I often think that autumn is the only season that hasn’t
lost its magic for me.
Midwestern springtimes have been marked with more tornadoes
and freak snowstorms, than mild winds and fledgling birds, more end-of-year
decisions and goodbyes than rebirths and renewals.
The past two summers, possibly the final ones in my life to
signify a break from normal life, have been fragmented, split between the
summer-dwelling places I call home and locales with no change in seasons. What
used to be my summer is becoming as sticky and disheveled as my hair
appropriately becomes during the season.
Christmas, the only redeeming part of the world’s bitter wintertime
torpor, has lately been more a mad dash to complete academic obligations and
find people-pleasing presents, spells of waiting for mall-bound trains in the
cold and being perpetually disappointed when I miss my favorite Claymation specials
on TV (or, worse, they’ve been replaced with uninspired holiday rom-coms that I
cannot fathom anyone enjoying)
The fall used to depress me to no end, with thoughts of
schoolwork, inane classmates, and the idea of the summer heat dwindling away. I
began enjoying school by the time I reached university; it’s not that these nuisances went away, but after realizing
just how splendidly chilling it was to walk under a crisp full moon covered in
black clouds (I've always associated the moon with fall even though it's there, obviously, all through the year. I guess it's something about full moons and spookiness and stuff, but I find myself playing "Sisters of the Moon" by Fleetwood Mac a lot more once the days grow shorter and cooler), while a smoky breeze wove through an apparently-too-thin green
jacket, none of these things mattered.
Besides, Halloween, what I consider to be the heart of fall,
had come to signify all of my favorite things: spending entire afternoons and
impractical amounts of money in order to express myself by pretending to be
someone I wasn’t for a night, sipping pumpkin ale and being able to feign
enjoying beer for a time, donning the cheap polyurethane minidress that I, for
the rest of the year, wistfully pushed to the back of my closet, in preparation
for a night of shouting vulgarities that I otherwise frowned upon as Brad and
Janet made their way to Frankenfurter’s mansion. Spring seems the season most
ripe for reinvention, but I’ve always found October to be wrought with ways to
change who you are, if even for one slightly too cold for your attire, somewhat
intoxicated night.
Maybe the fact that it took me eighteen years to realize all
that autumn has to offer is what has kept me from meeting the season with such
indifference, or abject dread, every year.
I’m taking off for the Caribbean in November this year, and regret that I’m leaving the fall prematurely. I can at least rejoice that I've been here for
the best of it. After weeks of the yellow leaves clinging precariously to the
maples and poplars while the summer lingered, they all seemed to fall at once, suddenly
burying windshields and the occasional bewildered squirrel, assuring that I’d get
a chance to traipse through some crunchy, wet foliage before setting sail for
the land of palm trees and perpetually blistering heat (wah wah my life is
hard). Running through the park each day this past week, I’ve slipped in slick
piles of leaves, been stuck in deluges caused by freak rain storms, been pelted
with acorns and the oversized fruit of an Osage orange tree (which, in case you
don’t know, can be confused with having a spacey biker crash into your back).
And now let's watch this entry devolve since I've had too much caffeine tonight!
I don't really know how to end this entry, or what the point of it all is. I don't even know if it's about appreciating the fall any more, or about appreciating the time I'm getting to spend with all the people that have made previous falls, and this one, really awesome. Now I killed any potential metaphors so if somehow someone thought my writing deserved analysis, they wouldn't be able to. Except they'd still find a way. Ramble ramble. Lots of run-ons in this entry. That widget that told me I wrote like DFW (the entry's somewhere earlier in this blog) really wasn't lying. Except for the part where DFW was brilliant and I'm mainly just full of myself.
K bye bye bye.
Oh, since I mentioned it, here's this. 100% of the Mac was obviously 100% seeing their reflections in the 100% snow-covered hills during this, but Stevie is at her most captivating.
Little about the library had changed, but now that it was no longer mine, everything looked different. I walked in to find, of course, the new acquisitions shelf in the same place as before, though all the titles had changed between May and October. The shelf used to be replete with seemingly fascinating books that, between my Spanish Lit readings and shifts at an art museum, I had little time to read. Now, I had plenty of time, but had long since chucked my faded student ID, the card that served as a key to worlds upon worlds and minds more fertile than mine.
I flipped through a few paperbacks, toying with the idea of snuggling into one of my favorite spots on the third floor and trying to finish a whole book in one afternoon. I decided against it, fearing what would happen if I got caught with a book that had mysteriously disappeared from circulation for a day. Besides, I had come to write.
I walked past packs of students, rushing to class or scrambling to finish term papers, and somehow felt guilty about bringing my lack of stress into a place so conducive to the feeling. I found a top floor nook where the suspiciously warm October sun precisely hit a deep blue chair. It was time to do some brainstorming, while splayed out like a basking cat. I could write about my time at sea, working on a cruise ship, I thought, but now that I had two weeks to live my old life, it almost felt like my experiences on the ship had never even happened. I opened up a recently completed screenplay to make edits, but was too busy wishing that I'd had time to take a second semester of screenwriting while at college. I considered working on my next novel, but couldn't seem to chart any personal growth for my protagonist. I started to if I was capable of moving a fictional character forward, if I couldn't seem to even forward myself.
The sun filtered through a big window, warming my face and temporarily bleaching the tips of my hair. I closed my eyes and
Eventually I decided that if I was going to nap, I wanted to be on my own uncomfortable air mattress, with a borrowed comforter and the stuffed animal I still couldn't fall asleep without. I packed up my things, walked down the steps that for four years were the location of in-library phone conversations, gameplans for streaking across campus, running into old friends and vapidly telling them that we'd hang out soon.
As I passed the new acquisitions shelf, I noticed a wisp of blue on the floor and immediately recognized it as a feather from my rainbow boa. I couldn't remember the boa ever making it to my backpack, but it was entirely plausible that some feathers had made their way into the front pocket, ready to spill over whenever I retrieved my phone. Since buying the boa at a pride parade in June, during a too-short trip home to Philadelphia, it had become quite a well-traveled piece of neckware, just in case an appropriately ostentatious occasion arose. The night before I boarded the cruise ship, after removing all of my piercings made me fear that I'd lose my last vestiges of iconoclasm to my job, I wrapped myself in the synthetic feathers and wished that I was back in Philly, or back at my university, or back to anywhere that wouldn't fragment my life as much as the job I'd signed on for. Until the '80s-themed party for my department that I helped to plan in August, it sat on the edge of my bookshelf, merely serving to brighten up the off-white walls of my tiny ship cabin. It acted as a source of stress every time they checked our cabin for cleanliness; by merely brushing the boa while reaching for my copy of Just Kids, it would shed a slew of multicolored feathers that, in the face of an overused vacuum cleaner, clung resiliently to the striped carpet and sprinkling of sand.
That night in August, I cheerfully sported the flamboyant plumage around my neck as I placed neon wall hangings, greeted guests, and tried to teach my colleagues the electric slide. The boa found its way into everything, from my plate of jalapeño poppers to the neck of my Strongbow to the cracks in my cheap metal bangles. When the festivities were over, we party planners wheeled the aftermath to the ship's galley and trash room. I'd like to think the feathers dropped there brightened up the 10-hour night shifts of the workers in those places, but they probably served merely as another thing to dispose of. I left a trail of feathers to the crew bar for a small afterparty, to a friend's cabin where I was complimented on my attire multiple times, and finally to my room, where I molted my feathers and got four or five hours of blissful sleep. In the morning, a co-worker commented that every time he walked down the ship's main corridor, he'd discovered new feathers along the way. He added that the ship's officers were probably not too pleased, and suggested that I hide the boa during cabin inspections from that point on. I complied for a while, but missed coming home to something so resplendent after a long day.
