The jacked up week continues! Nothing too dramatic, just feeling disorganized and so sleepy. I don't sleep much, which I somehow cope with (I really don't understand how I can function on the amount of sleep that I get and I wonder that if I did somehow solve this and get a full 7 hours of sleep a night I would unlock a bunch of latent energy and brain potential and become Hillary Clinton or Oprah or at least some sort of librarian kingpin or something), but this week Nordic Boy isn't sleeping much either and so between the two of us it is Sad Sack Terziak times (hi weird reference that really doesn't make much sense but I am TIRED leave me alone). Both of us just about cried when our CSA box arrived yesterday because it meant that we didn't have to drag our sorry asses to the grocery store. It's just sort of reached a dumb point.
Anyway, I feel like I should say something about Whitney Houston because what could be more pop culturey than Whitney Houston? I am not feeling particularly cogent this week but I will say that growing up in the 80s means that you were most likely bathed in a Whitney halo at one point or another. I had her first album on tape and tried to squeak along to it as best I could and she was wearing this tangerine chiffon sarong dress on the cover and I just thought she was so freaking elegant. I remember loving all of the songs except the last one, a duet with Teddy Pendergrass. Sorry, Teddy. When I got into high school I was in a rabidly competetive choir (honestly the level of exclusivity and pressure was completely ridick now that I think back on it, but somehow I didn't mind it then) and there was lots of auditioning for stuff. You had to audition with a solo to get in to the dang choir in the first place, and then there were singing tests, and then there was endless auditioning for solos. Any remnant of my being afraid to sing by myself in front of people was blasted to little itty bitty pieces by the end of 10th grade. You're welcome, future karaoke audiences. Anyway, my audition go-to song was "What I Did for Love" from A Chorus Line, because I am a HUGE NERD, but the cooler girls among us always did Whitney songs. Auditions were always open (no singing by yourself just for the teacher, always sing in front of everyone) so we got treated to Whitney wannabes one after another after another. That takes a lot of balls, when you think about it. An audition is about trying to impress, and thinking you have the pipes to belt out a Whitney tune is making quite the statement about what you think you can do.
My all-time favorite Whitney-related memory was when I was in 10th grade. Our spring choir concert was one where you auditioned your favorite pop song, and if you were good enough, you got to sing it with a for-realsies professional band. I didn't audition that year, I don't think (seriously, the auditions just blend together after a while, I'm surprised I wasn't busting out an audition song at my dentist's or whatever), but if I did I didn't make the cut. My not-so-secret crush, who I had code-named Taco (worst crush code name ever), was a senior and one of the stars of the choir. He was also dating one of the female stars of the choir. They had just finished starring in our musical, Guys and Dolls, where we all got to lasciviously watch them make out on stage as Sky and Sarah, which just about KILLED ME, they were so perfect. Anyway, rumor had it that they were going to audition a duet for the spring concert and we were all wondering what it would be. And then they whipped out, and I so love that this was the song they chose, of all songs in the universe: If You Say My Eyes Are Beautiful, by Whitney and Jermaine Jackson.
Can I get a hells yes? Because...just...hells YES.
It's so sappy, so dorky, so not cool. Like, even then it was not cool. Whitney was cool, but that song? Of all songs? OY VEY. I sort of love them so much in retrospect for choosing it and being so balls out about it.
The other weird choice about that song was that Taco-ette (sorry I don't have a code name for her) was an awesome singer, but she was about the least Whitney-ish singer ever. She had more of a Julie Andrews situation going on. A belter she was not. But for her last performance with her man, she wanted Whitney.
I remember the night of the concert, and them singing their song (of course they were one of the last songs of the night, big finale style), and looking at each other, so earnest it sort of hurt to watch it. I remember that the very last note they sang and held, his voice actually cracked a little bit, which never happened to Mr. Perfect, and I wondered if he was getting choked up singing it, or if he just had a bad note for once. I don't really know which it was.
I know I sound like an old fogey, nostalgic for the past, but I can't help it. I loved that dude in a total Jordan Catalano sort of way, just with so much teen fervor in me, and I was so envious of him, and her, and their song, and their uncool ardent cheese. And what I love most about it is that Taco-ette, who had coasted all through high school singing like Belle from Beauty and the Beast mixed with Kathryn Grayson, really actually just wanted to belt it to her man Whitney style when the big moment arrived. And really, who wouldn't want that?
