So pretty much every morning without fail, I wake up in my new bedroom at 7:30AM. Don't be shocked, I've been doing this for a while now, and I attribute it to the fact that I'm getting older. The habit of rising earlier and earlier is a genetic defect in my family that I've come to accept. My Nana, who is 92 years old in April, gets up now at 4:30AM. Based on these facts, we can do the math and figure that I will get up about 3 minutes, 10 seconds earlier every year that I'm alive. Going to bed later makes no difference; I can go to bed, and often do, somewhere between 2 and 3AM, and still get up at 7:30. It's one of many tortures I must endure.
So for the last week or so, at this early hour, I've been privy to some very interesting goings-on just outside my window. It starts as a low bellow, and increases in pitch, until I think it may be a crying baby. But then, the unmistakable cat yowl, and I realize in an instant what's going on. Some hussy is in heat! And boy is she sluttin' it up. She's been at it every morning for a week. Thank goodness I'm already up and about; the racket would certainly piss me off otherwise. Now, I just think it's funny. At least someone around here is gettin' some. Cat ho!
I want to go to IKEA and get some shelving. Right now. I need shelving. But I can't leave now. Two things prevent me from driving around at certain hours since I've been living in this oasis: Parking and Traffic. Leaving at 5PM adds an extra hour or two of being stranded on roadway. And did I mention I had no radio? Yeah. Then, coming back, well.. since I don't have the old permanent parking sticker yet, my options are limited. 3 o'clock seems to be the magic hour for parking. Before that, you're golden. After? You're on Sinatra... enjoy the walk. And watch out for the slutty cats.
Damn, I need shelving.
Monday, February 27, 2006
Thursday, February 23, 2006
Don't stop believin'.
So the other night I was invited to a party. It was either go to the party or eat paint chips. As appealing as eating paint chips may sound, I opted for the fun time. And so I went. Horatio Sanz was there. He was wearing Nikes. Ted Leo was there with his wife. I didn't get a look at his shoes. But I am pretty sure they weren't Nikes.
I've been to a lot of parties recently with the following formula: much drinking. Lots of super-cool scenesters. A bar. And The Super-Fun-Time-Karaoke Band! Karaoke? You heard me. Not only is it karaoke, it is karaoke on a stage. With a mic stand and, yes, a back-up band. You'd think it would be weird and awful and nobody would do it. Well, you'd be surprised what a few drinks can stir up.
So about halfway through the night, Mr. and Mrs. Leo got up to do their own little version of Journey's "Don't Stop Believing." It started with Mrs. Leo all off-key and just going for it, more like a sustained yell than actual real singing. She sang the first verse. They both went for the chorus, then he picked up the second verse, and so on. They were stomping and jumping around and dancing together like children, singing to each other and laughing and just having the best time. What was important wasn't that it was, oh, TED LEO on stage singing karaoke. What got me all choked up (really) was that here were two people, obviously really in love, having a great time together. I felt like this was a special moment. I'd really forgotten what it was like to be in love and have so much fun, and I became unexpectedly optimistic. This 'thing' does exist after all.
People have been asking me, what is it I'm looking for in a mate? And I'm thinking, geez isn't it a little soon to be asking me that? I mean my arms are still sore from moving fer cryin out loud. Well. Seeing Mr. and Mrs. Leo at least got me to start thinking in broad strokes. What I am looking for in a mate: someone I can be childlike with and laugh with and sing ironic songs on stage with. I mean, that's the important stuff, right? All the bills and the work and the chores and the family obligations are standard fare; we're all pretty much equally miserable with all that drudgery. But if you can find someone to LAUGH with and ENJOY life with, that's the trick, isn't it?
Anyway, on a lighter note, someone sent me an email about some marzipan babies.
Of course it's a hoax (they're actually resin), but I wonder at what point someone said, "Hey, wouldn't it be FUNNY if we sent out an email to everyone in our address books, with these pictures, and said they were actually MARZIPAN?! HA! HA! How funny would THAT be, Beatrice?"
