seasonal music and decor dilemma

I woke up with this song stuck in my head.



I was lying there in bed, waiting for my arm to become functional again after being lain on for x number of hours, and I thought "I will look that up on youtube when I get up and post the video on my blog, because it's seasonal." You know, because of the line "they have never been poor, they have never had the joy of a welfare Christmas" which is, face it, a genius line. Then my mind wandered and I started thinking about the time Mr Barma and I were in this bar and the teeny little Asian cocktail waitress had a huge tattoo that said SUBLIME and it was impossible to know whether she was a mega-fan of the band or whether she just had really solid self-esteem. Imagine my chagrin when I actually got out of bed and to my computer and realized that that song is *not* a Sublime song.

Sigh. The Benevolent L and I just went over this last summer. Bradley Nowell and Art Alexakis are not the same person. Bradley Nowell was the lead singer of Sublime and he OD'd. Art Alexakis was the lead singer of Everclear and he is, as far as I know, still very much alive. But listen to this:



Don't they have a very similar vocal quality? Plus, the 90s were a long time ago. How the hell am I supposed to keep this shit straight?

Anyway, the reason I had "I Will Buy You a New Life" stuck in my head when I woke up was that I must have heard it yesterday while listening to the 90s channel on satellite radio again while I was...wait for it...wait for it...painting my hallway. Yup, if it's a major holiday weekend, that means Andrea is painting shit again. When I finish painting later today, I will try to get a picture up, because I need advice, all y'all. The back door to my porch, which is painted a horrible poop brown, looks especially bad next to the new wall color and I need to know what I should do with it. But now I must go get ready and get my ass to the gym so I can come back and finish that.

Later!

xoxo

i'ma just leave this here

One of my favorite songs of all time.



Music really was better in the 90s. Sue me.

xoxo

disturbing developments

I'm not going to even touch the disturbing developments in the world or the country, though there are plenty o' them. No, let's just keep this to smaller, more personal disturbing elements. Believe me, there are enough of those to fill a blog post.

1.) How bad does your team have to be for a pinch runner to make a fatal base running mistake? Think about it. You make the decision--a really bad decision--to put someone in to do one very specific task and they not only fail, they FAIL. That, my friends, is a sign. A bad bad sign. Want to start a pool on when Tito loses his job?

2.) I don't know if I have mentioned it, but I am watching American Idol with D this year. Some years I pay attention to it and others I do not and this is a pay-attention year. So, for those of you who are blissfully ignorant about how it works, at this point in the competition, the show is on two nights a week. One show is the performances and the second is the results, on which someone is kicked off. To fill out the results show--which, frankly, could actually last all of three minutes, because really Ryan Seacrest just needs to tell someone, "hey, you got the least votes, see ya, bye"--they have musical guests performing. By which I mean to say, they have people who are pimping their new releases and/or Idol alumni performing. In the results shows I have seen this season, these "guests" have been uniformly bad, almost to the point of painful. We got P Diddy or what-the-fuck-ever he calls himself these days. We got The Black Eyed Peas doing some new single which would make you change the radio station should it come on. We got the guy who won last year; we got Fantasia. A cavalcade of boring-to-awful performances.

So when my son asked me last night was I planning on watching, I said no. Y'know, just tell me later who got kicked off (hopefully Stefano, 'cause that boy's gotta go). Then I went about my evening business, doing other shit. Well, I happened to come downstairs while the show was in progress to switch my laundry over and make tea, and while I was sitting in the kitchen waiting for my water to heat, I hear them announce the next musical guest. In honor of Rock & Roll Hall of Fame week on Idol, they have special guest...Iggy Pop. Holy fuck. An actual musician? I go into the living room to watch. And the disconnect is powerful. Iggy Pop? On Idol? I suppose I would have an even more visceral reaction to this sellout if "Lust for Life" (a song about doing heroin, yo) wasn't already indelibly linked in my mind with Carnival Cruises. Sigh. Punk is dead, right?

