My brother told me this story over Father’s Day weekend, and I’ve been meaning -- but consistently forgetting -- to tell someone about it. I've probably got some of the details a bit wrong, but they don't matter so much. It's more about the spirit of the story, which is pretty awesome, I think.
My brother and his wife are former NYC residents who moved to Bethlehem, PA in search of affordable housing when their daughter was born. She’s two years old now, and her favorite place on the entire planet is a car museum in Hershey, PA. She loves going there so much that my brother and SIL decided to purchase annual memberships to the museum, rather than pay each time they go. Because they are members, they were invited to a cocktail reception and preview of the current exhibit at the museum. And because they’ve been a bit desperate to go pretty much anywhere and do pretty much anything since they left the non-stop action of NYC, they decided to attend.
Perhaps it’s the snobby New Yorker in all of us who live in New York long enough to become snobs, but my brother and SIL were not expecting much from this reception. And shortly upon arriving, they find themselves watching in horror as a casually-dressed man jumps over the ropes cordoning off the public from the cars, pulls open one of the car's driver-side doors, and begins rolling down the window. They notice, however, that the man has an obvious familiarity and casual comfort with the car, and combined with the fact that none of this generated so much as a flinch from whatever security might be in place at a car museum in Pennsylvania, they make the (correct, it turned out) assumption that the man was there “with the cars.”
A bit later, they introduce themselves to the man and inquire about his relationship with the cars. It turns out he’s a local car restorer. When he was younger, everyone told him that the better money was in car repair, but he loved to restore cars, so that’s what he learned. He nurtured a modest car restoration business in Allentown, PA. Got himself a wife, some kids, probably a dog. Nothing fancy. Until the day when a customer arrived to his shop with a car. You’ll have to forgive my lack of knowledge about cars, but whatever it was, there are only three of them left in then entire world. The customer requested some work; the man said he’d be honored to restore the car. He does the work, and after some time, receives a call from the office of a Mr. Bulgari. Mr. Bulgari owned the car he’d restored and wanted him to come to NYC for a meeting. A car would be sent to transport him to and from the meeting; he needn’t worry about a thing. Understandably, our man the car restorer was a bit concerned. I’m not sure what concern precisely crossed his mind, but if I were in his shoes at least, I’d have been thinking Mob.
Still, he heads to NYC, and meets Mr. Bulgari, who it turns out is Nicola Bulgari, of watch, jewelry, and perfume notoriety. He is also one of the premier car collectors in the world. And perhaps I’m jumping a bit ahead of the story, but he’s a cool car collector. He’s not terribly enamored with the extravagant cars owned only by the most wealthy; he prefers the cars that regular people drove. He has no interest in souping up the cars in his collection; he restores them according to their original specifications. His only requirement is that he needs to fit in the car. He’s a big guy, apparently, and his joy comes from driving the cars, not collecting them. He will not purchase a car he cannot drive; he’d rather another collector enjoy the car.
So back to our car restorer. It turns out Nicola Bulgari has two car collections: one in Rome, Italy and the other in Allentown, PA. He’s got some work he needs done on some of the cars, and he’s got some auctions he’d like the car restorer to attend on his behalf. He dispatches the restorer almost immediately to an auction, with instructions to secure two cars. The restorer checks in to the auction and, based on his appearance – jeans and a ballcap – is instructed to stand near the back of the room. The restorer realizes that he may have trouble participating in the auction so far from the action, so he asks one of the people leading the auction if he might move a little closer. The person requests to see his bidding paddle. Apparently paddles are handed out according to one’s bid limit – the lowest numbered paddles go to the people with the highest limits. Our man the car restorer is holding paddle #6. He is escorted to the middle of the front row. Past Jack Nicholson. Past Jay Leno.
The story fell mostly to vignettes at this point. Nicola Bulgari is apparently a shy man who keeps a close group around him whom he treats like family. Our humble car restorer became the personal overseer of Nicola Bulgari’s Allentown-based car collection. (There is a similarly cool story about Bulgari's personal driver.) My favorite of the vignettes involved a trip he took with Mr. Bulgari to Los Angeles. Bulgari suggested they visit Jay Leno and view his car collection. Upon entering the room, Jay Leno takes one look at the car restorer and exclaims, “You’re the guy from the car auctions!!!” Apparently all the regular high-end bidders were desperate to know who was the country bumpkin sweeping in and buying up all the cars.
But what I liked, perhaps best about the story is that it doesn’t appear, at least from my brother’s telling of it, that the guy has changed at all. Nor the Bulgari has asked or needed him to change. They both love cars, and that’s all that matters. They take rides together in Bulgari’s car collection on the back roads of Pennsylvania. Sure he has a nicer shop than he used to have, and I’m certain his family’s standard of living has improved somewhat dramatically, and he’s seen a whole lot more of the world than he’d ever have seen if Nicola Bulgari hadn’t driven into his life. But he’s still the guy who turns up to the semi-formal museum exhibit opening in jeans and ball cap and lives with his family in Allentown, PA, and there's something very awesome about that.
So that's The End, I guess. You could lay a moral over this story -- "if you follow your dreams, good things will happen" or some shit -- but I think it's cooler (and more accurate) to just leave it as a story about something awesome and unexpected that happened to someone out there in the world. Yeah. Just thought it was cool.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Thursday, February 12, 2009
People Named Siobhan Are Apparently Scary
[Originally a Facebook Note]
I completely supported the 25 Random Things phenomenon on Facebook. A lot of my friends write really well, and they have a good sense of dark and light and serious and silly, and some of the posts were really funny and others were just plain interesting, and I thought that taken together, the things people decided to share about themselves created a unique picture of each person and how they view themselves.
That said, 25 Random Things has spawned a goodly number of bastard children, and it's starting to feel like the first couple years we all had email around this place. I'm a proponent of the whole "nobody's forcing you to read anything you don't want to read" approach to the social side of the internet, but I had no intention of actually participating in any of this crap.
Okay, that's a lie. I've been participating in a lot of this crap. I did the What Your iPod Says About You thing, for example. But I had no intention of actually posting any of this crap to Facebook. It was something I did because I clearly have enough time on my hands (see: Television Shows That Are Annoying Me This Week if you have any reason to doubt the expansively, almost disturbingly open nature of my calendar these days), and I did it because I thought it might be good for a smile or two. But I did not do it to share with Facebook. The plan was to look at the results, laugh, and move on with my life.
Until I did this Google Game thing this morning. The instructions are to type "[your name] likes to" into Google and report the first 10 results. Now. Those of you who know me well (and most of you with whom I'm friends on Facebook know me halfway decently. I hear people talking about the distress they experience discerning how to react properly to friend requests from people with whom they would prefer not to be friends. Let me tell you, I experience no such distress. If didn't talk to you during the four years we went to school together, we don't need to talk now. I reject friend requests. I delete friends who were added during happy, boozy moments at bars courtesy of the dual scourge of iPhone and Facebook Mobile. I'm not sure what this says about me, and it's unlikely that it's something positive, but whatever. I am who I am.)
And who I am right now is someone who has completely lost track of what I was saying. Where the hell was I? Oh. Right. The Google Game. Okay. Those of you who know me well, know that a lot of the reason I started going by Siobhan in college is that the abundantly common first name "Mary," especially when attached to the similarly common surname "O'Brien," was just all a little Plain Jane for me. I never felt like I fully self-actualized in high school. (You like that shit, right?) I'm sure it was actually low self-esteem that was holding me back, but for the sake of argument, let's say it was the name. Siobhan sounded more interesting. Siobhan sounded more fun. Siobhan was the person I wanted to be.