With my onboard contract coming to a close, I, as usual, waited until the final night to round up my belongings. I've been a pro at procrastinating from a young age, but when it comes to packing, my last-minute tendencies are tied to my reluctance to leave any place I've stayed at for a while, my inability to accept any change, be the change positive or negative. My boa was one of the last things I packed, and after I shoved it into any cranny of my suitcase that it would fit in, things begin to change for it, too. When I arrived in Pennsylvania and unpacked it, parts of its synthetic string vertebrae were exposed where feathers had fallen off during the trip. The plumage that remained was considerably flattened. I fluffed the feathers out and its appearance improved greatly, but since, I've been more discriminating with where I take my boa. Now that pieces of the boa lay dormant in every piece of luggage I own, however, I never truly leave home without it, and it's rare that a floor in any of the places I've hastily bounced to and from is left without part of my boa and me, either.
Sunday, October 21, 2012
I haven't written on this thing in ages, but I think that it's time.
Here's a video completely unrelated to my triumphant return, but totally relevant to my interests.
“All loves have to die - of that there's no help;
My favorite way to end 'em
Is the orb-weaver spider's, whose pedipalp
Enters the female pudendum,
Then dies on the spot, his corpse there still stuck,
Left for his rivals to curse it.
He would rather die than not get to fuck:
Personally, I reckon it's worth it”-“Everyone Else Has Had More Sex Than Me” by TISM (it’s a classic song, in case you didn’t know)
I think what I’ve been staring at every time I patrol the museum is an orb-weaver, at least. Which makes me feel better, since in my research on what kind of spider it was they seemed to be fairly benign as far as huge spiders with fangs go. It has the big, funnily shaped and brightly colored body for it. And the giant web. Perfectly symmetrical as far as I’m concerned, but if nobody’s knocked the thing down after I gruel through a few more seven hour shifts at the art museum I’m sure I’ll have spent enough time staring to find a few flaws. I’m hoping so, at least, since I can barely cut a neat circle out of paper. I can see that the web hangs by a few almost-invisible threads at the ends. I want to go outside and touch the silks, see how strong they need to be to hold such a behemoth. It’s not the risk of getting fired that worries me; it’s the risk of having a hand wrapped in gossamer and venom. I point out the web to my co-workers; those who have seen it just don’t know what to do with it.
Inside is our newest installation of modern art, the name of the exhibit I’ll withhold. Apiarian pieces hang from the ceiling, dangling over a pneumatic structure (that’s the word they told us to use with visitors…don’t confuse it with pneumonic when assisting a patron, I keep telling myself), a plastic bubble of air on which to lounge. When a guest comes in, we tell them to mind the black cords that stretch from the ceiling to the concrete floor. Should one snap, or should a reckless patron snap it, notify the security supervisor before the whole piece collapses, as it’s all connected. I think of the time and money put into this structurally-sound-until-proven-otherwise piece, the people who clamored to see it on opening night. No doubt if they weren’t horrified by the thing on the window it’s because they missed it entirely. The greatest masterpiece of that thing’s life. What else is left for it? If it isn’t swept off its eight suctiony feet by a broom or clobbered by someone’s size 10 loafer, maybe being spared by someone’s cutesy anthropomorphic mind, it gets to eat some crunchy bugs that get caught in its web, then the guy spider dies right after losing his virginity, the girl spider ends up devouring the body of the one she was saving it for, it doesn’t get to see its children grow, probably doesn’t even get to save the life of some pig. If it’s obliviously lucky, maybe it’ll get an admirer or two, just maybe someone bored enough to not only notice it, but go home and learn about its species and write out a page in dedication.
I know, nine months without writing and this is what you get? I mean I did have my Ecuador blog if you haven't read it...and I'll try to write in this more, since I've been in a writing mood as of late.
Wow, I really haven’t written all semester. Haven’t had time to do much of anything…which is probably good, since I haven’t been stuck inside my own head stewing over things. Really can’t find much to brood about, anyhow. Cept maybe how environmental ethics is making me care less and less about my major cause there’s no way to make everyone happy and nobody can come up with a compelling argument in any direction, but that’s for another entry.
“So, this is Christmas, and what have you done? Another year over, and a new one just begun…”
I’ve done quite a lot, actually. Funny how the most event-filled years seem to zip by. So much has changed, and for once, I think I’ve changed along with the circumstances, and probably for the better. But the year in retrospect shall, too, be for another entry.
And I’ve a feeling that’s not what John Lennon and Yoko Ono were thinking when they wrote “Happy Xmas (War is Over)”. It’s a song protesting the Vietnam War, and for it to be about personal accomplishments and strife would be nearly as selfish as a song about all the material goods you want this year (so hurry down the chimney tonight!). Christmas is, of course, a celebration of the birth of Christ, but from a secular lens it seems to boil into two things: presents and dropping everything to spend time with loved ones. Nothing necessarily wrong with the presents part: gift giving, when enough thought is put into it, can be a great expression of love and selflessness (the problem comes when you give gifts to either get one in return or raise someone’s opinion of you). But isn’t it really all about stopping and focusing on what is really important to you? And peace, admirably, was what was important to Lennon.
So here I am, on the 30th anniversary of his assassination (I’m not quite sure of the murder/assassination distinction, but in my mind he was as important/political/whatever the qualification is to warrant this term) thinking about how awesome he was/is. He wasn’t like the celebrities who adopt a cause as a PR stunt; he actually lived what he believed. Where are the people in my generation who just want people to Give Peace a Chance? It’s remarkable that Lennon still inspires young people today, but not nearly enough of them. Famous musicians release new Christmas songs every year; why are there so few that, in the spirit of peace on earth and goodwill towards men, talk about what the world needs? Have we given up?
Not that I necessarily mind commercial Christmas songs. I look forward to the day the local soft rock station starts playing them 24/7 (though recently they’ve started playing them eerily early, making it less special once the holiday season hits). “Rockin Around the Christmas Tree”, “Do You Hear What I Hear”, “I Want a Hippopotomus for Christmas”, “My Grown-Up Christmas List”. Whether religious or secular, novelty songs or serious ones, all of the songs take my mind off of finals, the cold weather, what have you, and get me ready for the month that reminds me of being a kid who barely slept for all of December out of excitement for family, food, and fun (barring maybe “Baby, It’s Cold Outside”…how did a song about date rape end up being played on family-friendly easy listening stations?).
