Tuesday, December 25, 2007
Monday, December 17, 2007
Best of 2007: Music
So, time flies, and now we find ourselves at the tail end of another year. Before we say goodbye to 2007 forever, we here at Destroy All Evidence want to take a moment to look back and remember all of the things we loved in 2007. Starting today and continuing every few days till the end of the year, we'll post a new top 5 list of our favorite things from 2007. It's like Oprah's Favorite Things, except, you know, you don't get anything for free. But you also don't have to fake-fawn over Her Majesty and pee your pants in front of the entire world, so I'm giving us the advantage. Enjoy Day 1's festivities: The best music of 2007.
5. “Black Tears” by Miss Derringer
I turned 22 on my birthday this year, and at first, I really didn’t feel happy or excited about it. What I did feel was indescribably old, older than I usually feel, which, trust me, is really saying something. I was thisclose to giving up the fight, throwing on a caftan and settling in for a “Golden Girls” marathon with a steaming hot cup of chamomile tea. And then…then I heard this song.
Ah, Miss Derringer. This song totally threw me for a loop when I first heard it. I was immediately launched back in time, to a moment when I was still goofy and awkward and anxious to grow up, when I thought that I had personally discovered every awesome thing about the ‘80s – John Hughes movies, Duran Duran, “Jem,” and, of course, mismatched Converse. Because on first listen, that’s what “Black Tears” sounds like: A really great ‘80s song, the best Blondie track that Blondie never recorded. It’s totally girly and completely badass and so sad in the most ridiculously fun way possible. But keep listening, and you realize there’s a lot of the ‘50s and ‘60s American music scene in there too. That just makes me love it even more. So thanks Miss Derringer, for reminding me that sharing a smile with your younger self is a sure fire fix for the old fogey blues.
4. “1234” by Feist
I’m just going to say it: I am not cool. Like, not at all. What’s more, I’ve genuinely given up trying. At this point, I am who I am, and there’s not a whole lot that can change that. I accept it, because for the most part, I honestly like who I’ve become. I love my family, I love my friends, the future is looking bright, and I’m finally (almost completely) comfortable in own skin. Also, I can really handle my liquor, and that makes me proud.
But I digress. Back to the “me not being cool” thing: One unfortunate side effect of this is that I’m usually really behind on what’s hip in music. If I had a nickel for every time I thought to myself, What are the happening cats listening to these days?, I would have somewhere in the realm of $14. Yeah, it’s that bad. Which is why it’s so surprising that I was actually in front of the trend when I discovered Feist, all by myself, way, WAY before Apple began using it for its Nano commercials and the Grey’s Anatomy people started kicking themselves for not snagging it first. A sparkling, jangly, fantastically indie jam that I could call my own – if that’s not end of the year list worthy, I can’t say I know what is.
3. "Shampoo" by Pete Yorn
I remember when I bought my first Pete Yorn album. I had read a little article in Seventeen about him, and, I’m embarrassed to admit, I made a beeline to the record store to buy his debut, musicforthemorningafter, not because I was really inspired by the article or anything he said in it, but because I thought he was cute. Granted, I was only 15 at the time. Not that that’s an excuse, but it does help explain the motive behind it. So I bought the album, gave the liner notes a thorough ogling, popped the CD in, and…wow. Just, wow. I was transfixed. I remember laying on my bed and listening to it front to back, totally in awe of what was going on there. I loved the whole sound of it, how sad and hopeful and searching it was, how it managed to sound old and new at the same time. I was hooked from the first minute of the first track.
Cut to now, 7 years, 3 albums and a dozen completely fantastic concert experiences later, and I’m as devoted to everything Pete Yorn as I was way back then (and, in case you were wondering, time has not diminished Pete's talent - or his looks...). Some artists just stick with you like that, and PY has certainly stuck with me. He released no new albums in 2007 (his latest, the frighteningly good Nightcrawler, was released in late 2006), but that doesn’t mean there weren't fresh Pete tunes floating around the Interweb this year. My favorite is this one, “Shampoo.” It’s perfectly representative of the best of what Pete Yorn brings to the table: Winsome, contemplative lyrics set to a melody so interesting and utterly enjoyable that you can’t help but listen to it again and again.
2. “West Coast” by Coconut Records
Let’s play Six Degrees of Separation, shall we? The Godfather to Coconut Records – GO!
The Godfather was directed by Francis Ford Coppola, whose sister, Talia Shire, married movie producer Jack Schwartzman and gave birth to one Jason Schwartzman, who is - ding ding ding! – the man behind Coconut Records! Huh, that was a short one. And it didn’t even include Kevin Bacon.
Anyway.
When I was talking about “Shampoo” earlier, I described it as “winsome” and “contemplative.” These are the exact same words I would use to sum up “West Coast,” but the songs themselves are so different that it’s hard to believe they’re sprung from the same place emotionally. I think the biggest difference is that while “Shampoo” keeps a crisp, brightly somber (let’s just pretend that’s not an oxymoron, okay?) pace, things are a little more unleashed on “West Coast,” a steady, laidback crescendo from the lonesome man-and-piano beginning to the full blown sing-a-long ending. If you aren’t picturing the diminutive Schwartzman in one of those awful choir robes, conducting a mass of singing funky white boys by the end of this song, there’s something seriously wrong with you. It’s nerdy, lovelorn perfection, and a totally worthy Best of 2007 runner up.
1. “The Thanks I Get” by Wilco
Imagine this: It’s a hot summer day. You’re driving down Pacific Coast Highway with the top down. Sunglasses. Salty air. The crunch of gravel beneath your tires. No place to be, nothing to do, not a care in the world. It’s just you and the road. And on the radio plays… something mellow. Something weathered. Something that fills your soul with the roots of rock and roll. You scan the airwaves, spinning from station to station, and then you hear it. And you smile, because you know you’ve found exactly what you were looking for: The sound that warms your heart, that takes you back to an easier time, that’ll carry you wherever you want to go. The song? Wilco’s “The Thanks I Get.”
Nothing I could say about this song could do it justice. Nothing I could say about this band would do them justice. Let’s just put it like this: For a rock band that’s found a modern way to appreciate the classics that came before while establishing themselves as a vital part of the musical landscape of today, always, ALWAYS choose Wilco. Always. Not Son Volt. Not Ryan Adams. Not My Morning Jacket. They’re good, but they’re not Wilco. I’m making this song my number one most favorite of the year for precisely that reason. There you have it: Wilco’s “The Thanks I Get” – Destroy All Evidence’s Best Song of 2007. Congratulations to you, Wilco. Congratulations to you.
Honorable Mentions (The Movie Soundtrack Remix)
• “Anyone Else But You” by the Moldy Peaches: Romantic love in a most realistic way, this gem from the Juno soundtrack will melt even the hardest hearts.
• “Avril 14th” by Aphex Twin: Rent Marie Antoinette and listen for this song. So apropos for the scene in which Antoine returns to Versailles from Le Petit Trianon. You feel the full weight of the expectation and duty thrust upon her, and the song gives you a pretty good idea of how she feels about it.
• “From Where I’m Standing” by Schuyler Fisk: This is from I’m Reed Fish. That movie sucked. This song doesn’t. Fun fact: Schuyler Fisk is Sissy Spacek's daughter. Speaking of daughters...
• “Daughter” by Loudon Wainwright III: Just when you start to lose faith in Judd Apatow (like when he shows you a baby crowning – that’s just gross), he whips out a montage of sweet scenes set to this song that makes you forget you ever questioned his judgment in the first place. Wainwright’s brilliant cover of Peter Blegvad’s ode to daughters is featured in Knocked Up.
• “Where Do You Go To, My Lovely?” by Peter Sarstedt: My friend Ez and I were recently discussing our favorite movies, and we crowned Wes Anderson one of the kings of music in film (also on the short list: Cameron Crowe, the Coen Brothers, and Quentin Tarantino). This song, from Anderson’s short, Hotel Chevalier, is a prime example of his brilliance when it comes to seamlessly weaving great music into the milieu of an already great film. It’s a thing of beauty.
• “Falling Slowly” by Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova: Once was an unbelievably powerful movie, but that’s something we’ll get to later in our Best of 2007 retrospective. For now, I’ll just say what an amazing song this is. The line “You have suffered enough/And warred with yourself/It’s time that you won” is one of my favorites in any song ever. Plus, the harmony is absolutely gorgeous.
Next up in our Best of 2007 series: Books, premiering here on Thursday, December 17th. And be sure to check out the BFF blog, Bunker Complex, for Andrea's end of the year recap too.
5. “Black Tears” by Miss Derringer
I turned 22 on my birthday this year, and at first, I really didn’t feel happy or excited about it. What I did feel was indescribably old, older than I usually feel, which, trust me, is really saying something. I was thisclose to giving up the fight, throwing on a caftan and settling in for a “Golden Girls” marathon with a steaming hot cup of chamomile tea. And then…then I heard this song.
Ah, Miss Derringer. This song totally threw me for a loop when I first heard it. I was immediately launched back in time, to a moment when I was still goofy and awkward and anxious to grow up, when I thought that I had personally discovered every awesome thing about the ‘80s – John Hughes movies, Duran Duran, “Jem,” and, of course, mismatched Converse. Because on first listen, that’s what “Black Tears” sounds like: A really great ‘80s song, the best Blondie track that Blondie never recorded. It’s totally girly and completely badass and so sad in the most ridiculously fun way possible. But keep listening, and you realize there’s a lot of the ‘50s and ‘60s American music scene in there too. That just makes me love it even more. So thanks Miss Derringer, for reminding me that sharing a smile with your younger self is a sure fire fix for the old fogey blues.
4. “1234” by Feist
I’m just going to say it: I am not cool. Like, not at all. What’s more, I’ve genuinely given up trying. At this point, I am who I am, and there’s not a whole lot that can change that. I accept it, because for the most part, I honestly like who I’ve become. I love my family, I love my friends, the future is looking bright, and I’m finally (almost completely) comfortable in own skin. Also, I can really handle my liquor, and that makes me proud.
But I digress. Back to the “me not being cool” thing: One unfortunate side effect of this is that I’m usually really behind on what’s hip in music. If I had a nickel for every time I thought to myself, What are the happening cats listening to these days?, I would have somewhere in the realm of $14. Yeah, it’s that bad. Which is why it’s so surprising that I was actually in front of the trend when I discovered Feist, all by myself, way, WAY before Apple began using it for its Nano commercials and the Grey’s Anatomy people started kicking themselves for not snagging it first. A sparkling, jangly, fantastically indie jam that I could call my own – if that’s not end of the year list worthy, I can’t say I know what is.
3. "Shampoo" by Pete Yorn
I remember when I bought my first Pete Yorn album. I had read a little article in Seventeen about him, and, I’m embarrassed to admit, I made a beeline to the record store to buy his debut, musicforthemorningafter, not because I was really inspired by the article or anything he said in it, but because I thought he was cute. Granted, I was only 15 at the time. Not that that’s an excuse, but it does help explain the motive behind it. So I bought the album, gave the liner notes a thorough ogling, popped the CD in, and…wow. Just, wow. I was transfixed. I remember laying on my bed and listening to it front to back, totally in awe of what was going on there. I loved the whole sound of it, how sad and hopeful and searching it was, how it managed to sound old and new at the same time. I was hooked from the first minute of the first track.
Cut to now, 7 years, 3 albums and a dozen completely fantastic concert experiences later, and I’m as devoted to everything Pete Yorn as I was way back then (and, in case you were wondering, time has not diminished Pete's talent - or his looks...). Some artists just stick with you like that, and PY has certainly stuck with me. He released no new albums in 2007 (his latest, the frighteningly good Nightcrawler, was released in late 2006), but that doesn’t mean there weren't fresh Pete tunes floating around the Interweb this year. My favorite is this one, “Shampoo.” It’s perfectly representative of the best of what Pete Yorn brings to the table: Winsome, contemplative lyrics set to a melody so interesting and utterly enjoyable that you can’t help but listen to it again and again.
2. “West Coast” by Coconut Records
Let’s play Six Degrees of Separation, shall we? The Godfather to Coconut Records – GO!
The Godfather was directed by Francis Ford Coppola, whose sister, Talia Shire, married movie producer Jack Schwartzman and gave birth to one Jason Schwartzman, who is - ding ding ding! – the man behind Coconut Records! Huh, that was a short one. And it didn’t even include Kevin Bacon.
Anyway.
When I was talking about “Shampoo” earlier, I described it as “winsome” and “contemplative.” These are the exact same words I would use to sum up “West Coast,” but the songs themselves are so different that it’s hard to believe they’re sprung from the same place emotionally. I think the biggest difference is that while “Shampoo” keeps a crisp, brightly somber (let’s just pretend that’s not an oxymoron, okay?) pace, things are a little more unleashed on “West Coast,” a steady, laidback crescendo from the lonesome man-and-piano beginning to the full blown sing-a-long ending. If you aren’t picturing the diminutive Schwartzman in one of those awful choir robes, conducting a mass of singing funky white boys by the end of this song, there’s something seriously wrong with you. It’s nerdy, lovelorn perfection, and a totally worthy Best of 2007 runner up.
1. “The Thanks I Get” by Wilco
Imagine this: It’s a hot summer day. You’re driving down Pacific Coast Highway with the top down. Sunglasses. Salty air. The crunch of gravel beneath your tires. No place to be, nothing to do, not a care in the world. It’s just you and the road. And on the radio plays… something mellow. Something weathered. Something that fills your soul with the roots of rock and roll. You scan the airwaves, spinning from station to station, and then you hear it. And you smile, because you know you’ve found exactly what you were looking for: The sound that warms your heart, that takes you back to an easier time, that’ll carry you wherever you want to go. The song? Wilco’s “The Thanks I Get.”
Nothing I could say about this song could do it justice. Nothing I could say about this band would do them justice. Let’s just put it like this: For a rock band that’s found a modern way to appreciate the classics that came before while establishing themselves as a vital part of the musical landscape of today, always, ALWAYS choose Wilco. Always. Not Son Volt. Not Ryan Adams. Not My Morning Jacket. They’re good, but they’re not Wilco. I’m making this song my number one most favorite of the year for precisely that reason. There you have it: Wilco’s “The Thanks I Get” – Destroy All Evidence’s Best Song of 2007. Congratulations to you, Wilco. Congratulations to you.
Honorable Mentions (The Movie Soundtrack Remix)
• “Anyone Else But You” by the Moldy Peaches: Romantic love in a most realistic way, this gem from the Juno soundtrack will melt even the hardest hearts.
• “Avril 14th” by Aphex Twin: Rent Marie Antoinette and listen for this song. So apropos for the scene in which Antoine returns to Versailles from Le Petit Trianon. You feel the full weight of the expectation and duty thrust upon her, and the song gives you a pretty good idea of how she feels about it.
• “From Where I’m Standing” by Schuyler Fisk: This is from I’m Reed Fish. That movie sucked. This song doesn’t. Fun fact: Schuyler Fisk is Sissy Spacek's daughter. Speaking of daughters...
• “Daughter” by Loudon Wainwright III: Just when you start to lose faith in Judd Apatow (like when he shows you a baby crowning – that’s just gross), he whips out a montage of sweet scenes set to this song that makes you forget you ever questioned his judgment in the first place. Wainwright’s brilliant cover of Peter Blegvad’s ode to daughters is featured in Knocked Up.
• “Where Do You Go To, My Lovely?” by Peter Sarstedt: My friend Ez and I were recently discussing our favorite movies, and we crowned Wes Anderson one of the kings of music in film (also on the short list: Cameron Crowe, the Coen Brothers, and Quentin Tarantino). This song, from Anderson’s short, Hotel Chevalier, is a prime example of his brilliance when it comes to seamlessly weaving great music into the milieu of an already great film. It’s a thing of beauty.
• “Falling Slowly” by Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova: Once was an unbelievably powerful movie, but that’s something we’ll get to later in our Best of 2007 retrospective. For now, I’ll just say what an amazing song this is. The line “You have suffered enough/And warred with yourself/It’s time that you won” is one of my favorites in any song ever. Plus, the harmony is absolutely gorgeous.
Next up in our Best of 2007 series: Books, premiering here on Thursday, December 17th. And be sure to check out the BFF blog, Bunker Complex, for Andrea's end of the year recap too.
