Ok, now that "Holly" has proved she reads my blog, I can post agayne. I have a lot of random things on my mind right now:
1) I just heard, for the first time in forever, Miley Cyrus's song "I Can't Wait To See You Again." I don't know if that's the title, but anyway, upon deep, reflective listening, I observed the following: Leslie, you are an asshole. You are nobody's best friend. If I stuttered or couldn't breathe around a guy and my best friend, rather than perform ohh say CPR or an adept shuttling to the ladies, just giggled to him and implied that oh, I'm ALWAYS an awkward fuck, I'd kick her in the 'gina. After I got my breath back, that is. Stupid bitch. But anyway, I do have such fond feelings for that song. Mainly because of spring break 08 roooooad trrriiiip from Chicago to Key Largo. Blood pumping with slap-happy confidence, I went in for the big solo after the interlude: "The last time I freaked out! I just kept looking dow-own!" etc etc. Now I DO NOT sing publicly (see below), but I was so into it, going for the gold, just to promptly get whipped in the face with the buckle on the strap of Bear's back pack. Quite a moment. So typical.
2) It's approaching winter time now, which means cozy sweaters, beef stew simmering all day on the crotch pot (yes, I will always be a 12-year-old boy), and of course, my quest for a delicious, soothing, warm-the-cockles-of-your-heart cocktail. A hot toddy just wont do. Bubbling brandy? I'll pass. So in the middle of an endless, heartbreaking Research Methods class yesterday, it hit me: Long Island Hot Tea! How do we make this happen, people? I'm taking suggestions eagerly.
3) So my parents are finally home from their Southwestern vacation, with minor casualties only present in my dad's misguided purchase of silver and turquoise cuff links with fossil creatures engraved on them. I'm happy to have them home, because talking to myself and feeling all post-partum depressiony about having to care for the dog all by myself well, it was all getting old. But this also has a downside- no longer can I sing. I have this incredible weirdness about singing. I have a pretty heinous set'a pipes, you see, but I do really enjoy singing. So I relish when I'm all alone in the house, or driving on an empty road, so I can really get down with my bad chords. I get so embarrassed that I can't sing on crowded highways (spring 2007: belting "Big Girls Don't Cry" only to look to the left and see a car full of 20-something guys cracking up and pointing at me. Therapy inducing) and I even blush at the first note of The Star Spangled Banner, just waiting for that moment where he or she messes up the high notes. So anyway, I have to really play it safe. One time in high school I was sitting on the toilet getting waaay into Something Corporate's "Hurricane" when all the sudden I hear "second verse, same as the first!" in the hallway: Dad had come home early. My singing secret was out. And my public pipes have gone into hiding since. Everyone who heard this story felt no sympathy to my plight. Some asked "So, why were you embarrassed? He's your dad." Doesn't matter. Even Dodger hearing me sing embarrasses me. ME hearing me sing embarrasses me. But everyone managed to ask: "Why were you singing on the toilet?" God people, big picture here!! But I do my best singing/thinking/problem solving/dirty song lyric creating on the john. It's just how it is.
4) Still on singing here, I do, however, show talent in two forms. I have a beautiful, sultry voice when singing Sublime songs and, randomly, "Ooh-oo Child," as in "...things are gonna get easier." So basically I'm the hybrid of soulful Motown and heroined-up lead singers. Put that in your (heroin) pipe and smoke it. Do heroin pipes exist? Greetings from 45 Under-a-Rock Lane, Shelteredville, NY.
5) Susan Boyle isn't good. I've never gotten what all the fuss is about. Because she's just fine. That's right. It's clear that the hype isn't because she's amazing, it's because she's a fugly gal who still, somehow, manages to contribute something to society, and Hollywood is mystified by this. Watching everyone's surprise, then their treatment of her like The Little Martian That Could, is such a hoot to me. Hello, judges: Ever been to the OPERA? Walk into any opera performance and omigosh, look, everyone has superb talent! And many are FAT! Leaving Susie Q over there in the dust. God I hate people.
6) In my Research Methods class, like all my classes, there's a mix of all ages and races (but always 99% women). Anyway, yesterday I volunteered an answer that was completely wrong. Not just wrong, it was the exact opposite of the right answer. Anyway, there are these two women who are both very good looking but clearly in middle age. They sit together in the back and constantly whisper while the professor is talking (such a pet peeve, hi I'm a dork I know) and make comments just to draw upon their personal experience assisting with pediatric cancer trials, bla bla bla, using cool terms like "peeds," for child patients, bladi bleedi blah. Anyway, right as I'm awkwardly trying to explain my wrong answer, one of them shouts out, "No, that's wrong, it's retrospective!" Like, are you kidding me? Is this fifth grade? I swung around to look at her like "Sister, are you for real?" Then I fought her in the courtyard and we both got sent to Mr. Alterbaum's office and yes, I'm easily offended.
But we do have a very pretty courtyard.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
I like how the title of this post has absolutely nothing to do a single thing you wrote about. So avant garde of you, Marko.
ReplyDeleteLong Island Hot Tea sounds like a beverage for some rebel in the nursing home who doesn't want to hurt their wholesome 85 year old grandma image but also likes to be tanked throughout the day. Perhaps, the residents of the fridge in 60 years? That way its effortless to pass out at 5 pm and wake up at 5 am really thirsty and ready for the day. That is the only justification I can come up with as to why old people get up that early.
agreed. except hot is the only kind of alcohol i don't like.
ReplyDelete