3.) And, finally, did you hear it's going to be in the 70s--possibly 80!--by Monday? That is not so much disturbing as it is delightful, but it does cause me a certain problem. If I want to celebrate this fact by, I dunno, wearing a skirt to work on Monday sans tights and boots--and keep in mind I have only lately put skirts with tights and boots back into the rotation, because from late December to March the chances of me dressing like a girl are very very small--I will need to do something about my legs. Like (again I dunno), shave them? Put on some self-tanner and hope it doesn't streak? This whole change of seasons thing is work, lemme tell you.

So you all have a lovely Friday, Adventurers. Try to keep our own disturbing developments to the bare minimum.

xoxo

it's bowie friday again

Age gracefully! Marry a supermodel who's actually pretty! (Too late for you, Brady! Ha!) Be cooler than everyone else in the fucking world and OWN it! After all...it's Friday, bitches!

xoxo

P.S. I hold this video *directly* responsible for my "handsome man in impeccable suit" fetish. I hope my future contractor second ex-husband cleans up well. Ha!

have a lil wayne and eminem thursday

Fuck sad, just be angry. Last chance this week to tattoo something or marry someone problematic. But stay outta Rikers gen pop and put down the vikes, muthafuckas.

xoxo

have a very very trent reznor wednesday

Pierce something. Be angry, and sad. Contemplate more disturbing imagery, religious or otherwise. Give a friend a beating! But step away from the ego-maniacal control-freaking. (And the absinthe. No absinthe!)

And as a bonus, check out the arms on a more latter-day Mr Reznor. Apparently at some point in getting sober (is he still sober? I have no idea), Trent started hitting the gym.



I mean, he's no Henry Rollins--or malevolent andrea (oh, I kill myself)--but, yeah, gun show!

xoxo

P.S. When I click on the NIN videos to make sure they work, google ads wants to sell me yoga pants. Remember how I told you I think I'm turning into one of those people I hate? Sigh. As much as I like to think of myself as the kind of person who goes out and pierces something and then contemplates disturbing images, the omniscient google knows I'm really more the kind of person who buys expensive yoga pants. I don't know what to tell you.

have an amy winehouse tuesday

Tattoo something! Bust out the eyeliner, the pushup bra, and your Bump-it! Make a dubious marital choice! But put down that bottle of gin before someone gets hurt, 'k? (And you know what I told you about the heroin.)

xoxo

have a nirvana monday

Put your shirt back on. Be angry, and sad. Contemplate some disturbing religious imagery. Make a dubious marital choice. But stay away from the guns and the heroin, 'k?

xoxo

ch-ch-changes

Have I ever used that as a blog title before? Something tells me "yes" but no worries. Everyone's Friday is better with a little Bowie. Trust.

On my way to work this morning I noticed that the AJ Wright they just opened a few months ago (the one I thought was gonna be an AC Moore [but not an LL Bean]) is now a TJ Maxx. If this happened like three weeks ago and I just haven't been paying attention, don't tell me, okay? Was the whole company bought out? In any case, I hope it means the quality of the merchandise will go up so that I might occasionally shop there.

In other news, while as mentioned, I really like my new glasses, I've been thinking they make me look older by drawing attention to the brackets around my mouth (i.e. the wrinkles I *don't* like). However just now in the bathroom here in work, putting them on and taking them off, it occurred to me that perhaps it isn't that they draw attention to my wrinkles, it's that when they're on I can fucking see my wrinkles better. Oops. WHAT THE HELL DO YOU EXPECT? I'M CLOSER TO DEATH THAN HIGH SCHOOL!

Happy Bowie-ful Friday. At 11 am send good boob thoughts my way.

xoxo

Addendum: Left boob is, as expected, just fine (if cyst-ridden), though in the words of both the ultrasound tech and the radiologist, I'm "lumpy-bumpy." That, apparently, is the technical term. Who knew?

the freshmen

When the Benevolent L and I sat down in the dining room yesterday to eat,there was a woman screaming in labor on the TV in the adjoining living room. Teen Mom marathon on MTV, all y'all. I swear, I rarely even realize the TV is on and block most of it out, but L asked if we might have something more...relaxing...to eat dinner to. So I switched it to one of the "adult alternative" XM radio channels we get.

