Last month, my computer caught syphilis and bit the dust.
Then, like Jesus, it came back to me in a few days.
Also like Jesus, it was thusly put to use instantly for purposes other than that for which it was intended.
Namely, music listening. That's not that bad really - but what is a travesty is that my itunes assimilation is now fkkd four ways to Friday (is that a thing? or did I just make it up? moving on...) Anyone have this happen to them?
Since I reformatted my computer, I can't download any music that's not-of-itunes - yes, even the free stuff. That means, when I happen across such serenity-sirens as the diamond in the rough, Canadian queen called Sea Oleena, I would be totally deprived of listening to her reverberating wonderment as I cruised aimlessly in the sunshine, with the windows down at spring's outset.
I've had enough of this Orwellian world where my laptop and ipod have full on discussions without me (and probably conspire my demise while I sleep). No more Big Brother-esque ads based off my Google searches! Quit advancing my clocks for me automatically! And, for the love of god:
...are you actually kidding me with this shit?
Anyway, my grandaddy once spat some wisdom at me as we sat watching Daria together:
"There's more than one way to skin a cat."
Writing that just now, I realize:
1. Why my favorite figures of speech are sorta morbid.
2. He's right.
3. I'm not smart or awake enough to figure out the workaround right now.
Yep. I might be deprived of adding updated ambient ear candy to my ipod so that I can plug it into my brain box and lock out the world on days when that's precisely what's needed.
However, the good news for you, is that until I figure out what the solution is, I've compiled and am now gifting you this bit of imminent Springtime S[ear]enity in the form of a playlist I plan to add to (suggestions welcome).
You're welcome in advance.
What am I forgetting?
Just to see how ardently I'm being monitored:
Alright, you asked for it.
Actually, nobody asked for this. (How weird would it be if somebody actually requested a list like this? Isn’t it weird enough that I made one up?)
Okay. Here goes. Top 10 ways the senior canine you care for is not a far cry from a classic horror flick:
She walks up to you from the other room (on all fours, of course) and pisses on the carpet, while staring you down.
2. THE SHINING
After dropping a doppelganger toy next to herself at the other end of the hallway, they both proceed to initiate penetration of your soul with their eyes, like deadsy-twins.
3. DEVIL'S REJECTS
Before you leave home, her “Bitch-where-you-think-you-going?” yap is as shrill as Sheri Moon’s cackle.
(You don't wanna know what else. But I'll tell you anyway in a moment).
4. THE SHINING. AGAIN
Upon returning, her “I-howled-the-whole-time-you-were-gone” bark sounds like the Redrum kid.
5. EVERY SUPERNATURAL EXORCISM AND ALIEN ABDUCTION MOVIE
Being woken every morning at the supernatural 3 AM hour to the putrid smell of… bark breath. In the face.
6. TEXAS CHAINSAW MASSACRE
A timeless,favorite pastime: donning remnants of dinner meat on her mug – like leatherface.
7. ALBERT FISH
So as not to waste any of that meat, she enjoys filtered leftovers – and dines on her own poop.
Like the Shamalamadingdong aliens, she’s totally not a fan of ablutions and water immersion in general.
9. BLAIR WITCH PROJECT
Like the witch, she’ll lure you far deeper in the woods than you'd care to go. (And like Blair Witch 2, once she's far enough out, she spins in circles a million times before getting down to bidnizz.)
10. NIGHTMARE ON ELM STREET
And, like Freddy Krueger, her claws –
Krueger, you’re cut. Sorry. We’re going in a different direction for the role.
Remember retro mini-Dunst, a la Interview With A Vampire? And her hair? Like, she kept trying to frantically cut it off like some post-trauma protagonist in a Lifetime Original flick – but it’d keep growing back? Yeah.
I dunno about your dog, but my dog’s nails are sorta like that. That shiz is full on Wolverine by time I turn back around from tossing the clippings I just chopped off.
Anyone have any additions?