It's not like my taste in Christmas songs has stayed the same throughout, though...in elementary school I always looked forward to the day before winter break when we all gathered in the gym and sang novelty songs; they were so much more enjoyable than the "pretty" songs we sang in chorus (also, in the fifth grade we sang this sound called "Holiday Romance" that had lines like, "Holiday romance in the snow. Though there's a storm, our love will be warm", and at the time it seemed awkward and dirty to us). But now I can barely listen to "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" if it hasn't been recorded by Carnie and Wendy Wilson or whoever sang it in the Rankin-Bass movie, and the right version of "O Holy Night" can give me goosebumps. And I never really got the appeal of love songs about Christmas—it’s the one time of year when most songs are about other stuff entirely, and you’re trying to make them just like any other conventional pop song (“Barring Hey San(t)a” by Carnie and Wendy Wilson since I have such fond memories of listening to it as a kid). Funny how you’re faced with the prospect of a month away from someone who’s meant the world to you all semester and BAM! It’s “Bells Will Be Ringing” and “All I Want for Christmas Is You” all Winter Break. (The same logic goes not apply to replacing classic Christmas movies with made-for-TV romcoms…you hear that, ABC family? People of all ages want to watch “Santa Claus Is Comin’ to Town” and put one foot in front of the other with Topper the penguin. One would have to run out of every other winter break boredom-buster (including room cleaning and shoveling your entire neighborhood’s sidewalks) to watch “A Boyfriend for Christmas” (Umm wut, that was supposed to be a made-up title, but it turns out there’s a Hallmark movie with the name. Meh, in that case I shouldn’t judge…maybe it is somehow a wonderful film)
But I digress. Maybe someday radio stations will fill December with the perfect balance of songs that let one escape from the world’s problems and ones that seek to solve them. For now, I shall leave you with a few of my favorite Christamas songs:
1) Stevie Nicks-Silent Night Mmkay, I confess, I like this song more because its' by Stevie than I do because it's a good rendition. But I do appreciate that with a few “Well, it was a”’s it almost sounds like an unfortunate Stevie original [she does have a song with the line, “Well, she dances around in a circle, well…](Also, look what I just found)
2) Wilson Phillips-Hey Santa Like I said…and ignore the cheesetastic video
3) Joan Jett and the Blackhearts-Little Drummer Boy So David Bowie and Bing Crosby also have a beautiful rendition of this. But I’m quite partial to Joan Jett,and of course this version of the song lends itsself to some awesome drum playing, so…
4) No Doubt-Oi to the World My first favorite band ever, so they needed to be included. Yay, punk puns.
5) The Waitresses-Christmas Wrapping¬ This has always been another exception to that “eff love songs at Christmas” thing. Back in high school when Blondie and The Pretenders were all I’d listen to, this was right up my alley. And tells a nice little story. And 2010 has, indeed, been a busy blur. Maybe I don’t have the energy to add to my already mad rush just cause it’s ‘tis the season. But like the protagonist does in the end, surely I shall find the time.
6) 2000 Miles Speaking of The Pretenders and exceptions to rules…
7. The Eagles-Please Come Home For Christmas/Bells Will Be Ringing Just cause it's the Eagles
I haven't posted a legit entry on here for over a month. Oh dear, oh dear. I've been working +/- full time and at night I'm either busy with friends, invested in something from Netflix (most dangerous invention ever) or passed out in my bed. So, ironically, the thing that's got me thinking the most (working with kids) is keeping me from getting those thoughts down on virtual paper. Not necessarily a bad thing; the kids are one of the few things keeping me sane this summer. Actually, leaving them is going to make the summer ending really hard. I mean, maybe I'll be back next summer and maybe I'll see some/most of them, but there are no guarantees on any of that. And really I just wanna stick around and watch them grow up and see them every day forever and ever. But that seems on the edge of living vicariously through a bunch of kids that I barely know, and really I should be finding my own life, so yeah
Anyhow. Childhood. Going away. Way too quickly. It didn't really hit me until I was sitting in a movie theater watching Toy Story 3. Funny, I never cry at movies, even if they're really, truly heartbreaking. But I shed a few tears and would've been flat out bawling if the guy behind me had silenced his phone, or maybe even if he'd just selected a ringtone that wasn't "Who Let the Dogs Out" (By the way...Baha Men==>Bahaman? Mind was recently blown). I was relieved that I had such an obnoxious person behind me that made me roflmao during a very emotional part of the movie; I would've been totally embarrassed if I'd been weeping at an animated picture about a bunch of toys. I remember not even liking Toy Story when it first came out (I think more than anything them getting chased by that dog scared me...I guess liked the series by the time I was around 11 and saw the second one. I thought Jessie was pretty cool). But I really wasn't that invested in any of the characters before this, and, again, as emotionally driven as I usually am, I never cry at movies. So why was I crying?
I mean, I'd been spending all day with kids for a few weeks at that point and they'd been saying how sad it was.So maybe I was just expecting to be sad. But I think more than anything I could relate to Andy's character a lot. When I was a kid he was a kid in the first two movies, so I guess I've sort of grown up with him. And maybe I didn't cry at Water because I've never been widowed or sent to a widow's ashram as a result. But I have gone away to college and left lots of stuff behind. And I've been made to give away my toys, and worse, I've lost one that I really cared about.
I got Push Push when I was...I want to say 4...from my cousin as a Christmas gift. I immediately forgot about all the barbie dolls and accompanying accessories I had received, embraced the baby harp seal, and exclaimed "I love it!". I didn't really know what seals were, mind you, but this was the cutest, most cuddly thing I'd seen in my whole 4 years of existence. I started to play with her, making that sounds that I'd imagined a seal would say, which turned out to be something like, "puuuush! puuuush!", hence the gorgeous name. And from that day on we were inseparable. Push Push went to pre-school with me every day, and with me to my babysitter's. Obviously she was soon not white and fluffy, but I learned that adolescent harp seals are a more mottled gray, so I just played it off as my little girl growing up. I freaked out if I left her at my grandmother's or at a friend's house. My best friend had a similar seal named Sealy, and I was really excited for Push Push to have a friend.
And I didn’t stop with just one friend for her. The next year we were going to send my cousin’s son a stuffed seal as a present in gratitude for my seal. But on the car ride home from Toys R Us I became attached to it, and my mom eventually gave in and I ended up with a second seal, Softy (Which would come in handy like 8 years later…keep that in mind). And then, over the years, I acquired upwards of 20 seal toys, figurines, books (some on tape), pictures, and whatnot. When I had to make a ceramic animal in middle school art class—a harbor seal. Even when I had to map a species for 12th grade ecology—the Galapagos Fur Seal, which is threatened due to global warming (their fur means they need relatively cold water—relatively since they live on the equator and all) (I’m refraining from a rant about the seal fur trade, but I needed to throw a “save the seals!” in there somewhere). In fact, Woofy Seal, my former open-relationship companion on Facebook, who is 3 ft long, accompanied me on an ecology field trip to the Jersey shore (No, we didn’t pump our fists and party with Snooki; rather we counted blades of dune grass), in our crammed minivan, after my teacher explicitly said not to make the car look like a slumber party. Teacher may not have appreciated it, but I’m sure Woofy loved learning about aquatic ecosystems.
But, yeah, those grungy little plush animals with oversized eyes and blood-stained, ripped blankies and cowboys that say “You’re my favorite deputy!” can mean a lot. Even the less significant toys meant a lot to me—I remember the little cliques I had my Polly Pockets form (since 10 year old girls think in terms of cliques and all), and the personalities I gave the paper dolls I cut out of American Girl magazine (weird since they were real people with real personalities living out there somewhere). I have no clue what movie the plastic figure of the little girl in a canoe I got in a Burger King meal is from, but I remember how she always played the lost little orphan that another toy would take in. Kids put a lot of thought into these things, and it sucks that something they paid so much attention to often gets stuffed in a bag and kicked to the curb.