And thus it came to pass that later as we were leaving to get coffee, we heard "The Freshmen" by the Verve Pipe. "I love this song," the Benevolent L said. "Me too," I replied. "That's why I turned it up!"

I can't be held responsible
'Cause she was touching her face
I won't be held responsible
She fell in love in the first place

What does that part about touching her face even mean? They just needed a word that rhymes with place. That's lazy songwriting right there. (Right up there with "I got warrants in every city cept Houston", but I digress.) But anyways, I have now had this cheezy, poignant, extremely hooky song stuck in my head since 6pm yesterday. What does that mean for you, boys and girls? Well, besides hoping that I've now passed the earworm along, 'cause I'm evil like that, it means you get to hear another pointless story of my youth. Consider it a holiday bonus!

Thirty years ago (gasp!) when I was a freshman at BU, I was in the library one evening, and as was sometimes my wont, I happened to be dressed up for no reason. I can tell you exactly what I was wearing that day, which is, by the way, one of my superpowers. I had on: brown cowboy boots, brown pinstriped tights, a rust colored pencil skirt that buttoned down the front with big buttons, and a grayish blue crewnecked chunky sweater with flecks of other colors in it. Do you think I looked hot in this outfit? Of course I did, I was 18 years old. Duh.

In fact, I looked so alluring (ha!) and older than 18 that I was hit upon at the library by a grad student/instructor who was, I dunno? 27 or 28--unspeakably old, anyway. Upon learning that I was a freshman and not a grad student like himself, the gentleman--because he was a gentleman--backed off on any lecherous type overtures, but we actually had a lovely conversation, and thereafter whenever we ran into each other randomly on campus would grab coffee or lunch or at least chat on the sidewalk. I cannot remember this guy's name (though it may have possibly been Glen) or what his field was (though it may have possibly been economics) but I remember he was from Ontario. This is the stream-of-consciousness memory that song has triggered in me.

And it occurs to me that this is the difference in me that life has wrought. Thirty years ago, I was open to speaking to random men who flirted with me at libraries. Today when gym douchebags try to engage in conversation, I stare off into the middle distance and block it out with the iPod, thus never learning whether they really are douchebags or not. I mean, yeah, I'm playing the odds, but still. This, my friends, is probably why I do not have a contractor future second ex-husband patching up my drywall (shut up, that's *not* a euphemism) even as we speak. God. You need to make eye contact and be open to possibilities.

For the life of me I cannot remember
What made us think that we were wise and we'd never compromise
For the life of me I cannot believe we'd ever die for these sins
We were merely freshmen

xoxo

muy triste una vez más OR eff u, steve jobs

My beloved 3rd generation green iPod nano died today, 2 years and eleven months after I first obtained it. You may remember the backlight gave out on it a few weeks ago after I got it a little too wet in the rain. So I knew this day was coming. But I was hoping it would come a little later. I love that iPod. I do not want one with other features. I do not want one a different shape. I do not want one a different shade of green.









You feel me? DO NOT WANT.

However, Steve Jobs (<--possibly the anti-Christ; anyone checked his scalp for the 666?) would like to sell me a 6th generation nano. Oh, Satan--I mean, Steve--I just read the reviews. Your new product sucketh. You've taken away features. The screen is too small. The touch screen is impossible to work when you are running/walking/biking. You have basically made the nano into a shuffle that costs three times as much.

I have foiled you however. Well, not really, 'cause I'm still giving you my money. But I have semi-foiled you by just ordering a 5th generation nano from amazon while they still have them. It is not the same as my beloved 3rd generation, which was the perfect size and shape and a lovely color, but I suppose the fact that it has a video camera means I could be embedding shit from the prison bus in this very blog. (Felons don't mind being filmed. I've seen Cops.) I *could* have bought another 3rd generation for well over $200, instead of $134, but even I am not that stubborn. The big question is, how am I gonna survive the next week to ten days without my iPod? I can't exercise without a soundtrack and the music they play in the gym is iffy.

xoxo

a few notes

1.) One great thing about fantasy baseball is that it allows me new targets for my seething hatred and thus I don't have to get so upset about social issues, the media, and politics. Seattle Mariners bullpen? Eat shit and die.

