as well. Which is not fair.
I have to wonder something, though: do you think that maybe the spirit of Hitler has gotten trapped inside this dog? If you believe in reincarnation, it could have happened. About a year ago, we went on a little road trip to San Diego and while at Sea-World, Tricia and Kane started talking about "the Hitler Manatee." Basically, they speculated on what would happen if Hitler had been sucked into a cosmic whirlwind of torment and punishment, and at some point it was decided to reincarnated into a harmless, adorable manatee. For, as a manatee, he would be forced to keep his evil silent as he floated along languidly just below the surface, too heavy and slow to do much of anything but be a manatee, swimming. Inside his head, all you could hear would be his evil thoughts and lots of loud, screaming German. But as a manatee, what could he really do with all his evil thoughts? Nothing. That's why it's a perfect torment.
The Hitler Manatee was, quite possibly, living at the Sea World in San Diego last year. We watched one manatee slowly eating cabbage leaves and turning slowly on its fat back, and we knew that the cute, chubby exterior was a possible front for pure evil.
Tuesday, October 14, 2003
I had the pleasure of an hour-long conversation with my Oma last night. (If you're not hip to the German lingo, "Oma" means Grandmother. Bling! There ya are, you learned someffing today!) I ended up grabbing a pen and paper and writing down some of the things she said so I could blog about them today, because it was Comic AU all around.
Some of the more interesting snippets included:
*She tells me she brings a radio to bed with her every night, and listens to the radio through her headphones, but she cannot put the headphones on her ears since they "bother her." So, she wears them on her face. "What I do is wear them on my face," she said.
*She has a problem with sugar these days. It makes some condition flare up. (This is probably related to her mysterious sleeping-fits she would fall into after eating sugar. Once, she took Trish and I to see a movie and ate some of our Sweetarts, and then she passed out and snored all the way through "The Little Mermaid.") But she was kind enough to offer me up this very important bit of advice. PLEASE take note of this...
"Stay away from diabetes."
I didn't have the heart to tell her I was sort of dabbling in diabetes these days. I don't think she knows just how hard it can be to stay away from something as tempting as diabetes. And sometimes, diabetes just sees me from across the street and calls to me. Next thing you know, diabetes is running over to me to say hello and asking if I want to go to that open-mic night down at coffeehouse, since diabetes and cyrrhosis will be playing some new songs they wrote. Diabetes can be very persuasive at times.
* In telling me a story about a man who fell asleep smoking pot in bed, she used some very colorful language regarding "cooking." Here's her version of the story (which is a true story):
This man was smoking pot, fell asleep in bed, and a fire started. He had taken the batteries out of the smoke detector "no one knows why he did that, maybe he had another use for the batteries," and he died. Meanwhile, his roommates came home and "smelled something cooking, so they checked the kitchen but there was nothing." So they finally thought to check on this guy upstairs, and they found the room in flames and he was dead. And presumably, he was the source of the cooking-smell.
It gets even worse. I'd better quote her directly for this part. "When the firemen came and tried to pull him out of there, they pulled and he was so cooked his legs came off."
WONDERFUL. All I needed on a nice, relaxing Monday night was to hear my Oma tell me about a man's legs "coming off" because he was "cooked." Yeah, my older family members are always a comfort.
As soon as I finally got her off the phone, I called my sister immediately to share the advice (especially the "stay away from diabetes" thing; I have been suspecting she is getting sucked into diabetes' glamorous lure). She ends up getting the best follow-up to the "cooked" guy story:
"No, Oma, he wasn't cooked... he was BAKED, man." --Trish, laughing maniacally at about 10pm on a weeknight, with the sound of cats meowing in the background.
Some of the more interesting snippets included:
*She tells me she brings a radio to bed with her every night, and listens to the radio through her headphones, but she cannot put the headphones on her ears since they "bother her." So, she wears them on her face. "What I do is wear them on my face," she said.
*She has a problem with sugar these days. It makes some condition flare up. (This is probably related to her mysterious sleeping-fits she would fall into after eating sugar. Once, she took Trish and I to see a movie and ate some of our Sweetarts, and then she passed out and snored all the way through "The Little Mermaid.") But she was kind enough to offer me up this very important bit of advice. PLEASE take note of this...