"Oh, Constance, I would piss my pants! Let's do it before our tea water boils!"
When I opened the e-mail thinking they were marzipan, and even though I can't stand marzipan, I just wanted to chop down on em. Eat them babies. Too bad they are resin. I was going to give them as birthday gifts to everyone I know.
I've been to a lot of parties recently with the following formula: much drinking. Lots of super-cool scenesters. A bar. And The Super-Fun-Time-Karaoke Band! Karaoke? You heard me. Not only is it karaoke, it is karaoke on a stage. With a mic stand and, yes, a back-up band. You'd think it would be weird and awful and nobody would do it. Well, you'd be surprised what a few drinks can stir up.
So about halfway through the night, Mr. and Mrs. Leo got up to do their own little version of Journey's "Don't Stop Believing." It started with Mrs. Leo all off-key and just going for it, more like a sustained yell than actual real singing. She sang the first verse. They both went for the chorus, then he picked up the second verse, and so on. They were stomping and jumping around and dancing together like children, singing to each other and laughing and just having the best time. What was important wasn't that it was, oh, TED LEO on stage singing karaoke. What got me all choked up (really) was that here were two people, obviously really in love, having a great time together. I felt like this was a special moment. I'd really forgotten what it was like to be in love and have so much fun, and I became unexpectedly optimistic. This 'thing' does exist after all.
People have been asking me, what is it I'm looking for in a mate? And I'm thinking, geez isn't it a little soon to be asking me that? I mean my arms are still sore from moving fer cryin out loud. Well. Seeing Mr. and Mrs. Leo at least got me to start thinking in broad strokes. What I am looking for in a mate: someone I can be childlike with and laugh with and sing ironic songs on stage with. I mean, that's the important stuff, right? All the bills and the work and the chores and the family obligations are standard fare; we're all pretty much equally miserable with all that drudgery. But if you can find someone to LAUGH with and ENJOY life with, that's the trick, isn't it?
Anyway, on a lighter note, someone sent me an email about some marzipan babies.
Of course it's a hoax (they're actually resin), but I wonder at what point someone said, "Hey, wouldn't it be FUNNY if we sent out an email to everyone in our address books, with these pictures, and said they were actually MARZIPAN?! HA! HA! How funny would THAT be, Beatrice?""Oh, Constance, I would piss my pants! Let's do it before our tea water boils!"
When I opened the e-mail thinking they were marzipan, and even though I can't stand marzipan, I just wanted to chop down on em. Eat them babies. Too bad they are resin. I was going to give them as birthday gifts to everyone I know.
Thursday, February 16, 2006
The little truck that could.
A couple of years ago, my dear friend Charles gave me his pick-up truck. Yes, he gave it to me. For free.
I went to his house in Teaneck to pick it up in January of 2004. We had some laughs, watched some TV, ate some pizza. He said adieu to his little truck and plopped the keys in my palm.
"Wow, I'm actually gonna miss that thing," he said, wiping a single droplet of sadness from his cheek.
We looked over at his new ride, the BAND VAN. The band vand was hovering at the end of the driveway like a bully, waiting impatiently to grab the spot the little truck was about vacate. It was huge and white and menacing and had some things his little truck did not. Air conditioning. Automatic transmission. A radio. A smooth ride. Comfort. Though it had these things, which by the way are pretty standard these days, it could not claim what the little truck DID have. Character. Lots and lots of character. This is what my sad friend was saying goodbye to. Goodbye to the old man who sold it to him, goodbye to the ex-girlfriend who found it, goodbye to the moldy rug on the floor, goodbye to the crooked bed, goodbye to the missing bumper. I told him to shut up and just move so I could pull out of the driveway already. And as I was pulling out, the little truck stalled.
"Gee, that's never happened before!" Says Charles.
On the way home from Teaneck to Rutherford, I pulled into a gas station on Route 17. I turned off the engine. I filled 'er up. I paid the nice gas man. I turned the key.
Rar-rar-rar-ar-ar [click].
Rar-rar-rar-rar [click].
