Oh, JOY! A whole site dedicated to bloopers! Hallelujah!!
And you think Jesus doesn’t love you? Tsk, tsk, tsk.
(I’m loving the ones from House: Cuddy and Cameron doing alternate scenes in Valley Girl voices; Robert Sean Leonard (Wilson) losing his place and saying, “No idea. I could be in Chapter 2; I could be Walter Matthau right now; I have no idea what play I’m in at all.” Hahahaha.)
I can’t wait to dig in even more over there. I mean, who doesn’t love a good blooper?
Brilliant.
Good thing he’s sexy because Bruno, The Voice in My Head, is sometimes a straight-up dummypants, yo.
Alas, it’s true.
Look, Bruno. I speak very clearly. I do. I have been told so. As a compliment AND an insult. When you’re an actress, you learn quickly that mush mouth ain’t gonna get you anywhere. Ditto with singing. Or …. yeah, good Lord, being a hostess on a shopping channel – (Hahahahaha. I can’t even write that without starting to laugh. I promise to tell the story(ies) some day.) Or, you know, role-playing courtroom transcripts for court reporting students at 225+ wpm.
You cannot have a mush mouth in any of these scenarios. And I don’t.
But today, when I read, “Now is the best time to launch some dreams,” Bruno, you heard, “Now is the best time to launch some tureens.”
Later, when I read, “Everyone who creates does so from the sacramental center” — and even though I gagged and thought it was New Age twaddle, I read it clearly — still, Bruno, you heard, “Everyone who creates does so from the Sacramento Center.”
Wow. Good thoughts, you know? Deep, deep stuff. Think about it, pippa. Breathe deep and ponder the wisdom of Bruno.
Then get out your butts out there, catch a flight to Sacramento, and LAUNCH SOME TUREENS!
I’ve been rationing my reading of Salman Rushdie’s The Enchantress of Florence because I don’t want it to end. Because I basically want to devour this book and I fight against that. I don’t want to, but I easily could, gorge like a glutton without really tasting. The book needs to be savored, slowly, knowingly. On top of this voluntary rationing, there was some involuntary rationing when I lost track of this red book in my current flood of red-book reading — I misplaced its particular redness and tried to satisfy myself with other redness until it resurfaced once again. Thank God! I was becoming frantic. Where is “The Enchantress of Florence”? Where is it? WHERE??
I imagine that some part of my delight in this book has been discovering that Salman Rushdie is the complete opposite of the image I had of him — the dry fusty intellectual. I can’t say how I came by this view of him; it may have been based purely on his looks alone. But the man is witty, bawdy, and, yes, SMART, prodigiously so, but not intimidatingly so. I’m so thrilled to discover him and to have the realization dawn on me, page after gorgeous page, that he is, well, somewhat of a little scamp, I think. He’s impish and clever. He’s made me laugh out loud repeatedly. He’s secure enough to be whimsical and somewhat mad. The book centers on an enchantress, but Rushdie is the enchanter here, casting a spell under which I’ve willingly fallen. The book is like a Matryoshka doll: the fine points, the deep points, beautifully hidden, but not undiscoverable, inside layers of fable and fairy tale and dreams. It travels in and out of chronology and place yet I’ve never felt disoriented. Quite the opposite. I feel completely oriented in this world of the invisible and and the pretend and the mythical and the real. I don’t know how he does that, honestly. I’m completely in his thrall and will now be gearing up to read basically everything he’s ever written.
Some short excerpts that I’ve particularly enjoyed:
I.
By proper use of Sunni-Uzbeg potato-based spells it was possible to find a husband, chase off a more attractive love rival, or cause the downfall of a Shiite king. Shah Ismail had fallen victim to the rarely used Great Uzbeg Anti-Shiite Potato and Sturgeon Curse, which required quantities of potatoes and caviar which were not easy to amass, and a unity of purpose among the Sunni witches which was likewise difficult to achieve. When they heard the news of Ismail’s rout, the eastern potato witches wiped their eyes, ceased their wailing, and danced. A pirouetting Khorasani witch is a rare and particular sight, and few who saw the dance ever forgot it. And the Caviar and Potato Curse created a rift between the sisterhood of potato witches which has not been healed to this day.
II.