2.) I came home from yoga yesterday morning and my dad says to me, "So what's this yoga supposed to be doing for you anyway?" I said, "It's making me strong and flexible." "Why do you want to be strong and flexible?" Oh, Jesus wept. Do you people see what I put up with? Um, because it's preferable to being weak and inflexible? What I said was, "So when I'm 84, I don't walk like this!" ::demonstrate bent-over shuffling walk:: "I don't walk like that!" Which is true, he really doesn't. It was a kinda mean thing to say. However, my other snarky reply was, "So there are more sexual positions I can get into," and at least I didn't go there.

3.) Here's a link to an article about the health, not weight, benefits of intermittent fasting. I have no idea whether the science in the referenced studies holds up, because, like I said, for every study that says one thing about nutrition and weight loss, there's another one contradicting it. But I think it's interesting. I'm on day 6 and doing great. Yesterday, not only did I do my 75 minutes of yoga, I went on a two hour hike later in the day, and I didn't see any negative impact on my energy or endurance. Felt really good, actually.

4.) Mr Indemnity claims he is not going to let me copy his new Exile on Main Street reissue because I will just listen to it on my iPod compressed. I am not totally sure he is joking. I will therefore remind you, and him, about what hipster puppies would say about this:


"barney is more concerned with “dynamic range compression” and “the loudness wars” than the fact that he has shitty taste in music"

5.) And just because I didn't realize I had this downloaded onto my work computer and it is the cuteness, and this is a full-service blog, I give you again:



Happy Monday, bitches!

xoxo

que pasa, bitches?

Some day soon I will write a post of substance, a post of coherence, a post with a point that actually makes a point. Today, however, is not that day. Today you get, yet again, the random spewings of my brain. Though fear not! There will be no more links to vaguely upsetting pictures of anyone's senator. (You must admit, when you inflict that upon your reading public, there's nowhere to go but up. There's a plan in everything I do.)

First of all I want to tell you one more time how much I love google. Not an hour ago, Led Zep Girl and Townie Girl were having a discussion of MTV back in the day, and while Led Zep Girl could name most of the original VJs, she was stuck on one. "Tall goofy guy with spiky hair..." TG had no idea, and I'll be damned if I did either when they pulled me into this. But I googled and in ten seconds or less my amazing google-fu presented: Alan Hunter. Ten years ago this would have been one of those questions where your brain hurt and the answer popped randomly into your head at 3 am and you'd have to resist from calling the person you'd been debating it with and waking them up.

Second of all, I'd like to tell you the good, the bad, and the torture-Andrea points of trivia last night. I was a good little low carb girl and decided that I would allow myself one, and just one, beer. So I sipped my delicious IPA with very tiny little girly sips (and immense self-discipline) all night and made it last. On the bad side of the equation, the answer to the halftime question was the Red Hot Chili Peppers, and I did *not* get it on the first clue because I didn't know what their original band name was. (Anthony, I'm sorry, baby. I will study the facts of your life with more diligence and not get distracted by how much I would like to lick every one of your tattoos. Pinky swear.) Torture Andrea? The host played "No More No More" by Aerosmith and so I was moved to lip synch it, as you do, to Mr Barma, who then asked with amusement if I were wasted on the quarter of an IPA that I had consumed up until that point. I said NO, I just liked that album--Toys in the Attic, you philistines--and did he know how many times I listened to it in high school? To which he replied, "How many times on your back?" Oh, everyone is a comedian. You write one little tiny post about what music you used to have sex to as a teenager and you never hear the end of it. God.

Thirdly, I am finally reading "Julie and Julia" because I plan on renting the DVD of the movie and I always like to read the book first, so the movie will suck in comparison. I kid, I kid. But actually, I am on that kick again of reading people's humorous autobiographical opuses that started out as blogs and turned into a book deal, 'cause Jesus Christ, man, doesn't the whole world need to know what music I fucked to in high school in print? Keep hope alive n' all.