I was reading this thing this morning about Jared Leto doing yoga before heading off to a class myself.
The article was about how his yoga and diet have kept him young, how it’s changed his view on drastically altering weight for roles, etc. It included links about the disparities in poundage, and mostly included the actor’s actual ruminations about his roles, diet, life (versus author opinion).
You can read the actual article yourself, but here's my watered-down-from-what-I-wanted-to-say comment:
Yeah. I stand by this.
When a story is made up namely of quotes, it’s hard to call it biased. The author even included a link so that readers could see the details about the actor’s other weight transformation. They didn’t make up those medical infirmities Mr. Leto realized after packing on pizza pounds. The tranny transformation chopped off about 30 lbs – he went from his usual 146 lbs down to 116 lbs.
But for the role of Chapman double-chin, it was double that.
He surfed through snack foods and grease until he’d gained 67 lbs, saying, “I just ate giant pizzas and everything you know you’re not supposed to eat. That’s what you eat to gain weight like that. If you’re a young actor reading this, you should never do that.”
Sure, it wasn’t the longest article. I get what the commenters are saying – yoga is about equanimity. But in this case, the yo-yo extremes weren’t equal and we only have Mr. Leto’s quotes to go on. Could they have added an “extreme weight loss is just as bad” bit with a snappy of Christian Bale in the Machinist? Yeah. Sure. But not every author wants (or is allowed) to inject their own opinion into their articles.
As a writer, I know how hard it can be to try and tell a story in an ethical light, telling some universal truth, without either sounding biased or coming off like a soap box douche nozzle:
It’s not the author’s fault that Leto landed ambulatory foot pain from playing a fatso. Homeboy had to roll around in a wheelchair because of that and took a year to bring back some semblance of normalcy.
Now that’s fodder for some real mental nomming.
Let’s go back to the main point of the article: Jared looks radiant (not just Hollywood young and hot and great for his age - but like that whole glowy thing hardcore yogis have).
For him – a dude whose baseline is balanced and healthy – it took a whole year to get back to that default setting.
Fat, skinny fat, whatever – for people who’ve been punishing themselves with diet extremes their whole life (like I have), imagine how much longer that’d take? If you’re patient, it’s eventually totally worth it.
In the meantime, do some hippie stretches (actually it’s an eleventy-billion year old practice from a faraway majestic land – but let’s not get technical), get the eff outside, and maybe occasionally let the old ipod be a zero-headphones, full blast, “nature shuffle” surround-sound experience.
Says I, from my couch, cursing the cold.
And for my controversial super-biased takeaway message: nunna these're good:
And stop complaining about an author's writing. People complain when it's biased. People complain when it's nothing but quotes. The internet is vast - look up the rest of the story if you doubt what you're reading (which you always should - read with a critical eye, that is). And if you don't trust any of it, close your eyes, drown out distractions, and find rurrrl truth.
Can't show you what that's like. Just hafta find out yourself.
I love you all like Karen Carpenter loved her ego-finger after lunch.
Today we celebrate #TBT with the summertime tale of Treat and Creature:
Try as he might, Treat saw no escape.
He had surveyed the immediate surroundings, but was cornered on all sides by padded pink walls.
Now, he stood stoically as Creature secured him with one claw alone - rendering him completely immobile. She paused pensively for a moment, looked up at the Human (who had trafficked him here with the others), and smacked her chops. This moment seemed an eternity - as if she were dangling the cruel false hope, like a cat does a mouse, that Treat might actually escape this nightmare with his peanut butter coating intact. But Treat knew better. He had seen, on occasion, what truly transpired through the other side of the the zip locked bag and watched what became of his new friends.
Treat had heard their guttural screams as Creature took great joy in making their suffering last.
Each had been brought here against their will. Rumor had it that Human would actually capture these atrocities on film, and upload the documented deaths to a community of equally insatiable psychopaths who would dance on their very graves by enhancing the gruesome photos with aesthetic effects.
Could this really be a snuff ring?