I mean, sometimes you have to get rid of things and it’s nice to give things you don’t use often to other people, but more thought/care should really go into something like that when toys can mean so much; sure, they’re cute and cuddly or shiny and fast, but I like to view them as mementos of a time when everything was new and exciting, when being asked what you’re going to be when you grow up is a fun question. A more innocent time, when death was something that happened to animated Disney parents and the ants that were crawling onto your sandwich and not to people you knew and when someone having a crush on you just meant they wanted to hold your hand at lunch (hell, a time when sex was completely nonexistent in your mind, and if it did exist it was just a word you giggled at because you knew it was naughty, even if you had no idea what it meant). To a simpler time, when a good day meant you got ice cream after dinner and your favorite episode of Rugrats was on and when school was about what you could learn in the here and now, and not what you (c/w/sh)ould do in the future.
When you're always around people who have lost sight of that time, you're likely to forget it, too and get caught up in the rat race (I was gonna abandon that cliche but I just quoted Owl City on my Tumblr...actually "Fireflies" is what inspired me to sit down and write this tonight...so I'm a pretty cliched person. I wanna hate the song but I love it) I just wish that when approaching the issue of "growing up", people would make more of a distinction between moving on to a new stage of your life and completely abandoning the things and ideas you valued for upwards of a decade of your life. Being with kids and the stuffed animals that they insist have their own pillow and blanket at naptime and Legos that they fight over and silly bandz that they fling at their siblings has reminded me of the things I used to love and probably still would if it were okay for a 20 year old to enthuse over American Girl dolls and aspire to act in a production of "Annie" (I guess I could be Miss Hannigan, but...) and watch 9 episodes of The Land Before Time in a row (oh wait, I just did that one yesterday...I sure love having friends who aren't too "cool" for Little Foot and Ducky). Anyways, I'm overjoyed that in a few weeks most of my interactions will once again be with people my own age, but this jaunt down memory lane has definitely restored some of my faith in this world/in people. Sure, finding genuinely good people is always possible, but I think it's way easier to find them in a group of children.
I got misty eyes as they said farewell
But I'll know where several are
If my dreams get real bizarre
Because I saved a few and I keep them in a jar
I'd like to make myself believe
That planet Earth turns slowly
It's hard to say that I'd rather stay awake when I'm asleep
Because everything is never as it seems
Sorry for the saccharine attack. If this entry gave you a toothache, beware of the upcoming sequel to this, about best friends.
Most of the entries I checked gave me him...one gave me Dan Brown. I think David Foster Wallace is much more accurate.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Facebook Fan Pages: Obnoxious or All in Good Fun?
I'm not quite a notorious fanner/liker, but I'm pretty bad, I'll admit. But sometimes I can't help myself. Yes, there are some dumb ones and some with spelling and grammar so horrific that I can't bring myself to fan them (a frequent conflict for me: If I come across a fan page that describes my life perfectly, but misuses your/you're, do I still fan it? Often, I'm tempted to remake the page with the correct usage so all those who care about grammar as much as I do would join my forces, but that'd feel like plagarism. Surely I'm overthinking this). Anyways, usually I really like Fanpages. The pop culture references, if not clever, are still pretty fun and the ones about life's little idiosyncrasies are really cute; it's nice to know other people do the silly things that I do and notice the silly little things I notice. The ones about people's texting and Facebooking habits might be my favorites; I like knowing that when not using face-to-face communication, the person I'm talking to might be doing the same equally quirky things as I'm doing.
Anyways, I'm not sure if this should go on Tumblr or on here, but I'll post it here and maybe this time it'll import to Tumblr correctly:
If I could sum up my life in 10 Facebook Fan Pages:
And while we're on the topic of wishes, for good measure, one that doesn't describe my life, but is a perfect combination of pop culture, childhood nostalgia, meta-commentary on Facebook trends under the guise of a facebook trend itsself [Most fan pages seem to be one of these]:
(If you read my last entry, surely you understand)
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
I feel bad.
I've been neglecting this site. For a Tumblr of all things. Yeah, I caved. And it isn't even a themed one (though I did register the name "FuckYeahMatchGame" should I ever want to get on that train).
I don't know, it's easy to post things, entries are meant to be short (I take way too long writing things for here and they turn out long and rambly). It's nice exercise in conciseness and I can post exorbitant (I always try to put an H in that word) amounts of Stevie Nicks pictures and people will love me for it (a very specific subset of people, mind you, but still...)
So, yeah, for silly pictures and drunken Fleetwood Mac faces, gohere. Again, angsty whining that I don't want you to see is for livejournal (If you don't have access to it, I'm probably writing about you...lol, jk, I have more important things to write about. Actually, yeah, I've prolly written about you, whoever you are. Not necessarily a bad thing.). And I'll try to be vaguely interesting when I post here. Deal?
But things here will likely still be long and rambly, unless I decide I really love microblogging (Wikipedia says Twitter is a microblogging service, which it totes is, but I've never thought of it that way before...I've always thought of it more as where you post what you ate for dinner after your facebook friends get sick of your daily "shower then work then eating pizza with @soandso and @soandso! and chillin all night!!! <3 <3" statuses (Which are totally fine when talking about a particularly exciting/fun day, and hey, I guess they're more individualized than "Can We Pretend That Airplanes In The Night Sky Are Like Shooting Stars I Could Really Use A Wish Right Now <3) (I just FB searched that line and as I was searching for it 2 more people out there in the world decided that line said everything they were feeling and felt the need to share it with their friends) (I'd be okay with all this if it some kind of epically classic song, but...) (I'm a fan of "not making your status the lyrics from Airplanes on facebook)(I'm prolly gonna lose a lot of Facebook friends over this post). Let's move on before I belittle anyone else's facebook statuses...I swear I'm not judging any of my Facebook friends in particular too harshly. Just overall. And I post superfluous Farmville/Treasure Isle/Frontierville [best game ever. Seriously. Even if you hate Farmville and the people who play it give this one a chance. There's going to be an Oregon Trail component at some point] things about clumsy reindeer and clobbering groundhogs on the head, so it's not like I'm the ideal Facebook friend.
Topic? A while ago in Pride Alliance we did this thing where we came up with stories where our gender affected us in some way, for better or for worse (usually for worse). I knew gender constructs were everywhere and affected everything, but I struggled to come up with stories that were both interesting/entertaining and thought provoking) But as of now I have a situation I wish I could've brought up, cause though it's a pretty common one, I don't know what to make of it. So yesterday I was boarding the metro, and I assume a Cardinals game was about to start, since the train was packed with Red-clad sports-fan-looking people. Anyways, I couldn't find a seat, so I stood up front and held on to the support bar thing, as did this other girl who got on the same time I did. So then this man who was sitting down signals for his pre-teen sons who are sitting in front of him to give up their seats for us. They didn't move at first, the other girl was like, "oh no, it's fine" and I had my iPod in so I pretended not to hear, cause I didn't want the kids to give up their seats. The man kept insisting, saying his kids "had to learn eventually" A bunch of thoughts ran through my mind:
(A) Damn, my backpack's heavy! And it's hot today and I sure am tired! I guess I'll take the seat. La di da. (The other girl and I both eventually sat)
(B) I'm getting off at the next stop, it's really alright, I don't need the seat.