Except that it turns out that Siobhan is also, apparently, a little freaky. Because I pop open Google this morning. I type in "Siobhan likes to" and I'm greeted with the following:
1. Siobhan likes to dancingly drunk around, and sit on the toilet. (I swear to all that is good and holy that this is the first result. Google it yourself folks.)
2. Something boring.
3. Something boring.
4. Siobhan likes to do it in the garden.
5. Siobhan likes to push me into Julia, and Julia into the bushes.
6. Siobhan likes to play with toys during off hours and is trying to study her toes in order to get ahead professionally.
7. Something boring.
8. Something boring.
9. Siobhan likes to partake of the fluids!
10. Siobhan likes to get drunk at SCA gatherings and flaunt her wenchy corset-puppies! (Again, Google it yourself people. I'm not making this up.)
I mean, seriously, what the hell is that all about?? I like to think that I know how to have fun, and I'm generally a good person to have around if you're looking to go out and kick back and just have a good time. But sweet lord! Some of that stuff up there is a little out of control. I'm not sure I'm living up to the Siobhan name, and to be honest, I'm not sure that's something to which I aspire either! Ya'll can call me Mary from now on. I'm reverting!
I completely supported the 25 Random Things phenomenon on Facebook. A lot of my friends write really well, and they have a good sense of dark and light and serious and silly, and some of the posts were really funny and others were just plain interesting, and I thought that taken together, the things people decided to share about themselves created a unique picture of each person and how they view themselves.
That said, 25 Random Things has spawned a goodly number of bastard children, and it's starting to feel like the first couple years we all had email around this place. I'm a proponent of the whole "nobody's forcing you to read anything you don't want to read" approach to the social side of the internet, but I had no intention of actually participating in any of this crap.
Okay, that's a lie. I've been participating in a lot of this crap. I did the What Your iPod Says About You thing, for example. But I had no intention of actually posting any of this crap to Facebook. It was something I did because I clearly have enough time on my hands (see: Television Shows That Are Annoying Me This Week if you have any reason to doubt the expansively, almost disturbingly open nature of my calendar these days), and I did it because I thought it might be good for a smile or two. But I did not do it to share with Facebook. The plan was to look at the results, laugh, and move on with my life.
Until I did this Google Game thing this morning. The instructions are to type "[your name] likes to" into Google and report the first 10 results. Now. Those of you who know me well (and most of you with whom I'm friends on Facebook know me halfway decently. I hear people talking about the distress they experience discerning how to react properly to friend requests from people with whom they would prefer not to be friends. Let me tell you, I experience no such distress. If didn't talk to you during the four years we went to school together, we don't need to talk now. I reject friend requests. I delete friends who were added during happy, boozy moments at bars courtesy of the dual scourge of iPhone and Facebook Mobile. I'm not sure what this says about me, and it's unlikely that it's something positive, but whatever. I am who I am.)
And who I am right now is someone who has completely lost track of what I was saying. Where the hell was I? Oh. Right. The Google Game. Okay. Those of you who know me well, know that a lot of the reason I started going by Siobhan in college is that the abundantly common first name "Mary," especially when attached to the similarly common surname "O'Brien," was just all a little Plain Jane for me. I never felt like I fully self-actualized in high school. (You like that shit, right?) I'm sure it was actually low self-esteem that was holding me back, but for the sake of argument, let's say it was the name. Siobhan sounded more interesting. Siobhan sounded more fun. Siobhan was the person I wanted to be.
Except that it turns out that Siobhan is also, apparently, a little freaky. Because I pop open Google this morning. I type in "Siobhan likes to" and I'm greeted with the following:
1. Siobhan likes to dancingly drunk around, and sit on the toilet. (I swear to all that is good and holy that this is the first result. Google it yourself folks.)
2. Something boring.
3. Something boring.
4. Siobhan likes to do it in the garden.
5. Siobhan likes to push me into Julia, and Julia into the bushes.
6. Siobhan likes to play with toys during off hours and is trying to study her toes in order to get ahead professionally.
7. Something boring.
8. Something boring.
9. Siobhan likes to partake of the fluids!
10. Siobhan likes to get drunk at SCA gatherings and flaunt her wenchy corset-puppies! (Again, Google it yourself people. I'm not making this up.)
I mean, seriously, what the hell is that all about?? I like to think that I know how to have fun, and I'm generally a good person to have around if you're looking to go out and kick back and just have a good time. But sweet lord! Some of that stuff up there is a little out of control. I'm not sure I'm living up to the Siobhan name, and to be honest, I'm not sure that's something to which I aspire either! Ya'll can call me Mary from now on. I'm reverting!
Monday, February 2, 2009
26+ Random Things
Like most women, a good number of gay men, and three straight guys, I got sucked into doing that 25 Random Things thing on Facebook. Nobody was more surprised than I was that I actually had a bit of a tough time coming up with 25 things to say about myself. But it must have been the self-inflicted pressure, because ever since I posted the damn thing, every other thought that crosses my mind is something I could have added to that list. So I'm just going to add them here. Who knows, it might come in handy some day!
Here's the original 25 things from Facebook:
1. I finally started a blog (that would be this thing you're reading, right here!), but it has quickly deteriorated into a graveyard of half-written posts. There’s this “Draft” function that let’s you start a post and finish it later. I’ve got the starting thing down pat, but the finishing it later business isn’t going so well.
2. If I run out of “Random Things” to say about myself before I reach number 25, I intend to borrow shamelessly from blog ideas that are residing in the Graveyard of Half-Written Posts. I imagine the unfinished posts titled “Stuff I Like” and “Stuff I Wish I Liked” will contain some things that would fit well on this list.
3. I like to count stuff. The harder something is the count, the more fun it is to count.
4. I frequently change the wording of sentences I write because I don’t like the way they look on paper. Writing should be about how it sounds, but sometimes it’s about how it looks. At least in my world it is.
5. My fantasy life is richer than your’s. I can pretty much guarantee that much.
6. I wish I knew somebody who liked exactly the same music that I do, exactly as much as I do. If I did, I’d plan a trip to Toronto with that person to see a whole bunch of singer/songwriters whom I’ve Six-Degrees-Of-Moxy-Fruvous-ed my way into knowing and loving.
7. Of all the odd things I inherited from my father, I think the weak shoulders are the most annoying. They’re impossible to train, and easy to injure.
8. The obscenely long toes I got from my father are no picnic either – if I had normal sized toes, I’d have normal sized feet – but I generally like my feet, so we’ll let it go for now.
9. I should do laundry a lot more frequently than I do. In other words, I have an approaching obscene number of pairs of underwear.
10. I started losing interest in other people’s lists around item #9 or 10. I implore you to keep reading. I promise to make it worth your while.
11. I’d still like to move to California someday, but I doubt I ever will. At least not any time soon. All the absolute most important things in my life are around where I am now.
12. If this song doesn’t make you happy, there’s something wrong with you. Mistra Know-It-All originally by Stevie Wonder, covered by Moxy Fruvous
13. Either we go through an obscene amount of paper towels and toilet paper at my office, or I’m the only one who ever changes the rolls, because seriously, I feel like I change that shit daily.
14. Ironically, I believe that it was my diligence in changing paper towels and toilet paper that led to my first-ever job promotion: from Bowline Attendant to Bowline Cashier.