Even when I have what I would consider an extremely relaxing weekend, I get certain things done. Laundry and a meal plan for the week with grocery shopping thrown in are the bare minimum tasks. Bare minimum. My CSA box doesn't get here until Tuesday so I have to at the very least have food for Monday. If I don't get those two things done, my week gets jacked up with not enough clean drawers in my drawers and no lunch ready to go for Monday. The only reason that this would not get done would be some sort of emergency, or going out of town, or my being sick.
There was no emergency, no going out of town, and no illness, but man was there a festival of LAZY going on at my house this weekend. With the exception of three fun out-of-the-house things, I sat on my ass with a remote and a book and a phone and did nothing. I called my mom and dad each day. I drank gallons of tea. I continued my irritating quest to get through more Felicity episodes (I am into Season Two where everyone's hair gets smaller. Noel cuts his hair, Ben cuts his hair, and Felicity not only cuts her hair but she then dates a dude with the exact same haircut that she has). I spent hours making a google map of an imaginary road trip across the country that I have no plans to take. I texted my friends with silly texts. I dozed. I stared out my window with a blanket over my legs like an old timey rich lady who is at the sanatorium.
Although it was quite nice while it was happening, I have more data now that points to the fact that my week will start off shitty if I do that. This is the equivalent of the one-night-stand at this stage in my life. If you have never had a one-night-stand (that term cracks me up, by the way. A stand. I am taking a STAND about it being only one night!), it is emotionally an equivalent feeling. This is an awesome idea (while it's happening) which turns into why the HELL did I do that, stupid, stupid, stupid (after the fact). At least that's how some one night stands go. Others are fine even after the fact, but that doesn't fit in with my metaphor so I am ignoring those kind. Just note that I understand that all one-night-stands or all no-chores-days are bad. Sometimes they are just fine.
On the upside, I did get myself out of the house to go see an exhibit on the art and design of George Nelson, which was fabulous. There was a loud entitled old lady at the exhibit that almost made Biogirl challenge her to a rumble which was almost as entertaining as the exhibit itself. I can't make too much fun of her since I went to a movie that I was so, so, so amped to see (more on that in Consumables) and I sat in front of a lady that was having the most rustle-oriented relationship with her snack food that I have ever heard. I don't know if it was popcorn or she was getting her Milk Dud on, but RUSTLE ME TIMBERS, lady.
So to recap. Me kicking it sanatorium style, having a no-chore-stand, an art exhibit and a movie with etiquette issues at both and that's really about it. I am choosing the "blogging some shite is better than no blogging" approach. You're welcome.
I have so little to say this week, you guys. It's sad. My head is full of work stuff, and work stuff only, and if I talked about it I would get dooced for sure and bore the piss out of you as a freebie bonus.
Instead, let's talk about some consumable items.
After I watched The Green Lantern there was a part of me that didn't want to touch this with a 10-foot-stripper-pole (wow, that's a tall stripper, har har), but this was way better than that. Way, way better. I know that's not saying much, because this was not cinematic genius or anything either, but a cloud of fiery boredom did not engulf me when I watched it. I credit Kenneth Branagh for this. Ringing endorsement, wut wut!
Cave of Forgotten Dreams
Super old cave paintings for two hours! It's more fascinating than it sounds though. However I must say this. Herzog (who totally needs my advice and is also totally reading this, obvs), please stop narrating your own movies. I am not even hating on the accent, believe me. It's the delivery. Not good, man. Not good. Other than that, though, thumbs up. I could have used a lot more interviews of the people who worked with the cave paintings and less Herzog drone that's all.
A community run urban farm rises up out of Los Angeles. Heartwarming! And then a politician, a corrupt activist, and a land owner try to rip that shit up and shut it down. Heartbreaking! You know how there's this idea that one person can make a difference? Like Don Cheadle in Hotel Rwanda. Or Oskar Schindler in Schindler's List. Well, here's a documentary about how one or two people being total jerkfaces can fuck up tons of people.