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
The Road to Glory: Pumpkin Carving Party 2007
Tradition is something that’s very important to me. Unfortunately, carving out time to make traditions is often hard when you have a family as active as mine. There’s always a ton of things to do, which means we’re always busy, which means we’re always tired as a result of being busy doing the tons of things there are to do. So tradition is often tossed to the curb, not because it’s not valuable to everyone, but because we’re so beat by the effort it takes to make sure the mechanics of everyday life run smoothly that adding on anything else is daunting. For the most part, I am okay with this. I like to think that I’m a pretty “roll with the punches” kind of gal, and truthfully, I enjoy the chaos that comes with having a family like mine. But there are some things, some traditions that I can not and will not sacrifice no matter what, the most important of which is our annual Pumpkin Carving Party.
For as long as I can remember, my family has carved pumpkins for Halloween. Even when I was really little I was always way more psyched up for carving pumpkins than for getting to wear a costume or going trick-or-treating. It was always a huge production: Going to the pumpkin patch with my little red wagon in tow, looking over every pumpkin meticulously till I found just the right one, then going home and staring at my pick, waiting for inspiration (the perfect Jack O’Lantern face!) to hit me – wow. I get a buzz just thinking about it now. And all that excitement was nothing compared the actual carving. Scraping out the gooey insides was gross in the very best way, and getting to use an actual knife to give my pumpkin a funny/scary mug made me feel both creative and very, very grown up (though my parents were always close by, making sure the only thing getting carved was the pumpkin, not little fingers). I can remember my mom helping me put in candles and guiding my hand as I lit up my masterpiece. We’d go outside and set them all on our front porch, then step back and admire the bright, glowing faces shining back at our own.
As the years have gone on, we’ve modified our pumpkin carving tradition. We always have the same dinner on the night we carve (Sloppy Joe’s, tater tots and corn – a meal which would sound absolutely disgusting to us on any other night, but which we honestly look forward to when it’s paired with pumpkin carving), but in recent years we’ve added some gourmet elements to the meal, usually a snazzy dessert or cocktail for those of us old enough to imbibe. My grandparents have started participating in the past few years as well, and that’s something that gives me endless amounts of joy because my grandparents are awesome. But the biggest – and best – change has been that now, instead of carving just for fun, we’ve turned it into a competition, judged by our ten year old next door neighbor, Caitlin. This new aspect of the Pumpkin Carving Party makes me the happiest of all.
It’s widely known in our family (and on this blog) that I’m a total gamer, and that when there’s an opportunity to win anything, I’m all over it. All over it like a crazy person. In my wildest dreams, people would find this to be a cute, quirky part of my personality. In reality, I think it’s more something that people put up with. That would usually upset me, but not when I’m winning, because nothing – NOTHING – gets me down when I’m on top, and this insane need to be the best definitely extends to pumpkin carving. I would say that I’m a good loser, but I can’t really be sure about that, because for the last three years (that is, ever since we introduced the competition side of the Pumpkin Carving Party), I have been crowned the Pumpkin Carving Queen (Hehe! I’m not really keen on rubbing it in, but suck it, family! You’re all losers.). The first year I won, I went sort of cartoony on my pumpkin, turning out a cute, simple cat face. Last year, I brought home the gold with my Picasso inspired entry (that’s the best way to describe it; it had one triangular eye, one sunburst-looking eye, a wide open v-shaped mouth, and, strangely, all my hair and nail clippings from the last year). This year, like the Lakers before me, I achieved the three-peat with my classic but well executed design. Check it out:
That’s mine in the middle, flanked by a couple of underachieving also-rans. Notice the kind of commitment to excellence that’s a hallmark of my pumpkin carving style: The inside is spotless, with no leftover stringy innards or errant seeds, the uncomplicated design allows for a ton of light to come through, and each feature is back-cut, giving the face a clean, flawless look. Never underestimate the importance of good pumpkin carving technique, people. That attention to detail separates the men from the boys (or in my case, me from everyone else, though the shameless gloating might contribute to that separation as well.). And that’s why I’m the Pumpkin Carving Queen yet again. Congratulations to me. And to you, for having the honor of knowing me.
As an added bonus, here is a picture of my grandparents holding their adorable yet remarkably substandard entries. My grandma went freeform on us, and while she refused to name her inspiration, we think her pumpkin was a dead ringer for William Hung. My grandpa’s pumpkin…well, his design is the same one he’s been doing for exactly 50 years. Every year I try to impart some of my pumpkin carving wisdom, telling him to make the design bigger so it’s brighter and to spend more time cleaning it out, and every year he tells me his design is timeless and that the extra goop inside adds to the spookiness of it (and by “telling him” those things, I mean, of course, whispering them under my breath while secretly thinking, “One less fool to stomp all over in my quest for victory.”). To each his own, I guess.
I emailed this picture to my Aunt Lee after our party, and this was her response: “Hey, do those pumpkins look like them or what? Was this carving supposed to be a self portrait?” I love my aunt. I love Halloween. But most of all, I lovewinning making lasting memories with my family.
For as long as I can remember, my family has carved pumpkins for Halloween. Even when I was really little I was always way more psyched up for carving pumpkins than for getting to wear a costume or going trick-or-treating. It was always a huge production: Going to the pumpkin patch with my little red wagon in tow, looking over every pumpkin meticulously till I found just the right one, then going home and staring at my pick, waiting for inspiration (the perfect Jack O’Lantern face!) to hit me – wow. I get a buzz just thinking about it now. And all that excitement was nothing compared the actual carving. Scraping out the gooey insides was gross in the very best way, and getting to use an actual knife to give my pumpkin a funny/scary mug made me feel both creative and very, very grown up (though my parents were always close by, making sure the only thing getting carved was the pumpkin, not little fingers). I can remember my mom helping me put in candles and guiding my hand as I lit up my masterpiece. We’d go outside and set them all on our front porch, then step back and admire the bright, glowing faces shining back at our own.
As the years have gone on, we’ve modified our pumpkin carving tradition. We always have the same dinner on the night we carve (Sloppy Joe’s, tater tots and corn – a meal which would sound absolutely disgusting to us on any other night, but which we honestly look forward to when it’s paired with pumpkin carving), but in recent years we’ve added some gourmet elements to the meal, usually a snazzy dessert or cocktail for those of us old enough to imbibe. My grandparents have started participating in the past few years as well, and that’s something that gives me endless amounts of joy because my grandparents are awesome. But the biggest – and best – change has been that now, instead of carving just for fun, we’ve turned it into a competition, judged by our ten year old next door neighbor, Caitlin. This new aspect of the Pumpkin Carving Party makes me the happiest of all.
It’s widely known in our family (and on this blog) that I’m a total gamer, and that when there’s an opportunity to win anything, I’m all over it. All over it like a crazy person. In my wildest dreams, people would find this to be a cute, quirky part of my personality. In reality, I think it’s more something that people put up with. That would usually upset me, but not when I’m winning, because nothing – NOTHING – gets me down when I’m on top, and this insane need to be the best definitely extends to pumpkin carving. I would say that I’m a good loser, but I can’t really be sure about that, because for the last three years (that is, ever since we introduced the competition side of the Pumpkin Carving Party), I have been crowned the Pumpkin Carving Queen (Hehe! I’m not really keen on rubbing it in, but suck it, family! You’re all losers.). The first year I won, I went sort of cartoony on my pumpkin, turning out a cute, simple cat face. Last year, I brought home the gold with my Picasso inspired entry (that’s the best way to describe it; it had one triangular eye, one sunburst-looking eye, a wide open v-shaped mouth, and, strangely, all my hair and nail clippings from the last year). This year, like the Lakers before me, I achieved the three-peat with my classic but well executed design. Check it out:
That’s mine in the middle, flanked by a couple of underachieving also-rans. Notice the kind of commitment to excellence that’s a hallmark of my pumpkin carving style: The inside is spotless, with no leftover stringy innards or errant seeds, the uncomplicated design allows for a ton of light to come through, and each feature is back-cut, giving the face a clean, flawless look. Never underestimate the importance of good pumpkin carving technique, people. That attention to detail separates the men from the boys (or in my case, me from everyone else, though the shameless gloating might contribute to that separation as well.). And that’s why I’m the Pumpkin Carving Queen yet again. Congratulations to me. And to you, for having the honor of knowing me.
As an added bonus, here is a picture of my grandparents holding their adorable yet remarkably substandard entries. My grandma went freeform on us, and while she refused to name her inspiration, we think her pumpkin was a dead ringer for William Hung. My grandpa’s pumpkin…well, his design is the same one he’s been doing for exactly 50 years. Every year I try to impart some of my pumpkin carving wisdom, telling him to make the design bigger so it’s brighter and to spend more time cleaning it out, and every year he tells me his design is timeless and that the extra goop inside adds to the spookiness of it (and by “telling him” those things, I mean, of course, whispering them under my breath while secretly thinking, “One less fool to stomp all over in my quest for victory.”). To each his own, I guess.
I emailed this picture to my Aunt Lee after our party, and this was her response: “Hey, do those pumpkins look like them or what? Was this carving supposed to be a self portrait?” I love my aunt. I love Halloween. But most of all, I love
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
It's Like The Greeks vs. The Trojans All Over Again
I have tried to stay out of this discourse for as long as is humanly possible, but I know now that it would be the height of irresponsibility for me, holding the position that I do in this world, to withhold my influence any longer. I have decided that the time to speak is now, lest the situation become any direr as a result of my continued silence. Friends, esteemed colleagues, and Canadians who inexplicably subscribe to this blog, the time has come for me to jump headfirst into what future scholars will come to regard as the debate of the century. I am referring, of course, to “Kanye West vs. 50 Cent: Decision 2007”, and the consequences of the outcome now weigh heavily on my shoulders. I can only pray that I’m strong enough to see this conflict through to a peaceful and nonviolent end.
The question of which side to support was never an issue for me. I am a person who values loyalty above all else, and my feet have always been firmly planted on the side of 50. A hardworking man, committed to excellence and physical fitness, 50 has always piqued my interest. Without a doubt, his music is unfailingly fascinating, and he has proven himself to be a fascinating man as well. Born unto the rough streets of South Jamaica, Queens, 50 (nee Curtis Jackson) began selling drugs at the age of twelve. Twelve, ladies and gentlemen. This is nothing short of a tribute to Fiddy’s inherent, unrelenting, entrepreneurial spirit. Still, young Curtis dreamed of a better life for himself and, after a stint in prison for dealing (during which time he adopted the “50 Cent” moniker, which is metaphorical for “change” - man, that is so beautiful. It brings tears to my eyes.), he ended his career as a supplier to pursue a more suitable métier: Rapping.
But Fate did as she often does, and, on the brink of that life-altering decision, Fiddy was the victim of a drive by shooting, taking nine bullets in the arm, chest, hand, left cheek, hip, and both legs. By the grace of God, 50 survived the brutal attack. After spending 13 days in the hospital, followed by another six and a half months in recovery, 50 lives on as a testament to sheer willpower, dedication, and, again, physical fitness. He is a true manifestation of the American dream.
On the other side of this debate, we have Kanye “George Bush Hates Black People” West, who by all accounts lived a far more sheltered, pampered lifestyle than a young Curtis Jackson would ever have dared to dream of. Why should we root for you, Kanye, when the worst thing that happened to you in your formative years was that your parents got divorced? 50’s mom was straight up murdered, and he never even knew his father. You attended the frou frou American Academy of Art in Chicago during your high school years. Where was 50? In jail, getting his GED and trying to make a fresh start, that’s where. And while I would never seek to minimize anyone’s suffering, I feel compelled to point out that while 50 was off getting shot nine times (nine times!), the victim of savage, vicious thuggery, your only claim to physical pain was a broken jaw, a jaw that was broken in a car accident that only occurred because you fell asleep at the wheel. I doubt 50 even had a car! And where you selfishly exploited this bit of personal recklessness for your song “Through The Wire", 50 only briefly mentioned his plight in "In Da Club”, and I feel sure he did this as a courtesy to his fans, to let them know that even after the horrific shooting, he is fine – so fine that his swagger isn’t even marred by the slightest hint of limp. And even now, while you delight in Epicurean romps at various disgusting strip joints, 50 Cent toils away in his humble Manhattan office, taking multiple meetings a day – the consummate businessman. To choose between you two would be like choosing between a Cable Ace Award and an Oscar. I think you know which one you are, Kanye. And I think you know which one I’m choosing.
That being said, the reality of the situation is that the deck is currently stacked in the favor of Mr. West. However, in this epic struggle, I have my suspicions about who will come out the victor. While Kanye may currently be outselling 50 (and congratulations to him on that – his little tune, “Stronger”, is catchy in a way that only superbly processed and manipulated music can be), I feel that the man formerly known as Curtis Jackson will ultimately prevail. Kanye can carry on rapping about Kate Moss, calling himself “The Louis Vuitton Don,” railing against the “haters,” and wearing all the Lacoste polo shirts the world has to offer – I guess that's his "truth," and I hope that fulfills him. As for me, I will continue to delight in the man, the music, and, let's face it, the hero that is 50 Cent.
The question of which side to support was never an issue for me. I am a person who values loyalty above all else, and my feet have always been firmly planted on the side of 50. A hardworking man, committed to excellence and physical fitness, 50 has always piqued my interest. Without a doubt, his music is unfailingly fascinating, and he has proven himself to be a fascinating man as well. Born unto the rough streets of South Jamaica, Queens, 50 (nee Curtis Jackson) began selling drugs at the age of twelve. Twelve, ladies and gentlemen. This is nothing short of a tribute to Fiddy’s inherent, unrelenting, entrepreneurial spirit. Still, young Curtis dreamed of a better life for himself and, after a stint in prison for dealing (during which time he adopted the “50 Cent” moniker, which is metaphorical for “change” - man, that is so beautiful. It brings tears to my eyes.), he ended his career as a supplier to pursue a more suitable métier: Rapping.
But Fate did as she often does, and, on the brink of that life-altering decision, Fiddy was the victim of a drive by shooting, taking nine bullets in the arm, chest, hand, left cheek, hip, and both legs. By the grace of God, 50 survived the brutal attack. After spending 13 days in the hospital, followed by another six and a half months in recovery, 50 lives on as a testament to sheer willpower, dedication, and, again, physical fitness. He is a true manifestation of the American dream.
On the other side of this debate, we have Kanye “George Bush Hates Black People” West, who by all accounts lived a far more sheltered, pampered lifestyle than a young Curtis Jackson would ever have dared to dream of. Why should we root for you, Kanye, when the worst thing that happened to you in your formative years was that your parents got divorced? 50’s mom was straight up murdered, and he never even knew his father. You attended the frou frou American Academy of Art in Chicago during your high school years. Where was 50? In jail, getting his GED and trying to make a fresh start, that’s where. And while I would never seek to minimize anyone’s suffering, I feel compelled to point out that while 50 was off getting shot nine times (nine times!), the victim of savage, vicious thuggery, your only claim to physical pain was a broken jaw, a jaw that was broken in a car accident that only occurred because you fell asleep at the wheel. I doubt 50 even had a car! And where you selfishly exploited this bit of personal recklessness for your song “Through The Wire", 50 only briefly mentioned his plight in "In Da Club”, and I feel sure he did this as a courtesy to his fans, to let them know that even after the horrific shooting, he is fine – so fine that his swagger isn’t even marred by the slightest hint of limp. And even now, while you delight in Epicurean romps at various disgusting strip joints, 50 Cent toils away in his humble Manhattan office, taking multiple meetings a day – the consummate businessman. To choose between you two would be like choosing between a Cable Ace Award and an Oscar. I think you know which one you are, Kanye. And I think you know which one I’m choosing.
That being said, the reality of the situation is that the deck is currently stacked in the favor of Mr. West. However, in this epic struggle, I have my suspicions about who will come out the victor. While Kanye may currently be outselling 50 (and congratulations to him on that – his little tune, “Stronger”, is catchy in a way that only superbly processed and manipulated music can be), I feel that the man formerly known as Curtis Jackson will ultimately prevail. Kanye can carry on rapping about Kate Moss, calling himself “The Louis Vuitton Don,” railing against the “haters,” and wearing all the Lacoste polo shirts the world has to offer – I guess that's his "truth," and I hope that fulfills him. As for me, I will continue to delight in the man, the music, and, let's face it, the hero that is 50 Cent.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
I Heart NY, Part 2 (With Pictures!)