Sometimes at night, he would try to remember his new friends' names and faces - to counteract the sounds of their moribund cries that still resonated deep in his psyche long after they were gone. This ritual had previously brought him some comfort. However, as he now stood facing the very same grim reality that had once befallen them, his mind went blank. He wasn't sure if the stillness that overcame him was one of bravery or merely paralytic fear.
Yet, he tried to accept his destiny: he was defenseless, delicious, and... devoured before he could even recall the name the friend who, he'd just witnessed suffer the same fate earlier that morning. But as Creature's molars tore into Treat, and as he began to pass out of consciousness, he first heard the synthetic sound of a camera phone shutter.
It clicked three times.... And then - silence.
I spend about blahbety-blah percent of my life online.
Let’s just assume that figure’s high. And it’s got a nine in the first digit.
And there’s, like, three digits.
But it's sort of nuts when I think about it – not just in a lament-modern-society-slaves sorta way. No, I mean I'm realizing that only about half of that time’s spent doing actual work. And when I say half, I mean 20 percent.
With a left decimal shift.
That's a problem because my laptop's not namely for leisure anymore. I don’t know how I ever thought I’d take on writing for a job. I’m so not a self-starter. When somebody told me I’d get paid to work from home, I thought “awesome!”. When I realized I’d be using the ultimate distraction contraption to do that, I thought, "oh..!" I totally mean well when I unwittingly open twelve million tabs, because I start with just a few that make working between each easier. But before I know it, by some binary voodoo, my browser becomes a highly filtered extension of my own crazy brain chatter – those torrents of unintelligible thoughts simultaneously traveling tangent off each other at light speed, each become collated digital pages.
Makes me anxious.
When I look at one tab, I think “oh, yeah! That’s an email I have to send off!”
And when I look at another: “Gotta finish reading that thing so I can sound smart later and pretend I always knew about it!"
And then another one will be related to some time sensitive deadline crap. And the five tabs that relate to it are lined up to the right like loyal ducklings following after their mother (and generally load just as slow).
Before I know it, I’m on tab twelve, watching reruns of AquaTeen’s Bananahand episode and old Threebrain videos – none of which have lost their comic touch since my college years.
My first internet-intro was like slowly learning there was no Santa – except more fun. I sort of felt like everything had been done before - or what was already done was better than what I could offer. What’s more – the same machine that was bringing me this bad news was offering the solution via endless entertainment and conflicting answers to all my questions. I could’ve just asked my parents the questions if I wanted the latter banter experience - like a basketball referee doing a vertical meat toss between sparring Rottweilers.
It retrospectively reminds me a bit of T.V.'s parallel effect – that feeling of the sad sads I’d get when I’d see Gwen Stefani and want her ripped abs before a commercial would air, assuring me I’d need a Billy Blanks VHS (when an actual blank VHS would’ve been more effective) to attain Stefani status.
I'm not blaming the internet (or Gwen; she's my goddess). It's like any other magical powers - you can use it for good or evil depending on how crazy you are. If you're sound of mind, it's a useful tool. If you're a spastic sputtering ball of feminervousness, it can enslave you.
I wish there was some redeeming climax to this story’s end. But if you know me at all, it’s more like watching one of the million cinematic Titanic re-creations. You know what becomes of the boat. The biggest spoiler is whether some priceless rocks get tossed in an abyss of fish. Yet you wait around anyway to see if they’ll show boobs flashbacks.
Truth is, I sifted through dusty memorabilia recently -old projects and the like - and realized I did a fkk of a lot more prior to my life online circa sixth grade. My mom gave me Jane Eyre when I was nine. I read it while sick with chicken pocks (god those were awful). I taught myself how to play piano by pitch a year or two after that (but couldn’t read music). I won money and prizes for drawing these cartoons where the characters taught each other science or other educational stuff.
So, why? I mean, are you serious? I do none’a that now – except writing.