(C) I don't want to make the kids disobey their dad and I don't want to take away his authority. I guess I'll sit. (I mean, he can raise his kids however he wants. I was just uncomfortable that I was dragged into the lesson he was teaching them when I didn't necessarily agree with it)
(D) If it's so important to you, why are you making your kids stand? Maybe I'm making false assumptions, but you seem perfectly capable of offering me your seat... (On a bad day, and if I had been feeling slightly bolder and if the guy hadn't been bigger and older and scary, I would've said this; it's probably what irked me the most. But if for some reason he'd been unable to stand I would've felt really bad)
(E) If you're trying to impress a woman, then sure, offer her your seat. Not because it's chivalrous, but because it's giving and she'll think you're a considerate person. But I don't think these kids want to pick me up or anything. And I hope their dad didn't want to.
(F) Eeeeee, Midwestern Hospitality! I love it!!! (I'm surprisingly traditional for someone so progressive. It's a shame that so many traditions have unfortunate implications)
(G) Raaaaaaar Listen, having a vagina doesn't mean I'm so weak that I can't stand upright for five minutes whilst traveling from point A to point B, so fuck off, mister I am crazy feminist hear me rrrrooooaaarrr Towandaaaaa! (This would've embarrassed everyone involved, myself and women everywhere included and especially the kids, and that's definitely not what i wanted to do. But it did cross my mind)
So I thanked the kids as I got off the metro, since I was thankful that they were nice about it and all, but after I started walking way from the station I was worried about what message I had just sent them. Like I don't know what I should've said in that situation, since kindly rejecting the seat didn't work and the kids had already stood up, but I wish I'd said something. Like if a guy holds a door for me or even if he offers me his seat on the metro because it's a nice thing to do, then great, that's very kind nice of him. But eventually these kids might think that while it's something they might not be inclined to do (which is fine. I wouldn't give up a comfy seat on a train unless someone really needed it. I mean, there's giving and there's catering to everyone's wishes) it's something expected (which it might be as of now), something necessary, and something women need men to do for them. Yet I'm sure the man didn't mean anything unfortunate by it and was just following how he'd been raised, and I'm sure he was a perfectly well-adjusted person and a great parent and he definitely stuck to what he believed in.
I don't know; sometimes my love/romanticism for all things old-fashioned comes into conflict with everything else I value.
So I took part in a psych experiment on body image today and I was going to segue into a rant about those and how sad some of the things I was asked on the survey made me feel (not because of my answers, but because of how I imagined others answered), and I started to write it, but I feel like I should do some research on the matter first before I say something insensitive/offensive/uneducated. So that's coming up. And if you have any ideas for an entry, on here, tumblr, LJ, or otherwise, let me know.
1) My blog's ugly, and it makes me sad. I wish web design were more my forte.
2) I kind of want a tumblr, but I think it would be narcissistic, even for me. Maybe I'll make a FuckYeah*InsertPersonHere* page, though I don't know what I'd make since this site (most useful web resource ever) told me that FuckYeahJodieFoster already existed. Ideas?
3) Rue McClanahan died? Sad...now Betty White's the only living Golden Girl. (I don't know if I mentioned how much I love Betty White here yet, but I do...Lately both she and Fannie Flagg have surpassed Charles Nelson Reilly in my ranking of favorite Match Game contestants. I know, unheard of.)
Anyways...
I used to love "Vacation" by the Go-Gos because it was in the Rugrats vacation special (where they go to Las Vegas and rescue the white "kitties" in the show...that must've been Harsher in Hindsight, post Roy Horn's tiger attack). The original played in the beginning and then Angelica butchered it later on:
(Sadly I couldn't find a video but here's the audio)
But now I like it because, well, I love the Go-Gos. If I could join any band, it would be them. Perfect balance of mall brat and rebel. And right about now the song says a lot. Gotta love Lyrical Dissonance (sorry for the second TV Tropes link...I should make a rule to only direct you all to that time sucker once per post...or just TropesRoll you without announcing it):
First of all, I don't condone Googling oneself, and that's not quite what I did, seeing as I Googled my online moniker to see if anyone was saying anything...not about me, but about my narcissistic means of self-expression...because they're different, right? Anyways, I found out there's another Sienna in the world who goes by "CallMeSiSi"...wut. I mean, I don't know if I'm more weirded out at the serendipity or saddened at my apparent lack of originality. But it's okay, other SiSi...if you choose to Google yourself and find this entry, consider it a peace offering.
You've probably already seen this, if you're Facebook friends with me or have talked to me at all lately. I myself have watched it a bajillion times so far and have raved about it extensively. Every time I watch it, I pick a favorite accent she does initially, but have a different favorite by the end, and each time my favorites are different. So in conclusion, I like them all. Okay, by "favorite" there, I mean the one she did best, there are some clear-cut accents that are the most audibly pleasing for me. (Is "audibly pleasing" the right phrase? You know what I mean.)
I find accents fascinating, and many people I've talked to agree. I don't really understand this fascination, though...why is how other people talk so much cooler than how we talk? Is it just the novelty of it? Why are some accents more attractive than others and why do those accents vary for different people? And where do accents come from, in the first place? Like, if a language is established with its own lexicon and whatnot, what prompts people in a certain area to start pronouncing things differently? How does a trend like that start-does it just take one person speaking differently and others catch on?
So, yeah, accents are fascinating in that sense, and some are just really attractive, and it's hard to quantify why. Sure, some individual people have smoother/more melodious/just more attractive voices than others, but how does something like that apply to a group of people in general? I've noticed trends in the accents I find attractive. Wikipedia taught me about rhotic and non-rhotic accents (the difference between "walker" and "walk-uh", "park" and "pahk") (also the reason why we have "ass" in the US and "arse" in the US, apparently...the British confusion used to confuse me. Also, does that mean the origins of the word hav nothing to do with the donkey?), and the non-rhotic (where the r is not pronounced) accents are much prettier to me. I guess this is part of why I like British (also cause of my childhood S Club 7 obsession) and Southern (also, recently, because of my Fried Green Tomatoes/Idgie Threadgoode obsession) accents. But then I also like Irish and Scottish accents, which are quite the opposite in this sense. I think in these cases I actually like the sound of the pronounced r's, just because they sound so different. I guess it's just cool to hear a language you know and have always spoken, but pronounced totally differently. The intonation of these languages also has something to do with it. (While I'm at it, can someone describe a Welsh accent to me? I feel like I have a grasp on every other main British Isles accent except that one and Youtube hasn't helped much)
I mean, I hate how it sounds, but I say "walkerrrrr" and "parrrrrk", because I'd sound rediculous otherwise unless I switched accents completely (and affected accents are silly in and of themselves.I've noticed that when I want to make a sarcastic comment, I'll switch pronunciation, I guess to indicate that I'm not serious. A sarcastic/snarky "nice" comes out as a British "noice" or a Southern "nahce"), so maybe that's why I appreciate prettier pronunciations so much. Though come to think of it, I don't really have a "Philly" accent, minus a few traits...like, Midwesterners have called me out on saying har-rible for "horrible" and far-est for "forest" (When I first heard those words pronounced with an "or" sound like in "four" I actually thought it was the weirdest thing, until I left the Northeast and found out that large populations do so) and I've been trying my best to say "wooder" for "water" (though unless I'm talking about water ice I usually revert to the non-Philly way of saying it. I've always said that I don't call our, uh, lovely football team the Iggles (okay, I don't really talk about them in general so maybe I should be referring to times I talk about the band), but this article made me realize I pronounce "vague" as "vegg", so maybe I do shorten my vowels. I pronounce "radiator" with "rad" instead of "raid"(this one I stand by...why would I want to acknowledge that an appliance in my house is giving off radiation-sounds quite unpleasant to me)
Still, I looked up the Philly dialect on Wikipedia and, while I still don't understand most characters in the International Phonetic Alphabet, from what I gathered from the page I don't pronounce things the way I theoretically should. Maybe I watched too much television growing up so I was influenced by other accents (I'm surprised and saddened that I didn't develop a British accent from all those years of watching Spice World and S Club 7 in *insert city here*)...though that does bring up the question of whether mass media is going to neutralize everyone's accents one day. That would be very sad...I guess future generations wouldn't even know the difference, but for me it would signify a further lack of national/regional identity, which seems to be the direction our society is taking already)...and accents are just so fun to listen to.
