I forgot about this blog and started a new one. See you there:
lunes, 28 de septiembre de 2009
Okay, so I fail at keeping up with my blog regularly. I have been so freakin' busy lately, it's unreal. (In reality, I'm probably NOT that busy, but it feels it because I was abroad for the past semester and didn't do jack.) But tonight I'm so scared because I'm so unconvinced about one of the most important things in my life:
John C. Mayer.
If you know me, you know that my obsession with John Mayer is deep-rooted. It began in high school, when my sister drove me to school. At first, we made fun of the song "No Such Thing," (imitating the part where he goes into falsetto on "top of maaah lungs"), but she ended up buying the CD (thanks to a weird ex-bf) and we listened to it religiously on the drive. After that, I became absolutely OB-SE-SS-ED with all things John for some reason, mostly his seXXXy lips and even seXXXier lyrics. I joined his fan club, I bought every song with him featured (even just on guitar), I bought tons of concert tickets... the list goes on. My friends even called me to make sure I was okay when the news broke about him and J. Simpson... I'm basically a freak about John.
So, you can imagine how excited I was when I found out about his work on his new album, Battle Studies. I stalked the site, stalked his Twitter... just generally stalked the man. I couldn't wait after the eargasm that was Continuum, his last CD. I bet you can't even BELIEVE how excited I was when it showed up on both my Twitter and Facebook feeds that the first single, "Who Says," was streaming live on his website.
I had to refrain from jizzing-in-my-pants as the page loaded.... the stream started... the guitar strummed and my future (and probably unwilling) baby daddy started to sing.
And all I could do was drop my jaw.
I didn't like the song.
My first instinct is that this song is a joke. Lyrics like, "I don't remember you looking any better / But then again I don't remember you" don't seem true to the form of brooding John. I also don't really like all the refs to "getting stoned"... I really have no problem at all with weed; I don't fear the reefer whatsoever. But I hate that it's in JOHN MAYER'S song. Jesus, John, you're not Lil' Wayne... you cannot sing a song about marijuana. I hate it. I also hate how it's so bland and the guitar part sounds like one of John's most heartfelt songs EVER, "Stop this Train." I hope this doesn't taint that beaute for me.
Now, don't get me wrong -- I'm still holding out hope, like I said, that this song is a spoof or a joke, and it won't be on the actual album. I'm also hoping that if my first fear is, in fact, realized, that the rest of the album might make up for this misstep. I heard a clip of another song, "Half of my Heart," and I totes popped a B over it.
But really, John... "Who Says" is not cutting it. Please be punking us all....
miércoles, 26 de agosto de 2009
My dad does this hilarious thing sometimes. You know how most adults like to come home from work and change immediately into their loungewear? Yeah, he does that. However, once in a blue moon, something truly magical happens with that chosen loungewear:
He goes for the gray-on-gray.
There's probably nothing more on earth that I equally loathe and love as much as the gray-on-gray combo. I hate it for the obvious reason: it's absolutely hideous, especially with clashing grays. It is the lazy/comfortable equivalent to the jean-on-jean... there's not much more I can say besides that it truly hurts me to see poor human beings on the streets wearing this unfortunate combo. I would never personally have strength to rock the gray-on-gray even as loungewear like he does, but God love him for it.
You may be wondering, with all of that passion behind my hatred for the gray-on-gray, what I could possibly love about this fashion choice. It all goes back to a time when my life was simpler: first grade. In first grade I specifically remember watching the best TV program of the early 90s, Power Rangers. Yes, my friends, I did enjoy the horribly meshed scenic combinations of American hotties and clearly dubbed kung-fu scenes from Asia for 30 minutes a day, every day. In that enriching half hour, I also developed a soft spot for the gray-on-gray that I try with all my might to loathe.
Say hello to my little friend:
Yes, my secret crush on the gray-on-gray can be accredited to the Power Rangers' enemy known as the Putty. This poor guy; not only does he have to wear this horrendous all gray get-up, he has to inevitably get his ass kicked by the Power Rangers every single episode without fail. The Puttys were idiots and always outsmarted by the Power Rangers, allowing them to get one step closer to the episode's enemy. Although I enjoyed watching them get their gray asses kicked, I felt a little bad for these guys because of their sealed fates.
And every time my dad walks down the stairs rocking his Yankees t-shirt with his gray shorts, I am held from vomiting only by my unconditional soft spot for the Putty that made my childhood such a gas. I guess the Putty was the first gray-on-gray that I pitied, but certainly not the last. And certainly not the last to get his ass kicked by society...
Bottom line: I'm probably the only fully judgemental person on this planet with any sort of sympathy for the failure that is gray-on-gray. So please refrain unless you want your ass kicked Ranger-style (and remember, I'm the Yellow one).
sábado, 15 de agosto de 2009
You drop someone off to run into the grocery (or other) store.
You wait in front of store.
Roll down windows.
When person exits store, begin blasting "Invisible" by Clay Aiken.