Let’s pick up where we left off, shall we? If you’ll remember, I was just being taxied into the city, and was starting to regain my lost optimism about my trip.
Once we got to our hotel, we hunkered down for a few hours of much needed sleep. We wanted to get an early start on our sightseeing, so we woke up at six the next morning (which is unthinkably early for me on any day, much less a vacation day. I don’t think I ever see the world properly till around…noon.). From what little pre-trip research we were able to do, we knew that we could pick up almost any subway line we needed from Grand Central Station, which just so happened to be about four blocks from our hotel. Grand Central Station is beautiful – when you walk in, you’re taken aback by the enormity of the marble concourse. It’s a seamless mix of bigness and delicacy, the latter coming in the form of several exquisite chandeliers and, of course, the famous painted ceiling, a loose depiction of an astrological map. What really struck me was the windows, these great arched portals with the most gorgeous light just streaming through them, and the huge American flag, which was hung just after September 11th. I think it’s easy to feel strangely reverent about New York, especially when you’re in a place like Grand Central Station. There’s something about it that feels important and necessary, and even in our rush to get out into the city, we spent a good fifteen minutes just absorbing our surroundings in the terminal.
From there, we really hit the ground running. We snagged a subway map (which quickly became our best friend) and headed down to Times Square, where we were all set to pick up one of those double decker bus tours. Now, I realize that this goes directly against our goal of living like true Manhattanites (Manhattonians?), but we had to find a way to get our bearings in the city, and for us, the best way to do that was to take a guided bus tour. We must have been on that bus for four solid hours, but we saw everything: the Fashion District, the Financial District, Wall Street, Greenwich Village, Soho, Chinatown, Little Italy, Chelsea, the Upper East Side, the Upper West Side, Central Park – everything. You name it, we saw it, all from the open-air upper level of a ridiculous-looking, gigantic double decker bus. It really helped us figure out where we wanted to go and what we wanted to do for the rest of our time in NYC, though. So thank you much, New York Sight Seeing Gray Line.
Once we completed our bus tour, we grabbed a quick bite and made our way down to Battery Park, where we were going to hop on a ferry to visit the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island. It was a beautiful day, perfect for a ferry ride and an outdoor audio tour of Lady Liberty. I initially wasn't too excited for Ellis Island, but I'm so glad we did it, simply because there’s no way I could have fully appreciated what the Statue of Liberty meant for so many people had we not. Visiting Ellis Island was extremely moving because their audio tour had interviews with people who actually came into the U.S. through Ellis Island. So many of them described difficult journeys filled with illness, crowded quarters and unsanitary conditions (not to mention all the reasons they had to leave their native countries in the first place), but what was so moving to me was their reaction upon seeing Lady Liberty’s shining golden torch ablaze across the sharp blue sky – it’s like they knew they were finally safe, that their grueling voyage was over, that they were home at last. They were so grateful, so full of hope, and hearing their stories made me feel the same way. Love that.
Our day of exploring was tiring, but knowing that we had very limited time in Manhattan (we’d have to spend at least a few days in New Jersey and its surrounding areas for my brother’s tournament), we wanted to make the most of every moment, so we decided to push through the exhaustion and hop on the subway to Little Italy for dinner. I remember this part very vividly: Getting off the subway and not knowing which way to go, I smelled and heard and saw the twinkling lights of Little Italy all at once, and it was like an instant shot of warm, tingly happiness. I think we spent maybe half an hour walking up and down the blocks that comprise Little Italy, checking out all the restaurants. We finally sat down to eat at a little café with outdoor seating so we could take in the whole scene. There was a lot to see: the streets were crowded with tons of people, some visitors like us, some vendors, others residents of apartments located over the restaurants and shops, and, to my great surprise and delight, many, many genuine Italians. The vibe was so homey and welcoming, and colorful in the best possible way. I think it’s one of those places where anyone could feel like they really belonged, which is definitely a beautiful thing. After dinner, we strolled some more and picked up the most delicious cannoli in the world (Four words: Chocolate covered cannoli shell. Fifth word: Wow.), and headed back to the hotel, full and happy and nothing short of enamored with the city. It was the perfect way to end our perfect first day in New York.
I Heart NY, Part 3 (the finale) - coming soon to a blog near you!
Once we got to our hotel, we hunkered down for a few hours of much needed sleep. We wanted to get an early start on our sightseeing, so we woke up at six the next morning (which is unthinkably early for me on any day, much less a vacation day. I don’t think I ever see the world properly till around…noon.). From what little pre-trip research we were able to do, we knew that we could pick up almost any subway line we needed from Grand Central Station, which just so happened to be about four blocks from our hotel. Grand Central Station is beautiful – when you walk in, you’re taken aback by the enormity of the marble concourse. It’s a seamless mix of bigness and delicacy, the latter coming in the form of several exquisite chandeliers and, of course, the famous painted ceiling, a loose depiction of an astrological map. What really struck me was the windows, these great arched portals with the most gorgeous light just streaming through them, and the huge American flag, which was hung just after September 11th. I think it’s easy to feel strangely reverent about New York, especially when you’re in a place like Grand Central Station. There’s something about it that feels important and necessary, and even in our rush to get out into the city, we spent a good fifteen minutes just absorbing our surroundings in the terminal.
From there, we really hit the ground running. We snagged a subway map (which quickly became our best friend) and headed down to Times Square, where we were all set to pick up one of those double decker bus tours. Now, I realize that this goes directly against our goal of living like true Manhattanites (Manhattonians?), but we had to find a way to get our bearings in the city, and for us, the best way to do that was to take a guided bus tour. We must have been on that bus for four solid hours, but we saw everything: the Fashion District, the Financial District, Wall Street, Greenwich Village, Soho, Chinatown, Little Italy, Chelsea, the Upper East Side, the Upper West Side, Central Park – everything. You name it, we saw it, all from the open-air upper level of a ridiculous-looking, gigantic double decker bus. It really helped us figure out where we wanted to go and what we wanted to do for the rest of our time in NYC, though. So thank you much, New York Sight Seeing Gray Line.
Once we completed our bus tour, we grabbed a quick bite and made our way down to Battery Park, where we were going to hop on a ferry to visit the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island. It was a beautiful day, perfect for a ferry ride and an outdoor audio tour of Lady Liberty. I initially wasn't too excited for Ellis Island, but I'm so glad we did it, simply because there’s no way I could have fully appreciated what the Statue of Liberty meant for so many people had we not. Visiting Ellis Island was extremely moving because their audio tour had interviews with people who actually came into the U.S. through Ellis Island. So many of them described difficult journeys filled with illness, crowded quarters and unsanitary conditions (not to mention all the reasons they had to leave their native countries in the first place), but what was so moving to me was their reaction upon seeing Lady Liberty’s shining golden torch ablaze across the sharp blue sky – it’s like they knew they were finally safe, that their grueling voyage was over, that they were home at last. They were so grateful, so full of hope, and hearing their stories made me feel the same way. Love that.
Our day of exploring was tiring, but knowing that we had very limited time in Manhattan (we’d have to spend at least a few days in New Jersey and its surrounding areas for my brother’s tournament), we wanted to make the most of every moment, so we decided to push through the exhaustion and hop on the subway to Little Italy for dinner. I remember this part very vividly: Getting off the subway and not knowing which way to go, I smelled and heard and saw the twinkling lights of Little Italy all at once, and it was like an instant shot of warm, tingly happiness. I think we spent maybe half an hour walking up and down the blocks that comprise Little Italy, checking out all the restaurants. We finally sat down to eat at a little café with outdoor seating so we could take in the whole scene. There was a lot to see: the streets were crowded with tons of people, some visitors like us, some vendors, others residents of apartments located over the restaurants and shops, and, to my great surprise and delight, many, many genuine Italians. The vibe was so homey and welcoming, and colorful in the best possible way. I think it’s one of those places where anyone could feel like they really belonged, which is definitely a beautiful thing. After dinner, we strolled some more and picked up the most delicious cannoli in the world (Four words: Chocolate covered cannoli shell. Fifth word: Wow.), and headed back to the hotel, full and happy and nothing short of enamored with the city. It was the perfect way to end our perfect first day in New York.
I Heart NY, Part 3 (the finale) - coming soon to a blog near you!
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
Why Andrea and I Are Friends
I know. I know, I know, I know. There's no "I Heart NY, Part 2" post today. It's not quite ready yet. In the meantime, I give you this little snippet from a recent iChat session. It's just one one of the many reasons why Andrea and I are best buds.
Preface: Andrea's parents are pressuring her to talk to some dude they want her to date. To say that she has lukewarm feelings for him would be...generous.
Andrea: My dad told me to say hi to him when he was sitting right there. It was like I was 8 years old.
Nicole: I still don't understand why you have to say anything to him at all.
Andrea: It's because of my parents. My dad wants me to "make myself available" to him.
Nicole: Ah, like a hooker.
Andrea: Yes. The red light is on.
Nicole: Poor Roxanne. :(
Andrea: I would woop Roxanne. I mean, she's like 50 years old now.
Nicole: I don't know. Hookers are notoriously brutal.
Andrea: But I have a shiv.
Andrea: It's home-made.
Nicole: ...from a spoon...
Nicole: ...from the prison mess hall.
Andrea: Yes. I swiped it during that stint I served for killing my pimp.
Nicole: Yeah, well, that bastard had it coming.
Andrea: Damn straight.
You see? That's just a beautiful thing.
Also, thank God Andrea and I found each other. Because really, who else would be friends with us? Yeah.
The Police - "Roxanne"
Preface: Andrea's parents are pressuring her to talk to some dude they want her to date. To say that she has lukewarm feelings for him would be...generous.
Andrea: My dad told me to say hi to him when he was sitting right there. It was like I was 8 years old.
Nicole: I still don't understand why you have to say anything to him at all.
Andrea: It's because of my parents. My dad wants me to "make myself available" to him.
Nicole: Ah, like a hooker.
Andrea: Yes. The red light is on.
Nicole: Poor Roxanne. :(
Andrea: I would woop Roxanne. I mean, she's like 50 years old now.
Nicole: I don't know. Hookers are notoriously brutal.
Andrea: But I have a shiv.
Andrea: It's home-made.
Nicole: ...from a spoon...
Nicole: ...from the prison mess hall.
Andrea: Yes. I swiped it during that stint I served for killing my pimp.
Nicole: Yeah, well, that bastard had it coming.
Andrea: Damn straight.
You see? That's just a beautiful thing.
Also, thank God Andrea and I found each other. Because really, who else would be friends with us? Yeah.
The Police - "Roxanne"
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
It's Funny...Because It's True
This makes me laugh:
I think I'd be in the "I would be writing right now, but...wait, do you hear that buzzing? No? Because I really hear like a loud, loud buzz happening. Ugh, I'm so tired. [At which point, I'd go watch some previously Tivo'd episodes of Tori and Dean: Inn Love and fall asleep on the couch.]" building. Because that's how I roll.
I Heart NY, Part 2 will be up tomorrow! Fo' realz.
I think I'd be in the "I would be writing right now, but...wait, do you hear that buzzing? No? Because I really hear like a loud, loud buzz happening. Ugh, I'm so tired. [At which point, I'd go watch some previously Tivo'd episodes of Tori and Dean: Inn Love and fall asleep on the couch.]" building. Because that's how I roll.
I Heart NY, Part 2 will be up tomorrow! Fo' realz.
Friday, August 31, 2007
I Heart NY, Part 1
I have a brother, AJ, who plays high school baseball and is an outstanding third baseman. As anyone who knows baseball will tell you, once you hit a certain age and show a fair amount of talent, you'll want to transition into playing on a travel team (we call it “travel ball”), which caters to a more upper echelon type of player. Travel ball is pretty intense and can get a little cutthroat at times, but the level of competition affords the players valuable game time experience and prepares them for the challenge of playing at the high school (and, hopefully, college) level, which is definitely a good thing. And, as the name suggests, you get to travel, and travel you do, mostly in the summer time, which means that the destination of many a family vacation is determined by the baseball gods. Nine times out of ten, you end up in some bizarre, BFE-type locale (Joplin, MO, anyone? My brother’s Joplin assessment: “Fireworks, sex shops, and boredom.” So sorry, Joplin.). But then there are those glorious moments when travel ball takes you somewhere fantastic, and a few weeks ago, we were finally dealt a winning hand when AJ’s team qualified to play in the Don Mattingly World Series, a prestigious tournament set to take place over seven days in…Flemington, New Jersey!
I know what you’re thinking: Flemington, New Jersey? Really? Sounds…awesome. To that end, I would say that your sarcasm was not only well placed but also very warranted. It’s completely correct to assume that no one would find the prospect of spending a week in Flemington thrilling. The thought that I would be forced to spend my vacation there was horrifying, especially since there are only two things worth noting about Flemington: 1) The Lindbergh trial was held there, oh, I don’t know, a million and a half years ago, which also happens to be about the time it stopped being interesting, and 2) There’s a bunch of pharmaceutical research facilities in the general vicinity (which is not at all riveting, but would explain the multitude of two-headed dear prancing along in that neck o’ the woods). I was all set to bring the serious hate to the Flem, until a little pre-trip research revealed that, miracle of miracles, Flemington was only an hour outside of Manhattan! What once sounded like yet another shaft out of a summer vacation at the hands of Mother Baseball instantly became our ticket to finally (FINALLY!) getting to explore NYC. Needless to say, I was very excited. It was like Harry Potter levels of excitement - times a thousand. Plus five. Squared.
Once New York came into the picture, the prospect of having to tough out a few days in Flemington seemed far less odious. My brother and his teammates were told they’d be flying separately from their families and that once they got there, they’d be staying with host families, which was the second piece of good news: Without having to cart him around to the gym and the batting cages and meetings all day long, our time was more our own than it had been on any baseball-related trip ever. With that in mind, we started planning our great New York adventure. The trouble with that, however, was that none of us really knew anything about New York City. Where do we want to stay? What do we want to do? How do we exist in Manhattan without looking like total rubes? Those are all legitimate questions. Because you don't mess around in New York. Or so we'd heard.
I wasn't overly stressed about the lack of info, though. Rolling out with a few maps and a suitcase full of light layers rarely freaks me out. That kind of vagabond vacationing just so happens to be my family's signature travel style, and I've been flying by the seat of my pants in new places for years as a result. Plus, I like to think that I'm a fairly openminded, adaptable gal, both of which are favorable attributes when exploring an unknown city. I was still slightly troubled by the last minute nature of the trip, though. Since we were all hesitant to sign on the dotted line when we thought the tournament would tie us down in Flemington, it was pretty late in the game when we started getting the essentials in place. I think we ended up booking our flight two days before we had to leave, and our hotel wasn't locked down till around eleven o’clock the night before we left. I don't like to be rushed, and you really can't be more rushed than that. I was still excited though. I mean, it’s New York City. It's the capital of the world. Fuhgeddaboutit.
We flew out of LAX on a Saturday morning. The first leg of the trip, from LAX to Las Vegas (where we’d pick up our connecting flight to JFK), was lovely. I had my traditional airplane beverage, ginger ale, and a purse full of tabloids – all was right in my world. Our connection was smooth, not too much of a layover. Well, enough of a layover for my mom to convince me to play $5 in an airport slot machine, which I promptly lost (Can someone tell me what’s fun about slot machines? I don't get it. Forgive me for being so limited.). Anyway, I would say the first half of the flight to New York was fine. They played “Shrek the Third.” There was minimal turbulence. I had another ginger ale and ate some pretzels. Life was good.
That's when things started to get hairy. Inexplicably, I began to feel…woozy, I guess is the right word. I got that cold, tight, fizzy feeling between my stomach and my throat. I started taking short, shallow breaths. I got sweaty and became unnaturally pale. I’d never felt like that, to that extreme, on a flight before, and that’s why it never occurred to me to take a Dramamine. Which obviously I should have. Because obviously, in my old age, I’ve become pretty weak in the motion sickness department. What made it even worse was the thought that my trip to New York was starting out so unfavorably. I get a little dramatic sometimes, especially when I’m feeling gross and panicked, and in my motion sickness-addled brain, it felt like horrid overshadowing of things to come. It didn’t help that once we landed, we taxied around the tarmac for what seemed like an eternity when what I wanted most in the world was to get as far away from the plane as possible. I was so out of it by the time we deboarded, got our luggage, and made our way to the taxi line that I couldn’t have cared less that we were in New York. I was miserable, and all I wanted to do was get to the hotel, take a shower and go to sleep.