Hey, so I know I suck at Top 5 lists, but I'll try it again...closing this off with my Top 5 Favorite Accents of the Moment, in no particular order...
1. British, Londoner I suppose, though I really like Liverpudlian accents, and Brummie (a la Ozzy Osbourne...okay, maybe a bit toned down from him) accents have an interesting intonation.
2. Southern, though I don't think I'd be very happy living in the south, so I propose that lots of Southern ex-pats come be my friend and promise not to lose their accents (or at least keep a slight twang) and dress in adorable tomboyish 30s fashion and charm bees for me and...okay, I'm off topic. Sorry, got distracted. Leave me alone. I will say that my Idgie obsession makes perfect sense, seeing as I see so much of myself in Ruth Jamison (Like, I have the potential to be incredibly strong in the face of conflict, but I'd much rather smile sweetly and offer everyone a slice of pie as a peace offering)
3a. Castillian Spanish, whilst speaking Spanish
3b. Castillian Spanish, whilst speaking English. Actually, any Spanish-speaking person speaking English. I'd try everything before I'd make a Spanish teacher speak to me in English just because I didn't understand their Spanish, but getting them to Speak English because the sound of it brightens your academic day...
4. Irish (not being able to roll my R's in Spanish is a bit unfortunate, but not being able to do an Irish or Scottish accent because of it is downright sad.)
5. Minnesotan/Upper-Midwestern, even if it makes me think of Sarah Palin...actually, why does someone who was born in Idaho and spent her formative years in Alaska talk like that? reachingouttomiddleamericaFAIL?
Though I don't know if I'd actually want any of these accents, since I wouldn't appreciate them as much were that the case, in fact, they wouldn't seem like "accents" to me at all. It'd be cool to have a slight Southern twang or pronounce my o's kind of like a stereotypical Minnesotan would, but I'd still want to be able to squee! over people with really strong accents. Maybe if anything I'd just want a stronger Philly accent so I'd feel vaguely Philadelphian beyond the realm of soft pretzels and wooder ice and people would be able to identify me as such. Who knows...hey, if you feel like commenting (which I know you do)...what accents are your favorites on other people, and if you could have a different one, what would it be?
Hello, readers! To all my STL readers, I miss you like whoa and you all should come to Pennsylvania and play Yeah Dude with me right now.
So thus far, epic RENT night aside, my summer’s consisted of looking up animal hybrids on Wikipedia (check out the puma/leopard mix, the dwarf pumapard), checking my FormSpring which you all should ask me questions on, playing Treasure Isle on Facebook extensively and listening to more 4 Non Blondes than anyone should in a lifetime (Seriously, the “What’s Up” video is on demand and I’ve listened to it more than is healthy…it’s probably a good thing that I wasn’t the age I am now in the 90s, cause I’d be trying to emulate them like whoa.)
Anyways…it’s hard to believe I used to value sitting at home alone and learning about phantom big cats and whatnot more than anything in the world, cause I really can’t take much more of it right about now. Sure one day I’ll be able to wow someone with my knowledge of ligers and beefalo (which have apparently stunted buffalo conservation efforts like whoa), but it’s really not productive at all, and loses the fun value quite quickly.
But, yeah, even when I did genuinely enjoy sitting around doing nothing all the time, the highlight of the summer months was still the few weeks I'd go away to Girl Scout camp. For a total couch potato/only child, it was great to be around a big group of really awesome people spending time outside and doing really fun things...like the time I was in the travelers group (probably the best week at camp I had) when we went to the Delaware Water Gap (and they talked about the Shawnee tribe until shawnee didn't sound like a word anymore) and to Camelback Beach (I'm not a big water slide person, but I sure love wave pools...it's like being at the beach without the jellyfish and with a shitton of chemicals) on the 4th of July and spent the entire day imitating our British counselor's accents, because we thought they were the coolest ever (and we all felt really bad when we made "Ringo" (a girl scout camp counselor never reveals her real name...unless she does or you force it out of her...I got in trouble for telling people a counselor's name once) lost her belly button ring because we begged her to take it out and show us how it worked). (I'm on a roll with the run-ons and parentheticals today)...and the next year with my "Theater of the Mountains" group we went to see 42nd Street in town and it was...well, obviously a small town theater production (but hey, I just went and saw RENT at the Media theater and it was surprisingly awesome), but pretty fun.
I just tried to write a paragraph about how great camp was and ended up writing about how great not being at camp was. I promise we had fun on the campgrounds, too...we canoed (I was never a big canoing fan; your shoes got too muddy...I could deal with being grimy and having dirty clothes, but wet shoes are the one thing I really can't put up with for some reason), and funyaked (it's a little yellow floaty thing that you sat in the middle of, fwiw) (you could step into the funyak without getting completely soaked and for some reason the kayaking motion is much more fun than the canoeing one and you don't have to deal with sharing a boat with a slow paddler (though this one time I had to deal with a clingy campmate who made it her goal to link our funyaks together)).
And if you were willing to hike up a humungo hill you'd get to ride horses, which was really fun even though everyone there knew way more about horses than I did and this one time I steered the horse too hard and the scary barn leader yelled at me...and then the horse tried to buck me off and she ran over and was like "Wow, you handle that horse so well!" and affirmed that statement after the thing decided to step on my foot as I was demounting it.
Speaking of crazy animal experiences, there was the summer when the bears ran rampant. Over the counselors' radios, we'd hear them talk about "Code B's" all over camp, but they wouldn't tell us what a Code B was...we quickly hypothesized that we were dealing with a Code B(ear), and everyone got really excited, though I was a bit skeptic. This next story starts with something totally out of character for me...I'd joined Roadrunners, and we woke up at ungodly hours to go for runs (yeah, I know...I was with the lagging group in the back in case you hadn't assumed that). I was walking back to my tent with someone else in my unit when I stopped dead in my tracks...there was nobody else around...except for a baby bear eating a big rubber band. I calmly tapped my friend on the shoulder and was like, "Hey, what's that?". "What's what?" "The bear!" and she looked up and freaked...quietly freaked, since being loud around a baby bear...I mean the baby prolly couldn't do much, but where there's a baby animal there's a crazy mother (I got attacked by a mother goose last year, so I know). So we stood there until it ran away and then went to our counselor who reported it and everyone in the camp found out and there was a hoopla and everyone thought I was really cool. It was a triumph of sorts, I suppose. And then one time was one either inside or just outside the mess hall and they had to chase it away and we all watched from a distance and by then they couldn't pretend there weren't bear around it was really exciting. Who needs danger perception, anyway?