Ready for me to say something completely pukeworthy? Ready? I totally agree with the review that this movie got in The New Yorker.
Before you find me too pretentious, I have been watching season one of Felicity. The 90s fashion is killing me, people. Killing me. Why was everyone wearing gigantic cloth sacks in the 90s? Were you wearing sacks then? I wasn't. Some of Felicity's sweaters are a heartbeat away from a Gandalf robe, I am not even kidding. Also, it's kind of a rip off of My So-Called Life, at least so far. Speaking of My So-Called Life, how could the Felicity writers do that to Brian Crackow? That's just not natural. And how come every show set in NYC has these people who live in gigantic apartments? Felicity's dorm room is the size of half my house! I think this show speaks to people who were dumb in a very particular way in college. I mean, don't get me wrong, I was dumb in college. Just my brand of dumb was very different than that brand.
Welcome to the Goon Squad, by Jennifer Egan
I liked the short story feel and all the ties between everything- I loved connecting all the threads together. I also like books with recurring metaphors that make me wonder. Like, all the fish imagery. I thought a lot about the fish imagery. And what can I say, I like books about messed up lonely people, and this one had scads of them.
Project Runway All Stars
When Mondo cried this week, I totally cried too. This is a doctor-approved way to tell if one is over-tired.
Serious chocolate and peanut butter moment, putting these two together. Just watch it here: part one and part two. Both worth it.
Have a good weekend, peoples! I shall be hibernating until Monday.
I feel so far away from my blog these days. Anyone even still checking this thing? Blog friends can you hear meeee? (Please sing that in a Barbra-in-Yentl sort of way, if you don't mind).
I have been in one of those spirals where I have been franctically busy for 80% of my time, and so then the remaining 20% I just hide in my house doing nothing but crossword puzzles with my blanket and Jon Stewart. (Not that Jon Stewart is with me under my blanket, but listen, I wouldn't kick him out if he was).
I have been conducting a little scientific experiment this week and it is this. I have been trying to prove that I have a finite amount of brain space, and once that space is used up, I become a complete and total blithering idiot. Ok, so I haven't been trying to prove it, so much as just proving it unintentionally.
First of all, Delium was over for dinner the other day, and he was telling me about this movie shoot that he was on (have I ever mentioned that one of the many things Delium does is be an actor? I feel like I have somehow never mentioned this fact, but that can't be right), and he was going on about how Bubbles was in this movie, and how he got to meet him, and it was so awesome. And the whole time he was talking, I was thinking "Michael Jackson's chimp is still alive? And he is in movies now? And Delium is hanging out with him? WHAT." Yeah, well he was talking about the guy who played Bubbles in The Wire. Which, if you had been there and heard the context of this story, would have been totally clear to you. I was excited about 2 degrees of separation from The Wire, but disappointed about there not being an awesome chimp story.
Brain space- that one wasn't so bad, right? That was earlier this week- Monday. It gets worse.
The next thing that happened was that I was telling Nordic Boy a story, and I wanted to say that I thought a certain thing ever since I was a kid. So, I could have said "Ever since I was a kid..." or I could have said "Since I was a kid..." Either one. But somehow I tried to say it both ways together, and so I said "Since ever since I was a kid," to which Nordic Boy was all "wait, what did you just say? Since ever since?" And I looked at him like he was a nut bucket and said, "UM YEAH. Since ever since I was a kid, I..." And he said, "since ever since? What is that?" And I honestly couldn't process what was wrong with saying it like that. I hereby declare it ok for you to sing "Since ever since you've been gone" whenever that Kelly Clarkson song comes on.
Then, at the end of my work day the other day, just before leaving, I was emailing with two of my friends about having them over for dinner. They have never been to my house before, and so I was typing out my address, and the more I looked at it, the more I was convinced that that wasn't my address. And the more I that I thought that, the more that I couldn't think of what my address really was. Finally, I had to open Google maps, type in what I had written, and map that shit out to see if it matched up where I live. AND IT DIDN'T.
I had to google map my own damn address people. And then it was wrong.
This weekend, you may find me with my blankie and dvr episodes of Jon. If I can figure out where I live and get home ok.
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