But then, in the cab on the I-495, I saw it: The Manhattan skyline. It was peaceful and beautiful, and, in direct opposition to everything I'd ever heard about NYC, quiet. Not to cheese you out too much, but it really felt like the city was taking a breath with me, helping me calm down so I could drink it all in, and I instantly felt better about things. I always thought people were romanticizing when they waxed poetic on how "magical" New York is. But even then, even from the inside of a cab on the outskirts of the city, I started to understand what they were talking about. And I was ready to let myself be bewitched.
***
Tuesday, September 4th - I Heart NY, Part Two . Have a good weekend.
I know what you’re thinking: Flemington, New Jersey? Really? Sounds…awesome. To that end, I would say that your sarcasm was not only well placed but also very warranted. It’s completely correct to assume that no one would find the prospect of spending a week in Flemington thrilling. The thought that I would be forced to spend my vacation there was horrifying, especially since there are only two things worth noting about Flemington: 1) The Lindbergh trial was held there, oh, I don’t know, a million and a half years ago, which also happens to be about the time it stopped being interesting, and 2) There’s a bunch of pharmaceutical research facilities in the general vicinity (which is not at all riveting, but would explain the multitude of two-headed dear prancing along in that neck o’ the woods). I was all set to bring the serious hate to the Flem, until a little pre-trip research revealed that, miracle of miracles, Flemington was only an hour outside of Manhattan! What once sounded like yet another shaft out of a summer vacation at the hands of Mother Baseball instantly became our ticket to finally (FINALLY!) getting to explore NYC. Needless to say, I was very excited. It was like Harry Potter levels of excitement - times a thousand. Plus five. Squared.
Once New York came into the picture, the prospect of having to tough out a few days in Flemington seemed far less odious. My brother and his teammates were told they’d be flying separately from their families and that once they got there, they’d be staying with host families, which was the second piece of good news: Without having to cart him around to the gym and the batting cages and meetings all day long, our time was more our own than it had been on any baseball-related trip ever. With that in mind, we started planning our great New York adventure. The trouble with that, however, was that none of us really knew anything about New York City. Where do we want to stay? What do we want to do? How do we exist in Manhattan without looking like total rubes? Those are all legitimate questions. Because you don't mess around in New York. Or so we'd heard.
I wasn't overly stressed about the lack of info, though. Rolling out with a few maps and a suitcase full of light layers rarely freaks me out. That kind of vagabond vacationing just so happens to be my family's signature travel style, and I've been flying by the seat of my pants in new places for years as a result. Plus, I like to think that I'm a fairly openminded, adaptable gal, both of which are favorable attributes when exploring an unknown city. I was still slightly troubled by the last minute nature of the trip, though. Since we were all hesitant to sign on the dotted line when we thought the tournament would tie us down in Flemington, it was pretty late in the game when we started getting the essentials in place. I think we ended up booking our flight two days before we had to leave, and our hotel wasn't locked down till around eleven o’clock the night before we left. I don't like to be rushed, and you really can't be more rushed than that. I was still excited though. I mean, it’s New York City. It's the capital of the world. Fuhgeddaboutit.
We flew out of LAX on a Saturday morning. The first leg of the trip, from LAX to Las Vegas (where we’d pick up our connecting flight to JFK), was lovely. I had my traditional airplane beverage, ginger ale, and a purse full of tabloids – all was right in my world. Our connection was smooth, not too much of a layover. Well, enough of a layover for my mom to convince me to play $5 in an airport slot machine, which I promptly lost (Can someone tell me what’s fun about slot machines? I don't get it. Forgive me for being so limited.). Anyway, I would say the first half of the flight to New York was fine. They played “Shrek the Third.” There was minimal turbulence. I had another ginger ale and ate some pretzels. Life was good.
That's when things started to get hairy. Inexplicably, I began to feel…woozy, I guess is the right word. I got that cold, tight, fizzy feeling between my stomach and my throat. I started taking short, shallow breaths. I got sweaty and became unnaturally pale. I’d never felt like that, to that extreme, on a flight before, and that’s why it never occurred to me to take a Dramamine. Which obviously I should have. Because obviously, in my old age, I’ve become pretty weak in the motion sickness department. What made it even worse was the thought that my trip to New York was starting out so unfavorably. I get a little dramatic sometimes, especially when I’m feeling gross and panicked, and in my motion sickness-addled brain, it felt like horrid overshadowing of things to come. It didn’t help that once we landed, we taxied around the tarmac for what seemed like an eternity when what I wanted most in the world was to get as far away from the plane as possible. I was so out of it by the time we deboarded, got our luggage, and made our way to the taxi line that I couldn’t have cared less that we were in New York. I was miserable, and all I wanted to do was get to the hotel, take a shower and go to sleep.
But then, in the cab on the I-495, I saw it: The Manhattan skyline. It was peaceful and beautiful, and, in direct opposition to everything I'd ever heard about NYC, quiet. Not to cheese you out too much, but it really felt like the city was taking a breath with me, helping me calm down so I could drink it all in, and I instantly felt better about things. I always thought people were romanticizing when they waxed poetic on how "magical" New York is. But even then, even from the inside of a cab on the outskirts of the city, I started to understand what they were talking about. And I was ready to let myself be bewitched.
***
Tuesday, September 4th - I Heart NY, Part Two . Have a good weekend.
Monday, August 27, 2007
Where I've Been; Where I'm Going
So.
It’s been a while there, eh blog buddies? More than a month, in fact. That’s a really long time. Well, maybe not in the span of a lifetime. In the span of a lifetime, you’ll have many, many months. Depending on how long you live, you could have upwards of one thousand months under your belt by the time you die, and if you look at it that way, what’s one month or two or twelve to someone who has lived a thousand? It’s like a blip on the radar screen, not even a worthy side note. Conversely, if you look at months in relation to, say, the school year, one month is one long ass time. So depending on your perspective, we’ve either been apart for a moment or for a lifetime. Whatever your own personal verdict is, you should know that mine is this: It has been far too long since I’ve sent any transmissions out into the blogosphere, and I plan to never be so lax in my duties as your resident snarkster/sentimentalist/loon ever again.
You’re probably wondering what I’ve been doing during my little blog hiatus, and that is most definitely a good question. Not unlike Lucy Ricardo, I know I've got some 'splaining to do. But where to start? Well, for one thing, I’ve been enjoying what is left of my final summer before graduating from college. That’s summer in the most familiar sense of the word, by the way: Those glorious three months between the end of one school year and the beginning of the next. I’ve been relishing every moment spent engaging in my favorite summertime activity: Lounging in my grandparents’ pool for hours and getting out only to eat lunch (or, now that I’m of legal drinking age, to slurp down a fantastic, icy cold margarita made for me by my lovely grandfather, Tom, whom we call Papa). My parents have always worked full time, and as a result my brother and I have, for as long as I can remember, regarded my grandparents’ house as our second home, and we’ve spent many a happy school break there, floating around in the pool and relaxing. Admit it: If you had that, you’d be tempted to neglect your blog duties too, so don’t judge me too harshly for being absent for so long. Those were some really excellent margaritas.
Another thing grabbing my attention away from this here blog: Harry Potter. Not those bizarre leather fetish pictures of the kid who plays Harry Potter (those pretty much scarred me for life – I’d link to them, but that would mean me having to find them online, and that would mean me having to see them again, and even though I’d love to give you all the resources you need to really understand what I’m talking about, I just can’t do it. I don’t think my health care insurance covers temporary blindness caused by Daniel Radcliffe photos. But if you’re really into seeing them, just Google “Daniel+Radcliffe+leather+daddy” and I’m sure you’ll get more than a few hits. Good luck to you. Yikes.). Anyway, I plan to do a rather large post on this topic in the very near future (Andrea and I are going to double team it, and it promises to be a potpourri of mixed media deliciousness), so I’m understandably hesitant to give away too many details right now. I’ll just say that both the fifth movie and the seventh (and final) book came out within a week of each other, and in my world, that’s a tantalizing, all-consuming smorgasbord of overwhelmingly fantastic proportions. In this case, I think you were actually lucky I didn’t blog about it right as it happened. I can say with 100% certainty that it would have contained a load of fan girl giddiness, and now that I’ve had time to gain a little perspective on the situation, I know I can give a much better (read: less obnoxiously excited) account of the good times that were had during Harry Potter mania week and the couple of weeks after that, when the Harry aftermath was still strong-arming itself into every thought and every conversation. I guarantee it would have found its way onto the blog as well. Restraint, friends. It’s what differentiates us here at Destroy All Evidence from the animals. And also from lesser, crappy bloggers. It’s a good thing.
I’ve done a few other things in my time off as well, one in particular so wonderful that I won’t even begin to talk about it presently for fear that my effusive sentimentality might just melt you like hot molten lava. That one will be coming at you (or “atcha,” depending on just how “street” you’re feeling today) in two or three parts, the first installment of which will be published before the end of this week. So come back around on Thursday or Friday for that, and look for a return to your regularly scheduled programming (pessimism, dubiousness, stupidity, etc.) to follow shortly thereafter.
In the meantime, I hope you’re digging (and have been digging) Andrea's blog, which is fun and nearly always full of sonic goodness. And I hope you’ve enjoyed your summer as much as I have mine. If you haven’t, come back later this week and live vicariously through me. I encourage it. And thanks for continuing to read Destroy All Evidence.
It’s been a while there, eh blog buddies? More than a month, in fact. That’s a really long time. Well, maybe not in the span of a lifetime. In the span of a lifetime, you’ll have many, many months. Depending on how long you live, you could have upwards of one thousand months under your belt by the time you die, and if you look at it that way, what’s one month or two or twelve to someone who has lived a thousand? It’s like a blip on the radar screen, not even a worthy side note. Conversely, if you look at months in relation to, say, the school year, one month is one long ass time. So depending on your perspective, we’ve either been apart for a moment or for a lifetime. Whatever your own personal verdict is, you should know that mine is this: It has been far too long since I’ve sent any transmissions out into the blogosphere, and I plan to never be so lax in my duties as your resident snarkster/sentimentalist/loon ever again.
You’re probably wondering what I’ve been doing during my little blog hiatus, and that is most definitely a good question. Not unlike Lucy Ricardo, I know I've got some 'splaining to do. But where to start? Well, for one thing, I’ve been enjoying what is left of my final summer before graduating from college. That’s summer in the most familiar sense of the word, by the way: Those glorious three months between the end of one school year and the beginning of the next. I’ve been relishing every moment spent engaging in my favorite summertime activity: Lounging in my grandparents’ pool for hours and getting out only to eat lunch (or, now that I’m of legal drinking age, to slurp down a fantastic, icy cold margarita made for me by my lovely grandfather, Tom, whom we call Papa). My parents have always worked full time, and as a result my brother and I have, for as long as I can remember, regarded my grandparents’ house as our second home, and we’ve spent many a happy school break there, floating around in the pool and relaxing. Admit it: If you had that, you’d be tempted to neglect your blog duties too, so don’t judge me too harshly for being absent for so long. Those were some really excellent margaritas.
Another thing grabbing my attention away from this here blog: Harry Potter. Not those bizarre leather fetish pictures of the kid who plays Harry Potter (those pretty much scarred me for life – I’d link to them, but that would mean me having to find them online, and that would mean me having to see them again, and even though I’d love to give you all the resources you need to really understand what I’m talking about, I just can’t do it. I don’t think my health care insurance covers temporary blindness caused by Daniel Radcliffe photos. But if you’re really into seeing them, just Google “Daniel+Radcliffe+leather+daddy” and I’m sure you’ll get more than a few hits. Good luck to you. Yikes.). Anyway, I plan to do a rather large post on this topic in the very near future (Andrea and I are going to double team it, and it promises to be a potpourri of mixed media deliciousness), so I’m understandably hesitant to give away too many details right now. I’ll just say that both the fifth movie and the seventh (and final) book came out within a week of each other, and in my world, that’s a tantalizing, all-consuming smorgasbord of overwhelmingly fantastic proportions. In this case, I think you were actually lucky I didn’t blog about it right as it happened. I can say with 100% certainty that it would have contained a load of fan girl giddiness, and now that I’ve had time to gain a little perspective on the situation, I know I can give a much better (read: less obnoxiously excited) account of the good times that were had during Harry Potter mania week and the couple of weeks after that, when the Harry aftermath was still strong-arming itself into every thought and every conversation. I guarantee it would have found its way onto the blog as well. Restraint, friends. It’s what differentiates us here at Destroy All Evidence from the animals. And also from lesser, crappy bloggers. It’s a good thing.
I’ve done a few other things in my time off as well, one in particular so wonderful that I won’t even begin to talk about it presently for fear that my effusive sentimentality might just melt you like hot molten lava. That one will be coming at you (or “atcha,” depending on just how “street” you’re feeling today) in two or three parts, the first installment of which will be published before the end of this week. So come back around on Thursday or Friday for that, and look for a return to your regularly scheduled programming (pessimism, dubiousness, stupidity, etc.) to follow shortly thereafter.
In the meantime, I hope you’re digging (and have been digging) Andrea's blog, which is fun and nearly always full of sonic goodness. And I hope you’ve enjoyed your summer as much as I have mine. If you haven’t, come back later this week and live vicariously through me. I encourage it. And thanks for continuing to read Destroy All Evidence.
Saturday, July 14, 2007
From the Beautiful Mind of Nicole
It’s late. It’s really, really late. I know I should be asleep. I know that. But I’m not. I am what you would call a “night owl” (well, that’s what my grandma calls it anyway. Do people still say “night owl” these days or is it sort of an old-timey kind of phrase? Has it gone the way of “gee golly” and “good heavens”? I don’t know.). If it were up to me, I would get all my crap done at night then sleep during the day. This is especially true in the summer. It’s way too hot here to do anything productive during the day. I mean, your makeup is bound to sweat off, and that’s shortly followed by the frizzing of the perfectly flat-ironed hair, and let’s face it, once the look is gone, there’s really no point in trying to get anything else done. Don’t look at me like that, you know it’s true.
The weird thing is, I’m not really all that productive at night either. I get a little ADD during the insomniac hours. I read a lot of books, and that’s usually because at this time of the night, one can’t hold my interest for more than a couple chapters, so I have to switch to another one. If books don’t keep me occupied, I usually surf the Internets, but there’s not a whole lot of rhyme or reason there (a look at last night’s web activity shows this bizarro trail: Perez Hilton to Amazon to Wikipedia to WebMD to BabelFish Translator to MapQuest. If you can find a straight line from beginning to end in that mess, I’ll give you all the money in my wallet. Which may or may not be $3.17. Minus $.41 for shipping.).
Some nights neither the books nor the web are enough to keep me busy until sheer exhaustion takes over and I finally fall asleep. These are the nights when a lot of thoughts (some deep, most nonsensical) are floating around inside my head. I read once that you’re supposed to write down the thoughts to get them out of your mind, and by doing so you’re ridding yourself of the turmoil they’re causing you, which of course leads to deep inner relaxation and, ultimately, sleep. Honestly, I always thought that doing that exercise was a little fruity and would never work, but I have to be up early tomorrow, and I need to snooze. So here’s my attempt to relax my mind and throw out all the weirdness that’s mucking it up so that I can get to sleep:
***
You know those soft-baked sugar cookies with that really intensely sweet frosting and those waxy/fantastic sprinkles? I want one of those right now. One, psssh. Better make itten eleven a baker's dozen.
***
I think I had my first alcohol buzz the other day. I think. Is it hard to tell if you have a buzz on? I don’t know. My cousin Denise always says that a good way to know for sure whether or not you’re on the road to Drunktown is to lift your arms and try to sense if they feel any heavier than they did before you started drinking. The only problem with that is that the weird, tentatively suspended arms have a tendency to give the appearance of drunkenness. Or the appearance of signaling to the waiter for another round. I’m pretty sure you’ll end up getting another Cosmopolitan either way.
***
I hate the word "facetious." I feel like people who say "facetious" are trying way too hard to sound smart. Show me someone who genuinely loves the word "facetious" and I will show you an intellectual poseur. An unlikely upside to hating "facetious": If and when I get to be a guest on James Lipton's "Inside the Actor's Studio" and he gives me that quiz at the end and asks what my least favorite word is, I'll have the answer all locked and loaded and ready to go.