And all the nights we'd stay up singing (This one time a counselor came to our tent to give us our nightly option of a "handshake, hug, or ET touch" [we always took all 3] and we ended up singing "Thank You" by Dido with her so now that song reminds me of camp) and playing truth or dare and the "nervous game" (and somehow I got the repuation of being the prudish one...in a group of 12 year olds, mind you) and gossiping about other campers (During the travelers unit we ended up splitting up into 2 cliques...which were like the city people and the surburban ones, which seems really awful now, but at the time it was fun...I mean, everyone was in one and it's not like we were outright excluding everyone and the cool, urban kids liked me just fine even though I was from suburbia (which was good because I was with most of them in Theater of the Mountains so it would've been bad if they had recognized me as that girl from the rival clique) so its okay...right? Okay, fine...but I'm sure you weren't a nice person when you were 12, either)
But my favorite part of camp was also my least favorite, because it was the last night of each session, when we would have a campfire/singalong/talent show. We'd do the same skits every year (except when I was in the acting one, when we decided we needed a good skit so we did a good one, though I forget what it was...we also did a modern version of Cinderella which I narrated and when we raised/took down the flag some of the girls did a step routine...I meanwhile stood by the flag lamely and gave all the orders). But anyways...usually the skits were the Magic Blanket skit (in which people would through things over a blanket and they'd come back double in size until a skeptic spit on it and then got hit with a bucket of water) and the "and then I heard a knock, a knock, a knock, and I thought it was Cecilia, Cecilia, Cecilia!" one and "If I were not a camper, I wonder what I'd be, If I were not a camper, *insert counselors name here* is what I'd be! *Insert something the counselor said here*"...or, conversely, "A birdwatcher's what I'd be! Hark, a lark, sitting in the park! *Crack an egg over head, pretend it's bird shit, hilarity ensues*"
So we'd sing some silly songs...they were the songs that I'd sing all through the school years to get funny looks from people, so it was pretty sweet to go to camp and burst out in a silly song and simply have those around me join in ("Baby shark, do do do do do do do"..."There's a hole in the bucket, dear Eliza, dear Eliza!"..."Oh I had a little chickie and it wouldn't lay an egg so I rubbed hot water up and down its legs! Oh, the little chickie hollered and the little chickie begged...and the little Chickie laid a hard-boiled egg!" and the "Just a boy and a girl in a little canoe..." song which ended with a girl paddling a canoe and the boy that she kicked out of the boat swimming all around...in the same misandric vein, the song that started with a girl sitting 'neath the lilacs and playing a guitar and then she meets a guy smoking a cigar and she dies and he becomes a douchebag and then he is killed by her tombstone and the moral of this song, according to the counselors, was "never tell lies", but we always sang "never trust guys!"
Oh, girl scout camp...
If you're still with me after that last paragraph, then thanks for putting up with my ramblings...so after alternating between silly skits and silly songs we'd calm down and sing some more solemn songs, like "On My Honor" which was full of sappy, heartwarming Girl Scout-y values, "Red Balloon" and "Spider's Web", which was one of my favorites:
My other favorite was "Linger", which IIRC I got up and attempted to sing at my high school's last meeting for worship before graduation and prolly embarrassed myself like whoa...but anyways, there are lots of versions of it, I believe, but ours went:
I want to linger A little longer A little longer here with you it's such a perfect night, it doesn't seem quite right that it should be my last with you and come September we'll all remember and as the years go by I'll think of you and sigh this is goodnight and not goodbye
And everyone would get all sappy and sentimental and give big hugs and we'd link hands and sing Taps and there would be a phantom trumpet playing it from the activities lodge (I don't know who the player was, still) And then the next day would be come, and it would be over...until the next year.
The last year I went things sort of fell apart, at least with my group of friends...drama, people getting in trouble for cigarettes and stuff, a giant foodfight, and then I didn't go back because everyone decided not to go back, either...Sad, sad...but at least it was fun for the time being! And it's so aweosme to meet someone else who went to Girl Scout camp and to compare experiences and campfire songs. So...if you're reading this and went to camp...what songs did you sing?
P.S. Go here for lots of great camp songs! P.P.S. Sorry for the wonky fonts...I don't know what happened.
I'm sure there are intelligent things I could be doing-like studying, and if I'm going to instead waste time on this blog I could be writing about something intelligent, but I just feel like doing something fun (okay, I ended up analyzing everything below, albeit not very well). I was going to write about Girl Scout Camp back in the day and how much I miss it, but (a) that has potential to be sappy sappy, and (b) Carrie Brownstein (of Sleater-Kinney) just beat me to it in writing a blog post about her favorite summer camp songs and I could take it as coincidence, or as a sign that I should or should not write my post, but for the time being I'm going to not be a copy cat. Not that Carrie and I have overlapping readership or anything...I'm sure that post will come soon enough.
Anyways, hmm...pure, unadulterated fun...I know! I present to you...
Sienna's Guiltiest Pleasures
Actually, I'm sure I'll forget some of the guilty ones. And I already established that I'm bad at Top 5/Top 10 Lists (Yeah, I'm still not a together person...but I guess Rob Fleming wasn't, either...) I'm not even sure I'm going to feel like writing explanations for each one...I guess it's not really necessary. I mean, if you like something, you like something. Actually, I'm not sure how guilty/embarrassed I feel about any of these. I kind of want to re-name this "Things Sienna Likes That Other People Judge Her For, Yet She Goes On Liking Them", but that doesn't flow nicely.
I mean, sure, when other people are discussing great American literature that they're fond of and then I really want to chime in with how I *love* Valley of the Dolls I usually hold back...there are some things that truly are in bad taste for me to like. But for a lot of these I don't know why they're considered bad/tacky/low-class/whatver. As long as something's not outright offensive, what's wrong with liking it? I think the fact that we consider some things to be in bad taste when there's no real reason for it is pretty pretentious. There are plenty of things that I like for irony's sake, but lately I've been feeling bad about that. The whole irony thing is often a bunch of privileged and/or "in-crowd" people deciding to deride something that someone else either genuinely likes or, in other cases, has to purchase/wear out of necessity. I should probably cut that out.
(I still want a Three Wolf Moon shirt)
So I guess I'll start with the aforementioned Valley of the Dolls by Jacqueline Susann...I think I've read this book, with its adorable pink cover with the pill cut-outs, like 5 times. Long story short: A young woman leaves her New England hometown to go to New York City and make a name for herself, gets caught up in showbiz and becomes a drug addict. I knew I was going to love it when I read the godawful poem (Poem? I think that's what Susann was going for) in the front of the book...I like it because it sounds an awful lot like any poetry I've ever tried to write. Then..."...New York was steaming-an angry concrete animal caught unawares in an unreasonable hot spell"...and you're off! This is the book that started my trashy novel phase in high school, from Jackie Collins to such gems as Wanton Slave (which floated around my school's hallways, for some reason) and I Shocked the Sheriff. The story just sucks you in...and you read, and you read, and you read, and in the end you don't feel like you've gained anything at all, except a chance to escape and to realize that your life isn't that bad. There was also a movie made of it, which is now a camp classic (Susann allegedly walked out of the screening in disgust), but the book's the best. Reading is always more intelligent than watching a movie, right? (Go here if you want to read some of it...or just ask to borrow my copy..I'm glad to spread the love)
Next, a few musical guilty pleasures for you...I think I posted some of these on Facebook a while back so bear with me if you're a true cyber-stalker who's seen these already.
