Today’s SOTD is dedicated to my friend Jamil. Congrats, buddy, I think this is my first dedication to a person I actually know!
“Everyday” / Dave Matthews Band (2001)
I think that I over-exaggerate my affinity for sushi.
I become quite excited at the prospect of eating it, but only when it is made with very specific ingredients. Any substituting or straying from the original plan – even, say, something as slight as using crab salad instead of crab – and I’m out. Napkin-on-the-table, hands-up-in-the-air, I’m-outta-here, check-puh-lease.
In order to avoid such scenes, I try to stick with sushi places with which I am familiar. When someone suggests somewhere New, I thoroughly scan through that restaurant’s menu in advance before committing to a definite “yes.”
Is this incredibly high-maintenance behavior? Probably, but it beats the alternative: ordering Sally Albright-style and running the risk of pissing off the server and/or chef.
That said, I’m trying a new place this afternoon, a place that seems to favor the additions of Japanese mayo and smelt roe – two ingredients that make me feel, well, what’s the opposite of being thrilled? Asking the server to omit one ingredient is in okay, not-as-shaky territory, but two? I am close to *gasp* just ordering off of the “Fusion” menu, which seems to consist of fried chicken fingers dipped in teriyaki sauce.
Of course, there’s always the Pad Thai…
if they’ll make it without the egg, of course.
I am fascinated by the 80s. I enjoy watching 80s movies. I like reading about 80s current events. I love (some) 80s music. Basically, I want to study this decade, anthropologically.
And while I’ve always had an affinity for neon colors and Morrissey, I don’t actually want to go back and relive that particular era. Mall bangs and Jordache jeans and coke-fueled dance parties might be fun for awhile, but I think the novelty would, for me, wear off quickly.
But if I could just hop in a time machine and take it all in for a few days, that’d be just great.
This song’s title is written on Ian Curtis’ headstone. Sadly poetic.
“Love Will Tear Us Apart” / Joy Division (1980)
Okay, so I wanted to do this song, and the best Youtube vid I could find was this. Spanish song accompanying a Bleach AMV. Consider your mind blown, or at least mildly boggled.
“Vamos Nenas” / Cordero (2002)
“Be the change you want to see in the world.”
Who said that? I don’t know. Does it matter? Maybe, if the person was a convicted felon. But no – seriously – isn’t this a great thought?
For those of you who don’t know, I Tweet, or Twitter, or whatever the verb form is that describes the act of tossing inane, 140-characters-or-less thoughts out into the wild blue Internet. And along with Tweet-ing, or Twitter-ing (or whatever the gerund form is – wait, is that a gerund? Screw it) comes getting an occasional “retweet” (“RT” in Twitterese) in one’s newsfeed. Like, someone sees something else funny that someone else said, so they share it with a bunch of other people, et cetera…et cetera…et cetera.
This morning, something from EdwardNorton (yup, pretty sure it’s that Edward Norton) popped up on my home page:
EdwardNorton: A friend just wrote: “4 yr old kid needs bone marrow transplant — a tough match. It could be you. Consider RT: http://www.matchdevan.com/
Now, joining the National Marrow Donor Program (click here!) is something that I think maybe perhaps I half-assedly thought about before, but for some reason – blame the coffee, blame the Benadryl high from which I’m just now coming down – I clicked the link. And read about Devan. And read about the registry.
This link-clicking begat more link-clicking, and before I knew it, I was filling out a form to request a donor kit. And yes: it’s that damn easy. One (should) thoroughly reads up on the process (everything is very user-friendly and laid out clearly on the site), then fills out a very basic form that includes a health questionnaire, and they send one a kit so that one can take one’s own cheek swabs and send it back in to be typed.
The point of all this is HERE: Do it. I mean, come on! Just do it. If you are able, do it. I hate to get all rabid-militant on y’all, but if you are in good health and meet the requirements, there’s no good reason NOT to.
I’m the first to admit that I get almost angry when I talk to folks who don’t donate blood “because they don’t like needles.” My response to them is usually something like “Well, I bet the dying mother-of-three or the hemorrhaging two-year-old doesn’t like needles either, you selfish douchebag!”* And I understand that a marrow or PBSC donation is more “invasive,” but… come on. Needle-phobias aside (and thoroughly discounted; this is what they invented Xanax for, people), I honestly can’t think of a good reason NOT to sign up with the registry (religious teachings aside, I suppose, but I personally do not know anyone who subscribes to those particular beliefs).
Am I being vehemently one-sided? Yup, probably. It’s the cable-news-network-watcher in me, I guess. But the rational side of my brain finds the act of donating completely and totally…logical. There’s very little emotion factoring into my argument; I know very, very few folks who have needed blood transfusions, even fewer who have undergone a bone marrow transplant, and approximately zero who have had an organ transplant (knock on wood).
It. Just. Makes. Sense.
Be the change.
Be the Match.
*Not really exaggerating here.
Okay, people, I’m gonna have to do this quick because I’m leaving for work in about 9.3 seconds. But! But! I had another Crazy Julie Dream last night and I gotta get it down before I forget the details.
