the sloppy copy

Fun to sing, particularly in the shower. Ahem. Anyway…

“Spanish Harlem” / Ben E. King (1961)

This is exciting: polls, y’all!
In a thinly-disguised try at engaging my reader(s?), I’m taking baby steps (click it! Click the link!) in order to make this site more interactive; logic would dictate that I need feedback in order to do so.
I can sit here and type out inane babbly-babble all damn day, but the point of doing so is a bit muddled when no one actually reads the stuff. So, uh, what do you want to read? Tell me.
I’ll be taking the poll down in a few days.
Much obliged!

Vote early. Vote often. Vote here.

It took me a looong time to recognize the double entendre in the name of the Ryan Reynolds movie “Waiting.” Like (probably?) most people, I didn’t take time to dissect the theme or any motifs of this particular flick, and instead just spent most of the 94 minutes alternating between gagging and rolling my eyes.

But, of course, the “waiting” of the title is of the deeper, more melancholy variety. This motley crew of ragamuffin restaurant grunts are basically floating along on an existential undercurrent of ennui. Just what, exactly are they waiting for? And what’s stopping them from taking a step forward to get it?

Steve Dublanica describes this inner battle beautifully in Waiter Rant.* The hours suck, the customers suck, the job sucks, but the pay is fucking fantastic. We’re addicted to the money, he writes, and the pull of going on to bigger and better (or just different) things is often no match for making several hundred dollars in just two weekend shifts.

While I’m sure there are no comparative literature dissertations that discuss the parallels of, say, Waiting for Godot and “Waiting,” the absurdity, dry humor and slight twinge of desperation are strikingly similar. I know this because I’m there. Right now. Living it.

I realized yesterday, with a sort of stunning forcefulness, that I am biding my time. I see everything that I’m doing now: where I live, where I work, what I do with my days off, as some kind of prelude to Something Else. The huge problem is, I don’t know what that Something Else is. I haven’t got a clue. Like, at all. There is no Clear Picture in my head of what I’m doing next, just that I won’t be doing this – any of this – forever.

This mild panic attack was followed by a stern talking-to from one side of my brain to the other: What, exactly, am I waiting for? And what the fuck is stopping me from getting it?

I have no idea.

*P.S. You should read this book. I will lend you my copy.

I really hate to pick a “work song” (meaning, something I hear played at work), but I sure do like this one.

“St. Louis Blues” / Peter Cincotti (2004)*

*You know this ain’t the original, right? Okay, good.

This song is so, so pretty.

“True Love Ways” / Buddy Holly and the Crickets (1953)

I wake up most mornings with eyes full of delicious night-crusties, but today was different. “Your eye is swollen,” says Mom (which makes me think Wow, I’d be a horrible mother because I just looked in the mirror and I didn’t catch that but oh yeah, I also didn’t have my glasses on). “Is it a stye?” I ask. “I don’t know. I’ve never had a stye,” she says. Well, me neither. “How about pinkeye?” I ask again. “Beats me, I’ve never had pinkeye,” she responds.

So off to the Internets we merrily go, browsing many not-quite-informative articles and many heinously-disgusting pictorials. The verdict? Beats the hell out of us. Almost 100% sure it’s not pinkeye, but I’m taking no chances. My hands are so dehydrated from thorough washing and hand sanitizer usage that it feels like my skin shrunk.

I was also scheduled to visit my peeps down in T-Town for a few days, starting, oh – right now. But out of common courtesy, and fear that my eye might suddenly emulsify and drip down my face somewhere over Arkansas, I moved my flight to tomorrow morning. The goal is, by tonight, this eye thing to either a) be cleared up or b) more clearly communicate what the hell is going on.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go wash my hands some more.

Fun little song. Makes me think of a couple folks I first met when I lived in the So – IL. 🙂

“Suds in the Bucket” / Sara Evans (2004)

Online shopping is seriously the coolest thing since whatever thing I last said was the coolest thing. See, I’m just as consumeristic as they make ’em, and do occasionally find pleasure in exchanging money for goods and services. Online shopping, though, is tops! I can find things that I (think that I) want, “add them” to my “cart” and voila! The need to waste money is somehow satiated (though not always, but that’s a different post for a different time). Of every online transaction I actually complete, there are four or five hypothetical ones just floating out there on the internet.

I usually remember these carts, and Empty them accordingly when the mood passes. Today, though, I stumbled back to Amazon.com (actually looking for something specific this time, for a change) and to my surprise, there were two items in my Cart already – specifically, two books:

Animals Should Definitely Not Wear Clothing

and

Harold and the Purple Crayon

I was perplexed: had someone hijacked my account? Had these seemed like compelling reads whilst I was under the influence of alcohol? On closer examination, however, I saw the date that these items were Added: very close to my dear quasi-nephew’s first birthday last January.

What a horrible Auntie I am! Sorry, kiddo. Guess you’ll have to wait until you can actually read before I get my ass in gear and send them to you!

Sometimes, if you wake up early enough, you can actually catch music videos on MTV or VH1. I know! Weird, right? Back when I was among the (sort of) 9-5 working set, I’d listen/watch music videos as I got ready for work in the morning. That’s how I stumbled on this band, this song.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=59Z9DIH_FAA&ob=av2e

“Smokers outside the hospital doors” / Editors (2007)

Oh, I’m sorry. Is it too warm outside to keep your sleeves down? Or is it perhaps 1985 and you’ve just finished watching an episode of Miami Vice and you’re worried about looking fashionable? Is that it – you think that it looks “dumb” to have your sleeves pulled down around your wrists where a coat is fucking supposed to be? This is a fucking puffer coat, people! It is not worn as a fashion accessory. Unless it’s stuffed full of, I don’t know, some celebrity’s hair trimmings, it’s meant to be worn for warmth, not to make some sort of statement. This picture irks me more than normal. Some would say too much. But I don’t care. Somewhere out there in the world, some little girl is standing at the bus stop, wearing some fucking expensive winter coat and suffering from some sort of antebrachial hypothermia because she’s rolled up the fucking sleeves because that’s how it was in the Gap ad, Mommy. That’s how the cool kids are wearing it!
I hate people.