15. I still wear my Bowline Lifeguard (note: job promotion #2) shirts when I work out. I don’t know what kind of material those things were made of, but they’ve sure held up.
16. A lot of the best things in life happen on Sunday. Football Sundays. NASCAR Sundays. Sunday seisiuns at the Irish spots. Long runs on Sundays. Sunday night dinner. Sundays.
17. The other best things in life are as follows: Take-away coffee. Unlimited Metrocards. Learning that your favorite band is coming to town. Drinks outside in the afternoon in the summertime the day before a holiday when work lets you out early. The U.S. Open on Labor Day. New York City.
18. I believe that people who say they have no regrets are either lying or not thinking hard enough about their lives or not holding themselves to high enough standards or have no imagination.
19. I’m comfortable being all judge-y like that.
20. My favorite day of my life was wine tasting in the Finger Lakes with Mary and Julie and Chris and a few other people on Chris’s 21st birthday. My favorite night of my life was my first Bon Jovi concert at Giants Stadium. My favorite trip was San Diego in 2004 for the Rock n’ Roll Marathon. Which is an odd choice. But man, that was a fun trip.
21. I wish my old roommate would move back to New York.
22. If it’s possible that part of a poem could change a person’s life, for me, it would be this part of this poem:
I was reading a book about pleasure,
how you have to glide through it
without clinging,
like an arrow,
passing through a target,
coming out the other side and going on.
~ From The Impossible Dream by Tony Hoagland
23. There’s an awful lot of Britney Spears on my mp3 player.
24. My favorite people in the world are the ones who are totally extraordinary in totally ordinary ways, and I’m fortunate to have a pretty decent number of them in my life. Sometimes I’d like to tell them how amazing I think they are, but then I worry that they’ll think I’m weird (or drunk), so I keep it to myself.
25. This was harder to write than I thought it would be.
26. Sometime in my late-teens, I became aware that most people imagine the toothfairy looking a bit like Tinkerbell. I always imagined the toothfairy looking like the Abominable Snowman, except covered in fluffy white pillow feathers. I haven't a clue how this happened, but I prefer my toothfairy to your's!
27. I think people who don't like sports are totally missing out. And guys who don't like sports creep me out a little. Sports bring people together. They make you feel like you're a part of something. They give you a reason to be proud of where you're from. They're exciting and fun, and they can be uplifting and breathtaking and heartbreaking and motivating. Sports, man.
28. Common stuff for other people that isn't even remotely common for me:
a. Going to the Movies: The last time I went to a movie was June 2008. Which actually wasn't all that long ago. But the time before that was whenever Spiderman II came out, and the time before that was whenever Spiderman I came out.
b. Getting a Haircut: My last haircut was in April 2007. I am seriously overdue. (Update: I have found hair religion! Or at least a hair stylist who cuts my hair in a way that makes me want to go back to see her on something approaching a reasonable schedule!)
c. Driving A Car: The last time I drove a car was September 2007. And before that was June 2004. I've actually become a bit phobic about it, which isn't good.
29. So far this year, I have been stone-cold sober for both New Year's Eve and the Super Bowl. If I can make it through St. Patrick's Day without a drink, I will have accomplished some kind of unnatural trifecta. (Update: Unnatural trifecta averted. St. Patrick's Day and all subsequent holidays have been celebrated in manners appropriate to each day -- cheesy beads and cheap beer on St. Patrick's day; get-out-of-work-early, afternoon, outside beers with friends on Memorial Day; beer gardens and barbecues on the Fourth of July; and Labor Day is fixing to see a return of the annual Official Drink of the U.S. Open.)
30. I sneeze, twice, every morning on the subway. I assume this has something to do with environmental allergens. You would think I'd remember to stick some tissues in my pocket, but if you did, you'd think wrong.
31. One of my missions in life is to understand why it's only Chinese food that you ever seen strewn across the streets of New York City. You never see a slice of pizza smashed angrily into the ground, nor a dirty water dog, or the remainder of a make-your-own-salad. But Chinese food is everywhere: The over-turned styrofoam container, a plastic fork, a trail of rice with unidentifiable pieces of the least appealing parts of what was once a pig or a chicken protruding from it. I don't know what this is about, and I want to find out.
32. I'm pretty sure that I know how I'm going to die: Mindbogglingly, one of the child-sized handful of places in New York City where one is permitted to make a right turn on red is the southeast corner of Astoria Park. There are kids everywhere. Running. Riding bikes. Generally not paying attention. Yet this is where we've chosen to let people do something that we've decided isn't safe at most any other intersection in the entire city. And perhaps it's our lack of familiarity with turning on red that results in people not doing it correctly. The whole bit about stopping first and looking appears to be lost on the majority of motorists at that corner. Rather, they just do a vague approximation of slowing down and then roll right on through the turn. The problem is that, you know, sometimes I'm in the middle of crossing the street when this occurs. I've had enough terrifyingly close calls to know that I stand a very good chance of someday getting hit by a car at that intersection. I'd prefer that this wasn't the one thing that I happen to know about my future.
33. Except that I suppose there's at least one other thing I know about my future: There are a handful of things that may someday land me in jail. For example, and since we're on the topic of traffic signals, some day I'm going to go completely apeshit on one of these assholes who can't seem to grasp that the red turn signal at the intersection of 54th & 6th means you're not allowed to turn -- one of these assholes who goes tearing through the red arrow into the intersection as I'm crossing the street and then drives right up till their bumper is inches from my knee and stares intently and angrily at me through their windshield like I'm the one doing something wrong. You're running a red light, buddy. You're also running the significant risk of me finally snapping and taking two and half years of this crap out on the hood of your stupid car. Rar.
34. I have a fairly long and vaguely comical history of being hit on by bike rickshaw drivers. It started in Toronto in October of 1996, when a gentleman whom we christened Spandex Man pedaled up to the window of the bar we were in, gave me the eye, chained his rickshaw to a pole, and then came inside and bought me a drink. In the years since these guys started appearing on the streets of New York, I've been hit on by more of them than I can count. It's the only profession that across-the-board apparently finds me attractive. I suppose I ought not shrug it off so carelessly. They're probably a little low on the cash end of the dating equation, but I imagine they're quite fit. And I have have about a million questions that I'd just love to ask a bike rickshaw driver over a drink, e.g., have you ever turned down a passenger because he was just too fat? What the hell happens if you get in a car accident? How come none of your kind ever looks behind you before you cut across the running lanes in Central Park? (An aside: Another thing that I know about my future is that it likely some day involves me tangled up in a bike rickshaw that's cut me off in Central Park. Grr.)
35. It's occurred to me that if I continue to update this list for the entire rest of my life, it could get pretty interesting. And long.
To be continued ...
Here's the original 25 things from Facebook:
1. I finally started a blog (that would be this thing you're reading, right here!), but it has quickly deteriorated into a graveyard of half-written posts. There’s this “Draft” function that let’s you start a post and finish it later. I’ve got the starting thing down pat, but the finishing it later business isn’t going so well.
2. If I run out of “Random Things” to say about myself before I reach number 25, I intend to borrow shamelessly from blog ideas that are residing in the Graveyard of Half-Written Posts. I imagine the unfinished posts titled “Stuff I Like” and “Stuff I Wish I Liked” will contain some things that would fit well on this list.