***
If I see one more commercial for eharmony.com – just one more! – I think I might lose my mind. It’s not that I have anything against eharmony. It’s online dating. Whatever. Some people choose to go that route, and who am I to judge them? They know what they want, and they’re going for it. I respect that, even if it’s not a road I ever see myself taking. You’d think that kindly, tolerant attitude would earn me some kind of karmic relief from the bombardment of ads from Dr. Neil Warren and Co. Yeah, not so much.
***
Where are Flemish people from?
***
Sometimes I feel like there are needles poking into my eyeballs. It happens for maybe two seconds, during which I blink like a crazy person, and then it’s over. Similarly, I often feel like my two front teeth are being plied out of my mouth. The sensation is, again, momentary, but it’s uncomfortable nonetheless. Does anyone else ever feel that?
***
I would give anything in the world to not have to put the sheets on my bed right now. They’ve just been lying there for hours, and I’ve been finding creative ways to lie around them while reading The Scapegoat by Daphne DuMaurier. It's times like this that make me wish I had a maid. Or a butler who would agree to put sheets on my bed even though butlers typically don’t do that kind of thing. Or do women not have butlers? Are they like ladies-in-waiting or something? I can't say that I know for sure.
***
Wondering if it should be “laying”/“lay” instead of “lying”/“lie.” Wondering if I’m coherent enough at this hour to figure that out. Wondering if I care about the difference between the two even when I'm completely lucid.
***
Who was that chick that got eliminated on Top Chef this week? I swear I’ve never seen her on the show before, and we’re like four weeks in. She must have been pretty flavorless to garner zero screen time until she got ousted. Flavorless, teehee…
***
If I had to say definitively right now which prince I liked best, Prince William or Prince Harry, I would without a doubt go with Harry. Because he seems nasty.
***
My cousin Stacie told me today that she and her friends Joe and Bart once wrote a pilot script for a TV comedy about eight people working in a mall. I really don’t know what to do with that information. My only real thought is that I need to work on finding a copy of that sucker ASAP. Perhaps get it performed by a local theater troupe. Or tweak it so that it could be done as a one-woman show with me as the star. I better get on that.
***
Pete Yorn has a new song, "Shampoo” (go on, click the link and snag it. You know you want to.). He posted it on his message board as his “new favorite song to break up to” or something like that. That’s all fine and good, but I want to know who the backup vocalist is, because it’s a lady, and I’m inclined to think that Pete is probably dating whomever that lady is. And this makes me upset because shouldn’t Pete be saving himself for me? I’m saving myself for him. Or, you know, Dave Lieberman. Whoever I meet first.
***
I got gas today. When you pay at the little island kiosk, it tells you that if you use your ATM card, a transaction fee of $.45 is added onto your total. By an amazing stroke of luck, I bought exactly $39.55 worth of gas, which means my overall total was $40 on the nose. How often does that happen? Almost never! Ah, little victories.
***
***
***
Huh. I don’t feel any more tired now than I was before. I don’t feel any more relaxed either, especially since now I’m really worried that I chose the wrong prince and that somehow that decision will come back to haunt me one day. Blurgh. I feel a massive Excedrin PM shot coming in five...four...three...two...
The weird thing is, I’m not really all that productive at night either. I get a little ADD during the insomniac hours. I read a lot of books, and that’s usually because at this time of the night, one can’t hold my interest for more than a couple chapters, so I have to switch to another one. If books don’t keep me occupied, I usually surf the Internets, but there’s not a whole lot of rhyme or reason there (a look at last night’s web activity shows this bizarro trail: Perez Hilton to Amazon to Wikipedia to WebMD to BabelFish Translator to MapQuest. If you can find a straight line from beginning to end in that mess, I’ll give you all the money in my wallet. Which may or may not be $3.17. Minus $.41 for shipping.).
Some nights neither the books nor the web are enough to keep me busy until sheer exhaustion takes over and I finally fall asleep. These are the nights when a lot of thoughts (some deep, most nonsensical) are floating around inside my head. I read once that you’re supposed to write down the thoughts to get them out of your mind, and by doing so you’re ridding yourself of the turmoil they’re causing you, which of course leads to deep inner relaxation and, ultimately, sleep. Honestly, I always thought that doing that exercise was a little fruity and would never work, but I have to be up early tomorrow, and I need to snooze. So here’s my attempt to relax my mind and throw out all the weirdness that’s mucking it up so that I can get to sleep:
***
You know those soft-baked sugar cookies with that really intensely sweet frosting and those waxy/fantastic sprinkles? I want one of those right now. One, psssh. Better make it
***
I think I had my first alcohol buzz the other day. I think. Is it hard to tell if you have a buzz on? I don’t know. My cousin Denise always says that a good way to know for sure whether or not you’re on the road to Drunktown is to lift your arms and try to sense if they feel any heavier than they did before you started drinking. The only problem with that is that the weird, tentatively suspended arms have a tendency to give the appearance of drunkenness. Or the appearance of signaling to the waiter for another round. I’m pretty sure you’ll end up getting another Cosmopolitan either way.
***
I hate the word "facetious." I feel like people who say "facetious" are trying way too hard to sound smart. Show me someone who genuinely loves the word "facetious" and I will show you an intellectual poseur. An unlikely upside to hating "facetious": If and when I get to be a guest on James Lipton's "Inside the Actor's Studio" and he gives me that quiz at the end and asks what my least favorite word is, I'll have the answer all locked and loaded and ready to go.
***
If I see one more commercial for eharmony.com – just one more! – I think I might lose my mind. It’s not that I have anything against eharmony. It’s online dating. Whatever. Some people choose to go that route, and who am I to judge them? They know what they want, and they’re going for it. I respect that, even if it’s not a road I ever see myself taking. You’d think that kindly, tolerant attitude would earn me some kind of karmic relief from the bombardment of ads from Dr. Neil Warren and Co. Yeah, not so much.
***
Where are Flemish people from?
***
Sometimes I feel like there are needles poking into my eyeballs. It happens for maybe two seconds, during which I blink like a crazy person, and then it’s over. Similarly, I often feel like my two front teeth are being plied out of my mouth. The sensation is, again, momentary, but it’s uncomfortable nonetheless. Does anyone else ever feel that?
***
I would give anything in the world to not have to put the sheets on my bed right now. They’ve just been lying there for hours, and I’ve been finding creative ways to lie around them while reading The Scapegoat by Daphne DuMaurier. It's times like this that make me wish I had a maid. Or a butler who would agree to put sheets on my bed even though butlers typically don’t do that kind of thing. Or do women not have butlers? Are they like ladies-in-waiting or something? I can't say that I know for sure.
***
Wondering if it should be “laying”/“lay” instead of “lying”/“lie.” Wondering if I’m coherent enough at this hour to figure that out. Wondering if I care about the difference between the two even when I'm completely lucid.
***
Who was that chick that got eliminated on Top Chef this week? I swear I’ve never seen her on the show before, and we’re like four weeks in. She must have been pretty flavorless to garner zero screen time until she got ousted. Flavorless, teehee…
***
If I had to say definitively right now which prince I liked best, Prince William or Prince Harry, I would without a doubt go with Harry. Because he seems nasty.
***
My cousin Stacie told me today that she and her friends Joe and Bart once wrote a pilot script for a TV comedy about eight people working in a mall. I really don’t know what to do with that information. My only real thought is that I need to work on finding a copy of that sucker ASAP. Perhaps get it performed by a local theater troupe. Or tweak it so that it could be done as a one-woman show with me as the star. I better get on that.
***
Pete Yorn has a new song, "Shampoo” (go on, click the link and snag it. You know you want to.). He posted it on his message board as his “new favorite song to break up to” or something like that. That’s all fine and good, but I want to know who the backup vocalist is, because it’s a lady, and I’m inclined to think that Pete is probably dating whomever that lady is. And this makes me upset because shouldn’t Pete be saving himself for me? I’m saving myself for him. Or, you know, Dave Lieberman. Whoever I meet first.
***
I got gas today. When you pay at the little island kiosk, it tells you that if you use your ATM card, a transaction fee of $.45 is added onto your total. By an amazing stroke of luck, I bought exactly $39.55 worth of gas, which means my overall total was $40 on the nose. How often does that happen? Almost never! Ah, little victories.
***
***
***
Huh. I don’t feel any more tired now than I was before. I don’t feel any more relaxed either, especially since now I’m really worried that I chose the wrong prince and that somehow that decision will come back to haunt me one day. Blurgh. I feel a massive Excedrin PM shot coming in five...four...three...two...
Wednesday, July 4, 2007
From Me to You: An Independence Day Gift
Today is Wednesday, July 4th. It’s widely accepted that the headlining event of the Fourth of July should be the celebration of Independence Day. For the most part, I agree with that assessment. After all, for a while there, Independence Day was my number one most favorite holiday (even beating out Christmas, and that is hard to do). I still look forward to it because on our street, it means a gigantic block party and tons of fireworks. Everyone’s house is open, everyone serves food and drinks (alcoholic ones too! Huzzah.), everyone’s family and friends come and hang out all day, flags are hung up everywhere, there’s music, one of those bouncy houses invariably shows up on someone’s lawn, and there’s almost always some kind of game going on (for the past two years, it’s been volleyball. Not as fun as the football/baseball/foosball hybrid we had a while back, but fun nonetheless. Plus, there's less crying, less rib bruising, and the rules are way clearer, so I guess it's superior in almost every way...). It’s a total idyllic scene, like something straight out of Mayberry, except, you know, without the eccentric sheriff’s deputy. Also, I have an Aunt Dee, not an Aunt Bea. And our theme song is way more rockin' - none of that whistling business for us. Whatever, all that stuff is besides the point, which is this: With all that goodness going on, how could Independence Day not be the highlight of the Fourth of July? 1) Thanks for asking, and 2) I’ll tell you how: Independence Day happens to fall on a Wednesday this year. And what else falls on Wednesdays? That’s right, a new episode of Clark and Michael. This, of course, trumps all else, even free-flowing margaritas and borderline illegal fireworks.
If you don’t know anything about Clark and Michael, well, hold on to your hat, because it is…what is the word…oh yes: legendary. To quickly summarize, Clark and Michael is a series of online shorts written by and starring Clark Duke and Michael Cera (of Arrested Development fame - that’s one of my absolute most favorite shows of all time, by the way) as two friends who live together and have written a script for a TV show which they are tying to sell to a network. The concept is that they’ve hired a film crew (at their own expense) to document what they believe will be their road to stardom, and the result is the most hilarious display of idiocy and camaraderie amongst goons that I’ve seen in a really long time. I love that, ostensibly, the show is about how much hard work it takes to achieve even a modicum of success in Hollywood, yet you rarely see the guys actually working to improve or promote their script. Instead, they’re going to the gym (because their bodies are their “tombs” – I think they may have going for “temples” there…), picking up movies at Vidiot (where they’re pissed because no one carries Touched By An Angel), dancing while drunk (self-explanatory), awkwardly hitting on women (Michael, to a woman who just told him she had a child when she was 16: “Did you breastfeed her?”), and fighting and making up (wrestling, hugging, and ablutionary trips to the local mini-golf course ensue). A new episode is posted on their website every Wednesday, and for the last six weeks, each one has left me cracking up and zealously awaiting the next installment. See for yourself, peep the trailer:
How could you not love a show like that? Seriously, go on over there, take an hour, and watch the show in its entirety. It might not be the most productive thing you do on Independence Day, but it will definitely brighten your day. Though I guess fireworks do that too… Eh, the margaritas are clouding my ability (and desire) to ponder such things. Just go watch the show. Do it because it's the patriotic thing to do. Not reason enough? Then do it because it's what our forefathers would have wanted you to do. Still no? Wow, you people are a hard sell. How about you do it because it's free? Aha, there it is.
***
Happy Fourth of July!
If you don’t know anything about Clark and Michael, well, hold on to your hat, because it is…what is the word…oh yes: legendary. To quickly summarize, Clark and Michael is a series of online shorts written by and starring Clark Duke and Michael Cera (of Arrested Development fame - that’s one of my absolute most favorite shows of all time, by the way) as two friends who live together and have written a script for a TV show which they are tying to sell to a network. The concept is that they’ve hired a film crew (at their own expense) to document what they believe will be their road to stardom, and the result is the most hilarious display of idiocy and camaraderie amongst goons that I’ve seen in a really long time. I love that, ostensibly, the show is about how much hard work it takes to achieve even a modicum of success in Hollywood, yet you rarely see the guys actually working to improve or promote their script. Instead, they’re going to the gym (because their bodies are their “tombs” – I think they may have going for “temples” there…), picking up movies at Vidiot (where they’re pissed because no one carries Touched By An Angel), dancing while drunk (self-explanatory), awkwardly hitting on women (Michael, to a woman who just told him she had a child when she was 16: “Did you breastfeed her?”), and fighting and making up (wrestling, hugging, and ablutionary trips to the local mini-golf course ensue). A new episode is posted on their website every Wednesday, and for the last six weeks, each one has left me cracking up and zealously awaiting the next installment. See for yourself, peep the trailer:
How could you not love a show like that? Seriously, go on over there, take an hour, and watch the show in its entirety. It might not be the most productive thing you do on Independence Day, but it will definitely brighten your day. Though I guess fireworks do that too… Eh, the margaritas are clouding my ability (and desire) to ponder such things. Just go watch the show. Do it because it's the patriotic thing to do. Not reason enough? Then do it because it's what our forefathers would have wanted you to do. Still no? Wow, you people are a hard sell. How about you do it because it's free? Aha, there it is.
***
Happy Fourth of July!
Saturday, June 30, 2007
"Jamz" Is A Legitimate Synonym for "Songs," Right? Yeah, Let's Go With That.
For as long as I can remember, my best buddy (and fellow blogger), Andrea, has been a music fiend. We were shopping at Borders the other day (fine – we were there to reserve copies of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. Whatever.), and when contemplating the purchase of a new full price hardcover, she said, “When I see that the price of that book is $26, I immediately think, ‘That’s 26 songs I could buy from iTunes.’” She’s just passionate and hardcore about music that way. When we were in high school, she used to have this gigantic book of CDs that she would take everywhere with her (this was before the days of the iPod, kiddos). I loved that book. It was so fun to look through it and see what tunes she loved. I mean, sure, there were some questionable choices (*NSYNC’s No Strings Attached comes to mind, but then again, I was into Hanson, so I have no room to talk), and yeah, she did go through a regrettable country phase, but on the whole, her taste in music was generally fabulous and still is to this day. She’s constantly expanding and refining her collection, which is a true gem. It’s a soulful, eclectic mix of hidden treasures that speaks to just how hip a person she is. Whenever I’m looking for something new and cool to listen to, I just ask Andrea what she’s been hearing lately, and I’m always more than satisfied with her recommendations.
A few years ago, Andrea and I started doing these “Best Of” mixes with all of our favorite songs of the year on them. We’d burn each other our “Best Of” CDs and then write out why we loved each song and why they made the cut. There was really no method to the madness (there rarely is with any of our schemes), and the only real rule was that you could choose any song you wanted, just so long as it was new to you in that year. I think we originally started doing these mixes because Andrea was bored at work and needed something to do, and because I am always willing to share my opinion on anything at anytime with anyone. But ever since their inception, they’ve become like a hallmark of our friendship. Every June (the halfway point of the year), we offer up our favorite 15 songs from the first part of the year, and then in December we finish things off by bumping it up to the best 30 jams of the entire year (just because we like that kind of symmetry. Wow, that paints us as way nerdier than we actually are. Maybe not…). I love these mixes. They’re invariably filled with great music, and reading each other’s comments on each song is always interesting (and often hilarious). This year, we thought we’d let you in on the fun and share our midyear “Best Of” mixes with you. And, because we’re cool like that, we’ve made it possible for you to snag the songs for yourself. All you have to do is click the song title and it’s yours to keep, just so long as you promise to go and support the artist if you like what you hear (which, oddly enough, you can do by simply clicking on the album art. We make it so easy to be a good person here, don’t we? You people are so lucky to have us.). Anyway, on to the music:
Nicole’s Best of 2007 So Far
1. “Brand New Set of Wings” by Joe Purdy: I was one of those latecomers to the Lost fandom. Andrea, on the other hand, was all about the show from its inception, and she’s the one that conned me into watching the first season on DVD. I’m so glad she did. Not only do I completely love the show (RIP Charlie, you little reformed cokehead, you), it also introduced me to Joe Purdy, whose track “Wash Away” was featured in the third ep of the first season. That’s a beautiful song, and so is “Brand New Set of Wings.” I love the chorus: “Oh Sally, don’t get down/’Cause I’ve been looking all over town/For a brand new set of wings for you.” It’s such a sweet sentiment. And the sound, the actual instrumentation of the thing, is so full and rich in a folksy, unpretentious kind of way. It’s a keeper!