Ignoring his wounded right arm in its sling, he galloped home upon the wind. For indeed there was a wind that night, and they saw olive trees uprooted by it, and oaks flung aside as though they were little saplings, and walnut trees, cherry trees, and alders, so that as they rode it seem that a forest was flying through the air alongside them; and as they neared the city they heard a great tumult, such as only the people of Florence knew how to make. However, this was no tumult of joy. It was as if every man in the city had turned werewolf and was howling at the moon
(ed.: In this excerpt, Emperor Akbar’s mother and one of his wives have a conversation with their despised rival, Jodha, the emperor’s favorite — and invisible, possibly non-existent — wife. Out of necessity, they feel they must align themselves with her to protect the emperor from what they believe is his impending madness. They need Jodha, to exercise her many “powers” over the emperor.)
III.
They genuinely couldn’t see the woman to whom they were speaking, yet they were willing to arrange themselves on her carpets, lounge against her bolsters, drink the wine her servants offered, and tell the sexual secrets of women throughout history to the empty air. After a while they stopped feeling that they had lost their minds and acted as if they were alone, just the two of them talking to each other, speaking openly about what had always been closed, laughing helplessly at the shocking comedy of desire, the absurd things men wanted and the equally absurd things women would do to please them, until the years dropped away from them and they remembered their own youth, and recalled how they had been told these secrets by other stern, ferocious women, who had also dissolved, after a time, into guffaws of joy, remembering, in their turn, how the knowledge had been given to them, and by the end of it, the laughter in the room was the laughter of the generations, of all women, and of history.
They spoke in this fashion for five and a half hours and when they finished they thought it had been one of the happiest days of their lives. They began to have kinder thoughts toward Jodha than ever before. She was one of them now, part of the women’s relay; she was no longer the emperor’s creation alone. In part, she was theirs as well.
Okay. So I now have a crush on Salman Rushdie. Whatevs.
You had me at “potato-based spells,” Salman.
Oh, thank you, blessed baby Jesus!
MB is working tonight and, lucky me, I just stumbled across the movie “Frogs” on some obscure channel called “ThisTV.”
Anyhoo. The movie is circa 1972 starring Ray Milland, Joan Van Ark, and — the best part — a young hunky delicious Sam Elliott. Now I’ve always found him hunky and delicious, but I don’t think I’ve ever even seen him before he turned into the silver-haired fox he is today.
So I am now watching “Frogs” — which looks like a totally awesome and cheesy B movie where amphibians “strike back” — strictly to gander at and swoon over Sam Elliott. And I’m going to live blog this puppy because it just seems like one of those things I would end up doing when I’m by myself, now doesn’t it?
Oh, pippa. I need to go make popcorn. Wait. After this shot of a topless Sam Elliott. Oooh. Those tan biceps. Hold me, 1972 Sam Elliott.
Commence live and totally random blogging:
~ Okay. The Sam Elliott character is named “Pickett Smith.” Whatevs. But the funny thing is that Joan Van Ark, that bag of bones, keeps running around like a spaz repeating his name to everyone. “Hi, Grandpa! Have you met Pickett Smith? Well, this is Pickett Smith. Say hi to Pickett Smith, Grandpa. Yes, his name is Pickett Smith. Clint, I want to introduce you to Pickett Smith. He’s visiting us, is Pickett Smith. That’s what Pickett Smith is doing.” Pickett Smith Pickett Smith Pickett Smith I just met him but I’m in love with Pickett Smith which you can tell by how I can’t stop saying his name, Pickett Smith. Calm down, Joan Van Ark.
~ Oh, also: Joan Van Ark is wearing what can only be described as a giant onesie. We’ve discussed the skater onesie here before and we all know what a baby onesie is, and, well, Joan Van Ark (hereafter JVA) is wearing an adult version of a baby onesie. In butter yellow. There is really no way to overstate the oog factor of her skinniness sheathed in a giant baby butter-colored onesie. You know, JVA. Most men don’t go for women in baby onesies and the ones who do, you don’t really wanna know.
~ Oh, dear. Oh, no. Lots of close-ups of huge fat frogs. What does it all MEAN??? They look pretty tasty to me, frankly. This a problem how?