And last, what do we think of these sandals and similar styles? I find the whole ankle-cuff thing very fresh and kinda intriguing, but I fear I am too old and/or too short for that crap and that while Our Lil MILF could get away with such things, I would look ridic. (Plus I have to admit I don't need any more flat sandals. I'm supposed to be looking for shoes for work. This is the kind of thing that leads me to buy yet another pair of jeans when I go out looking for work clothes. Sigh. I want a lifestyle in which I can wear jeans and funky sandals every day. Like blogger-turned-highly-paid-author! That'd work.)

xoxo

in honor of mother's day...

I just downloaded Van Halen I (which is just "Van Halen" actually) from iTunes. I figure if I hadn't spent so much time making out and, eventually, fucking to this album on the 8-track of my future ex-husband's Dodge Duster in 1978***, we would never have fallen in love and eventually procreated. I could have ended up childless! It all makes perfect sense, especially when you're drinking Gnarly Head Old Vine Zin, which, while not from Paso Robles, is my go-to cheap wine. I cannot drink too much cheap wine, however, since I need to stay up for SNL tonight. (Jay-Z and Betty White! Holla!)

I am inordinately fond of this album, needless to say. Doesn't everyone have music they associate with falling in love for the first time? And, I'm sorry, even without all the fond memories of the summer of '78, it kicks ass. I, right now, am listening to "Ain't Talkin' 'Bout Love"--which is my favorite track--for the fifth time in a row. A few years ago, my good friend Mr Indemnity and I were in a Newbury Comics poking around and they had this album playing and I hadn't heard it in *so* long and I was basically head-banging and dancing in the aisles. Mr Indemnity was vaguely embarrassed****, especially since he's a big music snob and poo-poos anything that can be classified as "classic rock." But I maintain, and will till I die, that the inability to enjoy Van Halen I is a sad defect in anyone's character! (And, c'mon, if you can't give Eddie props for his amazing guitar chops, you gotta respect that he was banging Valerie for all those years! She is, and always has been, hot.)

Occasionally at trivia, the host, who is also the DJ, will play some Van Halen. Invariably (because there is *no* joke I cannot run into the ground) I will turn to Mr Barma all fake wide-eyed and say deadpan, "If you could play some Van Halen on your guitar, I would probably sleep with you!" Then I crack and start laughing, because, c'mon, I keep telling you people--it's bar trivia. Beer is involved. Mr Barma will demure that there's "play" and then there's "play like Eddie." Well, that's the quality difference between sleeping with *me* and sleeping with Valerie. No brainer!

Okay, that's all I have to say about this album right now. I should check how my baseball players are doing. Happy Mother's Day! Watch my girl Betty and my boy Jay-Z!

xoxo

***It occurs to me that some of my blog readers were not even friggin' fetuses in 1978. (Hi, J & J!) Is it disturbing to anyone else that I'm this old? No? Just me, then.

****Okay, yes, I will admit that my dancing anywhere can be construed as embarrassing. That doesn't excuse Mr Indemnity's failure to appreciate "Ain't Talkin' 'Bout Love." God.

epic

I never watch SNL anymore because a.)it usually sucks b.)I get up at 5:45am on Saturdays and so have very little motivation and ability to stay awake that late and c.)if I read or hear from anyone that there was anything on it that would have amused me, it pretty much always ends up on youtube for my viewing pleasure. HOWEVER. Next week? I am led to understand that they will be featuring Betty White and Jay-Z. That I will stay up for.

New topic. Did you watch the Sox game last night? WTF do we think is wrong with Papelbon? I think I would prefer my ace closer to just save the game, not "make it interesting" then save the game. That asshole Lackey, as I like to fondly refer to him, is on my fantasy team--don't blame me, I inherited him--and, despite his mediocre-to-crappy performance, did at least get me a win. So there is that. Also, Jones' HR was good for me. Was it good for you too? (Oh, I crack myself up.)