"Stay away from diabetes."
I didn't have the heart to tell her I was sort of dabbling in diabetes these days. I don't think she knows just how hard it can be to stay away from something as tempting as diabetes. And sometimes, diabetes just sees me from across the street and calls to me. Next thing you know, diabetes is running over to me to say hello and asking if I want to go to that open-mic night down at coffeehouse, since diabetes and cyrrhosis will be playing some new songs they wrote. Diabetes can be very persuasive at times.
* In telling me a story about a man who fell asleep smoking pot in bed, she used some very colorful language regarding "cooking." Here's her version of the story (which is a true story):
This man was smoking pot, fell asleep in bed, and a fire started. He had taken the batteries out of the smoke detector "no one knows why he did that, maybe he had another use for the batteries," and he died. Meanwhile, his roommates came home and "smelled something cooking, so they checked the kitchen but there was nothing." So they finally thought to check on this guy upstairs, and they found the room in flames and he was dead. And presumably, he was the source of the cooking-smell.
It gets even worse. I'd better quote her directly for this part. "When the firemen came and tried to pull him out of there, they pulled and he was so cooked his legs came off."
WONDERFUL. All I needed on a nice, relaxing Monday night was to hear my Oma tell me about a man's legs "coming off" because he was "cooked." Yeah, my older family members are always a comfort.
As soon as I finally got her off the phone, I called my sister immediately to share the advice (especially the "stay away from diabetes" thing; I have been suspecting she is getting sucked into diabetes' glamorous lure). She ends up getting the best follow-up to the "cooked" guy story:
"No, Oma, he wasn't cooked... he was BAKED, man." --Trish, laughing maniacally at about 10pm on a weeknight, with the sound of cats meowing in the background.
Monday, October 13, 2003
I did it again, I went to Wal-Mart the other day and purchased more stuff I didn't really need, but somehow or other, it seemed like a fantastic idea at the time, so I bought it and AHHH! Now I have stuff.
OK, so I bought new sheets, and I love them. Leopard print, and some red pillowcases. Very swank. Wowee. But I also bought a new CD for myself, and it's one that I decided all the sudden that I absolutely had to have, no question.
It's Queen+, Greatest Hits III. It opens with a live version of "The Show Must Go On" with Elton John singin' his head off. There are all these other songs I admit I never heard before, like the one that I am listening to right now: "Driven by You." It had cheesy guitars and a dumb beat. I don't like it much. "Everything we do, everything we do, is driven by YOU!"
Oh, now it's breaking down and talking about children losing their way, and life without the elusive "you" "just won't do." Now I am ears-deep in a guitar solo.
I am thinking this song would be great in my movie. In my movie, there would be a little old man who works as a ball washer at a bowling alley. He is in love with the whorey old ex-women's-prison-guard who runs the shoe counter. This song comes on one night while he is having a training sequence with one of the guys who works the snack bar; training, of course, in the ways of the sexy bowler. He wants to impress the bitch. Well, this song would be gold in a scene like that. At the end of the scene, the guy has a massive coronary and the strains of the song would sound fantastic over the vision of him slumping down along the ball return. The shoe counter bitch would light a cigarette, and say over the PA system, "Hey, Louie, get that old guy off the floor, we got customers comin' in, Christ!" What a great movie this would be. And would you believe I only JUST made it up. This movie will go into pre-production soon with Joanna Kerns as the shoe counter bitch.
Thanks Queen. And now, you are giving me some horrendous piano solo on "Living on My Own." It's gonna be a productive Monday here. I love Queen.
Late breaking addition to this post: Right now I am on Track #14, which is a remix of "Another One Bites the Dust" with Wyclef Jean cutting in and saying, "Freddie Mercury, where you at?" It is the best EVER. I am smiling like a prince of the universe over this. I can't recommend this fine crap enough to all y'all.
OK, so I bought new sheets, and I love them. Leopard print, and some red pillowcases. Very swank. Wowee. But I also bought a new CD for myself, and it's one that I decided all the sudden that I absolutely had to have, no question.