Raar-raaaaar-raaaaaar...... [dead].
And then it started to snow.
Five hours later, I pulled into my own driveway. In Rutherford. From Teaneck. Normally a 20 minute ride. I discovered three things that night:
1. If an owner tells you a vehicle has "character," it is most likely because they went through some shit together, and now have a special bond. Buyer beware: you will also go through shit together. Thank goodness my husband was really good at fixing vehicles. In 20 degrees.
2. A vehicle without a radio really SUCKS.
3. A rear-wheel drive light pick-up truck with manual transmission is awfully fun in the snow. Oh yes, there were donuts in parking lots.
Since that fateful night two years ago, I have had many different shops work on it. I bought a bumper that won't fit. I took out the moldy rug. I peeled off the old WDHA stickers. I washed it. I considered painting it acid pink. Just because. All of this while trying to discover the elusive "emissions problem." I learned something else: no matter how much you wash a vehicle, now matter how nice it smells or how shiny it is, you can still fail inspection. My little truck failed pretty much on a bi-monthly basis. "Free" eventually racked up a tab of close to $1000.
Well, now that certain situations have come up which require my own transportation, I have renewed my quest for the evasive inspection sticker.
Ring. Ring.
"Hello, Joey?"
"Uhhh... who's this? Who sent you?"
"Mikey B. from the Porsche shop over on McBride."
"Come over now. $150."
I went over right then and there. And by golly, a few hours later, my little truck had a PASSING inspection sticker on it! Good for two years!
Joey: "Get it out of here before I lose my license."
I laughed. He didn't.
The drive home was exhilarating. This is MY little truck. My little truck that defeated the odds. My little truck that passed inspection. Everyone told me it would be dead by now. "The front end is unsafe," they said. "It shouldn't even be running right now," they said. "It will never pass inspection," they said. Well.
Here is my little truck, and it has lots and lots of character.
Vroom vroom.
I went to his house in Teaneck to pick it up in January of 2004. We had some laughs, watched some TV, ate some pizza. He said adieu to his little truck and plopped the keys in my palm.
"Wow, I'm actually gonna miss that thing," he said, wiping a single droplet of sadness from his cheek.
We looked over at his new ride, the BAND VAN. The band vand was hovering at the end of the driveway like a bully, waiting impatiently to grab the spot the little truck was about vacate. It was huge and white and menacing and had some things his little truck did not. Air conditioning. Automatic transmission. A radio. A smooth ride. Comfort. Though it had these things, which by the way are pretty standard these days, it could not claim what the little truck DID have. Character. Lots and lots of character. This is what my sad friend was saying goodbye to. Goodbye to the old man who sold it to him, goodbye to the ex-girlfriend who found it, goodbye to the moldy rug on the floor, goodbye to the crooked bed, goodbye to the missing bumper. I told him to shut up and just move so I could pull out of the driveway already. And as I was pulling out, the little truck stalled.
"Gee, that's never happened before!" Says Charles.
On the way home from Teaneck to Rutherford, I pulled into a gas station on Route 17. I turned off the engine. I filled 'er up. I paid the nice gas man. I turned the key.
Rar-rar-rar-ar-ar [click].
Rar-rar-rar-rar [click].
Raar-raaaaar-raaaaaar...... [dead].
And then it started to snow.
Five hours later, I pulled into my own driveway. In Rutherford. From Teaneck. Normally a 20 minute ride. I discovered three things that night:
1. If an owner tells you a vehicle has "character," it is most likely because they went through some shit together, and now have a special bond. Buyer beware: you will also go through shit together. Thank goodness my husband was really good at fixing vehicles. In 20 degrees.
2. A vehicle without a radio really SUCKS.
3. A rear-wheel drive light pick-up truck with manual transmission is awfully fun in the snow. Oh yes, there were donuts in parking lots.