3. I like to count stuff. The harder something is the count, the more fun it is to count.
4. I frequently change the wording of sentences I write because I don’t like the way they look on paper. Writing should be about how it sounds, but sometimes it’s about how it looks. At least in my world it is.
5. My fantasy life is richer than your’s. I can pretty much guarantee that much.
6. I wish I knew somebody who liked exactly the same music that I do, exactly as much as I do. If I did, I’d plan a trip to Toronto with that person to see a whole bunch of singer/songwriters whom I’ve Six-Degrees-Of-Moxy-Fruvou
7. Of all the odd things I inherited from my father, I think the weak shoulders are the most annoying. They’re impossible to train, and easy to injure.
8. The obscenely long toes I got from my father are no picnic either – if I had normal sized toes, I’d have normal sized feet – but I generally like my feet, so we’ll let it go for now.
9. I should do laundry a lot more frequently than I do. In other words, I have an approaching obscene number of pairs of underwear.
10. I started losing interest in other people’s lists around item #9 or 10. I implore you to keep reading. I promise to make it worth your while.
11. I’d still like to move to California someday, but I doubt I ever will. At least not any time soon. All the absolute most important things in my life are around where I am now.
12. If this song doesn’t make you happy, there’s something wrong with you. Mistra Know-It-All originally by Stevie Wonder, covered by Moxy Fruvous
13. Either we go through an obscene amount of paper towels and toilet paper at my office, or I’m the only one who ever changes the rolls, because seriously, I feel like I change that shit daily.
14. Ironically, I believe that it was my diligence in changing paper towels and toilet paper that led to my first-ever job promotion: from Bowline Attendant to Bowline Cashier.
15. I still wear my Bowline Lifeguard (note: job promotion #2) shirts when I work out. I don’t know what kind of material those things were made of, but they’ve sure held up.
16. A lot of the best things in life happen on Sunday. Football Sundays. NASCAR Sundays. Sunday seisiuns at the Irish spots. Long runs on Sundays. Sunday night dinner. Sundays.
17. The other best things in life are as follows: Take-away coffee. Unlimited Metrocards. Learning that your favorite band is coming to town. Drinks outside in the afternoon in the summertime the day before a holiday when work lets you out early. The U.S. Open on Labor Day. New York City.
18. I believe that people who say they have no regrets are either lying or not thinking hard enough about their lives or not holding themselves to high enough standards or have no imagination.
19. I’m comfortable being all judge-y like that.
20. My favorite day of my life was wine tasting in the Finger Lakes with Mary and Julie and Chris and a few other people on Chris’s 21st birthday. My favorite night of my life was my first Bon Jovi concert at Giants Stadium. My favorite trip was San Diego in 2004 for the Rock n’ Roll Marathon. Which is an odd choice. But man, that was a fun trip.
21. I wish my old roommate would move back to New York.
22. If it’s possible that part of a poem could change a person’s life, for me, it would be this part of this poem:
I was reading a book about pleasure,
how you have to glide through it
without clinging,
like an arrow,
passing through a target,
coming out the other side and going on.
~ From The Impossible Dream by Tony Hoagland
23. There’s an awful lot of Britney Spears on my mp3 player.
24. My favorite people in the world are the ones who are totally extraordinary in totally ordinary ways, and I’m fortunate to have a pretty decent number of them in my life. Sometimes I’d like to tell them how amazing I think they are, but then I worry that they’ll think I’m weird (or drunk), so I keep it to myself.
25. This was harder to write than I thought it would be.
26. Sometime in my late-teens, I became aware that most people imagine the toothfairy looking a bit like Tinkerbell. I always imagined the toothfairy looking like the Abominable Snowman, except covered in fluffy white pillow feathers. I haven't a clue how this happened, but I prefer my toothfairy to your's!
27. I think people who don't like sports are totally missing out. And guys who don't like sports creep me out a little. Sports bring people together. They make you feel like you're a part of something. They give you a reason to be proud of where you're from. They're exciting and fun, and they can be uplifting and breathtaking and heartbreaking and motivating. Sports, man.
28. Common stuff for other people that isn't even remotely common for me:
a. Going to the Movies: The last time I went to a movie was June 2008. Which actually wasn't all that long ago. But the time before that was whenever Spiderman II came out, and the time before that was whenever Spiderman I came out.
b. Getting a Haircut: My last haircut was in April 2007. I am seriously overdue. (Update: I have found hair religion! Or at least a hair stylist who cuts my hair in a way that makes me want to go back to see her on something approaching a reasonable schedule!)
c. Driving A Car: The last time I drove a car was September 2007. And before that was June 2004. I've actually become a bit phobic about it, which isn't good.
29. So far this year, I have been stone-cold sober for both New Year's Eve and the Super Bowl. If I can make it through St. Patrick's Day without a drink, I will have accomplished some kind of unnatural trifecta. (Update: Unnatural trifecta averted. St. Patrick's Day and all subsequent holidays have been celebrated in manners appropriate to each day -- cheesy beads and cheap beer on St. Patrick's day; get-out-of-work-early, afternoon, outside beers with friends on Memorial Day; beer gardens and barbecues on the Fourth of July; and Labor Day is fixing to see a return of the annual Official Drink of the U.S. Open.)
30. I sneeze, twice, every morning on the subway. I assume this has something to do with environmental allergens. You would think I'd remember to stick some tissues in my pocket, but if you did, you'd think wrong.
31. One of my missions in life is to understand why it's only Chinese food that you ever seen strewn across the streets of New York City. You never see a slice of pizza smashed angrily into the ground, nor a dirty water dog, or the remainder of a make-your-own-salad. But Chinese food is everywhere: The over-turned styrofoam container, a plastic fork, a trail of rice with unidentifiable pieces of the least appealing parts of what was once a pig or a chicken protruding from it. I don't know what this is about, and I want to find out.
32. I'm pretty sure that I know how I'm going to die: Mindbogglingly, one of the child-sized handful of places in New York City where one is permitted to make a right turn on red is the southeast corner of Astoria Park. There are kids everywhere. Running. Riding bikes. Generally not paying attention. Yet this is where we've chosen to let people do something that we've decided isn't safe at most any other intersection in the entire city. And perhaps it's our lack of familiarity with turning on red that results in people not doing it correctly. The whole bit about stopping first and looking appears to be lost on the majority of motorists at that corner. Rather, they just do a vague approximation of slowing down and then roll right on through the turn. The problem is that, you know, sometimes I'm in the middle of crossing the street when this occurs. I've had enough terrifyingly close calls to know that I stand a very good chance of someday getting hit by a car at that intersection. I'd prefer that this wasn't the one thing that I happen to know about my future.
33. Except that I suppose there's at least one other thing I know about my future: There are a handful of things that may someday land me in jail. For example, and since we're on the topic of traffic signals, some day I'm going to go completely apeshit on one of these assholes who can't seem to grasp that the red turn signal at the intersection of 54th & 6th means you're not allowed to turn -- one of these assholes who goes tearing through the red arrow into the intersection as I'm crossing the street and then drives right up till their bumper is inches from my knee and stares intently and angrily at me through their windshield like I'm the one doing something wrong. You're running a red light, buddy. You're also running the significant risk of me finally snapping and taking two and half years of this crap out on the hood of your stupid car. Rar.