It's Queen+, Greatest Hits III. It opens with a live version of "The Show Must Go On" with Elton John singin' his head off. There are all these other songs I admit I never heard before, like the one that I am listening to right now: "Driven by You." It had cheesy guitars and a dumb beat. I don't like it much. "Everything we do, everything we do, is driven by YOU!"
Oh, now it's breaking down and talking about children losing their way, and life without the elusive "you" "just won't do." Now I am ears-deep in a guitar solo.
I am thinking this song would be great in my movie. In my movie, there would be a little old man who works as a ball washer at a bowling alley. He is in love with the whorey old ex-women's-prison-guard who runs the shoe counter. This song comes on one night while he is having a training sequence with one of the guys who works the snack bar; training, of course, in the ways of the sexy bowler. He wants to impress the bitch. Well, this song would be gold in a scene like that. At the end of the scene, the guy has a massive coronary and the strains of the song would sound fantastic over the vision of him slumping down along the ball return. The shoe counter bitch would light a cigarette, and say over the PA system, "Hey, Louie, get that old guy off the floor, we got customers comin' in, Christ!" What a great movie this would be. And would you believe I only JUST made it up. This movie will go into pre-production soon with Joanna Kerns as the shoe counter bitch.
Thanks Queen. And now, you are giving me some horrendous piano solo on "Living on My Own." It's gonna be a productive Monday here. I love Queen.
Late breaking addition to this post: Right now I am on Track #14, which is a remix of "Another One Bites the Dust" with Wyclef Jean cutting in and saying, "Freddie Mercury, where you at?" It is the best EVER. I am smiling like a prince of the universe over this. I can't recommend this fine crap enough to all y'all.
Sunday, October 12, 2003
This has been a good weekend for watching movies. I finally got to see "Underworld" yesterday, and on Friday night it was the big one, "Lost in Translation."
I want to recommend Lost in Translation to everyone reading this (all 2 o' yous). I really liked the sweet, innocent way the story was told... and the best part was it was told heavily without dialogue. So much was said through the direction and the strength of the actors. And Bill Murray is still one of the greatest ever. Think about him for a second... is he ever in the tabloids? Does he seem to make a big show of the fact that he happens to work in a place called Hollywood? Plus, can any actor right now say so much with just a limp stare? Tom and I were wondering how it is that we could be cracking up so hard at him posing with a glass of vodka; but if it were some other actor, say, Jim Carrey, attempting the same thing, we wouldn't laugh. Bill Murray is just intrinsically a funny guy. There is something about him that, even when he is just sitting there, you want to smile.
I keep a framed picture of him in my office. It's him in Stripes mode, pointing a finger right at me all day long. It's really the only picture I will always have in my workspace-- I decided that a couple years ago, when I got laid off at another company and when I went back to clean out my desk, I looked up and saw Bill on my wall, I smiled and pictured how cool it would be to hang him up over a new desk somewhere else. Maybe I am a little crazy or something, but it really helps me get through the day when I can look up and see Bill Murray's wry face there.
Oh, and Underworld was good too. But it wasn't good enough to make me go apeshit. Not like when I saw the Crow about--what, 10 years ago already? I liked some parts of the story, and I appreciated the art direction... but I couldn't help but feel how forced-Goth it was at times. Why is it that vampires always have to live in big mansions decorated with lots of ornate mahoghany furniture, and wear lots of lace chokers, bodices and sparkles? And why, in these movies, is it constantly raining with massive amounts of lightning?
The good news is, the Sweeping Black Duster Jacket market is still going healthy, thanks to the crews making the Matrix movies and things like this movie.
Damn. I really wanted to like this one more. I am always a sucker for the goth stuff, for things that are comic book-y in nature and sci-fi-ish. But since Lost in Translation was such a fantastic coup for me this weekend, I am not complaining. I will take Bill Murray in an inside-out orange and red camo rave shirt over vampire-guy with sequined shirt lapels any day of the goddamn week.
Unless it's the second Tuesday of the month. Crap, second Tuesdays are all about sequined lapels.