Since that fateful night two years ago, I have had many different shops work on it. I bought a bumper that won't fit. I took out the moldy rug. I peeled off the old WDHA stickers. I washed it. I considered painting it acid pink. Just because. All of this while trying to discover the elusive "emissions problem." I learned something else: no matter how much you wash a vehicle, now matter how nice it smells or how shiny it is, you can still fail inspection. My little truck failed pretty much on a bi-monthly basis. "Free" eventually racked up a tab of close to $1000.
Well, now that certain situations have come up which require my own transportation, I have renewed my quest for the evasive inspection sticker.
Ring. Ring.
"Hello, Joey?"
"Uhhh... who's this? Who sent you?"
"Mikey B. from the Porsche shop over on McBride."
"Come over now. $150."
I went over right then and there. And by golly, a few hours later, my little truck had a PASSING inspection sticker on it! Good for two years!
Joey: "Get it out of here before I lose my license."
I laughed. He didn't.
The drive home was exhilarating. This is MY little truck. My little truck that defeated the odds. My little truck that passed inspection. Everyone told me it would be dead by now. "The front end is unsafe," they said. "It shouldn't even be running right now," they said. "It will never pass inspection," they said. Well.
Here is my little truck, and it has lots and lots of character.
Vroom vroom.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
The requisite valentine's day (post).
This is my requisite Valentine's Day post. When did I become so freaking jaded? I clearly need an attitude adjustment. And a good stiff one. A drink, that is.
Valentine's Day, as we all know, is the day of love. Out of all the 364.25 days of the year, this is the ONE day that people are required to show their love for one another. This expression of deep, meaningful love usually takes the form of the $8.49 red rose bouquet, complete with cellophane and paper wrapping (available at your local mom'n'pop convenience store). It may also take the form of the famous Russell Stover heart-shaped chocolate collection, of which only one or two pieces are actually edible (available at your local CVS). Usually, with one of the above, comes a ridiculously oversized card that leaves a mess of red glitter all over the lap of the unfortunate recipient.
I grew up in a card-retarded family, meaning we never, under any circumstances, bought stupid cards for one another. Well, maybe for Mom's or Dad's birthday. And let me tell you, finding a card for Dad's birthday is no easy task. They are ALL ill-humored and stupid beyond belief, reminding Dad that getting old SUCKS, and that he is, in fact, getting old (and therefore, sucks??). These cards usually close their witty ageist ramblings with the words "Oh Well! Have a Great One Anyway!" Blech.
Cards generally have no meaning to me. You want to impress me? Write me a real letter. On real paper. With a real pen. Now, THAT's impressive. THAT's romance. And I love love love it.
Way back in the second grade, we would buy boxes of Valentine's notecards, which one would fill out (in crayon, preferrably) and give to classmates on this most holiest of love-days. The cards had some appropriately juvenile image on it with a coordinating catchphrase. Think "I Choo Choo Choose You!" and you've got it. Filling it out was simple. There were lines with instructions beneath. Just like Mad Libs. _______From_________, _________To________. And that's pretty much it.
We were all at a point where we were starting to figure out who the popular kids were, like a pack of puppies who play around to single out potential Alphas. The future cheerleaders and quaterback-wanna-bes would collect a heap of cards, while the kid in the corner with the snaggletooth would get none. I always felt bad for the kid with the snaggletooth (or the bad clothes, or the cowlick, or whatever other stupid unique thing they had that resulted in their ostracism), so I would fill out some anonymous cards and drop them off at their desks when no one was looking. (Heck, I felt bad, but I still had to protect my fragile rep!) I'd usually collect the minimum acceptable standard amount of cards myself, so I was generally satisfied, but I was really disgusted by the whole process and would literally watch some of the kids cry because they didn't get a note from so-and-so, or because they only got one (anonymous) card. Oof.
This is where I can pinpoint my first experiences with my disgust in Valentine's Day, and I wonder how over-the-top a holiday has to be before people start to seriously look at a holiday recall.