34. I have a fairly long and vaguely comical history of being hit on by bike rickshaw drivers. It started in Toronto in October of 1996, when a gentleman whom we christened Spandex Man pedaled up to the window of the bar we were in, gave me the eye, chained his rickshaw to a pole, and then came inside and bought me a drink. In the years since these guys started appearing on the streets of New York, I've been hit on by more of them than I can count. It's the only profession that across-the-board apparently finds me attractive. I suppose I ought not shrug it off so carelessly. They're probably a little low on the cash end of the dating equation, but I imagine they're quite fit. And I have have about a million questions that I'd just love to ask a bike rickshaw driver over a drink, e.g., have you ever turned down a passenger because he was just too fat? What the hell happens if you get in a car accident? How come none of your kind ever looks behind you before you cut across the running lanes in Central Park? (An aside: Another thing that I know about my future is that it likely some day involves me tangled up in a bike rickshaw that's cut me off in Central Park. Grr.)
35. It's occurred to me that if I continue to update this list for the entire rest of my life, it could get pretty interesting. And long.
To be continued ...
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Disturbing Things That I Used a Screwdriver To Accomplish Today
There's a problem with having a roommate for as long as I did. Or at least, there's a problem with having my particular roommate for that amount of time, and in combination with my particular personality. You see, she was seriously laid back. And I am seriously lazy. And neither of us ever wanted to step on the other's toes.
So you'd have situations where something -- a weird favor from some bridal shower one of us attended or a questionable bottle of wine received as a corporate gift at Christmas time -- would find its way into our apartment. And whoever would bring it in, would put it down ... somewhere. I can't speak for my roommate, but I, at least, would have every intention eventually to put it ... somewhere better. More appropriate. You know, away.
But on too many occasions, that never happened. And after awhile, whatever it was -- the strange angel ashtray, er, soapdish or the giant yellow vase with the artificial flower sticking out of it -- would become part of the decor. And eventually, some of the stuff hung around long enough that we didn't even remember who owned it anymore. So when Chris moved out, I inherited a lot of garbage that may or may not even have been mine in the first place.
Case in point: the arsenal of bottles of wine on my kitchen table. Which admittedly, have remained in my apartment even though Chris has been gone for more than a year. I don't know why I hadn't thrown them out. On the extraordinarily rare occasion that I drink wine, I'm certainly not going to grab something that's got a centimeter of dust on it off my kitchen table. So when I wandered into the kitchen earlier tonight and somehow got sidetracked into a 2-hour kitchen cleaning extravaganza, the ancient bottles of wine had tiny little targets on them, etched in the dust.
There were three of them. I extracted (what I thought was) the cork from the first bottle, upended it in the sink, and nothing came out. I actually thought for a moment that the wine must be so old and of such crap quality that it had solidified, just sitting there for so many years. But a closer inspection revealed that the cork had broken in half when I tried to take it out. I popped the bottom half into the bottle with the corkscrew, and dumped the wine into the sink. Second bottle, same thing happens. And again on the third bottle. Except this time, the bottom half of the cork won't come out. It's wedged deep in the bottleneck, beyond the reach of the corkscrew.
Enter screwdriver.
In hindsight, I don't know why I didn't grab a knife. Or the handle of a fork. I was, after all, in the kitchen. But whatever. I grab a screwdriver. And I'm poking at the cork with it, but the cork's not budging. I give it a little more elbow, and it's still not going anywhere. So I really start pushing the screwdriver into the cork with pretty much everything I've got ... and it's not moving ... until it *totally* gives way, forcing a geyser of disgusting ancient red wine high into the kitchen sky and all over me.
Which is when you learn about your priorities: Literally, there's red wine in my hair, and it's dripping from the tip of my nose. But is this my main concern? Absolutely not. First order of business was the white felt letters on the Notre Dame sweatshirt I had on. There were drops of wine all over them, and it would be terrible to have such a great sweatshirt come to such a tragic end. (I'm happy to report that I successfully dabbed the wine away.)
At any rate, all's well that ends well. The kitchen's clean. The wine's gone. My recycling bag looks like I had a raging wine party. But this was fun. I'm on a bit of cleaning kick right now (New Year's resolutions, you know?) so I look forward to further adventures. I've been thinking about cleaning out the cabinets beneath my sink, and my biggest fear is that I'll find something dead in the process. Cockroaches, most likely, but who knows in this wacky apartment? And at some point, some serious work needs to be done on the toilet. It will require a trip to The Home Depot, which in my world, has always been good for a few laughs. I'll be sure to report back!
So you'd have situations where something -- a weird favor from some bridal shower one of us attended or a questionable bottle of wine received as a corporate gift at Christmas time -- would find its way into our apartment. And whoever would bring it in, would put it down ... somewhere. I can't speak for my roommate, but I, at least, would have every intention eventually to put it ... somewhere better. More appropriate. You know, away.
But on too many occasions, that never happened. And after awhile, whatever it was -- the strange angel ashtray, er, soapdish or the giant yellow vase with the artificial flower sticking out of it -- would become part of the decor. And eventually, some of the stuff hung around long enough that we didn't even remember who owned it anymore. So when Chris moved out, I inherited a lot of garbage that may or may not even have been mine in the first place.
Case in point: the arsenal of bottles of wine on my kitchen table. Which admittedly, have remained in my apartment even though Chris has been gone for more than a year. I don't know why I hadn't thrown them out. On the extraordinarily rare occasion that I drink wine, I'm certainly not going to grab something that's got a centimeter of dust on it off my kitchen table. So when I wandered into the kitchen earlier tonight and somehow got sidetracked into a 2-hour kitchen cleaning extravaganza, the ancient bottles of wine had tiny little targets on them, etched in the dust.
There were three of them. I extracted (what I thought was) the cork from the first bottle, upended it in the sink, and nothing came out. I actually thought for a moment that the wine must be so old and of such crap quality that it had solidified, just sitting there for so many years. But a closer inspection revealed that the cork had broken in half when I tried to take it out. I popped the bottom half into the bottle with the corkscrew, and dumped the wine into the sink. Second bottle, same thing happens. And again on the third bottle. Except this time, the bottom half of the cork won't come out. It's wedged deep in the bottleneck, beyond the reach of the corkscrew.
Enter screwdriver.
In hindsight, I don't know why I didn't grab a knife. Or the handle of a fork. I was, after all, in the kitchen. But whatever. I grab a screwdriver. And I'm poking at the cork with it, but the cork's not budging. I give it a little more elbow, and it's still not going anywhere. So I really start pushing the screwdriver into the cork with pretty much everything I've got ... and it's not moving ... until it *totally* gives way, forcing a geyser of disgusting ancient red wine high into the kitchen sky and all over me.
Which is when you learn about your priorities: Literally, there's red wine in my hair, and it's dripping from the tip of my nose. But is this my main concern? Absolutely not. First order of business was the white felt letters on the Notre Dame sweatshirt I had on. There were drops of wine all over them, and it would be terrible to have such a great sweatshirt come to such a tragic end. (I'm happy to report that I successfully dabbed the wine away.)
At any rate, all's well that ends well. The kitchen's clean. The wine's gone. My recycling bag looks like I had a raging wine party. But this was fun. I'm on a bit of cleaning kick right now (New Year's resolutions, you know?) so I look forward to further adventures. I've been thinking about cleaning out the cabinets beneath my sink, and my biggest fear is that I'll find something dead in the process. Cockroaches, most likely, but who knows in this wacky apartment? And at some point, some serious work needs to be done on the toilet. It will require a trip to The Home Depot, which in my world, has always been good for a few laughs. I'll be sure to report back!