And one more thing. I slaved in the yard for another two hours yesterday after work, which is a sad state of affairs lemme tell you, and that makes eleven hours total this week in case you're counting, which I am. I am still not done. I may not even be 2/3rds done. But at least I don't quite feel like crying when I look at it anymore. Also, Friday night I spent an hour or so assembling my "bistro set" for the deck and it looks very cute. I don't think I was quite expecting two chairs and a table to arrive in one box (i.e. in lots and lots of pieces, yo) but I suppose that is what one gets for buying patio furniture that costs $170 as opposed to patio furniture that costs $450. (I was really shocked at how much this shite costs when I started looking at it.) Anyway, if any of you all want to come have a drink on my deck (um, one at a time, I said "two chairs"), you are invited, and I promise I tightened those bolts pretty good so the chair probably will not collapse. Probably.

xoxo

now i'm disturbed

I've been watching the first season of Fringe on DVD. Actually I keep meaning to blog about that. I got it because D told me it was supposed to be like the X-Files, which, if you knew me in the 90s you would know I was a huge fan of. At least until the mythology totally fell apart and David Duchovny (who, personally, I would do any time anywhere even though he's been to rehab for the quote unquote sex addiction and does, based on Californication, kinda look like hell now) left. So far the mythology on Fringe seems a little less by-the-seat-of-the-pants, so there is that, but I am often annoyed by 1.) the portrayal of mental illness on the show and 2.) the fact that (much like House! but worse, because none of the characters are MDs!) Walter, the mad scientist character, his son Peter the semi-disreputable genius, and the FBI agents all know how to do every kind of medical procedure known to man in Walter's lab. But I guess I can't be too picky about plausibility in a show that's soon about to introduce invaders from a parallel universe, hmm?

The reason I haven't blogged about that yet is that I figured that if you aren't watching too, none of my comments on the show will make any sense. So just ignore the whole preceding paragraph! Except for the part where I'd do David Duchovny, 'cause he's hot.

What I really mean to talk to you about today, what's really horrifying me, is this: on an episode I watched Sunday night, there's a scene that takes place in a strip club, and the music that the dancer was dancing to has been stuck in my head for two days now. Not the words, because I don't know them, just the melody. Because I don't know the words, I was at a loss as to how I could possibly find out what that song is. But just now, I figured, oh! I should go to the Fringe forum on TWoP. I bet someone will have mentioned it somewhere. Because those people on TWoP can get a little obsessive about their shows, y'know?

Well, whaddya know? It took me about ten or fifteen minutes to come across the comment "How cool is it that they used Lady Gaga's 'Starstruck' in the stripclub scene?" I didn't want to believe it, but I went on allmusic, played the sample of Starstruck, and yeah. It's a fucking Lady Gaga song that's been stuck in my head for two days. And now I need to buy it.

I really don't know what to say about that.

xoxo

notes

1.) Graffiti seen in North Station ladies' room this week: Punks Rule, OK? No, what punks do not do is ask permission. Kids these days. Sigh.

2.) So, last night trivia was cancelled because the guy who runs it did *not* bounce back from major abdominal surgery in less than a week as he had expected. Go figure. Instead Mr Barma and I went out to see some music. He warned me in advance that the venue was bad, and not in a good way. In fact when we were eating dinner, he suggested that if I thought I was going to need to use the bathroom at any point during the evening I do it then. (And when I needed to go a second time during the evening, I took his keys and ran across the street and up the block to his condo and then came back. Swear to god.) We discussed that some places could be filthy and disgusting and that is part of the whole experience (See: The Rat), but this place last night had not earned the cred for that. It's just a poorly managed pit. Example? Mr Barma goes to the bar to get us a couple crappy beers ('cause they don't sell good beer, silly), the bartender takes the order, wanders off from behind the bar, comes back several minutes later empty handed and asks, "What was that you wanted again?" But what I would most like to convey to you all is the decor. There were all these water features, one of which was, no lie, a fountain spewing TidyBowl blue water. There were gogo cages sans any dancers. There were private booths with gem names over them: pearl, sapphire, diamond, etc. There were weird club chairs on wheels and tables covered with tablecloths last seen at a christening at the VFW. And, y'know, keep in mind the filthy floor and bathrooms. It came to me while Mr Barma was off taking ten minutes to buy two beers in a mostly empty bar. This was a Las Vegas ultralounge for people who have gone to hell. (Yeah, see, now at least I know what the nightlife is gonna look like in the afterlife for me.) Oh, and I have to mention the little Asian cocktail waitress who has SUBLIME tattooed across her back, begging the question: the band or the adjective? If it's the adjective, I gotta give her props. Most people don't have that kind of self-confidence!