First of all, any so-called "holiday," for which buying something material is a requirement, should be called into question at once. (I could cite Christmas as well, but that's a whole other ball of wax, for another post, at some other time.) Seriously. Let's look at this. It is a day of love. Love can be shared poetically, sexually, verbally. Materially??? I don't think so. Unless you are a gold-digging whorey vapid bimbo who is incapable of love. To whom I say you are devoid of deepness. And to whom this post does not apply, since for you, Valentine's Day is not about love. Dare I say it! It's all about loot from Tiffany & Co. I said it.
Secondly, any so-called "holiday," for which participation has a dating requirement, should be written off. Immediately. How many ill-conceived couples stretched their futile relationships just to avoid the awkwardness of the VD breakup? How many people agonized over the minimum acceptable length of time to stay together afterward? How many people abstained from hooking up entirely during this time to avoid the awkward "what the hell do I DO with this person on Valentine's Day" conundrum? And what of the FWPs? A whole other complication altogether. By definition, these are FRIENDS (With Privileges), so there should be NO gift-giving or acknowledgement of any kind. However, I wonder how many FWPs felt a sense of loss because their f-buddy didn't come through with anything. Not that anything is ever expected. But you know, some people get these fleeting romantic notions that FWPs are actually MTFWPs (More Than Friends....), which of course, is never the case.
Are the gifts one receives on this day that great? Does anyone seriously think that if they get a crappy box of chocolates on the very same damn day that everyone else is getting the same crappy box of chocolates, their love is super-duper special?
I am calling for a recall of Valentine's Day, and instead implore all the couples of the world to demonstrate their love for one another in more personal ways throughout the year. Everyone should choose their own special date and make it their own personal "Valentine's Day." Why should VD have to be on February 14th for everyone? In addition, I wish to recommend a self-love day, where everyone is required to take themselves out, buy themselves chocolate and treat themselves to some Tiffany & Co loot. Why should couples have all the fun?
Of course, I say this completely jaded and in a mess of my own. So this is all to be taken with a grain of salt. I am normally a huge mush. Some days I really love that people can love one another. And by golly, if some dolt has to have it pre-printed on a calendar, then who am I to say that it's all wrong?
Oh what the hell do I know?
"What's your name?"
"Lysa"
"I am pointing to my..."
"Nose."
"What's in my hands?"
"Nothing."
Valentine's Day, as we all know, is the day of love. Out of all the 364.25 days of the year, this is the ONE day that people are required to show their love for one another. This expression of deep, meaningful love usually takes the form of the $8.49 red rose bouquet, complete with cellophane and paper wrapping (available at your local mom'n'pop convenience store). It may also take the form of the famous Russell Stover heart-shaped chocolate collection, of which only one or two pieces are actually edible (available at your local CVS). Usually, with one of the above, comes a ridiculously oversized card that leaves a mess of red glitter all over the lap of the unfortunate recipient.
I grew up in a card-retarded family, meaning we never, under any circumstances, bought stupid cards for one another. Well, maybe for Mom's or Dad's birthday. And let me tell you, finding a card for Dad's birthday is no easy task. They are ALL ill-humored and stupid beyond belief, reminding Dad that getting old SUCKS, and that he is, in fact, getting old (and therefore, sucks??). These cards usually close their witty ageist ramblings with the words "Oh Well! Have a Great One Anyway!" Blech.
Cards generally have no meaning to me. You want to impress me? Write me a real letter. On real paper. With a real pen. Now, THAT's impressive. THAT's romance. And I love love love it.
Way back in the second grade, we would buy boxes of Valentine's notecards, which one would fill out (in crayon, preferrably) and give to classmates on this most holiest of love-days. The cards had some appropriately juvenile image on it with a coordinating catchphrase. Think "I Choo Choo Choose You!" and you've got it. Filling it out was simple. There were lines with instructions beneath. Just like Mad Libs. _______From_________, _________To________. And that's pretty much it. We were all at a point where we were starting to figure out who the popular kids were, like a pack of puppies who play around to single out potential Alphas. The future cheerleaders and quaterback-wanna-bes would collect a heap of cards, while the kid in the corner with the snaggletooth would get none. I always felt bad for the kid with the snaggletooth (or the bad clothes, or the cowlick, or whatever other stupid unique thing they had that resulted in their ostracism), so I would fill out some anonymous cards and drop them off at their desks when no one was looking. (Heck, I felt bad, but I still had to protect my fragile rep!) I'd usually collect the minimum acceptable standard amount of cards myself, so I was generally satisfied, but I was really disgusted by the whole process and would literally watch some of the kids cry because they didn't get a note from so-and-so, or because they only got one (anonymous) card. Oof.
