This makes me cry:
And this makes me angry:
This makes me cry:
And this makes me angry:
Some thoughts, in no particular order:
In one of my many Conversations With Myself this morning,** I used the word “prerogative,” which lead me to wonder how many people were able to correctly use this word prior to Bobby Brown’s 1988 release of Don’t Be Cruel. Or, I continued to wonder, am I just horribly misunderestimating the vocabulary of the English-speaking world?
** To clarify: this is an “all the fucking time” thing, not just a “this morning” thing.
I had a flashback (also this morning) of a phone conversation between my mother and one of her ninety sisters. In said flashback, mom was trying to determine the diagnostic criteria of an injury she believed had befallen me, and was calling Sister No. 12 to verify. This memory makes me happy, not because said injury ultimately resulted in surgery*** but because little things like this are–at least for my mother’s half of the gene pool–one of the best parts of being a family.
This memory lead me to wonder what sorts of phone conversations I’d have with my own brother in the future, and the conjecture became increasingly fuzzy. The majority of our current conversating revolves around the obscure pop culture references we both share, our unique tastes in music, and our joint, overwhelming, awkwardness. Basically, we live in a giant Insider bubble that no one really “gets” but us.
My last text to Brother: “Few can rock the steel drum solo like the hollies”
So in Future Land, when my hypothetical children are suffering from mysterious ailments (likely caused by their mother’s unintentional neglect: “Mommy doesn’t know how to cook meat properly. Just eat some more rice”), will I call on my brother for help? Likely not. Were I to be desperate enough to seek his advice, I imagine the conversation would run something like this:
Julie: Hey, Brother, I think little Jojo broke his toe, but I’m not sure.
Brother: Jojo was a man from Tuscon, Arizona…
Julie: Haha, yes! (singing) “Bought some California grass…”
Brother: Get back, Jojo!
Julie: For some reason that song makes me think of Jumpin’ Jack Flash
Brother: It’s a gas, gas, gas
Julie: I hate that word. I’m glad no one uses it anymore.
Brother: I need to bring that word back.
Julie: Please don’t
(Heard in the background: “Mommy, Jojo’s toe fell off”
Julie: Aw, shit.
***Though I did get to miss school AND got a new pair of pants (in a somewhat unrelated, but somewhat intriguing story) out of it
As endearingly-irritating as his voice can sometimes be, I fucking love James Blunt. No other album gives me goosebumps the way Back to Bedlam does. Yes, I love the music, but I have such strong, positive memories associated with the album that the overwhelming feeling I get whenever I hear it is damn near surreal. This is my holy music. I cannot describe why.
Please listen to the Velvet Underground’s “Stephanie Says” and tell me what it means (or listen to “Caroline Says (II)” and tell me what that one means, for that matter).
Or then again, don’t. I think I’m okay with my wide-eyed naivete here.
I don’t really have much to say–been kinda busy lately, and business during the day leads to laziness during the nighttime–but I had to share a quick comment with my imaginary audience before it escaped me.
First, check out this article from Yahoo! on NOLA’s rebuilding efforts post-Katrina:
Then, in case you didn’t happen to catch the source of my particular bemused ire, go ahead and take a re-read at the eighth paragraph in. Hell, I’ll even quote it for you here:
“This wall here wasn’t there when we had the flood,” Stanford said, radiant in a bright kanga-style dress. “When I look at it now, I say maybe if we had had it up it there then, maybe we wouldn’t have flooded.”
Since when does the AP have a fashion beat? Radiant? Really? Really, Cain Burdeau–If That Is Really Is Your Real Name? Seems Cain hasn’t quite gotten his portfolio together for Elle yet. Soon, Cain, soon. Keep squeezing descriptions like that into your wire stories and soon you’ll be at the top of the bottomest heap in Fashion Reporting.
This actually wasn’t my first sarcastic thought. I originally labelled Cain Burdeau some kind of condescending racist. Was he so taken aback by this black woman’s clothing that he felt the need to take special care to describe it for the readers? There’s a photo accompanying the story; isn’t that enough description? Perhaps his mom wasn’t the kanga-style-dress-wearing type. When Cain Burdeau interviews a white dude, does he say “Smith said, dapper in his Ralph Lauren pleated khakis**”?
Pointless, I know, but this is the sort of thing that unnecessarily riles me up (having my cable go out on the one day I have free time to watch television also riles me up, but I suppose I’ll let it slide. For now).
In an effort to continue the stream-of-consciousness style I’ve worked so little to perfect, I just received a call on my cell phone (ring tone: Stephanie Says–see? It’s not that random of a segue!). Some dude who sounded suspiciously like Colonel Sanders (not that I’ve ever heard the Colonel speak, this is just the type of thing my imagination naturally fills in for me) accused me of calling his phone earlier in the day. I’m sorry, Mr. Sanders, I was probably asleep when you received that call. Please go eat some Original Recipe and kindly leave me alone.
Sigh. My life is so hard. I’m like a salmon swimming upstream in a Sea of Stupidity.
**I guess I kinda doubt that Ralph Lauren makes pleated anything. I think that might not be ‘in’ any longer.