Monthly Archives: January 2010

sotd 01.30.10

“Oh Dear” / Brandi Carlile (2009)

this ain’t petticoat junction.

Awesome Album Title of the Day:
I Am Not Afraid Of You and I Will Beat Your Ass (Yo La Tengo, 2006)

sotd 01.29.10

A shout-out to all my snowed-in friends down south:

“Snow Day” / Matt Pond PA (2005)

Jeopardizing your career

NOTE: A very small part of me wants to try to change the timestamp on these posts; I was not actually up at 4:30 am yesterday watching “Safety Dance” on Youtube (though that would make for an interesting story). The majority of me, however, doesn’t actually care. So if you’re reading this, and actually noted the discrepancy (or were worried about my circadian rhythm), tough cookies. Deal.

Wolf Blitzer on celebrity Jeopardy!, or What I Don't Want To Do On The Show

Last night I took a Jeopardy! contestant test-thingie online, and – holy frozen balls of dog shit! It was hard! I changed my mind. I don’t want to be on Jeopardy anymore. I don’t want to be the one chick who finishes the jeopardy round with $100 (or – gasp! – the one who doesn’t make it to final Jeopardy!) How the hell am I supposed to know what town Roger Federer was born in?

Instead I’ve decided to just wait until I’m famous and try for a spot on celebrity Jeopardy, preferably playing against Wolf Blitzer (see pic). The questions are ridiculously easier then, right? And the money goes to charity, which will make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. See? Win – win!

sotd 01.28.10

“Safety Dance” / Men Without Hats (1982)

And just what the hell is this song about?
Nuclear disarmament?
Safe sex?
A big ol’ Fuck You to dance club bouncers?
Read on.

From the variety bin

Apple Mango Tango.
To say that the intoxicating odor of this laundry detergent is like crack to me just cheapens the thrill I receive with each inhalation – to use such a tired cliche does not do any justice for my passion for this scent. Also, the metaphor is not accurate, as Gain doesn’t easily mix with the drain cleaner, which makes forming a decent rock more difficult and harder to smoke. Sniff sniff, hooray indeed.

The iPad.
The name is slightly unfortunate (a Google Images search already includes parodies involving feminine hygiene products), but man alive! It is purty! Forget about the technology gurus and programmers that Apple employs: their design team is PRIMO. Those folks could package and sell¬†actual maxi pads and the public would be flocking to Rite-Aids nationwide. Riots in the aisles of Walgreens… On the parking lot of CVS…

The snowpocalypse

First, y’all DO know that I just blatantly rip this images off from Google, right? The pic at left is titled “Bryant Park Blizzard ’06.” I have no idea where or who Bryant Park is, and I’m far too lazy to figure it out, so we’ll leave it at that.

Anyway, apparently some big “front” is headed “our way” and will bring “shit tons of snow.” I actually live on the far northern edge of said “front,” so I’ll probably see nothing. But according to friends further south, the air is thick ¬†with anticipation. And other chemical pollutants.

that’s money.

I know nothing about money. I (think?) I took some sort of Finance class in high school, where I might have learned about investing or CDs or 401(k)s or the “Stocks Market,” but I sure as shit did not retain any valuable information – other than the fact that I shouldn’t keep my money in a cookie tin on a shelf in my room.*

Fast forward ten years. I am a real, full-fledged “adult” with “accounts” at the “bank.” The cookie tin is long gone, having been replaced years ago by a flimsy fake-plastic-leather looking checkbook and a handful of change gathering lint in the far recesses of my purse. This method of money-collecting seems to be working well. I have no dependents, no mortgages, and I am only peripherally aware of the large chunk of graduate school debt that floats above me, so I see no need to alter my ways (though I am prepared to revert back to the cookie tin method at a moment’s notice. I’ve also been collecting shiny rocks to use in case the barter system makes it way back en vogue).

So imagine my panic when the nice Bank Teller Lady Person asked me the other day if I wanted to open a Money Market** or some such Esoteric Financial Nonsense. My loquacious response? “Uh, pardon?”

“Would you like a personal banker to contact you about setting up an account?”

“Um…no?” I answered with the confidence of a junior high boy asking a girl to a dance.