Vixen: Edge of a Broken Heart
I really don't know why I like some 80s Hair Metal. I guess I'm just a sucker for a good guitar riff. And female rock musicians are my favorite thing ever, hence the Vixen love, ... I mean, yeah, they're all wearing tight clothing (though I guess male Hair metal musicians dressed exactly the same...equal opportunity works in weird ways) and whining about heartbreak in most of their songs, but if you get past that they're just as talented as any 80s metal band (not saying much?) And the big hair and flashy clothes are just too awesome to pass up.
This was my favorite song in the 4th or 5th grade. I remember my best friend and I had learned the lyrics to like every song on MTV or VH1 (they played music? whoa) and would sing them at our school's after school program, and this was one of them. I don't know how I feel about the fact that little 10 year old me was running around singing about battling domestic violence with domestic violence. Actually, I know exactly how I feel about that, so if anything, that's why this song is a guilty pleasure. (No guilt about liking the Dixie Chicks...In fact, after sitting through Robert Altman's Nashville I sort of have a soft spot for country music...Okay, maybe not a soft spot as much as an infatuation with an element of Americana to which I've never felt much of an affinity)
Wilson Phillips: The Dream is Still Alive
I love, love, loooooove Wilson Phillips. I grew up listening to Carnie and Wendy Wilson's Christmas album every December, which I'm sure has a lot to with it (I'm planning a really aweosme post for July 25, FWIW...My Christmas Songs post was going to be for December but I don't think I can wait that long). And music from the 90s makes me very happy, as a reminder of my childhood-they were like the cool big kids that I wanted to be when I grew up (Yeah, I still want to dress like them). Plus, if you're the child of hippies you're like automatically aweosme until proven otherwise in my book (I chose this song becasue it reflects that...whee, being nostalgic for/trying to live the life of your parent's generation!). And depsite the fact that, "Hold On" aside, they're mainly known for Carnie's size (I mean, really?) (Also, I can't believe how far behind I am on her reality show...unheard of!) and for having batshit families (Carnie and Wendy Wilson are the daughters of a Beach Boy, and Chynna Phillips the daughter of a Mama & a Papa and there was weird stuff with her dad and her half sister and blah blah), they're actually quite talented...I wish I had people I could harmonize like that with!
Grateful Dead: Casey Jones Indigo Girls: Uncle John's Band
Okay, so I actually really like the Indigo Girls, and I really like the Grateful Dead. And I really really like the Indigo Girls covering the Grateful Dead. But I don't like fitting stereotypes, and I feel like the fact that I really like the aforementioned groups show how I fit various labels to a tee, and that makes me uncomfortable. So sometimes I pretend to like things ironically so I'm not some type of sterotype, but self-derision isn't any better than deriding someone else's taste (and if I ever get that Jeep Wrangler I was eying this morning...I wouldn't know how to pass such a big purchase off as ironic; I'd just have to go with it. Same with a hippie van or some little eco-friendly car...which I guess Jeeps aren't.). Really, going out of your way to reject stereotypes is as bad a going out of your way to propogate them or push them on others; you're still affirming the existence of the stereotype.
The best part of the Indigo Girls covering "Uncle John's Band" is the "Sister, well i declare..." line and "Ain't no time to hate, sister, barely time to wait" thing they added. I was like "They would..."
The best part of "Casey Jones" is...the whole thing! After "Touch of Grey", I think this was the first Dead song I heard and after bursting out in laughter on, the "high on cocaine" line I had another "They Would" moment...So why can't I have "I would" moments in my own life?
Speaking of stereotypes, let's move on to movies. Something I am actually reluctant to say that I like, something I've never liked ironically; I've tried to dislike it but I seriously can't look away, it's like a car crash (which I think ties into the movie somehow): Basic Instinct. I mean, gay rights groups picketed the movie with signs spoling the ending : [highlight for spoiler] She's the killer [highlight for spoiler] because of its portrayal of queer women as hypersexual psychos/killers/psycho-killers. And that hasn't really changed in time (Ohai, Jenny Schecter, and...whoever the fuck actually killed her). Judging by the length of the "Psycho Lesbian" and "Depraved Bisexual" pages on TV Tropes (I advise waiting until after exams are over before you explore TV Tropes...it can take up your entire day/week/life), it's quite a problem. Yet I don't think therein lies my specific problem with this movie; I think my problem with it is just with the over-the-top sex and violence (often conflated) in general. Let's compare it with Mulholland Drive, one of my favorite movies and far, far, from a guilty pleasure: because I feel no guilt about liking it, and instead of bringing me pleasure it actually makes me really sad. But anyways...Mulholland Drive has lots of sex and violence, and I've seen it like 10 times and still don't really understand the plot, but from what I gather [highlight for spoiler] The female protagonist's girlfriend leaves her for a man. so the protagonist goes crazy, hires a hitman to kill the GF and then kills herself [highlight for spoiler] (I'm sure that spoiler's tempting you sorely...and even if you're planning on watching the film but have yet to see it I might acutally advise reading a few spoilers first or you'll have no clue what's going on). On paper its plot doesn't the sound much better than Basic Instinct's. But the sex and violence is much more tasteful (there's the concept of "taste" again...anyone want to delve deeper into that for me?) in Mulholland Drive, and the film's widely known as a masterpiece; the narrative and cinematography are works of art; David Lynch doesn't make exploitation films (can't really quantify what he makes, though). I think the reason I feel guilty about liking Basic Instinct is that it doesn't have artistic mertit to fall back on so it relies solely on gratuitous sex and hacking away at people with ice picks. Plus, usually I think it's a good thing when characters in movies and such just happen to be LGBT without it having to do with the overarching themes of the work, but in this case there's no real reason for Catherine Tramell to be bisexual other than to tantalize and in the context of a movie about a murderer it's kind of an awful idea. The relationship between the women in Mulholland Drive contributes to the plot and even though Diane's actions are questionable, I always want to give her a hug. But, yeah, my issue with Basic Instinct is still mainly that it's a bad movie (but it's so enthralling, still!) (and apparently better than the sequel)
(I bet this is gonna be the day that my entire family reads my blog...just as I'm leaving to go home for the summer...SWEET timing)
I really didn't want to deconstruct all my favorite things, but I'm doing just that...Hm...what's something I like, and my guilt about it comes from an obvious place...*clap*clap* Xanadu!
Starring Gene Kelly and Olivia Newton-John (and some guy who couldn't sing yet got cast in a musical and probably never made another movie). It's about this guy who paints replicas of album covers and hates his job...and then this muse visits him and he is inspired to open up a roller disco that combines elements from the dying days of disco with elements from the 1940s. And they sing about it. And there's this random Disney-esque animated sequence in the middle that makes no sense. And the special effects make me thing of We Have Lasers. I'm not making any of this up. Actually, the music is pretty awesome-Gene Kelly and ONJ are musical staples and there's tons of Electric Light Orchestra. That's the only real redeeming quality to this movie, yet I don't think that's why I really like it; I think it's just so rediculous that it's amazing.
Here's the trailer, which makes it seem like an updated Footlight Parade or some grand musical spectacle of that sort:
Expect a pt. 2 to this sometime, but for now I need to actually get stuff done today. Oh, reading week...where have you gone? What have I accomplished? LeSigh.
If anyone feels like commenting, leave some of your guilty pleasures! Analysis optional.