This is where I can pinpoint my first experiences with my disgust in Valentine's Day, and I wonder how over-the-top a holiday has to be before people start to seriously look at a holiday recall.
First of all, any so-called "holiday," for which buying something material is a requirement, should be called into question at once. (I could cite Christmas as well, but that's a whole other ball of wax, for another post, at some other time.) Seriously. Let's look at this. It is a day of love. Love can be shared poetically, sexually, verbally. Materially??? I don't think so. Unless you are a gold-digging whorey vapid bimbo who is incapable of love. To whom I say you are devoid of deepness. And to whom this post does not apply, since for you, Valentine's Day is not about love. Dare I say it! It's all about loot from Tiffany & Co. I said it.
Secondly, any so-called "holiday," for which participation has a dating requirement, should be written off. Immediately. How many ill-conceived couples stretched their futile relationships just to avoid the awkwardness of the VD breakup? How many people agonized over the minimum acceptable length of time to stay together afterward? How many people abstained from hooking up entirely during this time to avoid the awkward "what the hell do I DO with this person on Valentine's Day" conundrum? And what of the FWPs? A whole other complication altogether. By definition, these are FRIENDS (With Privileges), so there should be NO gift-giving or acknowledgement of any kind. However, I wonder how many FWPs felt a sense of loss because their f-buddy didn't come through with anything. Not that anything is ever expected. But you know, some people get these fleeting romantic notions that FWPs are actually MTFWPs (More Than Friends....), which of course, is never the case.
Are the gifts one receives on this day that great? Does anyone seriously think that if they get a crappy box of chocolates on the very same damn day that everyone else is getting the same crappy box of chocolates, their love is super-duper special?
I am calling for a recall of Valentine's Day, and instead implore all the couples of the world to demonstrate their love for one another in more personal ways throughout the year. Everyone should choose their own special date and make it their own personal "Valentine's Day." Why should VD have to be on February 14th for everyone? In addition, I wish to recommend a self-love day, where everyone is required to take themselves out, buy themselves chocolate and treat themselves to some Tiffany & Co loot. Why should couples have all the fun?
Of course, I say this completely jaded and in a mess of my own. So this is all to be taken with a grain of salt. I am normally a huge mush. Some days I really love that people can love one another. And by golly, if some dolt has to have it pre-printed on a calendar, then who am I to say that it's all wrong?
Oh what the hell do I know?
"What's your name?"
"Lysa"
"I am pointing to my..."
"Nose."
"What's in my hands?"
"Nothing."
Sunday, February 12, 2006
Number five. With a bullet.
Weird. My last three posts are...GONE. I think this blog has been corrupted. Sigh. Everything I've written. Lost. A friend of mine says I should write more from my heart anyhow, since list-making, though a happy diversion, is just that. A diversion. Not real. Not LIFE. A sad attempt at stolid escapism, in grand "High Fidelity" style. This same certain person has accused me, in essence, of being furtive and deliberate with my words. Well, of course.. This isn't my DIARY after all, is it? Is it? Damn.
So. It's snowing. I mean, it's REALLY snowing. Expecting 24". So excited. Later, I'm going to don every piece of snow gear I own and jump into some snow piles...maybe start a snowball fight with some neighbors. Then, it's off to a local watering hole, where I will be meeting up with some fellow snow fanatics to discuss the day's events over some nice cold ones. Snow has always been very special to me... I feel so happy. I wish it would never stop.