If I got the pocks today, reading would be the last thing on my mind. I’m such a wimp that I’d regress into a monkey and actively seek out reality TV reruns (equiv of blasphemy in my religious sect). Or – do you ever look at something you wrote or drew years ago and think, “Ha! That was quite good!” and then bathe in the self-congratulatory glow a while of a craft you’ve not kept up? Yeah, why not make more? Why not learn to read music? Why not learn the rest of Spanish and then another language too?
Somewhere between mousey haired bespectacled me and this bottle blonde bitch-clown, I gradually gave some interconnected network of strangers with their misinformation,“likes”, and curt commentary, the same keys to the kingdom that I’d just ripped from organized religion.
Neither deserve it.
I totally need an internet break. Some Thoreau style, introspective adventure before I waste any more of my precious life to this PC succubus. This terminal terminal. This carpal tunnel inducing pernicious appliance of a malevolent machine and diabolical desktop...
No, I know what I just said.
But... it's Jeff Goldblum.
And he's chortling like a Chihuahua...
Excuse me a second, I need to erase this whole thing and start over.
Morning’s are always the hardest.
Well, that and night. Oh- and right before nightfall. Dusk, I think it’s called? Yeah, that’s the hardest too. Harder, even. Maybe. I mean, I totally love golden hour right before the su-
Wait – this is not what this entry’s about.
Actually, yeah. It is a bit. This sorta anathema to my sanity was plaguing me on such a morning recently. I was in the doctor’s office super early and my brain was already bubbling from that involute bog known to produce creativity and confabulations alike. My guard was down low, parallel to my insufficient ingestion level of caffeine. And the perpetual pains sending me into this obnoxious office in the first place, only paved the way for more internally ignited mind maiming. Thus, I was a complete victim to this hateful array of my own feckless introspection.
So I just went with it.
Normally, I’d try to read something interesting in that office. Quiet my mind with a book I brought. Try my hardest to ignore that I’m going to spend the next two hours willfully allowing myself to be tortured. View health quotes on Instagram, pretending it'll deflate me by osmosis.
However, as the doctor took forever to see me and as time passed by, my cognitive cascade leaped from how I have to pay a late fee when I’m late, and how they aren’t penalized likewise for keeping me waiting, and how that’s not fair, and how it should totally be equal, and that these people are cruelly bogarting their healing powers like some fascist Baptist collateral.
That was when I realized.
If only Hammurabi and Hippocrates had been contemporaries, colleagues, and drinking buddies who switched jobs and lives (like some plot for a horrible Jason Bateman movie) but not ideologies:
1. Our trusted leaders would have to serve us honestly.
2. My doctor would have to pay me when he’s late.
Furthermore, he'd have to let me wear the white coat, hold the clip board and pen, fake like I know medicine, and commit prescription murder.
Also worth mentioning:
1. That twenty'd get passed cyclically between me and the office like the Traveling Pants.
2. My dentist would be treating meth heads with more teeth than him.
So, I got lost in this dude's blog recently.
I mean, a lot of people seem to hate him, which makes for interesting reading. While I don't agree with all he says, I sure love the cerebral ruminations (and comments) some of his posts induce - like this one on what possible pieces of language can possibly accomplish the same thing to men as "bitch" can to women. An excerpt:
My wife has often complained that a woman can be called a bitch, but there’s no equivalent word in English for men. It seems that “bitch” is a particularly nasty word to apply to women, and I can’t deny the truth of this. Here goes:
I'm not capable of curtailing my comment reply length, so I posted it here. I might comment there as well, but the entry is a million years old. So, ladies, this one's for you. I'mma break it down:
"Bitch" Double Standard
Yeah, so, if you say "dick" or "asshole" to a man, you'll probably see a smile spread across his face, as it makes most of them feel proud. Each time they hear it, it's like a specialized intro-tune for a sarcasti-ball player taking to the field. Dudes bask in that kinda ish.