I want to recommend Lost in Translation to everyone reading this (all 2 o' yous). I really liked the sweet, innocent way the story was told... and the best part was it was told heavily without dialogue. So much was said through the direction and the strength of the actors. And Bill Murray is still one of the greatest ever. Think about him for a second... is he ever in the tabloids? Does he seem to make a big show of the fact that he happens to work in a place called Hollywood? Plus, can any actor right now say so much with just a limp stare? Tom and I were wondering how it is that we could be cracking up so hard at him posing with a glass of vodka; but if it were some other actor, say, Jim Carrey, attempting the same thing, we wouldn't laugh. Bill Murray is just intrinsically a funny guy. There is something about him that, even when he is just sitting there, you want to smile.
I keep a framed picture of him in my office. It's him in Stripes mode, pointing a finger right at me all day long. It's really the only picture I will always have in my workspace-- I decided that a couple years ago, when I got laid off at another company and when I went back to clean out my desk, I looked up and saw Bill on my wall, I smiled and pictured how cool it would be to hang him up over a new desk somewhere else. Maybe I am a little crazy or something, but it really helps me get through the day when I can look up and see Bill Murray's wry face there.
Oh, and Underworld was good too. But it wasn't good enough to make me go apeshit. Not like when I saw the Crow about--what, 10 years ago already? I liked some parts of the story, and I appreciated the art direction... but I couldn't help but feel how forced-Goth it was at times. Why is it that vampires always have to live in big mansions decorated with lots of ornate mahoghany furniture, and wear lots of lace chokers, bodices and sparkles? And why, in these movies, is it constantly raining with massive amounts of lightning?
The good news is, the Sweeping Black Duster Jacket market is still going healthy, thanks to the crews making the Matrix movies and things like this movie.
Damn. I really wanted to like this one more. I am always a sucker for the goth stuff, for things that are comic book-y in nature and sci-fi-ish. But since Lost in Translation was such a fantastic coup for me this weekend, I am not complaining. I will take Bill Murray in an inside-out orange and red camo rave shirt over vampire-guy with sequined shirt lapels any day of the goddamn week.
Unless it's the second Tuesday of the month. Crap, second Tuesdays are all about sequined lapels.
Friday, October 10, 2003
I like to watch the "Walk/Don't Walk" signs when I am sitting at a light, waiting for it to turn. I usually count the blinks as the hand flashes... waiting to see how many blinks before it turns to a solid hand. In my 'research' I have concluded that the average number of hand-blinks is 11. This is on a four-lane intersection. For six or more lanes, the number climbs to 13 at average (about 9 being low, 15 being the all-time record.)
So does this make me some sort of savant? Or does everyone else count the blinks, too?
It can be supremely helpful to know the number of blinks at certain intersections as you are driving. You can always know when the light's gonna change. I have never run a red light out of necessity. (I run red lights for the sheer JOY of it! It's a colorful way to add a little excitement to fellow drivers' days, in a Dukes of Hazzard kind of way.)
My favorite moment is when that last blink comes and then it suddenly turns solid. The hand, when it is finished with letting you cross, gets very serious and stern-looking. And I have noticed it is almost always red, which I feel is a color you don't mess around with. It's like the hand is saying, "OK, come on... come on... I invite you to cross...hurry now...hurry...NO! I AM NOT FUCKING AROUND! STAY WHERE YOU ARE!"
So does this make me some sort of savant? Or does everyone else count the blinks, too?
It can be supremely helpful to know the number of blinks at certain intersections as you are driving. You can always know when the light's gonna change. I have never run a red light out of necessity. (I run red lights for the sheer JOY of it! It's a colorful way to add a little excitement to fellow drivers' days, in a Dukes of Hazzard kind of way.)
My favorite moment is when that last blink comes and then it suddenly turns solid. The hand, when it is finished with letting you cross, gets very serious and stern-looking. And I have noticed it is almost always red, which I feel is a color you don't mess around with. It's like the hand is saying, "OK, come on... come on... I invite you to cross...hurry now...hurry...NO! I AM NOT FUCKING AROUND! STAY WHERE YOU ARE!"
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)