~ Uh-oh. It’s dinnertime at the estate here. They’re lounging around discussing at length how they’re “the ugly rich.” So poor Pickett Smith is the outsider here with his sexy denim shirt and sexy jeans and sexiness. The frogs heard the dinner bell, apparently, and are hoppin’ in hungry droves towards the house. So what we have here is The Great Gatsby Meets The Plagues of Egypt, peaches.
~ Oh, earlier, Pickett Smith Pickett Smith! found a dead body on the estate. He’s also a photographer, it turns out. Although, really, those two things have nothing to do with each other. He found the dead body not in his professional role of photographer but in his strictly amateur role as the only person worth a tiny rat’s bottom in this entire movie.
~ Hahahahaha. The fat little frogs are pawing — clawing? webbing? what? — at the windows of the estate. Like li’l kitties trying to get in. It would almost be cute if it weren’t for the imminent amphibian mayhem and death.
~ Oh! Ray Milland — Grandpa in a wheelchair — just shot a snake dangling from the chandelier. This snake was menacing poor Mabel, the black housekeeper for the Crockett family, so naturally, one must shoot it with a bunch of other people standing around the table.
~ The closeted gay grandson brought a black woman to dinner. Her white dress is slit to her navel. She’s braless. The ugly rich openly comment on her slutty outfit. Closeted Gay Son says he LIKES it. Sure you do, precious.
~ JVA is wasting Picket Smith’s — and my — time by trying to converse with him. JVA, don’t you get that he’s the strong silent type? Toddle off in your onesie, babydoll.
~ You know, I’ve never liked JVA and that’s putting it mildly. I hope she gets frogged but good. Eat her up, onesie and all, okay, Mr. Toad? And her Trisha Nixon ponytail.
~ Uh-oh. Some little whippersnappers just set off some firecrackers in the bayou. It’s the Fourth of July, but do the frogs care about that? No, no, they do not. Rather, they now seem ENRAGED.
~ Photographer Pickett Smith is also an environmental expert apparently: “You’ve overdone it with the pesticides, Ray Milland.” Swoon. Is there no END to this man’s sexiness and knowledge??
~ Here’s Blonde Weekend Guest Dude. Shooting things in the bayou. No, wait. Shooting himself. Accidentally, in the leg. Oops. Here we go. He’s now being eaten by moss and, ew, tarantulas. (Which are basically harmless and blind, but whatevs.) They be scary, I won’t lie. But what are they doing in this movie? It’s called “Frogs” not “Frogs and Snakes and Spiders.” What UP, movie? He’s now covered in a giant spider web. Oh, those frogs!
~ I don’t think he’s still alive. I’m sorry, pippa.
~ I feel it only fair to warn you all: The lizards are on the move.
~ Gammie is wandering in the bayou with a butterfly net and a dress with a fluttery collar.
~ Black chick is now dressed like an African princess. Massive head wrap, giant caftan. She’s playing croquet like this. Some dude comments on how he “likes her game.” She responds, “I don’t think so. I don’t think you can dig it.” I’m confused. Or more confused.
~ I have to admit I’m bothered by Pickett Smith’s lack of wardrobe changes. I am spending way too much time pondering the implications.
~ Oh, gay son is in the greenhouse, tuliping around and such. But the lizards, you see, they have other plans. They are, in cold premeditated fashion, knocking various clear bottles labeled “Poison” and “Worse Poison” and “Worst Poison Ever” onto the floor of the greenhouse. The fumes! Oh, no! Gay son walks towards them, as anyone would. He is overcome! The lizards LAUGH!
~ Pickett Smith and the African Princess just found dead Gay Son. They announce his death to everyone. But, ugly rich that they are, no one seems to care.
~ Ew. EW. A fat frog just jumped onto the abandoned Fourth of July Flag Cake! EWW. Get offa the symbol of my country in cake form, you damned filthy frog!
~ Gammie! Beware! The snakes are full of mischief! Gammie! Look out! She’s being stared down by a rattler. RUN, GAMMIE! Okay. Phew, she is. Obviously, she foresaw this horrible ordeal which is why she wore those pristine white tennis shoes with her fluttery party dress. But, oh no! Two feet of water take her down! She gets up and … hahaha …. she’s now wearing a totally different dress, one sleeve of which was somehow dissolved by her fall into the water. Never know with water, do you? Okay, finally, she’s bitten by a snake. She’s down and dead and instantaneously gray.