But the returned invective, "bitch!" (much like "pussy!") usually has another effect - it's a good way to stab at their masculinity, but not quite a "bitch" equivalent. Like Marie Antoinette abandoning her pug as she crossed the border to France, the "bitch" gets shed crossing gender borders. We want the OG Mops, not some pussy French dog.
Thus, the best way a woman can find out what causes a man to feel that uncomfortable bitch-quivalent, is to do a bit of research. Think about what your goals are, here. What do you crave? You want him to feel the way you feel when you hear "bitch" hurled atchya, right? Good. Then, observe:
What bothers him when his friends say it to him? What causes that familiar expression denoting a deep inner shame-gasm that arises like a Tourettes-esque cervical jerk ? Also, how do they say it? For certain groups of humans, that word might be "douchebag". For a guy with street cred, it might be "marshmallow" or "gummy bear". If he just got out of jail, have company over, call him a snitch (and then find him in a ditch before sunrise).
Put Your Drama Queen To Work
Gotta dramatic flair? Like whipped cream on a mocha, why not blow your whole verbal diet by adding a good, qualifying adjective to layer on a little something snide? "F*cking marshmallow ass gummy bear muhfcker!"
See? That one even has those seasonal sprinkles.
Mean Your Mean
Yet, if he has no friends for you to observe the interactions NatGeo style, look at what his hubris binges on. What identity qualities does he fancy himself having? Be considerate and empathetic enough to learn everything about him (bear with me, here) - and then tell him he's the exact opposite of those things. You don't have to be overt - in fact passive aggression works beautifully. But mean it! If you avert your eyes, if your voice cracks, or if you stutter - then just pack it in. You've lost. Forever.
Or, go minimalist.
Men are simple logical creatures. When you say too much (as we chicks tend to do), your credibility decreases parallel to their interest in hearing it. So tone it back! Make your meat manifest in the delivery itself. "You're weak" or "worthless" doesn't sound very weighty on paper, does it? But when issued at an ego with a quiet penetrating glare infused with coruscating hatred and a snide facetious laugh, he's a four year old naughty toddler again, getting reprimanded by his daddy.
The results are so good you might cry. (But pick your battles: if you've any desire to continue the relationship, pretend your emotional victory is really resultant tears of guilt or regret for saying such a hateful thing you definitely didn't mean).
I appreciate this takes a little work, ladies, but what are you willing to do to manifest that priceless expression on the mug of your one and only love?
"I've Arrrrived, Bitches!"
Despite how easily this diseased logic comes to me, I myself have tried supplanting it with things like consideration, kindness, cupcakes, puppydog tails... Actually, I'm just getting too old and lazy to deal any longer with the constant upkeep that accompanies setting such a precedence. You're only as good as your last attack #amiriteladiiiesss?
Plus, the irony is that once you reach this stature in invective issuing, you yourself start to perceive that "bitch" label in a whole 'nother light. Before you know it, you're finding that same ego induced smile on your face that guys get when they get called a dick by their buddies.
Thing is, that image (however ephemerally rewarding) is just too effing much effort to maintain. Besides, once you reach a level where "bitch" has an opposite effect of that deep resonant gut-pang, what's the point in pondering a comeback when your pride's now getting hot meals on a silver platter? What are we even fighting about anymore? What is this, even? My spiritual pimp taught me that the miracle happens when we see shit differently.
So, congrats if you reach this point. Game over
You've arrrrived, bitch!
Music - that causes transcendent God moments and wallow-thons alike. Music with subtextual healing lyrics. Music with wordless instrumental wonder. When everything from religion to a rapidly lightening Valium bottle failed me, music never has. Like comedy, it's among the quickest ways to un-feel a feeling or switch the ick off - to tune into some other frequency.
Through college, I would wear headphones everywhere. Fully embracing my self-centered fear, I just wasn't that interested in spontaneous potential connections with random students I might encounter. Thus, I just poured a constant score into my ears, as if trying to paint some cinematic reality for myself via melody - some movie I would occasionally realize no one else was part of when I'd see them pass by, scowling.