2. “F*ck Was I” by Jenny Owen Youngs: There is nothing that I don’t love about this song. First of all, the lyrics (about being stupid enough to think that you won’t get hurt by a bad guy) are clever without being obnoxious. I especially dig the chorus: “Skillet on the stove, it’s such a temptation/Maybe I’ll be the lucky one who doesn’t get burned?/What the f*ck was I thinking?” The track is slow and melodic and heavy on the strings, which I love. And even though there’s nothing fancy about Jenny Owen Youngs’ voice, it’s the simplicity of it that makes it so good.
3. “Walt Whitman Bridge” by Marah: I read a review of a Marah album once that compared their sound to Springsteen, if Springsteen and the Replacements got together and made an album. I have to admit that I could never describe who Marah is to you more perceptively or more accurately than that. Listen to this song, note it’s deceptively poetic lyrics (especially right at the end there), enjoy its blue-collar, everyman-accessible vibe, and become a Marah fan. You’ll thank me later.
4. “Amazing Glow” by the Pernice Brothers: Did you ever hear a song where the lyrics did not at all match the music? This song is the exact opposite of that. The simple, melancholy tune is the perfect accompaniment to the lyrics, which tell the story of a guy who dumped a girl, only to realize too late that she was the one for him, and subsequently can’t get her off his mind. My favorite verse (though the whole song is a lyrical gem): “I changed my master plan/I changed my friends and city/I go to sleep, I still wake up screaming//A dream so full and real/You’d think I would know better/I try to stave off a new day from rising.” I think the imagery is just perfection there; he can’t escape her or his broken heart no matter what he does, and it’s no one’s fault but his own. He’s left with memories and loneliness and nothing else (take note, gentlemen – giving up a good girl is not a good idea). What a great song, and also a seriously good band - make it a point to sample their back catalog if you’re not already familiar with their stuff. You won’t be sorry.
5. “Falling Awake” by Gary Jules: I love – LOVE – everything – EVERYTHING – about this one. It’s just excellent in every aspect, from the double entendre title, to the subtle, keyboard-laced melody, to each and every cynical, hopeless lyric in between. I feel like such a glutton for punishment when it comes to this song. It’s incredibly sad, but I keep it on repeat because it’s so gorgeous, and every time I do this, I’m always thrown into a really miserable, depressive funk. This cannot be a good thing. But I can’t stop it. I just can’t. And you won’t be able to either (I apologize in advance). Also, I honestly do not know when I became addicted to sad songs. I blame Andrea. You should too.
6. “Dragon” by Tori Amos: I’m not the world’s biggest Tori Amos fan by a long shot. Most of her songs are a little too angry for my taste. But this song…this song, I love. The vibe of the song is all over the place, hitting moments of somber restraint, sweet desperation, and burning anger, but somehow it seems dynamic rather than unfocused. By the end of the track, you feel like you’ve just listened to a rock opera. Or, like you’ve just been in a fist fight. Either way, you’re exhausted. I don’t know how Tori Amos does that.
7. “Phantom Limb” by The Shins: If you know anything about today’s music scene, you know that the Shins are, shall we say, very well regarded. I don’t think I read one bad review of their latest album, Wincing the Night Away. As I see it, the success of the Shins is based on their ability to stay cool enough to keep the indie kids feeling all hip and superior while still appealing to a more mass market, commercial demographic (ie, your John Mayer fans). I think “Phantom Limb” bridges the gap between the two brilliantly (It was the first single from the album. Coincidence? Doubtful.). Even though it’s hard to find cohesion in the lyrics (which James Mercer, the lead singer, has said are about two young lesbians - to which I say, "Um, what?"), the music is undeniably lovely and incredibly addicting.
8. “Dirty Dream Number Two” by Belle & Sebastian: I am so behind the times with Belle & Sebastian, though maybe I can’t be totally to blame; after all, the in-the-know college kids were listening to them when I was still in high school. Whatever the case, I’m on board now, and it’s all because of this song. I like to think of it as the perfect addition to the soundtrack of my life, combining my slightly ebullient and vivacious side (a la Archie’s Betty), and my snarky and introspective side (a la…Emily the Strange?). A girl can dream. Dream. “Dirty Dream Number Two.” I didn’t even plan that! Nice.
9. “Young Folks” by Peter Bjorn and John: I went to two Pete Yorn shows this year. Both shows had three opening bands. They weren’t heinous…but yeah, they were kind of heinous. The only thing that made waiting for Pete better was this song, which was on the pre-show mix. I am forever indebted to his cousin/merch guy/tour historian, Max, who writes this blog and made that mix. It’s so unusual, and unusually catchy, too. How could you not love it?
10. “Sick of Myself” by Matthew Sweet: I first became aware of Matthew Sweet through my friend, Dave. Dave’s collection is, for lack of a better word, awesome. What’s even more awesome is that it’s all meticulously catalogued on one of those portable hard drives, which Dave drops off at my house every once in a while so I can scavenge for new music. The last time I had the hard drive, I snagged Time Capsule: The Best Of Matthew Sweet because I enjoyed the Thorns’ cover of the Jayhawks’ “Blue,” and Matthew Sweet is in the Thorns. Before this, I hadn’t really heard any of his original songs, but after giving the album a thorough listen, I became a full-fledged fan, and “Sick of Myself” became my favorite Matthew Sweet song. Even though the lyrics are wrought with pessimism and desperation, I still think of this as a kind of post-punk power pop love song. All I know is, whenever I hear this song, I think, “I want a guy to love me like that.” And I also think, “This sounds like it was recorded in a garage.” So there you go.
11. “Diamond Ring” by Joseph Arthur and the Lonely Astronauts: If you have never heard Joseph Arthur’s Redemption’s Son, then I feel tremendously sorry for you. It’s one of my favorite albums of all time, and I honestly can’t say enough good things about it. His latest release, Let’s Just Be, is, well…I find it hard to give it compliments. It’s weirdly meandering and sloppy, and even though I love Joseph Arthur, I just can’t get on board with this particular bit of experimentation. Its only saving grace is “Diamond Ring,” and thank goodness for it. I love this song, not only for its spot-on falsetto and great 70s rock vibe (it’s definitely Rolling Stones-influenced), but because it gives me hope that Joseph Arthur will get his crap together and give us a quality record soon. If he doesn't, I might go all Steven from "The Real World: Seattle" on his ass. I've done it once, I'll do it again. Sleep with one eye open, Arthur.
12. “Hesitating Beauty” by Billy Bragg and Wilco: As the story goes, Nora Guthrie (aka Woody’s daughter) asked Billy Bragg and Jeff Tweedy (of Wilco) to add music to some of her father’s lyrics after his death. The result was an album called Mermaid Avenue, which fused Woody’s idealistic lyrics with contemporary, folksy melodies. This is one of my favorite tracks from that album, for its twangy, straightforward loveliness. (Side note: I'm learning so much about myself while writing this list. In addition to being a person who loves sad songs, I've apparently also turned into one of those people who say "lovely" all the time. I'm like Mrs. Thurston Howell the Third or something. That's just...lovely.)
13. “Fountain of Youth” by Grant-Lee Phillips: I have been a longtime fan of Grant-Lee Phillips. We go so far back that I remember when he was called Grant-Lee Buffalo (I still don’t get what happened there. Was it like a JohnCougar Mellencamp kind of situation? Huh. Enigma.). His songs make me feel sort of dopey and light-headed in the best way possible, like I’m floating or something. Some people think heaven is filled with harp music; for me, it’s just an endless string of Grant-Lee Phillips songs, this one included.
14. “Clean Getaway” by Maria Taylor: I was debating between two Maria Taylor songs for this mix, this one and “A Good Start.” The latter is so, so good, and I highly recommend giving it a listen, but in the end, “Clean Getaway” won out (so I flipped a quarter, so sue me). The only word I can think of that would accurately describe the vibe of this song is “plaintive.” Also, “wistful.” And “jackhammer.” “Merciless.” “Insatiable.” Okay, veered off topic there for a sec. Seriously though, back to “Clean Getaway”: It’s all acoustic, just a guitar and Maria Taylor’s pretty voice. It's my most played song on iTunes for a good reason.
15. “Ziggy Stardust” by Seu Jorge: Yes, “Ziggy Stardust” is a classic track off David Bowie’s famously epic album of the same name. Yes, there have been many fine, interesting interpretations of the song offered up by many fine, interesting artists throughout the years. Hear me now: I don’t care about them. Hell, I barely care about David Bowie when I listen to Seu Jorge’s version, which, incidentally, is sung in Brazilian Portuguese. I’m usually such a lyric lover that you would think the language barrier would turn me off, but strangely, it does not. I’m so in love with Seu Jorge’s voice and loose, uncomplicated acoustic guitar work that it more than makes up for the fact that I have no idea what he’s saying. This song makes me feel completely content and grateful, and that's all I need to know.
So there you have it, my midyear mix. If you get your click on here, you can check out Andrea's (super cool) mix too. I hope you enjoy them! And if you don’t, well, I don’t want to hear about it. Seriously, zip the lip.
A few years ago, Andrea and I started doing these “Best Of” mixes with all of our favorite songs of the year on them. We’d burn each other our “Best Of” CDs and then write out why we loved each song and why they made the cut. There was really no method to the madness (there rarely is with any of our schemes), and the only real rule was that you could choose any song you wanted, just so long as it was new to you in that year. I think we originally started doing these mixes because Andrea was bored at work and needed something to do, and because I am always willing to share my opinion on anything at anytime with anyone. But ever since their inception, they’ve become like a hallmark of our friendship. Every June (the halfway point of the year), we offer up our favorite 15 songs from the first part of the year, and then in December we finish things off by bumping it up to the best 30 jams of the entire year (just because we like that kind of symmetry. Wow, that paints us as way nerdier than we actually are. Maybe not…). I love these mixes. They’re invariably filled with great music, and reading each other’s comments on each song is always interesting (and often hilarious). This year, we thought we’d let you in on the fun and share our midyear “Best Of” mixes with you. And, because we’re cool like that, we’ve made it possible for you to snag the songs for yourself. All you have to do is click the song title and it’s yours to keep, just so long as you promise to go and support the artist if you like what you hear (which, oddly enough, you can do by simply clicking on the album art. We make it so easy to be a good person here, don’t we? You people are so lucky to have us.). Anyway, on to the music:
Nicole’s Best of 2007 So Far
1. “Brand New Set of Wings” by Joe Purdy: I was one of those latecomers to the Lost fandom. Andrea, on the other hand, was all about the show from its inception, and she’s the one that conned me into watching the first season on DVD. I’m so glad she did. Not only do I completely love the show (RIP Charlie, you little reformed cokehead, you), it also introduced me to Joe Purdy, whose track “Wash Away” was featured in the third ep of the first season. That’s a beautiful song, and so is “Brand New Set of Wings.” I love the chorus: “Oh Sally, don’t get down/’Cause I’ve been looking all over town/For a brand new set of wings for you.” It’s such a sweet sentiment. And the sound, the actual instrumentation of the thing, is so full and rich in a folksy, unpretentious kind of way. It’s a keeper!
2. “F*ck Was I” by Jenny Owen Youngs: There is nothing that I don’t love about this song. First of all, the lyrics (about being stupid enough to think that you won’t get hurt by a bad guy) are clever without being obnoxious. I especially dig the chorus: “Skillet on the stove, it’s such a temptation/Maybe I’ll be the lucky one who doesn’t get burned?/What the f*ck was I thinking?” The track is slow and melodic and heavy on the strings, which I love. And even though there’s nothing fancy about Jenny Owen Youngs’ voice, it’s the simplicity of it that makes it so good.
3. “Walt Whitman Bridge” by Marah: I read a review of a Marah album once that compared their sound to Springsteen, if Springsteen and the Replacements got together and made an album. I have to admit that I could never describe who Marah is to you more perceptively or more accurately than that. Listen to this song, note it’s deceptively poetic lyrics (especially right at the end there), enjoy its blue-collar, everyman-accessible vibe, and become a Marah fan. You’ll thank me later.
4. “Amazing Glow” by the Pernice Brothers: Did you ever hear a song where the lyrics did not at all match the music? This song is the exact opposite of that. The simple, melancholy tune is the perfect accompaniment to the lyrics, which tell the story of a guy who dumped a girl, only to realize too late that she was the one for him, and subsequently can’t get her off his mind. My favorite verse (though the whole song is a lyrical gem): “I changed my master plan/I changed my friends and city/I go to sleep, I still wake up screaming//A dream so full and real/You’d think I would know better/I try to stave off a new day from rising.” I think the imagery is just perfection there; he can’t escape her or his broken heart no matter what he does, and it’s no one’s fault but his own. He’s left with memories and loneliness and nothing else (take note, gentlemen – giving up a good girl is not a good idea). What a great song, and also a seriously good band - make it a point to sample their back catalog if you’re not already familiar with their stuff. You won’t be sorry.
5. “Falling Awake” by Gary Jules: I love – LOVE – everything – EVERYTHING – about this one. It’s just excellent in every aspect, from the double entendre title, to the subtle, keyboard-laced melody, to each and every cynical, hopeless lyric in between. I feel like such a glutton for punishment when it comes to this song. It’s incredibly sad, but I keep it on repeat because it’s so gorgeous, and every time I do this, I’m always thrown into a really miserable, depressive funk. This cannot be a good thing. But I can’t stop it. I just can’t. And you won’t be able to either (I apologize in advance). Also, I honestly do not know when I became addicted to sad songs. I blame Andrea. You should too.
6. “Dragon” by Tori Amos: I’m not the world’s biggest Tori Amos fan by a long shot. Most of her songs are a little too angry for my taste. But this song…this song, I love. The vibe of the song is all over the place, hitting moments of somber restraint, sweet desperation, and burning anger, but somehow it seems dynamic rather than unfocused. By the end of the track, you feel like you’ve just listened to a rock opera. Or, like you’ve just been in a fist fight. Either way, you’re exhausted. I don’t know how Tori Amos does that.
7. “Phantom Limb” by The Shins: If you know anything about today’s music scene, you know that the Shins are, shall we say, very well regarded. I don’t think I read one bad review of their latest album, Wincing the Night Away. As I see it, the success of the Shins is based on their ability to stay cool enough to keep the indie kids feeling all hip and superior while still appealing to a more mass market, commercial demographic (ie, your John Mayer fans). I think “Phantom Limb” bridges the gap between the two brilliantly (It was the first single from the album. Coincidence? Doubtful.). Even though it’s hard to find cohesion in the lyrics (which James Mercer, the lead singer, has said are about two young lesbians - to which I say, "Um, what?"), the music is undeniably lovely and incredibly addicting.
8. “Dirty Dream Number Two” by Belle & Sebastian: I am so behind the times with Belle & Sebastian, though maybe I can’t be totally to blame; after all, the in-the-know college kids were listening to them when I was still in high school. Whatever the case, I’m on board now, and it’s all because of this song. I like to think of it as the perfect addition to the soundtrack of my life, combining my slightly ebullient and vivacious side (a la Archie’s Betty), and my snarky and introspective side (a la…Emily the Strange?). A girl can dream. Dream. “Dirty Dream Number Two.” I didn’t even plan that! Nice.
9. “Young Folks” by Peter Bjorn and John: I went to two Pete Yorn shows this year. Both shows had three opening bands. They weren’t heinous…but yeah, they were kind of heinous. The only thing that made waiting for Pete better was this song, which was on the pre-show mix. I am forever indebted to his cousin/merch guy/tour historian, Max, who writes this blog and made that mix. It’s so unusual, and unusually catchy, too. How could you not love it?