~ Another dude. I don’t even know who this dude IS. Random Guest, we’ll call him. Well, anyway, he’s battling a croc right now. I’m serious. They killed off Gammie, cut to a commercial, came back to Random Guest in a death match with a croc. Nearby frogs just watch, croaking. Random Guest also croaks but not in a way that means he’s still alive.
~ Sexy and smart photographer Pickett Smith says, “We gotta get off this damn island!” Everyone but Grandpa agrees. “I control these people!” he says. His household staff — all black, by the way, because this is the 1970s?? — protest. He tells them to go then, fine. His son or grandson — or whoever — is taking them home on the boat. Uh-oh.
~ Ray Milland says to JVA, “Uhm, excuse me, but even under these circumstances, can’t I have something to EAT???” Hahahaha. You’re a real gem, Gramps. JVA complies because she’s spineless. And I think I mean that literally.
~ Dude that took the household staff in the boat — well, guess what? He’s in trouble now, bit by some giant water moccasin or something. His hot blonde wife shrieks, runs into the water, but, oh, no, a — what?? a sea turtle?? — is swimming for her ….. very …… very slowly ….. obviously, there’s no TIME! She’s done for!
~ Grandpa CANNOT be reasoned with, all because it’s his birthday, you see, and all this death is just RUINING his party. JVA and PS try to use common sense on him, but he just says, “Okay. Get the hell out! Stand up and be counted! You’re either with me or against me!” (Uhm, what, Grandpa? You’re just throwing out cliches now, do you know that? This is more than just “my flag cake was ruined by frogs.” You’re somewhat mentally compromised.)
~ PS and JVA find themselves a canoe, taking the kids orphaned by the recent rampaging water moccasin and sea turtle. Those two were mom and dad, apparently. The movie makes basically zero attempt to define relationships here.
~ On another note: For a movie called “Frogs” have we yet seen anyone actually murdered by the frogs themselves? No, I don’t think we have. So the frogs are Charles Manson, I guess, having other more malleable critters do their homicidal bidding.
~ Oooh. Sam Elliott paddling a canoe. In one shot he’s wearing a shirt, very next shot, shirtless. More mistakes like this, please. Totally fine by me.
~ Oh, no! A snake jumped from a tree, molesting Pickett Smith! He fights it off as any photographer/environmental expert would do. JVA screams. I dislike her intensely.
~ Pickett Smith shoots a rapidly approaching croc. Sexxxy. Although I grieve over the number of purses and pairs of boots that just sank to the bottom of the bayou.
~ They make it across the murderous waters to the other shore. A lady offers them a ride. “We haven’t seen anybody on this road for three hours. Isn’t that strange for a holiday??” Her little son turns to the other boys in the back seat. “Hey, wanna see what I found?” AHHHH! It’s a big fat frog! Freeze frame.
~ Wait. Back to retarded Grandpa in the wheelchair. He’s all alone now, with only his creepy hunting trophies on the wall to keep him company. He wheels around his house, into another room. Frogs are everywhere. Duh, Gramps. There’s a close-up of his stuffed gazelle with a simultaneous bleating goat sound. He falls from his wheelchair, startled, one assumes, to hear his stuffed gazelle bleat like a goat, and is overcome by THE FROGS.
~ (Uhm, movie, you didn’t even show me what happened to hunky sexy Sam Elliott aka Pickett Smith Pickett Smith!. I mean, yes, it’s implied by the ghoulish frog freeze frame, but you give me a hunky hero and leave me with what? Just imagining his death at the — hands? legs? what? — of maniacal frogs? Lazy shiftless movie. Or stupid ran-out-of-money movie.)
~ Roll credits to the sound of …. not kidding ……. croaking frogs.
In my inbox, from a silent long-time reader of this blog:
Mother’s Day never arrives any more that I don’t think of you and remember your heart. I find myself holding you and the other childless couples I know close to me, considering them with special honor, knowing that there can never be the “right words.” Mother’s Day comes, and later Father’s Day comes and they are quietly absent from church. They never say anything, and were it not for you, I would not have noticed. They show courageous smiles–genuine, sincere smiles–at awkward moments. I am overwhelmed at times by such grace.