The only thing that made me feel alright about this habit (and less alone) was ironically the fact that I saw other people do it. A lot of them. Much the same way I feel deprived and envious when I see a few people laughing together at a cafe about some inside joke, I'd see these headphone junkies sporting serene smiles and relaxed brows and I'd think with a pang, "what's that they're listening to?! I want to hear!"
I long believed that happy people had something I could get only by duplicating their external possessions for myself. This is generally false.
Until we talk about music.
That's a game changer.
It's one thing to realize the insanity in valuing transient facets of the false self, like the Lacoste dress I can only wear once in a whatever and then forget about how cute it looks halfway through wearing it anyway. That, or even having near mythic Helen-of-Troy beauty (that I'd overvalue, torture myself to maintain, lose in a few decades, then slowly die without being able to express focus through a frozen botulinumask).
But music always delivers - and there is always the promise of something hitting us internally. If it's Gwen Stefani, I'll be moved - literally - when Rock Steady plays, I'll be on the elliptical with a broken leg. If it's Chino Moreno, I floor the gas even though the dead-zotic dancer's still in the trunk (J/K there's no such thing as speeding in traffic like there is here). And if it's country music, I politely wipe the blood from my ears on my way out the door.
I think I just love that there's something out there that can do that brain-change thing that usually takes a chemical cocktail to accomplish. Yeah, yoga and working out and meditation can all do this. But it's nice to know there's something as instant as it is innocent, and where I can do naught but recline and receive auditory cunnilingus.
But if I'm in the mood for stratified aural pleasure - something like a film can be transformed by the right tunes, too. In fact, I'm so easily influenced that almost all of my favorite flicks would not make the cut without the musical masters they had doing the soundtracks. As I've been on an experimental-minimalist-ambient-drone kinda kick, today we'll focus on some soundtrack geniuses informing the contents of my more introspective playlists: Cliff Martinez, Clint Mansell, Jon Brion, John Murphy, and Shane Carruth.
Cliff + Clooney = stuff of dreams. When I first saw Solaris, I had on the subtitles. The moment Cliff's instrumental ditty began, the titles read "ethereal music playing" and I remember thinking, "yeah! I agree with that robot translator at the bottom of the screen!"
I bought that soundtrack on CD, still have it - all scratched and stuff, and always start stargazing out my window when I hear it play. Cliff's hypnosis waves over me like a binaural brain massage:
Clint Mansell doles out the emotional lap dances as well. That combined with Wolverine and some breathtaking imagery in The Fountain, and my chick senses stood no chance...
Not since Romero has someone made me think outside the zombie filled coffin box like Murphy has with his musical additions. 28 days later had the good acting, those beautiful scenic shots, and - of course - the creatively constructed sanguine sputtering deadsies. But it was the soundtrack that drew me in and made me feel the kinda feels that make you say, "Ah! I suddenly care if the people they're pretending to play get dead now!"
In fact, I dig this dude's work enough to like a song from a movie I've yet to see: I'll view "Sunshine" some rainy day soon:
Jon Brion has wowed me consistently: Eternal Sunshine, I <3 Huckabees, Synechdoche NY, and Stone stand out as particularly spectacular. My argument for ardent praise of Brion is that when he branches out with varied styles, it's all effing amazing - not "okay" or "so-so" but unmitigated greatness. Homeboy can sing, too.
Up until Upstream Color, I'd not seen Shane's name. Then I saw it about 15 times - when the credits rolled. I shit you not- it was like that Mae West play where she eventually starts adding fake names so she won't look like a pompous ass. At first, I was sure this was a Cliff and Aronofsky or Soderbergh collab. Nope! Shane wrote the story, played the lead, composed the music, and won.my.heart with his natch acting and cult-dazed gaze.
Upstream was no film but a full on experience. Bet he tortured himself making this thing perfect. I know I would if I was micromanaging all those creative bits.
That's all for today.