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Altitude: Sea Level Speed: Sitting down. Temperature: 74 degrees Fahrenheit (Originally Posted 2.26.08)
On the ground update …
Also, I saw the California Speedway out the window of the plane. You know you watched too much NASCAR rain delay programming over the weekend when you find yourself looking out the window of your plane and actually recognizing the mountain you're seeing down below! Sure enough, there was the speedway right near the foot of the mountain, except it looked like a quarter mile track from up in the sky. Totally cleared out, too. Not a sign that NASCAR's two premier series had been racing there less than 24 hours ago.
So now I'm at the Ritz Carlton in Marina del Rey, sitting on my bed (which is a good one -- we'll figure out this back thing yet!) with the sliding door wide open, and the marina to my immediate right, and snowy mountain tops off in the distance to my left. I'll tell you though, I've gained an immediate understanding of why so many rich people get so far out of touch with reality. I don't think I've ever been treated in my entire life as well as I've been treated in the last two hours. Fifteen people had welcomed me and offered to do things for me before I was ten feet in the door. Within two minutes, a member of the welcome committee had armed me with a really tasty orange-pomegranite drink of some kind. Some guy took my bag shortly after I entered the building and then magically reappeared with it pretty much as soon as I set foot in my room, and then he gave me a *tour* of the room and offered to go down the hall and get me ice. The room service guy brought me the remote control and spun the TV toward me in case I wanted to watch while I ate ...
So what I need to do is kick back and get over my guilt complex about being treated so nicely! Ugghhhhh!!! I got out of the non-profit world because I was tired of being poor, but this is like so-o-o far at the other end of the spectrum that I don't even know what to do with myself! It's nice though! And I'm enjoying it.
Altitude: 37,974 ft. Speed: 536 mph. Temperature: -49 degrees Fahrenheit (Originally Posted 2.28.08)
Greetings from somewhere over Missouri
1. It's apparently only 16 minutes from my apartment to JFK. There was no traffic, but still, I seriously thought it was like three times that.
2. The televisions in cabs? Yeah, no thanks. It's just a big advertisement for NBC with old news scrolling along the bottom. (It told me that Sprint Cup race was postponed, even though my boy Carl won it yesterday afternoon. It claimed the PATH was free today, even though that happened yesterday.) It also seemed a bit obsessed with violence, often of the nonsensical variety. By which I do not mean little old ladies getting mugged. I mean nonsensical quite literally. Like, "Robber attacks man with plan." Did the robber use a plan to attack a man? Or did the man who was attacked by the robber have a plan? Or was it just a typo? These are the things I thought about on the Van Wyck at 7a.m. this morning.
1. We've all been to JFK before, and we all know it generally ain't pretty. It's like the Ellis Island of the generation that only boards boats for luxury purposes (unless they're going to
Yeah well. If you want to escape all that, head to the Virgin America gate in the International Terminal. I don't know that I've ever seen a collection of so many generally young, generally very hip looking, and clearly very wealthy people gathered together anywhere, let alone at an airport. Given what I know of Sir Richard Branson, I'm assuming this was his goal here, and uh yeah, smashing success.
2. Well, except that there ain't a whole lot of people on this plane. Which is just fine by me. I've got the whole row to myself, and I've somehow managed to spread my crap out pretty well across the whole damn thing. I'm seriously going to have to start cleaning up after myself somewhere around
3. So here's what happened with this flight: Virgin America has it's own gate in the international terminal at JFK, and it appears that it only had two flights going anywhere this morning. The plane was already at the gate when I arrived excessively early (thanks to my 16 minute cab ride to JFK), so they took a "get on whenever the hell you want" approach to boarding us. Which meant that we were all very much ensconced when it was time to go – no flight attendants rushing about slamming overhead bins closed and generally stressing out the whole damn plane. Which was nice. We push back from the gate, we drive, like, rightoverthere, hang a left onto the runway, and take off without even stopping. Let me say that again in case you were breezing a little too quickly through this post. We push back, drive for a minute, hang a left, and take off without even stopping. At JFK. I'm used to being 25th in line for take-off. Flight attendants handing out water because we've been sitting on the runway so darn long. I read that something like 70% of all the delayed flights in
3. This plane has mood lighting – purple lights along the ceiling and pink lights closer to the windows. It looks a bit like a club on
4. We could do better on the food offerings. I'm a little hungry, but neither the "Strawberry Fruit Leather" nor the $12 "Fruit and Cheese Plate" sound particularly appetizing. People complain about "airplane food" but I'd kind of give my left arm right now for a turkey sandwich on white bread with a squeezy pack of mayo. I *love* however that you can order drinks (even the free stuff – water and coffee and soda and juice) from your seat! This has got to be a nightmare for the flight attendants on a crowded flight, but when there's just the 20 of us hurtling through the sky, it's fantastic!
5. Entertainment offerings are okay. Not as many TV channels as Jet Blue, but the movie offerings are a nice option, and they even have Nikki Sixx's new video as an on-demand music video choice. Surprisingly, the song didn't sound that bad. The lyrics were *very* silly, and I'm sure the album is excruciatingly annoying. (According to the information provided with the video, it's a concept album called something like The Heroin Diaries. Puh-leeese.) But the song sounded good if you weren't really paying attention too much and/or if you didn't know that Nikki Sixx is a bombastic idiot. I also watched the video for Wyclef Jean's "The Sweetest Girl," which I still think is about strippers even though the video was about illegal immigrants.
6. And if the TV and movies and music isn't enough to keep you entertained, our pilot is hilarious. We had the worst turbulence I've ever experienced in my life at the beginning of this flight. It was starting to feel a little Almost Famous on this plane for awhile there. I was literally holding the window jamb at one point to help brace myself and prevent my head from slamming into the side of the plane. So we're tossing all over the place, and the pilot comes over the airwaves all calm like, "If ya'll can just hang on a little longer, we're going to descend back down to the smoother air where we were before. We got some news that it would be better up here, but clearly *that's* not the case." He said it all emphasized like that. Made me feel a little less like death might be imminent.
Synopsis: I didn't pay more to fly this airline, but I would. Even if I wasn't on the company's dime!
What's Ahead for Me Today:
But yeah, then to the hotel. I'm hoping they have a good bed there so I can figure out whether the bed in my apartment is crap or whether my back is just crap. I'd believe either at this point in my life, and I tend to think that the truth of the matter is somewhere in the middle. Then a meeting from 4-5:30p.m. Then a cocktail reception at 7p.m. and then dinner with clients at 8p.m.. This day is just a little too long, I think!
Oh, and the
My Three Favorite American Idol Posts from the 2008 Season
American Idol Week 11 (Originally Posted 5.02.08)
So, American Idol. I'm watching you tonight because I heard Paula did something more stupid than usual, and the part of me that loves a gory car wreck is just dying to know what it is.
I've dedicated a lot of real estate in this blog to wondering how the hell this woman has a job. If I showed up to work in a ball gown that looks like it came from a store on Steinway, rocking some elbow-high fingerless gloves with giant fake rhinestone bracelets over them and a tiara perched upon on my head – all of this in addition to being completely high – I don't think they'd let me through the door. But that's just the daily grind for our girl Paula.