Thank you SO much for this. I am in tears. Tears, just having you tell me that I may have helped you take notice of others in similar circumstances. That means more than you’ll ever ever know. I have emailed you privately but want to acknowledge your kindness publicly, even though you’re anonymous.
God bless you for taking the time to tell me.
I feel somehow changed just reading this.
Every Saturday morning we go to the bookstore, My Beloved and I. It’s a little ritual we have. We go to breakfast, have some eggs benedict or strawberry waffles or good ol’ bacon and eggs, then arrive at the bookstore right as the doors open because we are anal retentive and have dibs on this certain perfect table, you see. We must hurry hurry, quick like a bunny, to “get there before all the selfish people.” This is our long-standing joke, murmured regularly to a shared secret laugh.
And every Saturday morning, I schlep the sturdy leather bag MB gave me about ten years ago, the bag that people will always ask about with a gasp and a green gleam in their eyes because they can see that it’s basically the best thing ever and they realize with a sigh what their life has been missing lo! these many years and they bemoan how unfair it is that this unworthy girl should have a bag like this and they, well, don’t. Inside this singular bag, we keep our Saturday morning things: pens, pencils, Post-its, composition books, sketch pads, scraps of papers with scraps of thoughts scribbled across them. That bag, worn and scratched and coffee-splotched and all the more striking because of it, houses most of what we are these days, what’s inside our heads. It’s not on a computer; it’s not in a journal; it’s in that bag. Right now, as we stumble around in our starting-over life, these alien days, more than anywhere else, we are present and safe in that bag.
For a few months when we first started this ritual, we became embroiled in an unspoken yet nasty territory war with an aggressive older couple we called The Jews. We fretted with each other every Saturday wondering if perhaps this was a tad racist, calling them The Jews, but they are, in fact, Jews, if the yarmulke on his head is any indication. And although our collective marital conscience remains uneasy on this point, we cannot seem to stop referring to them as The Jews, whispering it low and quavery, waiting to be turned to pillars of salt. But I must be true to what we actually call them, although you may think less of me — if possible — for the admission.
The Jews are short. He is short and squat; she is short and lean. They both wear the same thing every Saturday. He: Jeans, brown sweater, white dress shirt. She: Jeans, black sweater, black clacky boots. They have the same cropped hairstyle, although his is grey and hers is a solid dyed black. Her jeans are faded in two small circles of lighter blue, one on each skinny butt cheek and her legs bow out like a wishbone. Those thighs, I tell you, have never touched. They make me angry. She clacks hither and yon on her wishbones, gathering every gossip magazine in the place, sits down on her faded circles, and devours all the latest about Angelina or Obama or Lindsay Lohan. When she’s done, she abandons the clutter of her table and leaves the store for quick shopping fix elsewhere. Thirty minutes later, she returns with a bag — Old Navy, The Gap, Nordstrom. Every Saturday.
Through the lively art of eavesdropping, I’ve learned that he is some kind of a judge. This seems about right. I do feel judged by him. Or maybe it’s the sheer force of my own judgment bouncing back to me, although I think it’s worth mentioning that I reject this notion outright in order to still feel good about myself. His weekly entrance into the bookstore is always lopsided as he drags in a loaded leather bag with seemingly every newspaper in the world bulging and erupting from its top. He leans, he tilts. The physics of it all seem almost impossible to me. One should not carry a bag that has such a deleterious effect on one’s posture is what I always think when I see him. Or if not that exactly, something similar like Oh, brother. Eh, potato potahto. But I always notice, smug and inwardly shriveled as I am, that his bag is completely unremarkable compared to mine and, yes, I have caught him staring at my bag. And my boobs, but that’s neither here nor there.
The war with The Jews began one unfortunate Saturday morning when we sat at the table on which they apparently have forever dibs. It’s a nice table, the only one that seats four, so you can spread out and luxuriate like a cat with all your Saturday morning things. The superior features of this table had not escaped my notice. It had also not escaped my notice that The Jews camped out at that table, hogging it for themselves week after week. So when we arrived this fateful day and the big table was empty, so roomy and beckoning, yes, we sat. We sat at the big table and we liked it. A lot. No. More than that. It was like a hit of crack. We were hooked in an instant and there was no looking back now, no siree.