3.) Finally, in the Metro today (or maybe yesterday, I just found it on a bench) there's a piece about one of Tiger Woods' mistresses saying he is cheap, and that all he ever bought her was a wrap from Subway on one occasion. The article then snarks that her problem is that she thinks he's the cheap one in that story. Excuse me? Slut-shaming, what? Leaving aside any personal feelings I have about women who fuck famous married guys and then kiss n' tell in order to land a book deal or 15 minutes of fame, that's just totally unnecessary. A multimillionaire who doesn't even provide his paramours with, say, a nice room service dinner, a good bottle of wine, effin' cab fare...that's just outrageously cheap, and bad manners. Just add it to the tally of Mr Woods' poor behavior, and don't use it as an excuse to take a shot at some woman because she's a "slut." Grr.

xoxo

more linguistics for fun and profit

Actually this has nothing to do with linguistics. Or profit. And fun is in the eye of the beholder. But though I know "linguistics" is not the right term, I've had such a sucky SUCKY morning in work (two incredibly difficult patients in a row, such that I was running 45 minutes behind by the time I got done with the second, followed by there being *no cookies* in the cafeteria, and THEN, when I went to my backup plan of taking myself off to the vending machine, which I never do, there wasn't even any good candy in it, thus proving that the universe is telling me my fat ass doesn't need any chocolate, never mind what my brain says) that it's the best I can come up with.

What I want to talk about is the phenomenon of certain singers singing with their natural speaking accents and others not. I've been meaning to write about this for awhile, but though it's crossed my mind when I'm listening to the iPod and observing it in action, by the time I 'm actually writing anything, I've been distracted by something else. But today is the day, bitches. (Um, by the way, namaste!)

Those of you who were ::ahem:: lucky enough to hear the *full* story of the night my ex-husband told me he was sorry for all his past misdeeds, may remember the lead-up involving the ICU ward secretary whom I could only describe as having "a Rhianna accent," which is to say, Caribbean. The fascinating thing to me about Ms Rhianna (besides her perfect boobs) is that, though she always has some hint of her speaking-voice accent in her singing, sometimes it is much stronger than others. After listening multiple times to the three songs which she vocals on that I have my iPod, I have come to the conclusion that it's just that certain *words* display that accent more than others. Makes perfect sense. As you know, I will probably nevah (ha!) be able to pronounce the words "ever" or "tired" quote unquote correctly without trying very very very hard. I really need to focus and it will never come naturally. I'm sure there are certain sounds like that for someone with a Barbados accent too, and I'm sure that Rihanna sees no reason to try very very very hard to pronounce them differently when she's singing.

On the other hand, let's take Ms Amy Winehouse, who also pops up frequently on the ol' iPod. She of course sings in a very different accent than which one might expect. You would never hear one of her songs and think, oh yeah, that's a British woman. And of course there's a reason for that too. Ms Winehouse is singing in a certain style, informed by the records she listened and sang along to in her youth. I have no idea if it's a struggle for her to pronounce certain sounds differently when she's singing or whether after doing it for so long, it *is* natural. Some of this also must have to do with that phenomenon of British people being able to copy American accents a lot easier than Americans can copy British ones. (Cf. Idris Elba as the primo example amongst many.) I dunno. I just think it's very interesting!

Also, I still want chocolate.

xoxo

Addendum: OMFG, I forgot--my boss has a whole lower desk drawer full of candy, and there were mini Snickers and Almond Joys. Score!

hey sista go sista soul sista go sista

I can't spell the French lyric, but I remember what a scandal they were to a bunch of sixth graders. That same bunch of sixth graders thought the lyric in Bennie and the Jets was "she's got electric boobs..." Ah, puberty.