And I've wondered how they've allowed this to continue season after season. But perhaps there's a method to your madness, American Idol. You knew you lost me when you forced me to stop having my Michael Johns fantasies. Fantasies that I quite enjoyed having, mind you, and fantasies that I was not ready to give up. Mariah Carey week went unwatched and was unceremoniously deleted from my DVR to make room for NASCAR qualifying – qualifying! – from
You knew you were in trouble, American Idol, so you reached to what I thought was the very bottom of your bag of dirty tricks and pulled out Andrew Friggin' Lloyd Webber, Greatest American Idol Guest Ever. "Well played," I thought. But then you went and booted the last person with any talent right out of the competition, and I said, "Enough, you stupid show!!!"
And I meant it. All the way up till Wednesday morning, when I woke to the morning radio show DJs saying Paula had *really* done it this time, and my split second reflex was to quick turn off the radio before I heard what she did because I just *had* to see it for myself. There's a method to your madness, American Idol, and I should have known it all along. Press play.
Ryan looks like he attempted to achieve the
Neil Diamond is the guest tonight, which is going to be ridiculous. Oh, this is no fun. The Idols are singing two songs tonight, but they're only going to be judged after the second one. Fortunately, before I can get too annoyed about this development, Jason Castro is sinking to new levels of pot headiness. He's practicing with Mr. Diamond, and he doesn't know the lyrics to his first song, so he looks down at his crib notes, but he's got the lyrics to his second song up there on piano. I was *hoping* that he was high enough that he'd start singing the words to the second song to the tune of the first song, but alas, 'twas not to be.
Jason Castro is a man with one set of girly legs on him. Jason Castro is also a man who has a future being the guy in the bar playing guitar. And I don't mean the guy we're all watching play guitar in the bar. I mean the guy who's kind of in the corner, playing guitar while everyone talks to their friends and pretends they don't have any singles when the tip jar gets passed around. He's a cute guy, but I honestly can't believe we're still watching him on this show.
I don't know what this song is that David Cook is singing, but I worked at a pool during the summers all through high school and college. It was in this really nice park, right on the banks of the
Brooke White just asked Neil Diamond if he was "a hugger or a hand shaker" and that question has made me feel a bit homicidal. I doubt anybody in
Ugh. I just wrote something about David Archuletta's sexual inexperience and the near rapture he appears to be experiencing in the presence of Neil Diamond, but I had to delete it because I seriously grossed myself out. You know. A lot of people are making me feel homicidal tonight, but I think the award for the most homicide-inducing of all goes to the violin chick in the sunglasses. At any rate, David Archuletta is singing Sweet Caroline, which is a song that I have hated ever since the summer of 1998, when I paid $80 to sit in the last row of Giants Stadium at what turned out to be about 45 minutes of U2 concert, 10 minutes of pre-encore down-time, 10 minutes of U2 making their way out of a giant lemon and back to the stage, and 5 minutes of The Edge singing karaoke to Sweet Caroline. Worst $80 I've ever spent in my life. And now I have a whole new reason to hate this song. And not just because it's David Archuletta singing it, but because he's singing the most ludicrous interpretation of the song I've ever heard. Kill me now. This Paula Abdul gaffe had better be pretty damn good.
Arrrrgggggghhhhhhhhhh!!! Oh God!!! ARRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHH!!! I paused my DVR to rant about how the "Sitting, Barefoot, on the Floor" move needs to be retired from American Idol forever. (Like seriously, they should hang a banner from the rafters of the American Idol theatre with Katherine McFee on it sitting in front of a rainbow, like they do in hockey rinks when they retire players' numbers.) And you're totally not going to believe this, but I swear to you that it's true – it paused the TV just as the camera was fading away from Syesha and onto the damned violin section of the band. So it's like a translucent barefoot, floor-sitting Syesha with a ghost of Sunglasses Violin Chick appearing from behind her shoulder. I can't handle it. All of this said, if friggin' Syesha had just stood up and put on a pair of shoes, she would have had the best performance of the night so far.
Anyhow. Thus closes the first round of songs. And apparently we're doing all the comments at the same time??? I thought we were still going to get two-for-one comments on each person after their second song. And oh lord, Paula. I was hoping for something ridiculous in a funny way, but that was ridiculous is a really kind of sad way. This said, I would *love* to see what she has written on that note pad. She was furiously flipping through it while Simon was giving his (spot on) review. Oh lord.
Okay, we're going to try to keep the rest of this review short … Jason Castro is channeling Enrique Iglesias and singing poorly. Randy panned him. Paula muttered something. Simon told him he lost his mojo. I agree with all of them. Even Paula.
David Cook irritates me with his smarmy rock posturing, but he knocked that power ballad out of the park.
Brook is next. Fortunately she took the best piece of advice that Neil Diamond offered all night. Most people weren't born and raised in
David Archuletta is now singing "
Syesha closes this marathon of a show. The double song nights are really brutal when you hate everyone who's left. Jason Castro's future is playing guitar in O'Flaherty's on
Mercifully, this show has ended. I have no idea who's going home tonight. Not David Cook or David Archuletta. I'll go with Brooke because you've got to go with someone.
American Idol Week 10: Andrew Lloyd Webber a.k.a. Greatest American Idol Coach EVER (Originally Posted 4.23.08)
So as some of you know, I needed to take a few weeks away from American Idol. The "Idol Gives Back" Orgy of Self-Congratulation did not entice, and the booting of Michael Johns required protest. It crossed my mind that my angsty relationship with this season of American Idol might have come to a premature end. But you know my soft spots, American Idol, and you press them shamelessly. "Andrew Lloyd Webber makes absolutely zero sense as a theme," you said, "But he will reduce Siobhan to putty in our hands!" Then you laughed demonically because you knew you were right.
And you were right, American Idol. I can't not watch. I just can't. I need to know if David Cook will sing "The Rum Tum Tugger." The part of me that loves to hate David Archuletta has been hoping all day that he'll give us the kind of overly earnest rendition of "Jesus Christ Superstar" that will make me want to jump out my window. I don't remember which girls are left at this point, but someone's going to try "Memories," and someone's going to try "Don't Cry For Me Argentina," and I haven't the foggiest idea what Jason Castro will do, but I can't wait to find out. Yes American Idol, you have chosen well. I haven't been this excited for an episode in years, I don't think.
Let's fire up the DVR, shall we??
It's a star studded evening at American Idol: David Duchovny is in the crowd, and was that Kim Kardashian? (I seriously want to kill myself that the potential exists that I can pick Kim Kardashian out of a line-up. Oh crap. And now I'm probably going to get fired. I'm on my work laptop right now, and I plugged her name into Google because fortunately, I'm not familiar enough with her to know how to spell her name, but I completely forgot about that sex tape!!! Doh!!!) The Idol Gives Back special is just a memory, but the Orgy of Self-Congratulation continues on American Idol: Ryan just found out that the finale is going Green. Normally I like to hear that sort of thing, but on American Idol, it's just plain annoying.
To the judges … maybe I've been away too long (or hallucinating courtesy of the tetanus vaccine-induced haze I've been living in since last Thursday), but Paula's actually looking sober and very pretty tonight, and Simon's looking even hotter than usual, all twinkly eyed and mischievous! Oh God!!! They just brought the contestants, and Carly Smithson looks like she took a Bedazzler to her grandmother's couch, cut some armholes in it, and called it a dress. More on that later I'm sure, but for now, I'm going to sit back and enjoy the Andrew Lloyd Webber montage. (Heh. Ryan just called the Vegas set of Phantom of the Opera "Andrew Lloyd Webber's home turf." Yes. When I think Andrew Lloyd Webber, I think Vegas, for sure!)