How could we possibly know that an ill wind was blowing from one day’s innocent squat?
When The Jews arrived twenty minutes later, they stopped dead in their clacking and lopsided tracks, thoughts fairly bellowing in outraged waves across the room: What is this? Interlopers? At our table? Never! Oh, the betrayal! The hissy! The gyp of it all! Yeah, well, what of it? We felt their wrath, but we were numb with addiction. High on comfy spacious bliss. While they stood adrift and incredulous in a sea of two-seater tables, I simply bowed my head a little closer to my book, pressed my butt a little deeper in my seat.
After that — the day The Jews had to sit at a two-seater table — it was Game On.
The next Saturday, MB and I, jonesing for that table now, arrived even earlier. But, alas, The Jews did, too. So there we were, the four of us waiting for the doors to open, pointedly ignoring one another, pretending we weren’t antsy little kids jostling to see Santa first or jittery racehorses twitching in the starting gates. The air vibrated with immaturity; it shimmered with practiced blase. I have to say: I was appalled at my elders. No role models, those two. How could I possibly be the bigger person when it wasn’t being modeled for me, I ask you? And, anyway, wasn’t this the Sabbath?
Okay. Fine. Bring it, God’s Chosen People!
The doors opened. MB yanked my bag from my hands and morphed into Pac-Man. Left, right, left, razor sharp turns through the maze of shelves, into the cafe area. The Judge took a different route, but moved his legs even faster. He had to; MB towers over him. His legs are as long as The Judge is tall. The man was hell-bent, hell-bent I say, on reaching that table first. He seemed ravenous, the Tasmanian Devil. I lagged several feet back and watched the furious footwork, the dueling foolishness. For a split second, I admit, I questioned what I had become, what I had been reduced to, if this was all there is, but when I rounded that last row of shelves and saw my leather bag perched in triumph on the object of our desire — MB’s longer strides having vanquished our foe — I finally knew what mattered most:
The Table and Keeping It From Others.
For the next two months, this became our new Saturday morning ritual: a cozy breakfast together …. a pleasant drive to the bookstore ….. a casual loiter by the doors ….. an insane death match amongst grown adults over the big table in the cafe. Not a word was ever said. Not one. Ever. It was beyond words. Honestly, I marveled at our shared sense of vision, the commonality of our cause. I understood The Jews. I knew them. What they wanted, I wanted. What I wanted, they wanted. I mean, I’m not this in sync with my own family. I don’t even understand myself this well, for crying out loud. I’ve disagreed with people mid-prayer, for God’s sake. It was beautiful thing, really. Four strangers’ hearts beating in rhythm to a shared secret tune, devoted to a single mutual goal:
The Table and Keeping It From Others.
As the weeks went by, our battle plan became more involved. MB and I split up, covered the front door and the side door because they weren’t unlocked simultaneously, of course. One door always lagged every so slightly behind the other. But that didn’t matter. We had it covered. If we were pulling into the lot and The Jews were getting out of their car, it was pedal to the metal, baby. A screech of tire, a squeal of brakes. Go go go go go! I tell you, we were Special Ops. SEALS. Rangers. Something big and bad-ass and heroic, that’s for sure. Our motto was our mission: “First There.”
And, well, we were and we were and we were. For weeks, The Judge’s little feet of fury and MB’s seemingly nonchalant strides went toe to toe but the results were always the same: victory was ours.
One Saturday, though, lounging at the big table, gorged from weeks of consecutive victories, we saw something that gave us pause. A sight that caused us to rethink our ongoing mission, our newfound purpose in life. It was The Jews, dragging into the bookstore half an hour late; he, looking much more lopsided than usual; she, sounding much less clacky. They seem resigned, subdued. Was it possible the ongoing battle for the big table had broken The Jews’ spirits? Quietly, they set up at a nearby two-seater while we watched, shot one glance at each other, and knew we thought the same thing: We suck.
The triumph of selfishness lost a tiny bit of its glimmer. Who knew?
