Jasper from Twilight.
Sarahk, I’m sorry. He is Edward. Scissorhands. Do I have to come up there and de-program you?
And, no, you may not pick him for The Best Thing Ever Blog Game this year. I, the game mistress, declare it!
No, Sarahk, no!
(Scolding aside, uh, who’s the Cousin Itt there in the background?)
You’re reading from something. Your new software is listening. Allegedly.
You say: Ku Klux Klanner
It writes: Cue Clocks Clatter
You say: the whore/virgin theme
It writes: door burgeoning
You say: childhood
It writes: chowderhead
No kidding. You said “childhood” and it heard “chowderhead.” Chowderhead. The software is pre-programmed with the word chowderhead but stumbles on the word childhood.
You say: bowchickawow-wow — uhm, because you’re feeling frustrated and cheeky
It writes: bald sheik aloud now
Try saying that at home, pippa, next time you’re feeling sexy: bald-sheik-aloud-now
You say: hidebound archaic tradition
It writes: hidebound archaic tradition
Wow. Flawless. Things are looking up! Then …
You say: no one — no one, for God’s sake!
It writes: no 1
Okay. Okay. Really, software? Really?? I beg of you. I’m trying to get you to “know” me, you know, “personally and exclusively” because that’s what it’s supposed to be all about, but, damn, software, you’re letting me down. And you’re driving me crazy. You know, I have to say …. I feel like you don’t really want to know me. Like you’re just not listening. I mean, we haven’t been seeing each other that long, I realize, but we’re spending a lot of time together, so I don’t understand this selective listening. And I don’t want to be one of those chicks who starts in with the nagging and the “what am I to you” conversations so early in a relationship, but then don’t spend all this time with me if you don’t mean it. I’m a girl. We think spending time means things. We can’t help it; we just do. So I just feel bummed. I thought you were into me. I mean, “no one” is No 1? Seriously? It feels like you’re not even trying anymore. I mean …. okay …. I have to ask ….. are you seeing another voice? Something a little smokier, breathier? Something that doesn’t assault your dignity and make you repeat things like bowchickawow-wow, maybe? You know, that’s sarahk’s fault. Blame her. That’s not me. I can change, software! I swear. I won’t talk to you while I’m eating, how’s that? And tomorrow, I’ll wear a low-cut top, okay? You can look at my chest all day, I promise; just listen to me, please.
What’s that, software? “Bowchickawow-wow”?
Oh, great. Now you say it.
The Jesus Christ Superstar posts that have been banging around in my head for a while.
My obsession with Jesus Christ Superstar, which I’ve mentioned somewhere here before, started years ago when my mom, an English teacher, started teaching a class called “The Bible as Literature,” and somehow managed to work Jesus Christ Superstar into the whole mix. (Hahahaha, mom, you minx.) Because of this, we had — and I think still have, somewhere — an original 1970 concept album of JCS. THE one. The brown one with the seraphim on the cover. The gold standard of JCS, in my opinion. The one that my brother and I, when home alone, would put on the turntable and play AT FULL BLAST, writhing and screaming to it like banshees and then scurry to put away and act completely innocent of its existence the moment we heard parents pulling up in the driveway. We. were NOT. allowed. to listen. to that type of music. But, man, that album! It raced like poison through our naughty blood but never showed on our perfectly posed faces.
Still makes me shiver. That original concept album.
And, you know, that’s how Jesus Christ Superstar started out — just a bunch of singers and musicians in the studio trying to work it out, trying to figure OUT just what the heck Andrew Lloyd Webber and Tim Rice had created here. It was different for them. They’d collaborated before, on a shortened version of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, if I remember correctly, but JCS was different. Not feel-good tunes, country tunes, Elvis-y tunes, as in Joseph. Nothing catchy in that friendly, non-threatening way Joseph has, but rather, galvanizing, blood-pumping, shocking in an “Oh, no, they di’int” kind of way. And the whole album has that feel. It’s raw; there are mistakes, the occasional wrong note. Things are sometimes … just askew. Nothing feels set or polished, really. I love that. It’s brilliant. Ian Gillan from Deep Purple is Jesus. Murray Head (before his “One Night in Bangkok” hit, remember that?) is Judas. And, I’m telling you, these guys are raw nerves, on the edge of an abyss or something, as if the whole time they’re thinking, “What the hell am I doing? I just gotta get through this song! I just gotta SURVIVE this song!” The whole thing feels like a runaway train to me and that’s what’s so great about it. Seriously. That’s a huge part of its genius, because there’s a sense that at any moment, the whole thing could entirely jump the tracks. You listen to it and you feel that you’re there, at the moment of creation, at the birth of something huge, you are IN on it. That kind of thing just gets me. I love being in on any painful creative birth. Mine. Others’. Anyone’s. That, I’m convinced, has been in my blood since birth. Please: Create! Spew! Cry! Fail! Rally! Wail! Triumph! Do it all again! My heart is pounding at the thought just writing this. To me, there is true beauty in the mess of creation. I love how this album feels you’re listening to the raging howl of those birth pangs.