So. It's snowing. I mean, it's REALLY snowing. Expecting 24". So excited. Later, I'm going to don every piece of snow gear I own and jump into some snow piles...maybe start a snowball fight with some neighbors. Then, it's off to a local watering hole, where I will be meeting up with some fellow snow fanatics to discuss the day's events over some nice cold ones. Snow has always been very special to me... I feel so happy. I wish it would never stop.
Friday, February 10, 2006
Forecast.
snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. snow. (and happiness.)
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
Go into a closet and suck eggs.
My train of thought is really bizarre. I was very conscious of this today when I went for the usual afternoon latte. It was about 40 degrees, and gee, we got a whole 4 flakes of snow. So I go into a certain coffee shop, and I notice that the woman ahead of me is wearing a fur coat. I was really suprised; I hadn't seen an actual fur coat in a while. It kinda threw me a little: I forgot that people still wore those things. I mean, when will people get tired of wearing dead animal pelts? Didn't that particular fashion go out of style, like what, 700 years ago? It is something I will just never understand.
So I am looking at the fur coat, thinking the usual "I bet it looked a lot better on its original owner" thoughts, and then I start thinking that it's 40 freaking degrees. And this broad is wearing a full-length, one foot thick pelt, straight out of Eskimo Vogue. Again, I remind you that here in NEW JERSEY, it was, hello, 40 DEGREES. I bet she had to have her A/C going full-blast in her Suburban monster truck to be properly comfortable. Or she could have just not worn it. Really.
So to the train of thought: I'm looking at this putrid deathskin, and suddenly I get a song, just popped into my little noggin. Dead puppies. Dead dead dead dead. Puppies. Dead Puppies aren't much fun. No no no. And before you know it, I'm humming this baby and suddenly I'm really happy. Thinking of Dr. Demento and how much I loved listening to his show on Sundays. How great is this playlist?
In my mind's own radio show, I go to my absolute favorite tune ever played on Dr. Demento, a tune by the very weird Emo Philips, called Downtown Downers Grove. I personally never really liked Emo Philips, thought he had too much shtick, but this song just really cracked me up. It is very similar in attitude to Grandmother's Song (Steve Martin from Let's Get Small), which is a song I loved for many many years before that.
So of course I had to run home and look up all this stuff and have a great time all on my own. (God bless the Internet! I never did acquire any of the Dr. Demento platters.)
Then I went up to IKEA and found the perfect sofa and chair. And I completely forgot about the pelt until just now.
Dead Puppies.
If you wait, the page loads with the actual song. Don't forget to sing-along with the prog-rock church organ ending.
So I am looking at the fur coat, thinking the usual "I bet it looked a lot better on its original owner" thoughts, and then I start thinking that it's 40 freaking degrees. And this broad is wearing a full-length, one foot thick pelt, straight out of Eskimo Vogue. Again, I remind you that here in NEW JERSEY, it was, hello, 40 DEGREES. I bet she had to have her A/C going full-blast in her Suburban monster truck to be properly comfortable. Or she could have just not worn it. Really.
So to the train of thought: I'm looking at this putrid deathskin, and suddenly I get a song, just popped into my little noggin. Dead puppies. Dead dead dead dead. Puppies. Dead Puppies aren't much fun. No no no. And before you know it, I'm humming this baby and suddenly I'm really happy. Thinking of Dr. Demento and how much I loved listening to his show on Sundays. How great is this playlist?
In my mind's own radio show, I go to my absolute favorite tune ever played on Dr. Demento, a tune by the very weird Emo Philips, called Downtown Downers Grove. I personally never really liked Emo Philips, thought he had too much shtick, but this song just really cracked me up. It is very similar in attitude to Grandmother's Song (Steve Martin from Let's Get Small), which is a song I loved for many many years before that.
So of course I had to run home and look up all this stuff and have a great time all on my own. (God bless the Internet! I never did acquire any of the Dr. Demento platters.)
Then I went up to IKEA and found the perfect sofa and chair. And I completely forgot about the pelt until just now.
Dead Puppies.
If you wait, the page loads with the actual song. Don't forget to sing-along with the prog-rock church organ ending.