10. “Sick of Myself” by Matthew Sweet: I first became aware of Matthew Sweet through my friend, Dave. Dave’s collection is, for lack of a better word, awesome. What’s even more awesome is that it’s all meticulously catalogued on one of those portable hard drives, which Dave drops off at my house every once in a while so I can scavenge for new music. The last time I had the hard drive, I snagged Time Capsule: The Best Of Matthew Sweet because I enjoyed the Thorns’ cover of the Jayhawks’ “Blue,” and Matthew Sweet is in the Thorns. Before this, I hadn’t really heard any of his original songs, but after giving the album a thorough listen, I became a full-fledged fan, and “Sick of Myself” became my favorite Matthew Sweet song. Even though the lyrics are wrought with pessimism and desperation, I still think of this as a kind of post-punk power pop love song. All I know is, whenever I hear this song, I think, “I want a guy to love me like that.” And I also think, “This sounds like it was recorded in a garage.” So there you go.
11. “Diamond Ring” by Joseph Arthur and the Lonely Astronauts: If you have never heard Joseph Arthur’s Redemption’s Son, then I feel tremendously sorry for you. It’s one of my favorite albums of all time, and I honestly can’t say enough good things about it. His latest release, Let’s Just Be, is, well…I find it hard to give it compliments. It’s weirdly meandering and sloppy, and even though I love Joseph Arthur, I just can’t get on board with this particular bit of experimentation. Its only saving grace is “Diamond Ring,” and thank goodness for it. I love this song, not only for its spot-on falsetto and great 70s rock vibe (it’s definitely Rolling Stones-influenced), but because it gives me hope that Joseph Arthur will get his crap together and give us a quality record soon. If he doesn't, I might go all Steven from "The Real World: Seattle" on his ass. I've done it once, I'll do it again. Sleep with one eye open, Arthur.
12. “Hesitating Beauty” by Billy Bragg and Wilco: As the story goes, Nora Guthrie (aka Woody’s daughter) asked Billy Bragg and Jeff Tweedy (of Wilco) to add music to some of her father’s lyrics after his death. The result was an album called Mermaid Avenue, which fused Woody’s idealistic lyrics with contemporary, folksy melodies. This is one of my favorite tracks from that album, for its twangy, straightforward loveliness. (Side note: I'm learning so much about myself while writing this list. In addition to being a person who loves sad songs, I've apparently also turned into one of those people who say "lovely" all the time. I'm like Mrs. Thurston Howell the Third or something. That's just...lovely.)
13. “Fountain of Youth” by Grant-Lee Phillips: I have been a longtime fan of Grant-Lee Phillips. We go so far back that I remember when he was called Grant-Lee Buffalo (I still don’t get what happened there. Was it like a John
14. “Clean Getaway” by Maria Taylor: I was debating between two Maria Taylor songs for this mix, this one and “A Good Start.” The latter is so, so good, and I highly recommend giving it a listen, but in the end, “Clean Getaway” won out (so I flipped a quarter, so sue me). The only word I can think of that would accurately describe the vibe of this song is “plaintive.” Also, “wistful.” And “jackhammer.” “Merciless.” “Insatiable.” Okay, veered off topic there for a sec. Seriously though, back to “Clean Getaway”: It’s all acoustic, just a guitar and Maria Taylor’s pretty voice. It's my most played song on iTunes for a good reason.
15. “Ziggy Stardust” by Seu Jorge: Yes, “Ziggy Stardust” is a classic track off David Bowie’s famously epic album of the same name. Yes, there have been many fine, interesting interpretations of the song offered up by many fine, interesting artists throughout the years. Hear me now: I don’t care about them. Hell, I barely care about David Bowie when I listen to Seu Jorge’s version, which, incidentally, is sung in Brazilian Portuguese. I’m usually such a lyric lover that you would think the language barrier would turn me off, but strangely, it does not. I’m so in love with Seu Jorge’s voice and loose, uncomplicated acoustic guitar work that it more than makes up for the fact that I have no idea what he’s saying. This song makes me feel completely content and grateful, and that's all I need to know.
So there you have it, my midyear mix. If you get your click on here, you can check out Andrea's (super cool) mix too. I hope you enjoy them! And if you don’t, well, I don’t want to hear about it. Seriously, zip the lip.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Hypothetical Love Letter
Dear Dave Lieberman,
Hi there! My name is Nicole, and although I know this may sound a little crazy, I think I should tell you: I believe, with every fiber of my being, that you and I are soul mates. I realize that this sounds a little…outlandish, especially since we have never actually met. That might be a problem for some people, but not for me, and hopefully not for you either, because I think we could really be something special, and once you give me a chance to explain, I think you’ll come to feel that way too.
I remember the first time I saw your show on the Food Network, making your budget conscious meals and serving them to your friends and family. I was immediately attracted to your easy smile, your sparkling eyes, and your adorable laugh. But those things are apparent to everyone. The more I watched your show, the more I began to appreciate your obvious joie de vivre, your thoughtful, enthusiastic commentary, and your kind heart. I’m always on the lookout for swell guys, but you – you are more than swell, Dave. You’re magnificent.
For those reasons (and several more not totally appropriate to publish reasons), I have a proposal for you: I think we should get married. Soon. I can’t think of any way in which this could possibly be a bad idea. The one snag that we might hit is that you appear to be Jewish and I am not. This isn’t an issue for me. I would even be willing to consider conversion if it was that important to you (it did, after all, work for Charlotte and Harry on “Sex and the City”). I’m not always flexible like that, but for you, Dave, I think I could be. Unless of course you don’t believe in marriage, in which case, let’s move in together and develop our own kind of Goldie Hawn/Kurt Russell dynamic. I’m more than fine with that too. Whatever you want, Dave. Let’s make it happen.
Once we work that stuff out, I think we should absolutely have children. It goes without saying that those would be some gorgeous kids. They would be as beautiful as John Travolta likes to think his kids are. Your inherent perkiness and easy going demeanor, coupled with my dry wit and fantastic organizational skills, would, I think, turn out a few of the most impressive, well-liked people on the planet. They would be marvelous, little half Jewish/half Italian pieces of art. Masterpieces, even.
I can see our lives together very clearly, Dave. Waking up in the morning, reading the paper in bed, dropping the kids off at school, hitting up the farmer’s market, then going home, where you make our family an amazing meal while the nanny cares for the children and I drink a few Mojitos. After dinner, we’d read the kids a book and put them to bed, then watch a little late night TV and adjourn to the boudoir ourselves. And did I mention the passion? Oh yes, there is passion. I can feel it now, even with all these miles between us. Sit closer to the computer monitor and you’ll feel it too – it’s buzzing, completely electric. Doesn’t that sound like a dream to you, Dave? Doesn’t it just sound divine?
I love you, Dave Lieberman, and I hope that after reading this letter, you will love me too, or, at the very least, be open to trying to make something magical happen between us. I know you’re very busy, and it must be terribly exhausting to be as constantly enthusiastic as you are, but I’m willing to wait. I know, in the deepest depths of my soul, that you are it for me. You’re the one, Dave! And for that, I would wait forever (I mean, I’ll wait forever unless Jeffrey Garten - you know, Ina’s husband - happens to come back on the market again. Then I might have to reassess...).
(Almost) Wholeheartedly yours,
Nicole
Hi there! My name is Nicole, and although I know this may sound a little crazy, I think I should tell you: I believe, with every fiber of my being, that you and I are soul mates. I realize that this sounds a little…outlandish, especially since we have never actually met. That might be a problem for some people, but not for me, and hopefully not for you either, because I think we could really be something special, and once you give me a chance to explain, I think you’ll come to feel that way too.
I remember the first time I saw your show on the Food Network, making your budget conscious meals and serving them to your friends and family. I was immediately attracted to your easy smile, your sparkling eyes, and your adorable laugh. But those things are apparent to everyone. The more I watched your show, the more I began to appreciate your obvious joie de vivre, your thoughtful, enthusiastic commentary, and your kind heart. I’m always on the lookout for swell guys, but you – you are more than swell, Dave. You’re magnificent.
For those reasons (and several more not totally appropriate to publish reasons), I have a proposal for you: I think we should get married. Soon. I can’t think of any way in which this could possibly be a bad idea. The one snag that we might hit is that you appear to be Jewish and I am not. This isn’t an issue for me. I would even be willing to consider conversion if it was that important to you (it did, after all, work for Charlotte and Harry on “Sex and the City”). I’m not always flexible like that, but for you, Dave, I think I could be. Unless of course you don’t believe in marriage, in which case, let’s move in together and develop our own kind of Goldie Hawn/Kurt Russell dynamic. I’m more than fine with that too. Whatever you want, Dave. Let’s make it happen.
Once we work that stuff out, I think we should absolutely have children. It goes without saying that those would be some gorgeous kids. They would be as beautiful as John Travolta likes to think his kids are. Your inherent perkiness and easy going demeanor, coupled with my dry wit and fantastic organizational skills, would, I think, turn out a few of the most impressive, well-liked people on the planet. They would be marvelous, little half Jewish/half Italian pieces of art. Masterpieces, even.
I can see our lives together very clearly, Dave. Waking up in the morning, reading the paper in bed, dropping the kids off at school, hitting up the farmer’s market, then going home, where you make our family an amazing meal while the nanny cares for the children and I drink a few Mojitos. After dinner, we’d read the kids a book and put them to bed, then watch a little late night TV and adjourn to the boudoir ourselves. And did I mention the passion? Oh yes, there is passion. I can feel it now, even with all these miles between us. Sit closer to the computer monitor and you’ll feel it too – it’s buzzing, completely electric. Doesn’t that sound like a dream to you, Dave? Doesn’t it just sound divine?
I love you, Dave Lieberman, and I hope that after reading this letter, you will love me too, or, at the very least, be open to trying to make something magical happen between us. I know you’re very busy, and it must be terribly exhausting to be as constantly enthusiastic as you are, but I’m willing to wait. I know, in the deepest depths of my soul, that you are it for me. You’re the one, Dave! And for that, I would wait forever (I mean, I’ll wait forever unless Jeffrey Garten - you know, Ina’s husband - happens to come back on the market again. Then I might have to reassess...).
(Almost) Wholeheartedly yours,
Nicole
Monday, June 18, 2007
Mono, Library Fights, Dodgers
My brother has mono, aka “The Kissing Disease.” I guess this isn’t such a great thing, but I can’t help but wonder if he doesn’t deserve it. He does have sort of manwhorish tendencies. I think he makes out with a lot of girls, and I’m not sure how particularly nice he is to any of them. I’m not totally convinced that karma is a real thing, but this incident is really pushing me in that direction.
When you have mono, they say you get pretty tired because it takes a lot of energy for your body to fight off the virus. What they don’t tell you is that mono makes you one nasty mother. Ever since my brother got sick, he’s been nothing but terrible to everyone he crosses. I understand that he doesn’t feel well, and sure, everyone has the right to be a bit contrary when they’re under the weather, but this is really bad. He’s like that girl with the Lyme Disease from “The Real World: Seattle.” And I’m about to be like that dude that slapped her when she was driving away in that car and then threw her teddy bear out into the bay.
He’d better watch out.
***
In other news, the Dodgers are losing. I hate to say “I told you so,” but I did. I totally called it. Not that this makes me some kind of visionary or soothsayer (though incidentally, how awesome would it be to be a soothsayer? I mean, really.). I’m not insane or anything; I know I can’t see the future. I can, however, see the past, and what the past tells me is that more likely than not, even though we have a lot of season left, it’s all going to be downhill from here. Well, maybe not all downhill. There might be a steady ascension to the top of the heap, but that will only make going down that much faster and more terrifying. Through years of experience, I am, sadly, prepared for either scenario.
I still love Ned Colletti, though. And I still really hope I’m wrong.
***
I was in the library one day last week and, no lie, there was almost a brawl. This moron was talking on his cell phone (ironically while standing next to a “This is a no cell phone zone” sign) and some girl did that obnoxious shushing noise in his direction. He shushed her back. And then it went down like this:
Shushing Girl: “Don’t you know you’re in a library? There’s no cell phones in the library!”
Cell Phone Man: “You’re the one that’s talking!”
SG: “I’m the one that’s telling you to shut the hell up!”
CPM: “I’ll talk on my phone if I want to! You’re the one who needs to shut the hell up!”
SG: “Shuuuuuush! Shush shush!”
CPM: “Shush yourself!”
SG: “SHUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUSH!” [Ed. Note: This was such a long shush that from now on, it will be known as “The Shush Heard ‘Round the World." Well, I’m calling it that. You can join me if you want.]
CPM: (huffily) “This is bullshit.”
And, scene.
I was caught directly in the middle of this whole thing. I kept my eyes down the whole time, partly because I wanted to crack up at the absurdity of it all, and partly because I was afraid that if I cracked up I would somehow be dragged into the fight (if you can call it that). And I would most definitely lose in a fight, because I am a wuss. So in actuality, it was a self-preservation move.
Anyway, the “fight” was over really quickly. It was like one of those canine skirmishes at the dog park. The dogs get in there, rough each other up a bit, and then back off really fast. It was like quick-fire anger. And I have to say, for how petty and ridiculous the whole situation was, I really did get a good laugh out of it (once they both were out of the vicinity, of course).
People can be so idiotic sometimes. Thank God for them, or I’d never have anything to post here.
***
Hope you’re having a good week! May it be filled with your brother not having mono, your home team winning, and a total avoidance of any and all library squabbles.
When you have mono, they say you get pretty tired because it takes a lot of energy for your body to fight off the virus. What they don’t tell you is that mono makes you one nasty mother. Ever since my brother got sick, he’s been nothing but terrible to everyone he crosses. I understand that he doesn’t feel well, and sure, everyone has the right to be a bit contrary when they’re under the weather, but this is really bad. He’s like that girl with the Lyme Disease from “The Real World: Seattle.” And I’m about to be like that dude that slapped her when she was driving away in that car and then threw her teddy bear out into the bay.
He’d better watch out.
***
In other news, the Dodgers are losing. I hate to say “I told you so,” but I did. I totally called it. Not that this makes me some kind of visionary or soothsayer (though incidentally, how awesome would it be to be a soothsayer? I mean, really.). I’m not insane or anything; I know I can’t see the future. I can, however, see the past, and what the past tells me is that more likely than not, even though we have a lot of season left, it’s all going to be downhill from here. Well, maybe not all downhill. There might be a steady ascension to the top of the heap, but that will only make going down that much faster and more terrifying. Through years of experience, I am, sadly, prepared for either scenario.
I still love Ned Colletti, though. And I still really hope I’m wrong.
***
I was in the library one day last week and, no lie, there was almost a brawl. This moron was talking on his cell phone (ironically while standing next to a “This is a no cell phone zone” sign) and some girl did that obnoxious shushing noise in his direction. He shushed her back. And then it went down like this:
Shushing Girl: “Don’t you know you’re in a library? There’s no cell phones in the library!”
Cell Phone Man: “You’re the one that’s talking!”
SG: “I’m the one that’s telling you to shut the hell up!”
CPM: “I’ll talk on my phone if I want to! You’re the one who needs to shut the hell up!”
SG: “Shuuuuuush! Shush shush!”
CPM: “Shush yourself!”
SG: “SHUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUSH!” [Ed. Note: This was such a long shush that from now on, it will be known as “The Shush Heard ‘Round the World." Well, I’m calling it that. You can join me if you want.]
CPM: (huffily) “This is bullshit.”
And, scene.
I was caught directly in the middle of this whole thing. I kept my eyes down the whole time, partly because I wanted to crack up at the absurdity of it all, and partly because I was afraid that if I cracked up I would somehow be dragged into the fight (if you can call it that). And I would most definitely lose in a fight, because I am a wuss. So in actuality, it was a self-preservation move.
Anyway, the “fight” was over really quickly. It was like one of those canine skirmishes at the dog park. The dogs get in there, rough each other up a bit, and then back off really fast. It was like quick-fire anger. And I have to say, for how petty and ridiculous the whole situation was, I really did get a good laugh out of it (once they both were out of the vicinity, of course).
People can be so idiotic sometimes. Thank God for them, or I’d never have anything to post here.
***
Hope you’re having a good week! May it be filled with your brother not having mono, your home team winning, and a total avoidance of any and all library squabbles.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Alone Time
I live at home with my parents and my brother, AJ. I don’t feel bad about this because I’m only 21, and also because I’m a girl, which is way less weird than being a guy and still living with your parents in your twenties (which I know is a crazy and ridiculous double standard, but hey, if society wants throw us that one bone, I’ll take it). Besides that, I really love living at home. I have one of those great families that everyone wants but few people actually have. They’re funny and smart and just all around fantastic, and more importantly, they’re the perfect family for me. I’m 100%, completely blessed to be able to call them my own, and that’s a fact that I’m acutely aware of every day. I’m just incredibly lucky to have them.