Genius.
So, first up, a comparison of Judases: Murray Head (1970 concept album) and Carl Anderson (1973 movie).
In the next post ….
Basically, I want to eat Jayne’s daughter. She is adorable and scrumptious and makes my mouth water. Before you freak out, I’ve confessed this to Jayne and, sadly, it’s probably just as well that I live on the opposite coast from Jayne’s delicious daughter and her little niblet teeth.
Also, please note Jayne’s gorgeous seasonal banner. And her eggs. Not HER eggs, I should say, I mean, THE eggs. The eggs. The Easter eggs.
Uhm, I can’t stop trying to make this better whilst simultaneously making it worse.
Sorry I talked about your eggs, Jayne.
Please send cookies.
I think I’m a kind of stalker now, obsessed not with a person, but with an inanimate thing. A building, actually. Four walls, a roof, and a floor that housed my life for five years. It’s true. For almost two months now, I’ve stalked our old place like an ex-boyfriend who broke my heart. I find myself wondering if I could have done things differently. I worry I didn’t try hard enough, didn’t fight for our relationship. It bothers me to know that I think about it when it doesn’t think about me. So I drive by there to see it and check up on it and prove that it was once a part of me. I wonder when the “for sale” sign will go up and I wonder how much less it will sell for than what we paid and I wonder if anyone will see the note I penned inside an upstairs closet. I am bothered, truly, that our loss will be someone else’s gain. No, seriously, it really chaps my hide. I don’t wish the new owners well. I’m horrible. I want the floor to explode on them, too. I want the neighbors to make them crazy, too. They could be a couple of darling old gammies and I will resent them with my entire shriveled heart because they will have what I still think should be mine. You hate the next girl your ex-boyfriend starts dating; you hate the new owners of the house you lost. It’s weird to be writing about this because, in all honesty, I have compartmentalized my thinking about it. I seem to obsess about it, pine for it, only on my drive-bys. But when I pull up in front of our new place, that old screen clicks off and the reality of the new screen is right in front of me, undeniable. It’s not even a conscious decision I’ve made, this thinking; it’s just happened. Even thinking about it right now is breaking my own unconscious rule and takes effort, actual effort — forcing these thoughts into my head that flow so easily at the designated time. There’s an internal on/off switch that seems very persnickety about the rules of use and it feels as if I don’t even control it. Maybe I don’t. Maybe it’s a guardian angel. Some kind of divine authority figure allowing me to wallow only so much. It all seems vaguely illogical to me. Rationally, I understand certain things. Emotionally, well, I think I understand almost nothing in this life.
We drove by early this morning and my heart sank, the tears came, as we pulled past the tree overhanging the sidewalk and I could suddenly see the new “for sale” sign. The “for sale” sign that blares “foreclosure” on the top in bold red letters. The sting of that. The sting of that! You know, I can tell myself all these truths: we did all we could, we didn’t lie or cheat to get a loan, we were legit, we found ourselves in the perfect financial storm, it’s happening to lots of people, but the sting of that lingers like a low-hanging cloud and I don’t know when or if it will ever burn away.
Turns out, Jersey Boy is the selling agent, that ass. Pimping my house out for cheap. Asking $125K less than what we paid. I feel bad for my old place. Like, in my heart it’s worth more, despite the warped floorboards and the peachy-pink paint stain on the bedroom carpet and the insane squabbling neighbors. It was my home because I made a life there and for as long as I remember that, it will always stay my home. Other people will move in, have plumbing leaks, stain the carpet, struggle with neighbors, but I will always feel it’s mine. I can’t say if it’s right or wrong or even healthy — it’s mine because it’s in my heart and because I need to believe that once upon a time it was all real.
Okay. So I thought I was back, but I wasn’t. Computer issues. SO boring. Don’t wanna talk about it. I really only wanna say ….
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!
Thank you.
Proceed apace.
