the sloppy copy

What? More Elliott Smith? Deal with it. It was either this or Katy Perry.

“All Cleaned Out” / Elliott Smith (2007)

It takes a very special sort of person to watch television with me. I fidget, I gasp, I sometimes weep uncontrollably and I get real close to the screen when something exciting is happening. In short, I’m fucking annoying.

[Tangent: Weirdly enough, though, I don’t usually talk to the television. The program I’m watching has to be very bad (read: not holding my interest) for me to start trying to engage with the people on the screen. Otherwise, I’m silent. Except for the gasping and weeping and fidgeting, of course. End tangent]

Last night, I watched the Hallmark Hall of Fame made-for-TV movie November Christmas – by myself, with no one else in the room. This turned out to be a good thing. Oh, jeez.

a still from the movie. Oh man.

Here’s the plot: there’s a little girl with cancer living in a small town. In effort to give his daughter as many holidays as possible before, well, you know, her Daddy speeds up the calendar (Halloween in August, etc;). A local Christmas tree farmer whose own son died many years ago as a young boy joins the cause. Near-intolerable gut-wrenching emotions ensue. Holy moly.

I started out sniffling and occasionally dabbing at my eyes with my sleeves. When I realized that the cuffs of my shirt were basically sopping wet, I got up for tissues. Again. And again. Finally I brought the entire box into the room with me. And moved the trash can next to me. Seriously, I should have been better prepared for the Weepy Waterfall, because this happens to me all. the. time.

At first, I thought that these incredibly visceral reactions were a sign of great film-making. But then I started to get choked up at a Kodak film commercial once and realized that I’m just a sap. I mean, I can’t watch Extreme Makeover Home Edition without at least four boxes of tissues at my side. It’s ridiculous. And holding it in makes it that much worse. The first time I saw The Notebook I was at a friend’s house with a large group of people. Not wanting to be “that girl,” I tried to hold it in and ended up kind of gasping and shuddering on the couch as if I was having some kind of fit. Until I realized everyone else was trying to do the same.

Maybe I’m not so weird after all?

Nah.

There was a time when I was almost into dancehall. Wailing Souls are listed as my “favorite band” in an 8th grade yearbook-thing. I only knew them because I borrowed my friend’s sister’s copy of the Cool Runnings soundtrack (on which this song is also listed).

“Dolly My Baby” / Super Cat (1992)

I’ve been pretty lackadaisical about posting lately. Apologies. Also, my poll has reached a stalemate, so please cast a few more votes before I take it down tomorrow. Vote early, vote often, as they say in Chicago.

Anyway.

The drawbacks to being a grown-ass woman living with one’s retired parents are obvious, of course, but I’ve since learned to adapt. Yes, the daily schedule and habits took a bit of adjusting-to (they’re often ready for lunch by approximately 10:30 and I’m the only one who ever cleans the freaking microwave – seriously, people!), but these are minor irritations that can be excused and/or worked around. These are my folks, after all, and I love ’em dearly.

Among these lovable eccentricities, however, are a few things more irksome in nature – namely, the air in this house.

I’m not very familiar with desert climes, but I’d venture a guess that this address very closely approximates that environment. I imagine that if one were to measure the humidity within our home, the hygrometer would basically crumble apart in this soul-sucking aridness. Seriously – all of the moisture is slowly vacuumed out of my skin throughout the course of a day. Frequent applications of super-duper lotions have little effect. It’s really irritating and quite uncomfortable – physically and mentally.

Who wouldn't want this in their house?

So right now, I’m doing research into humidifiers. On one hand, I have no idea if purchasing one will help the situation or just make it worse (I’m imagining myself holding chapped and raw hands above it like a hobo over a trashcan fire, greedily inhaling from the cloud of vapor and slapping aside anyone who gets too close). I mean, will one teeny humidifier in one teeny bedroom will do anything to affect a 6-room house? Doubtful. On the other hand, there sure are some cute humidifiers out there. I mean, the most difficult decision I’ll make all day is whether I want an elephant or a frog spitting water molecules into my breathing air.

Are my complaints, overall, minor? Of course. But if I didn’t have anything about which to complain, I wouldn’t have anything about which to write, and nothing about which you would look forward to reading.

I wrote a note to myself to look up this band, but I can’t remember why and it’s driving me bonkers.

“Yeah Yeah Yeah” / New Politics (2010)

My parents just informed me that when they were young, they went to school and work the day after Thanksgiving. Also, they went to school for a half-day on Christmas Eve, and back to school on the 26th. Same for New Year’s Eve: half-day on the 31st, day off on the 1st, back on the 2nd.

This year, I am thankful that I didn’t grow up in the 1950s.

Can anyone tell me what happened to the ballad? The epic, storytelling song that takes the plot of a movie and sweeps it all together in the grandest of musical gestures is basically dead. I can’t think of many (any?) recent songs that fit this genre.

My favorite of the ballads:

“High Noon (Do Not Forsake Me)” / Frankie Laine (1952)

Whilst browsing Target’s website for holiday gift ideas, I noticed something slightly creepy: When I view additional details about a particular item, I can scroll down and see “Guests who viewed this item ultimately bought,” listing several other items with a percentage displayed next to them. Basically, Target (other online retailers, too?) is tracking my browsing habits.

This is a little disconcerting, but the possibilities to mess with their statistics are theoretically endless (had one enough free time on her hands). I mean, say I’m browsing grilling accessories (completely hypothetical, Dad, if you’re reading this). What if suddenly my brain shifts to, oh, board games? What if I end up buying Bananagrams,* having completely forgotten about the grilling tools? (completely hypothetical, Mom, if you’re reading this). I know that the algorithmistaticiticisms involved in this process are far more complex than this, but I’d love to see “83% of guests who viewed the Mr. Beer Home Brewing System ultimately purchased The Twelve Step Guide to Using the Alcoholics Anonymous Big Book.”

I mean, that’s funny.

*Just seeing if you’re paying attention.

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.