Monday, February 06, 2006
Snow day?!
I actually saw 4 (count em... FOUR) snow flakes today! I got so excited I decided to change my blog.
Possibilities.
Um. so ok. I suppose this blogger thing is not immune to bugs. I had written a cute little post, prior to the freckles thing, about all the amazing things I'd wanted to do before I'd have kicked. I'll post those again at a later date. They just weren't meant to be seen at this point apparently. I didn't have them all thought out anyhow.
Sunday, February 05, 2006
Four-eyes and freckles.
I walked about 7 miles today. Just because. It was nice. The streets seemed a little empty, and I thought this was odd for a freakish spring-like winter Sunday, until I realized that everyone was inside, probably preparing various dips and kegs of crap beer for the superbowl festivities. Good for me. I get the whole world to myself.
Went to an Apple Store opening yesterday and got there early to secure the free t-shirt that went to the first 1,000 customers. I was really excited about this.
I realized yesterday at the above geekfest, and then confirmed today by my LACK of plans that have anything to do with a ball, that I am a little bit of a nerd. Oh like this is big news. I realized this a looong time ago when I noticed that none of the popular kids had freckles.
I remember a product when I was growing up that was advertised heavily on network television. It was called "Pearl Cream." The commercial featured a, oh I don't know, person who was supposed to be "Asian." In all honesty, this woman might have been Irish for all I knew. The camera had that annoying soft focus thing, and she called the product "Pell Cleem." She had dark hair. And lots of eye makeup. And spoke of the Orient. There were candles everywhere. Apparently, "The Orient" had cornered the market on beauty products (and candles) in the 70's. Well, I was hooked.
"Pell Cleem" could fade age spots. And freckles! And I wanted IN. As my mother wasn't prepared to spend X amount of dollars to correct her daughter's skin condition, I was doomed. Doomed. I tried everything. Babysitting money. Birthday money. Bribery. She was unbreakable. The bitch. I say that lovingly. Really.
Years (and YEARS) later, though my freckles are still with me (and though considerably faded), I am happy to say that I never bought Pell Cleem. And any of that other junk that takes away the crap that makes me who I am. I mean, so WHAT if I had a little reaction to the sun. I can't help it. These are essentially scars. And anyway, aren't scars just another interesting bit to one's self? I say this hopefully, of course. Ever hopeful. I am.
So I put my crooked glasses on my face and keep on typing.
Went to an Apple Store opening yesterday and got there early to secure the free t-shirt that went to the first 1,000 customers. I was really excited about this.
I realized yesterday at the above geekfest, and then confirmed today by my LACK of plans that have anything to do with a ball, that I am a little bit of a nerd. Oh like this is big news. I realized this a looong time ago when I noticed that none of the popular kids had freckles.
I remember a product when I was growing up that was advertised heavily on network television. It was called "Pearl Cream." The commercial featured a, oh I don't know, person who was supposed to be "Asian." In all honesty, this woman might have been Irish for all I knew. The camera had that annoying soft focus thing, and she called the product "Pell Cleem." She had dark hair. And lots of eye makeup. And spoke of the Orient. There were candles everywhere. Apparently, "The Orient" had cornered the market on beauty products (and candles) in the 70's. Well, I was hooked.
"Pell Cleem" could fade age spots. And freckles! And I wanted IN. As my mother wasn't prepared to spend X amount of dollars to correct her daughter's skin condition, I was doomed. Doomed. I tried everything. Babysitting money. Birthday money. Bribery. She was unbreakable. The bitch. I say that lovingly. Really.
Years (and YEARS) later, though my freckles are still with me (and though considerably faded), I am happy to say that I never bought Pell Cleem. And any of that other junk that takes away the crap that makes me who I am. I mean, so WHAT if I had a little reaction to the sun. I can't help it. These are essentially scars. And anyway, aren't scars just another interesting bit to one's self? I say this hopefully, of course. Ever hopeful. I am.
So I put my crooked glasses on my face and keep on typing.
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