This invocation of emotional Schizophrenia has been brought to you by PMS
Sometimes, when mildly annoying shiz happens in life, we just have to sit back and laugh at ourselves – particularly our own reaction to it.
And then release it to the public to laugh at us too.
Like, okay. You know how in horror movies, the girl (who's wearing one of those bras the Victoria's Secret lady has to go all the way to the back to get because they don't put tit slingers that big on display) always runs the wrong way to escape? Or she's half naked as she’s being pursued by some aggressor? And he’s usually dawdling after her for the simultaneous purposes of dramatic effect and the confidence that she’s too stupid to not get dead imminently anyway?
Well, it's easy to get involved in an old classic gory horror narrative, yell at the T.V., and remind the unassuming Curtis or Carmen Electra-esque characters, “You deserve to die if you’re that dumb!”
But, chicks totally panic when they're uncomfortable, man.
I mean, we do it in real-life everyday bullsh*t situations. If I have to pee and the only thing between me and sweet release is a trot to my toilet (vaulted behind my front door lock), I'm suddenly a bumbling fumbling horror-film whore. I'm clanging this ring of tiny foreign metal saws with all the efficiency of a down-syndrome paraplegic using fingers that have magically morphed into cat paws on bath salts. If I'm lucky, I might actually get to pee ten minutes from this spastic psychotic break.
Occasionally, my bruised ego will get a glimpse of my neighbor delighting in the sight of the event unfolding - like a live action horror comedy.
Other times, much like the horror flicks, our only answer to stress is indeed: get naked and go crazy.
In college: A long week of exams was often followed by a Girls Gone Wild-esque Bourbon Street outing. The buildup of finals was always followed by, an: "Okay. That's over. What now?" and an hour later a: “Why, yes! Beads for boobs sounds like a perfectly reasonable exchange!”
Long day of work and commuting? “Finally home now! Farewell pants! And socks! And top!”
Then, there was the more recent incident when I stood today - bathed in little more than the solitary silence of my apartment. I'd been in the middle of cooking, when suddenly I found myself under the fire alarm - my decency supplanted with a faint feeling of déjà vu. The ringing sound still resonated in my short term auditory memory and I asked the age old question, “How did it come to this, Ashley?”
I’ll tell you how. I'm a chick and I panic when life gets real. And life gets real in the kitchen.
Every time I make toast, that alarm goes off.
Every time, I forget my tyrannical toaster fries bread til it’s on fire.
And, without fail, every time I hear that bastard beeping bell blaring from the ceiling of the other room, I run at top speed down the hallway pulling off my sweatshirt as I go.
My split second chick-guyver logic is that, once I reach my destination, I'll have some sort of elongated fabric to swat at the shrill blaring punishment on my ears - like an inappropriately cast surrender flag.
By the time I’m done, my hunger’s been replaced with nothing. Nothing but a race-paced heartbeat and accompanying adrenal deluge whose signs I can visibly witness through the skin of my asymmetrical breasts (bared for my audience of none but a canine who lets me care for her).
Well, that and a peppering of shame.
So, there's this pop star.
And she's doing a tour.
Normally, such an event wouldn't have enough of a resonating effect for me to regurgitate bits of it here. But I couldn't help but recognize how much the themes of her onstage exercise routine that people took pictures of when they paid money and came and witnessed it unfold, reminded me of a favorite film, The Imaginarium of Dr. Parnassus. And I guess that association sorta made me warm up to the whole fuzzy infused spectacular I was seeing in the form of photo stills because, well, I'm easily influenced and seduced. And I have no mind of my own.
Like, for instance (speaking of fuzzies), I rather enjoyed the giant tongue entrance - very like the Parnassus "Join The Fuzz" scene:
Fellatial: flutes versus foam fingers...
And, naturally, the timeless tradition of lil people exploitation...
You've reached the end of this thing I made.
Thanks for permitting my brief permeation of your grey matter.
You may now resume subsisting as you were a moment ago.