Still, something happens when you spend large amounts of time with people, any people, regardless of how you really feel about them. Little things start to annoy you. Dishes that pile up in the sink, mail addressed to you that you never see, a total and complete lack of control of the remote – those kinds of things. And no matter how great people are, sometimes those annoyances build up to the point where you just need a break, lest you become murderous over an unflushed toilet or innumerable pairs of shoes left lying around. Lucky for me (and for them), I got that break last weekend when my parents had to chaperone my brother (who is an excellent high school third baseman) during an out-of-town baseball tournament, leaving me home alone for an entire three days.
There are only a handful of things I truly relish in life, and alone time is most definitely one of them. That’s what was so great about them going to the tournament. I would be alone. Just me. By myself. For three days. Three days! The prospect of even one day all to myself thoroughly excites me, so you can imagine how jazzed I was about having all that time just for me. Alone time is always nothing short of a beautiful thing.
My family left early Saturday morning, and from then on the perks set in. The first thing I did was sleep in. I wasn’t even all that tired, but the quiet house, the warm bed, and the knowledge that I didn’t have to do anything for anyone else but me that day made it easy to enjoy a little extra snooze time. Like, four hours of extra zzz’s, to be exact. I know that seems both ridiculously extravagant and strangely decadent, but when you’re sleeping that deeply and comfortably, stuff like that fails to register on your concern-o-meter, especially when the parameters of said meter have shifted from “Is this activity acceptable and/or healthy?” to “Is there any way I could make this activity more pleasant for myself?” Actually, scratch that. A better way of putting it would be to say that my concern-o-meter had morphed itself into a pleasure-o-meter, and that sleeping in was right up there towards the top on the new scale.
Once I woke up, I did something I wouldn’t normally do: I stayed in my pajamas. When my family is home, there are always a million and a half things to do, and as there is so little time to get all that stuff done during the weekend, we have to hit the ground running, which means no elongated pajama wearing. But I didn’t have anything scheduled for myself till later in the day, so I stayed in my pajamas. I put on my robe and made myself breakfast (on a tray, with milk AND orange juice, just because I could), and watched ten episodes of “Barefoot Contessa” that had backlogged on my Tivo. My alone weekend was off to a really great start.
Once I peeled myself off the couch (no easy task), I started to get ready for a late lunch with my favorite cousins, Denise and Stacie, and their mom, my Aunt Dee. These are three of my absolute most favorite people on the planet. Denise and Stacie are like my super fun older sisters, and my aunt is so sweet that you just want to stuff her like a doll and carry her around with you wherever you go. I never have a bad time when I’m with them. They make me feel like I’m the coolest, most dazzling and interesting person in the entire world, and that’s not a terrible feeling to have. They know the best places to go, the conversation is unfailingly excellent, and I always leap at the chance to spend time with them. This time, we went to lunch at a great little creperie (their find, natch), and, as expected, it was awesome. What made it even more awesome was knowing that I didn’t have my family to hurry back to. I could linger at lunch as long as I wanted to because no one was waiting for me at home. I can’t describe how nice that felt, knowing that my time was my own. I really liked it.
I spent the rest of my weekend engaging in similarly self-indulgent activities. I was starting to look like Peter Gallagher and Brooke Shields’ love child, so I got my eyebrows waxed. I took an insanely long shower. I read (this insane book about the Skull and Bones group - it terrifies me and I like it), listened to music (Joe Purdy’s “Paris in the Morning” – get on it), and had a Jim Halpert swoon fest while watching seasons 1 and 2 of “The Office” on DVD. You know when you get so relaxed that you’re basically dopey and have a total inability to function on a normal level? I was about two ticks away from being right there. I was probably as close to that point as a person as tightly wound as I am can ever possibly be. It was glorious.
Still, I was happy when my family came home. I missed them like you miss your bed when you’re in a hotel. I mean, a bed is a bed, but there’s no bed that will ever feel as right to you as your own bed does. And it was the same way with my family. The house was nice without them, and even though I was blissed out to the max on an alone time high in their absence, it felt good to have them back at home with me again. It felt right. Then again, it always feels right till the dishes take on new and impressive architectural heights and the mail gets lost in some sort of bizarro suburban Bermuda Triangle situation. When those things happen (and they will), I feel pretty certain that I’ll be marking the days off on the calender until they have an out-of-town thing again. I'll let you know when that countdown begins...
Still, something happens when you spend large amounts of time with people, any people, regardless of how you really feel about them. Little things start to annoy you. Dishes that pile up in the sink, mail addressed to you that you never see, a total and complete lack of control of the remote – those kinds of things. And no matter how great people are, sometimes those annoyances build up to the point where you just need a break, lest you become murderous over an unflushed toilet or innumerable pairs of shoes left lying around. Lucky for me (and for them), I got that break last weekend when my parents had to chaperone my brother (who is an excellent high school third baseman) during an out-of-town baseball tournament, leaving me home alone for an entire three days.
There are only a handful of things I truly relish in life, and alone time is most definitely one of them. That’s what was so great about them going to the tournament. I would be alone. Just me. By myself. For three days. Three days! The prospect of even one day all to myself thoroughly excites me, so you can imagine how jazzed I was about having all that time just for me. Alone time is always nothing short of a beautiful thing.
My family left early Saturday morning, and from then on the perks set in. The first thing I did was sleep in. I wasn’t even all that tired, but the quiet house, the warm bed, and the knowledge that I didn’t have to do anything for anyone else but me that day made it easy to enjoy a little extra snooze time. Like, four hours of extra zzz’s, to be exact. I know that seems both ridiculously extravagant and strangely decadent, but when you’re sleeping that deeply and comfortably, stuff like that fails to register on your concern-o-meter, especially when the parameters of said meter have shifted from “Is this activity acceptable and/or healthy?” to “Is there any way I could make this activity more pleasant for myself?” Actually, scratch that. A better way of putting it would be to say that my concern-o-meter had morphed itself into a pleasure-o-meter, and that sleeping in was right up there towards the top on the new scale.
Once I woke up, I did something I wouldn’t normally do: I stayed in my pajamas. When my family is home, there are always a million and a half things to do, and as there is so little time to get all that stuff done during the weekend, we have to hit the ground running, which means no elongated pajama wearing. But I didn’t have anything scheduled for myself till later in the day, so I stayed in my pajamas. I put on my robe and made myself breakfast (on a tray, with milk AND orange juice, just because I could), and watched ten episodes of “Barefoot Contessa” that had backlogged on my Tivo. My alone weekend was off to a really great start.
Once I peeled myself off the couch (no easy task), I started to get ready for a late lunch with my favorite cousins, Denise and Stacie, and their mom, my Aunt Dee. These are three of my absolute most favorite people on the planet. Denise and Stacie are like my super fun older sisters, and my aunt is so sweet that you just want to stuff her like a doll and carry her around with you wherever you go. I never have a bad time when I’m with them. They make me feel like I’m the coolest, most dazzling and interesting person in the entire world, and that’s not a terrible feeling to have. They know the best places to go, the conversation is unfailingly excellent, and I always leap at the chance to spend time with them. This time, we went to lunch at a great little creperie (their find, natch), and, as expected, it was awesome. What made it even more awesome was knowing that I didn’t have my family to hurry back to. I could linger at lunch as long as I wanted to because no one was waiting for me at home. I can’t describe how nice that felt, knowing that my time was my own. I really liked it.
I spent the rest of my weekend engaging in similarly self-indulgent activities. I was starting to look like Peter Gallagher and Brooke Shields’ love child, so I got my eyebrows waxed. I took an insanely long shower. I read (this insane book about the Skull and Bones group - it terrifies me and I like it), listened to music (Joe Purdy’s “Paris in the Morning” – get on it), and had a Jim Halpert swoon fest while watching seasons 1 and 2 of “The Office” on DVD. You know when you get so relaxed that you’re basically dopey and have a total inability to function on a normal level? I was about two ticks away from being right there. I was probably as close to that point as a person as tightly wound as I am can ever possibly be. It was glorious.
Still, I was happy when my family came home. I missed them like you miss your bed when you’re in a hotel. I mean, a bed is a bed, but there’s no bed that will ever feel as right to you as your own bed does. And it was the same way with my family. The house was nice without them, and even though I was blissed out to the max on an alone time high in their absence, it felt good to have them back at home with me again. It felt right. Then again, it always feels right till the dishes take on new and impressive architectural heights and the mail gets lost in some sort of bizarro suburban Bermuda Triangle situation. When those things happen (and they will), I feel pretty certain that I’ll be marking the days off on the calender until they have an out-of-town thing again. I'll let you know when that countdown begins...
Friday, June 1, 2007
Change of Heart
By now, you have probably learned a few things about me, things like how I am heartily entertained by gratuitous violence on television and how I’m into very sad, very depressing novels. And, since starting this blog, I’ve learned something about me too: I don’t really know how to blog. And also, I don’t think I’m a very good blogger. For one thing, I don’t post very often, and really, that’s probably rule number one in the blogger’s manual. That’s another thing: I have never actually read the blogger’s manual, which is just another facet of my blog laziness. I think the main reason that I have a hard time keeping up here is that I try to make every post great, which is not to say that I think every post I write is great, but to admit that I feel weird sending things out into the Internets without them being the very best that I think they can be, because after all, they are a representation of who I am. It’s like with clothes: When you want to make a good impression, you put on your spiffiest, sharpest looking attire. The problem with that is, after a while, it becomes taxing. It’s like a chore, especially for me, because I don’t wear smart little outfits. I wear jeans. And if I’m going out – fancy jeans. Because that’s who I am. I’m just casual that way. And by approaching my blog the way I have been thus far, it feels like I’m wearing my fancy clothes all the time, and I know in my heart that it’s not as fun as it could be. So, from now on, I think I’ll take a more relaxed approach to Destroy All Evidence, one that lets me be the truest version of myself (jeans) and makes it enjoyable for me to share my thoughts and experiences with you, my blog buddies. I hope you stick around while I work this thing out.
Monday, May 21, 2007
Because You Have To: Weddings
A few Saturdays ago, my cousin Rob married his longtime fiancée, Jackie. This was a totally happy occasion, as Rob is a great person and Jackie his equal in every way. I don’t know if anyone ever wishes for in-laws, but I really don’t see how you could hope to get anyone sweeter than Rob or Jackie for your own. Still, as it is with most weddings, no matter how much you love the bride and groom, there’s always a slight sense of dread when it comes to actually attending the event. And that is precisely what I was feeling when the day was finally upon us.
I had several concerns about attending this wedding, first and foremost being, of course, that I had absolutely nothing to wear. I don’t go to weddings that often, and I have little or no need for dressy clothes in my day-to-day life. Because of this, not only did I have no formal wear in my closet, I also had no idea how to do formal wear properly. By doing a little snooping before hand (ie, asking everyone I knew who was invited to the wedding what they were going to wear) I figured that I could get away with some kind of sassy business attire, maybe even pants. Armed with my new info, I hit the mall with my favorite shopping partner, my grandma, Vivian, and came away with a really cute, appropriate outfit – and my very first pair of stilettos, which I have to say I really, really love. Sure, I couldn’t feel my second and third toes on my left foot for a week or two after the wedding, but the shoes looked hot and – I’ll admit it – were a nice change from my usual Converse and slip-on Vans. After the successful, virtually painless purchase of the ensemble, I was feeling more optimistic about the wedding day.
Optimism is a funny thing though. As any lady will tell you, once you have a cute outfit locked, you can convince yourself to do most things based solely on the confidence boost you get from knowing you look good. I’m fairly sure that I was riding that train right up until the day of the event, when the pessimism set back in and the list of horrible things that could go down starting compiling itself in my head. For example, as I am certain it is at most weddings, Rob and Jackie’s was sure to have a modicum of familial weirdness, which I was most definitely not looking forward to encountering. Another thing: I don’t dance (or rather, I haven’t figured out how to dance in public without looking like some crazy Elaine impersonator), and at a traditional wedding, it’s hard to avoid dancing. Then there’s the added pressure of the bouquet toss. As is well documented, I am single, and being the age that I am, that apparently makes me a prime bouquet toss participant. And how about the fact that you inevitably get greeted by someone you know you should know but then proceed to blank on their name when it comes time to return the salutation? Those things, and a whole host of other equally heinous situations could go down at a wedding at any given time, and, well, I was pretty much at a DefCon 10 level of anxiety when it came time to go to the wedding.
As it turned out, I didn’t really have to worry about any of those things. The family stuff thankfully – mercifully - took a back seat to the happiness of the day. I didn’t have to dance, mainly because whenever anyone asked me, I pointed out that the floor looked very slick and that my shoes were very new (this actually made me love the shoes even more). I managed to escape the bouquet toss simply by lying low behind a tall centerpiece when the DJ called all the single gals to the floor (though my Aunt Virginia almost blew my cover by maniacally pointing from me to the dance floor, at which point I slunk out of my chair and made a beeline to the open bar…it’s funny how Cosmopolitans can deaden the meddling of batty aunts, isn’t it?). And as far as blanking on names goes, I found that if you mumble, you can pretty much get away with calling anyone “Janet” without them ever noticing (though methinks the open bar helped with that one too). All in all, it was a nice event, and I think I enjoyed myself (though that could just be the relief that it’s over talking…).
I had several concerns about attending this wedding, first and foremost being, of course, that I had absolutely nothing to wear. I don’t go to weddings that often, and I have little or no need for dressy clothes in my day-to-day life. Because of this, not only did I have no formal wear in my closet, I also had no idea how to do formal wear properly. By doing a little snooping before hand (ie, asking everyone I knew who was invited to the wedding what they were going to wear) I figured that I could get away with some kind of sassy business attire, maybe even pants. Armed with my new info, I hit the mall with my favorite shopping partner, my grandma, Vivian, and came away with a really cute, appropriate outfit – and my very first pair of stilettos, which I have to say I really, really love. Sure, I couldn’t feel my second and third toes on my left foot for a week or two after the wedding, but the shoes looked hot and – I’ll admit it – were a nice change from my usual Converse and slip-on Vans. After the successful, virtually painless purchase of the ensemble, I was feeling more optimistic about the wedding day.
Optimism is a funny thing though. As any lady will tell you, once you have a cute outfit locked, you can convince yourself to do most things based solely on the confidence boost you get from knowing you look good. I’m fairly sure that I was riding that train right up until the day of the event, when the pessimism set back in and the list of horrible things that could go down starting compiling itself in my head. For example, as I am certain it is at most weddings, Rob and Jackie’s was sure to have a modicum of familial weirdness, which I was most definitely not looking forward to encountering. Another thing: I don’t dance (or rather, I haven’t figured out how to dance in public without looking like some crazy Elaine impersonator), and at a traditional wedding, it’s hard to avoid dancing. Then there’s the added pressure of the bouquet toss. As is well documented, I am single, and being the age that I am, that apparently makes me a prime bouquet toss participant. And how about the fact that you inevitably get greeted by someone you know you should know but then proceed to blank on their name when it comes time to return the salutation? Those things, and a whole host of other equally heinous situations could go down at a wedding at any given time, and, well, I was pretty much at a DefCon 10 level of anxiety when it came time to go to the wedding.
As it turned out, I didn’t really have to worry about any of those things. The family stuff thankfully – mercifully - took a back seat to the happiness of the day. I didn’t have to dance, mainly because whenever anyone asked me, I pointed out that the floor looked very slick and that my shoes were very new (this actually made me love the shoes even more). I managed to escape the bouquet toss simply by lying low behind a tall centerpiece when the DJ called all the single gals to the floor (though my Aunt Virginia almost blew my cover by maniacally pointing from me to the dance floor, at which point I slunk out of my chair and made a beeline to the open bar…it’s funny how Cosmopolitans can deaden the meddling of batty aunts, isn’t it?). And as far as blanking on names goes, I found that if you mumble, you can pretty much get away with calling anyone “Janet” without them ever noticing (though methinks the open bar helped with that one too). All in all, it was a nice event, and I think I enjoyed myself (though that could just be the relief that it’s over talking…).
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