Person will be forced to enter car blasting "Invisible."
lunes, 10 de agosto de 2009
It may be a surprise, considering all my posts about how frightened I get when I see people my age with babies, but I love kids. If I could, I'd listen to kids talk all day because they say the most ridiculous shit with 100% conviction.
Today I was minding my own business walking my dogs in my backyard. We have a creek back there, which, of course, attracts every child under the age of 10 in the neighborhood even though it is probably the lamest creek on earth. The dogs soon started barking like idiots and I noticed 2 boys exploring the wilderness of North Raleigh. They looked up and inevitably saw me and my two bitches staring at them.
"Can we pet the dogs?"
How can you turn down a polite young boy like that? Answer: You can't. The two of them came running through the thick of trees and into the yard. Of course, Rosie stopped barking immediately and became a dirty tramp, rolling over to allow these young men to pet her belly and see her lady parts. Deuce was a bit more hesitant, but the dogs' behavior is beside the point (the one where I talk about how much bullshit children talk).
Somehow the one little guy got to talking about a pipe that he found that dumped into the stream. I'm sure for an eight-year-old this is fascinating... He then delves into this detailed but fully false story, which I will attempt to relay in the first person:
Note: Please ignore this child's ADD.
My friend watches my house while my family goes out of town. I went to the beach last weekend. We share walkie-talkies that, if I left this solar system, he could still hear me... He said that when I talked to him on the walkie-talkie from the beach, all of a sudden water started gushing from the [aforementioned found] pipe.
How does one react when a young child retells this "story" of a magical pipe in my backyard? "You're a f*cking liar" wouldn't be an appropriate response, so I just gave a nice "Wow" and held back the laughter that I really wanted to release. They soon ran back into the woods after telling me lots of other juicy tidbits, like the time they found a deer skull or how much bigger their dog is than mine and it's only a puppy (quality over quantity, boo).
Point of this story is just that I love how kids can make up something so incredibly outlandish but believe it with all of their hearts, so much so that they would tell a complete stranger. In a world where everything has to be so got-damn accurate, this moment in my little backyard made me wish I was five again, a time when I could lie and make my life interesting without any repercussions. Now, telling people I have a hot boyfriend and an enviable life just elicits roaring laughter and stone throwing. Take me back!!
domingo, 9 de agosto de 2009
I don't know if anyone else is seeing this, but I find it equal parts hilarious and ironic that there's an ad for Trojan on my blog. This terrain is barren, if you know what I mean, so you *might* want to take that to someone who is actually going to use your product in the near future.
Stop reminding me that I'm a single future cat lady. I'll send you the bill for my therapy sessions later, bitches.
It has been a ridiculous and unacceptable amount of time since my last blog post. I guess that's just a testament to the life I have led post Spain. Seriously though, I've been taking to the fridge and the bar to entertain myself lately, which is fine I guess, but doesn't excuse my lack of hilarious blog postings.
In reality, though, nothing much has been going on. I did, however, want to share a little story that scared the living S.H.I.T. out of my 21-year-old self.
I went up to Ithaca, NY, to visit my lovely BFFAEAEAEAE, who is working at the Hangar Theater for the summer (another reason I'm bored as hell... we've spent every summer since 5th grade together... I'm not bitter). Of course, since she works at a theater, it would only be logical for me to catch some shows while I'm there. We all know I love a cultural experience.
The last show I saw up there was a children's show about Paddington the Bear. What a great guy. Really though, the show was fun, although I was basically the only one not wearing a diaper and/or slobbering all over my bib. Afterwards, all the little kiddies and their mommies were outside the theater getting autographs from the actors. Adorable, right? Right. Well, adorable until this little kid starts running around in front of me in what seemed to be socks with rubber soles. In the very same instant I was admiring this toddler's choice in fashionable footwear, a voice behind me:
"Excuse me? Is that your son?"
Oooh, I KNOW YOU ARE NOT TALKING TO ME RIGHT NOW, LADY.
But alas, she was.
"Is that your son?"
Me, jaw actually resting on the floor, barely able to speak: "...No...?"
Me, jaw actually resting on the floor, barely able to speak: "...No...?"
"Oh, well I really like his shoes, I was going to ask where you got them."
ARE YOU REAL? I mean.... First of all, I am 21 years old and, honestly, I've always thought I looked young for my age. You mean to say I look like I could have BIRTHED this child? Then my mind started racing... Am I really that fat? Do I look like a soccer mom? Should I throw away this outfit and erase this moment from my mind? Then I studied the child closer and wondered how she could have even thought a red-haired, blue-eyed child could even come from my womb (dear GOD that's frightening). What an idiot.
Needless to say, I was in shock for a few hours afterward, awkwardly staring at myself in the mirror and making sure I didn't look like I should be carrying a diaper bag or a Baby Bjorn or whatever the hell moms have these days... I don't know because I'M NOT A MOM. And it's not happening for a million years. Maybe even a zillion. Seriously, though, I am freaked out so much by the idea of settling down and having mini-me's that this woman's honest mistake made me consider finding the nearest ledge.
I'm never growing up.