We begin the performance part of the show with karma smacking Syesha Mercado square in the ass: She enters the song at the wrong place in the music, but that's what you get for being a bit of a patronizing bitch toward Andrew Lloyd Webber. Blech! The American Idol stylists have also launched another front in their global campaign against girls with curls, flattening Syesha's beautiful mop of bouncy curls into a bridesmaid up-do. At any rate, Syesha is singing "One Rock and Roll Too Many," and American Idol is annoying me by not saying what show it's from. Syesha's singing just okay, but she's being completely upstaged by the band leader who has nothing to do tonight since he doesn't know how to conduct an orchestra and has decided to entertain himself by dancing up a friggin' storm over on the side of the stage. Way to know your place, buddy. At any rate, the judges loved it, though Simon thinks Syesha's future is on the
Jason Castro is apparently back on the pre-show marijuana. I haven't seen the show in two weeks, so maybe he resumed this habit before tonight, but we're suffering from definite inability to form complete sentences during the interview with Ryan. Oh God. He's singing "Memories," and he just uttered the quote of the night: "I didn't know a cat was singin' it." Love. Ing. It. Okay. So I just watched the performance, and I paused the TV before the judges gave their reviews, and I'm going to pony up to actually kind of liking it! I mean, I hope he doesn't get kicked off this week, because if he has to go back to his buddies at wherever the hell he goes to college after that pansy ass performance, there's going to be a lot of grief in his future, but I thought it was nice. Sensitive. Whatever. Not a vocal masterpiece, but he sure pulled it off a lot better than I ever imagined. Let's see what the judges think! Yeah, they didn't like it. But whatever judges!!! I don't care! I did! These things said, Jason's got the defeated look of a kid who actually might not mind being sent home. I can understand that.
Brooke White is next, and she's the second singer in a row who hasn't a clue what her song is about. Do these kids not have internet access? Or a library card? Or even just someone they can ask for the back-story on the songs they're singing? Because, you know. Just for instance. I think Jason Castro would have liked to know that his song was sung by a cat. And not just any old cat, but an "ancient glamour pus." And Brooke, your character is dying. That's a key piece of information. She's not just in love, you see?
Hmm. Brooke blew the first line. Which was fine the first time she did it. But this is at least the second time, and I seem to recall it happening during the auditions too. I don't pretend to understand the stress these kids are under, but getting it done is part of what you signed up for, you know. At any rate. She sang it well. I was a little concerned in the beginning that she was taking a few too many cues from Debbie – ahem, excuse me! – Deborah Gibson's version of Eponine in Les Miserables (for those who never had the pleasure, Deborah took the "your character is dying" direction a little too literally), but Brooke breathed a bit more life into it as the song went along. Curious to see what the judges think … Pretty tepid review. But delivered nicely. You can tell the judges like her and want her to do well, and that's kind of nice in its own way.
Erg. David Archuletta is next. Does he wear the same outfit every week? He literally looks like he's on his way home from school picture day in eighth grade. Like, his Mom made him wear a tie, and now it's a little askew because he wore it all through recess, and he doesn't have a proper jacket because, you know, he's in eighth grade. WHAT IN GOD'S NAME IS UP WITH ALL THE BOYS SINGING SONGS THAT WERE WRITTEN FOR WOMEN???? Like, this is kind of weird, right? I'm not the only one whose thinking this?? Right??? Ah, whatever. He sang the David Archuletta remix of "Think of Me" from Phantom of the Opera. It was earnest and David Archuletta-like and all. But he should have sung "Jesus Christ Superstar." I almost feel gypped.
Okay, Carly Smithson. She's no David Archuletta, but I'm glad I'm getting my "Jesus Christ Superstar." This night is all backwards for me. Men singing "Memories," and women singing "Jesus Christ Superstar." I think if you took the second paragraph of this post and tossed it into the air, it all might have landed just right! Well. As long as David Cook sings "The Rum Tum Tugger." Heh! But it just dawned on me that this means Carly Smithson is wearing grandma's bedazzled couch to sing "Jesus Christ Superstar?" An odd wardrobe choice there. But she sang well. I'm going to say something I haven't yet said about Carly: I actually liked that performance. And I found her likable singing it. And the judges did too. Hell, Randy even liked her outfit. You missed your chance David Archuletta.
Oh blah, David Cook. "The Music of the Night." I'm actually annoyed with myself that I didn't see that coming. If you blow this, it's because you should have sung "The Rum Tum Tugger" David Cook. You heard it hear first. Ah, whatever. Alright singing. Good job on hitting the high notes there. Well, oooof. At least up until that last note. What was that?? I don't know. I didn't feel like he "connected with the lyrics." In fact I thought it was boring. And that's really what it all comes down to. I'll stop talking now.
So who's going home? I sure don't know! I'm guessing either Syesha, Brooke, or Jason Castro, but I have no idea which one. I'm going to go with Syesha just to get something up on the board, but I won't at all be surprised if I'm wrong.
Week One: Results Show (Originally Posted 2.22.08)
Unfortunately, my cable was all pixelated again for the group performance, so it was just too annoying to watch. It looked super humorous though. I always love watching the "rocker" types during these performances. Like that Aussie dude. From what I could see through the pixelation, he looked like he wanted to kill himself. (Which, IMO, is an appropriate emotion during an AI group performance.)
Next up, the first of the men goes. Ryan drops the ax well before any of us saw it coming, and Leif Garrett's head rolls. What's awesome though, is that dude looked like Richard Marx smashed into a Hasidic Jew, and the two magically fused. 90% of his hair says "Hold On To The Night" but he's got these spiral curls going down the side, and he's wearing a big black hat. Comedy.
We move over to the women. Car model chick is given the boot, and they've got her kitted out in a pair of white tights that makes her look like she weighs about 30 pounds more than she does. Good choice wardrobe people. Between Richard Marxstein's hair and the incredible fattening tights, the stylist side of this show is doing a bang up job!
THEN! Then we debut Paula Abdul's new video. Which was awesome. It was like a remake of Cold Hearted Snake, with a few corny 1980s special effects (a freeze frame Polaroid falling off the page, at one point there were little blue waves on the bottom of the screen) and Randy Jackson "playing" bass guitar. Paula's eyes are half shut through most of the video, and then at the very end, a picture of Ryan, Randy, Paula, and Simon pops up on the screen. This appears to be a part of the actual video. The whole thing was just hilarious.
Oh boy! Back to the cuts, it's time to let go of another girl. Ryan asks plus-size model and one of the blonds (I can't tell them apart) to join him at the center of the stage. Plus-size model has on what appears to be something a trendy 1960s girl might wear to a funeral, except it's two sizes too big and just doesn't look good. Considering she sang like complete crap the night before, it's no surprise she's gone.
Finally, Ryan brings Jacuzzi and Ellen Degeneres on stage. Suddenly plus-size model girl's outfit makes sense, because Ellen looks like his boyfriend just died in a fiery car wreck, and Jacuzzi looks like he's Ellen's best friend, but he was secretly in love with Ellen's boyfriend, and maybe he was even driving the car that killed the guy ... Dude seriously looked completely *distraught*. I'd heard the rumors that Jacuzzi was toast, so I was actually concerned for his health and safety. But he made it through, and we say goodbye to Ellen. Simon tells him that he should get a real job, because the singing thing just ain't gonna happen.
Seriously. Best results show ever!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