Hey, kids! It is 4:50 pm and my electrician never came by for the estimate and never called. Once again, people are refusing to take my money. The new vet's office I want to take Evil Kitty to never returned my call either. Do people not *want* business? How can you run a capitalist system like that? But I did give the upstairs hallway another coat o' paint. Without any loud music. Because I wanted to be able to hear the doorbell and/or my phone. In case the electrician remembered that I'm alive and that I would like to write him a big check. Sigh.

After dinner I shall do more things upstairs and there will be rocking out. Hand to god.

In other news, did I tell you? I'm going to the Buddhist chanting thing next Tuesday. I'm pretty excited about that. Secondly, I got two new yoga videos from amazon today, which I would totally be trying out if I didn't eff up my back last week. Should I just slather on some arnica and go for it anyway? Thirdly, did you know Jay-Z is coming to the "Banknorth" Gahhhden this summer? Anyone got a fourteen year old I can borrow? Because I don't think old white people like me are allowed in if they aren't chaperoning teenagers, and I would really like to add to Mr Carter-Knowles' fortune so he can buy some better basketball players. Or something. Lastly, speaking of Mr Carter-Knowles and that song of his that's stuck in my head, as I was telling Mr Indemnity yesterday, the video for Run This Town is very post-apocalyptic Mad Max-ish, and I would really, really like someone in academia to write a paper on how that movie, besides introducing the world to Mel Gibson, has been a seminal influence on rap videos. Actually lastly, do not feel bad for Mr Indemnity that he has to listen to me go on about this stuff. He owes me for all the many hours of relationship advice I've given him over the years. "If you're havin girl problems, I feel bad for you, son..." Ha!

Even my electrician problem has not destroyed my very good mood! Because, y'know, I'm on vacation. True fact.

xoxo

random award show commentary

1.) I read this morning that Taylor Swift is 20, while Lady Gaga is 23. Really? Really? I thought they were, respectively, like 16 and 30. It makes the fact that Taylor Swift is writing and singing all those songs from the perspective of a high school sophomore kinda creepy, doesn't it? Okay, excuse me while I go on a related tangent, which is probably better than the unrelated tangents I usually go on. I was at Mr Indemnity's yesterday working on the Top Secret Under the Table Don't-tell-the-feds-on-me job I'm doing for him, and in his car either before or after we went to Kellys for dinner, the radio was playing that "Fight for the Right to Party" (or whatever its real name is) song by the Beastie Boys. After we mutually agreed that the Beastie Boys kick ass, even after all these years, I pondered whether they still perform that song now that they're all, y'know, middle-aged. And it occurs to me now that of course none of them were high school sophomores when they wrote that, and rather than find it creepy, I find it a charmingly cynical attempt to connect with the teenaged audience they wished to capture. So why my problem with Ms Swift? (Besides that she butchered Rhiannon.) And I think it's that she's being marketed in such a way that people like me kind of assume she really is a sweet lil 16 year old, instead of a young, but definitely grownup, woman.

2.) I found it extremely amusing that when Beyonce won her award, they cut to her and her husband (recent frequent blog-subject Jay-Z, in case you've forgotten) engaged in the most awkward stilted hug you've ever seen. It looked like the kind of hug you give the person who's *presenting* you the award--if they're someone you've never met before in your life and you're not a hugger in the first place. I was like, really, dude? Really? You're too badass (or repressed?) to kiss your very lovely wife in public? Too funny.

3.) Oh, what a travesty when they were bleeping the whole Dr Dre/Eminem/Lil Wayne performance. They were not just bleeping words, it was like whole lines and verses. D and I were wondering if our satellite was fucking up because it didn't seem possible they'd be bleeping half a fucking performance. But, no. They were. This was the last song before the last award, so the climax of the entire show. Um, why invite three renowned rappers to perform your climactic number if you aren't willing to let them, y'know, rap? I'm sure Taylor Swift coulda sung another song about puppies, rainbows, and cute boys instead.

Every time I tell myself I'm not going to watch another award show ever, I do. I never learn. In my defense I was tired from my Top Secret Project and my onion rings were sitting in my belly like greasy lead. That's my excuse, and I'm stickin' with it.

xoxo