“Are you sure? We offer fixed term APY APR FDIC low-interest CD rate investments.” (This is a paraphrase, as my brain was melting by this point).

My tizzy was this: Should I be doing things like this with my money? I vaguely remember some lecture on “diversifying your portfolio” in the aforementioned Finance course, but at the time I took that to mean I should include more Lisa Frank folders in my Trapper Keeper. I knew Bank Teller Lady Person was probably trying to earn some kind of commission from me, but I couldn’t help but wonder if I shouldn’t take her up on her offer.

“Well, ok,” was my new response.

“Great!” B.T.L.P. seemed genuinely happy – giddy, almost! – and I realized I might have been the only person to actually take her up on her offer, thus filling me with instant regret.

Since our lovely exchange, I’ve not heard anything from any Personal Bankers, so I think I might be in the clear for now. I’ve done some uber-superficial research on CDs and other forms of investimenting my monies (yay, Wikipedia!), but have come to no solid conclusions other than this:

I need to start looking for a new cookie tin.



*Which is exactly what I had been doing.

**FWIW: a “money market” is not nearly as interesting or appealing as it sounds. I imagined a Christ-like figure walking around, upending tables of currency while screaming “MONEYCHANGERS!” but apparently it’s more of an abstract concept.

sotd 01.26.10

“You’re Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go” / Madeleine Peyroux (2004)

love, love, love.

Edit: I did not realize this was a cover of a Bob Dylan song until yesterday. After hearing Dylan’s version, I can honestly say I enjoy the cover more. There goes my remakes-are-the-worst rule. Again.

Requiem for a dream

Kevin Bacon, who has my cell phone number.

My dreams (as in, while I am sleeping) sometimes take the form of action-adventure movies in which I star. Last night was a superb example, except the details remain fuzzy. All I know is that my brother and I were being tracked by the CIA. We were in possession of something Very Important. This Very Important Object was also of key interest to Mr. Kevin Bacon (yes, that Kevin Bacon). Mr. Bacon was also tracking the two of us, only it seems his intentions were far more benevolent than those of the Central Intelligence Agency, who apparently wanted to blow all three of us up. Mr. Bacon only wanted to make sure that Brother and I were adequately hiding the V.I.O., which we kept referring to as a “boat,” only it looked like a colorful box.

Excellent at tracking boats-that-aren't-boats

The chronology and intensity of the dream seems to lose a bit in the translation, but trust me: it was intense. Apparently, the “boat” held some Real Important Info (or something) because the CIA had dispatched spy satellite to our home. Not, like, hovering over our house – inside of it. Like, floating around our heads. It was quite creepy, to say the least, and made hiding the “boat” quite difficult.

As Brother and I rack our brains for hiding places, Mr. Bacon calls me up (yup, on my cell phone). “Are you okay?” he wants to know. “Be careful! They have eyes everywhere!” Talk about some Oscar-winning dialogue writing there! My subconscious is a genius!

As we run from room to room in the house (which is inexplicably, extraordinarily messy – think “episode of ‘Hoarders’ messy), we are frantic: time is running out! Why are we so rushed? Is the CIA closing in on our location? Is some sort of explosion imminent? No! We must get to 5 o’clock Mass with our parents, who are waiting in the car!

We stash the “boat” in Brother’s closet, behind a Tupperware box, and dash to the car. Just as the garage door is closing, we hear a creepy voice coming from the sky: Target found. Proceeding to location.

Brother and I exchange terrified looks in the backseat of Mom’s SUV. We are doomed.

I awoke with a jolt. This dream was f’ing scary, man! Stop laughing! The CIA was going to get us! Even Kevin Bacon could not save us!

Too old for sorori-hos!

After I finally calmed down enough to fall back asleep (in my half-conscious state I was convinced this dream was some sort of foreshadowing of doom), I dreamed that I was working backstage at some sort of university-sponsored show featuring Jared Leto. He wasn’t singing, he was – I don’t know? Performing selected scenes from Fight Club? – and I was the stage manager or something. Just as I was about to convince him to quit flirting with a bunch of sorority girls hovering around his dressing room and make out with me, I woke up.

That’s all I got.