The “theme” of this dream – the only thing that even comes close to coherently tying everything together – is that one of my friends (a Real Life Friend) was getting married. (Note: in Real Life, he got married awhile ago).
Anyway, I’m vacationing in Jamaica or some other tropical destination with my brother and my Mom (sorry, Dad, guess you weren’t invited?). Also, my hotel room looks exactly like my current bedroom. Talk about a letdown, eh? We’re going to swimming, but I can’t find my swimsuit. Not sure how that one was resolved, tho I’m hoping it involves clothing myself, but it doesn’t matter because…suddenly!
Suddenly I am walking down the street, on my way home from… Jamaica? I don’t know. There’s a backpack on my back, like I’m walking home from school, I guess? Anyway, I get to my house and my mom informs me that I need to pack up my things, because we are going to Moldova.
Moldova? Oh, of course. Kishniev, specifically. Why? Because my friend is getting married. In, you know, Moldova. And we’re leaving for the wedding NOW. No time to pack any checked bags – everything’s gotta fit into my carry-on. Conveniently enough, I was carrying that damn backpack as I walked down the street. So into my satchel I pack my things, which include bottles of Bud Light Harvest Wheat, because – and this is my Dad’s idea – “we can drink American beer in Moldova.”
This is where the chronology sort of breaks down, so I’ll switch to Bullet Point Mode here:
* In real life, I’ve never been to Europe. Actually, the farthest away from the US I’ve ever been was the Bahamas. In Dream Land, I was really sweating the plane ride. I was freaked out about having to be on a plane for that long (which would probably be true in real life, I guess).
* Oh, I also had a passport, which my Mom got for me off of the Internet. Because that’s not shady at. all.
* My friend was marrying his Real Life Wife in the dream. They chose Moldova because of something involving their joint stint in the Peace Corps there (which, as far as I know, is not even remotely true)
* Except neither of them had family or anything in Moldova. In fact, in my dream, his wife’s family was pissed because they were all in New Jersey (not sure this is true in Real Life).
* The planned length of our trip to Moldova was about one day. We were going to fly in for the wedding, and then promptly leave.
There’s more, but I’m running short of time.
Happy Saturday, y’all. To my people in Oklahoma: keep away from the tornadoes
Julie, upon waking up this morning and remembering it is her mother’s birthday: Happy Birthday, Mom!!
Mom yelling from the other room: Bea Arthur’s birthday would be today, but she’s dead.
You know what would be a fun job? Trying to find patterns in Netflix users’ rentals.
See, I find it hard to believe that there wouldn’t be any. I mean, even if one adds items to their Queue while intoxicated,** there’s always some sort of method to one’s madness. Right?
Take me, for example, because I leave you no other choice and if you have a problem with that, well, no one’s holding a gun to your head while you read this, eh? Eh?! Um, excuse me. Where was I? Oh yes. I’ll offer up my own patterns as an example:
While others might favor a particular genre or long-running television series and stack their choices accordingly, I seem to – lately, at least – go in cycles of my current favoured actor or actress. This isn’t to say I’m the only one who does this, of course. Actually, I’m sort of surprised that Netflix doesn’t offer Suggestions based on the stars of a user’s previous viewing choices.
But then again, when I consider the types of “stars” with whom I so easily become enamored, this would be a difficult process. As I believe I’ve written previously, I have a knack for latching on to obscure, not quite mainstream actors and have suffered through some pretty awful movies in an attempt to see them at work. Were the casual observer tasked with finding a pattern in my film selections, she might come up empty, claiming that the only connection is that I have some pretty awful taste in movies.
And, actually, I probably do.
But, er, that’s not the point. At least, I don’t think it is.
What I’m saying is… wait. What am I saying? Oh yeah, liking actors. Actors… actors… No, I know I was going somewhere with this… Obscure actors… bad actors… good actors… Right! Yes! I got it!
What I was trying to get at here is that I usually find some dude in the background of three insignificant scenes and have to spend an hour on the internet finding out who played “Inmate #2” or “Flamboyant Gay Guy At Club” or “Orderly with Beard,” only to find out he’s only done two other movies, both direct-to-video, both incredibly awful. But watch them I will, only to be only moderately satisfied (or sometimes pleasantly surprised) with his performance(s).
Now, however, the tables have turned. I re-watched one of my all-time favorite movies a few nights ago (Kiss Kiss Bang Bang and yes, you should see it because it’s hilarious and wonderful and asinine and…) only to realize that you know what? This Robert Downey, Jr cat is an alright fellow. Yes, sir, I think I’d like to watch a few more films in which he… uh, is. He’s been acting since the 80s, you say? Well, slap my ass and call me Julie, I’ve got some catching up to do!***
*Line from the movie. One of many delightful exchanges, 97% of which can’t be quoted in polite company.
**Now who would do something like that?
***It’s not that I’ve, like, never seen him in anything. It’s more like I’ve never paid very close attention. Or something like that.
the sloppy copy 