The next weekend, chastened, we arrived and saw something we hadn’t noticed before in our blood lust for the big table: in the far corner, a skinny rectangle of a table, empty and ignored. No, it wasn’t the perfect wide equality of the big table, but, still, it was just right somehow. Out of the way and private but with a view for people-watching. I mean, if a person was into that sort of thing. We looked at it, looked at each other, and knew the battle was over. MB plopped the leather bag on it and there we sat, setting up our Saturday morning things. When The Jews arrived, listless and ragged from their constant second place in this marathon of greed, we watched with secret glances as they stopped, saw the vacant big table, us at the skinny table, took it all in doubtfully, then moved in slow motion to claim what had been lost to them.
So that’s our ritual now. The cozy breakfast. The leather bag. The Saturday morning things. The skinny table for us. The big table for The Jews. This is our new detente. No words have ever been said between us.
The Judge still stares at my bag. And my boobs. But there’s only so much I can change.
I’ve just discovered that the voice recognition software I’m teaching myself has a database of voices.
So the software has a readback feature. You can talk to it for a while and then have it read back what you said so you can correct any misrecognitions. The more you “correct” the software, the better voice recognition you get. It’s interesting, really. Personalized to your voice. Someone else trying to talk on my software would not be recognized as well as I am because everyone’s voice is different. Weird and neat, huh? Also a tad creepy, let’s not ignore that. My software is designed for vocal monogamy, which I appreciate, I suppose; on the other hand, I am its entire world which is a lot of pressure. I’m only human.
From the start, I’ve been having it read back to me in my own voice, but damn, is that irritating. Shut UP, Trace, for the love of God. It’s not that I hate my voice, but I just heard myself talk to the software and, what, I wanna hear that whole dealio again?? No, no, I don’t.
But then, with one click of the mouse, I discovered The Database of Other Voices.
A voice other than mine? Heaven!
Okay. So they’re robotic voices, but the upside is …… they’re not MINE.
This afternoon, I listened to them all — auditioned them, held rigorous callbacks, the whole nine yards — and have selected my star, my lead here.
While I can’t play the voices for you, still, I’d like to introduce to you, pippa, the voices in my head:
(Oh, and I didn’t make these names up. These are their given names.)
1) Wade — Ah, yes. “Wade.” I listened to Wade’s audition and, well, found him rather generic. A bit of a snoozer. Bascially, Wade is anchorman material. You know, in Robotworld. He’s Robot Brian Williams, although that may be a slight redundancy. Acceptable, but nothing to swoon over.
2) Flo — Uhm, Flo started her audition and, seriously, I had a spontaneous Simon Cowell outburst. Within three seconds I heard myself saying to her in a proper British accent, “What the HELL was that? Did you just suck some helium balloons before your audition? I mean, is this a JOKE? No. One hundred percent NO. Go to Disneyland, tell them you’re the new Minnie Mouse, but please, get out of my head. Go. Now.” And I heard her. She cursed me under her breath as she left. Fine. Not my job to make you happy, Flo.
3) Chris — Sweet Fancy Moses. Chris was worse than Flo. Dude is clearly a castrati and should consider a career as a spotlight soloist for The Vienna Robot Boys’ Choir. Or just having his robot voice box removed entirely. Ew.
4) Skip — Oh, Skip. Skip is a gay auctioneer at Sotheby’s. Not what I want for the voice in my head. Thank you. Next.
5) Judy — Yamahama. Judy is Skip’s twin sister. She is a lesbian auctioneer at Christie’s. Wow. The vocal resemblance is striking and I never want to hear either of them again. It’s like a machine gun duel with those two. Or they remind me of a time I housesat for my friends and their rabbits got out of their cages and I was frantic looking for them when suddenly I heard the drillbit sounds of rabbit lovin’ — d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-ddddddd-d-d-d — coming from the corner and ran around in flappy-armed circles freaking out.
6) Granny — Yes, there is a voice called “Granny.” She is precious, I suppose, for a robot gammie, but I just felt wrong listening to a robot gammie’s voice in my head. I mean, am I supposed to be soothed, to feel warm and cuddly, about electronic gammie? No. No. That’s just WEIRD. I feel like I’m supposed to listen to her read to me whilst I eat cookies and if I tried to leave, she’d say, “SIT back down, young lady.” No. Too needy for me, Gams. Next.
7) Lester — Lester, sweetie, you think you might wanna call the doc for that adenoidectomy? Yeah? Okay. I think that’s a good idea. Boo-bye.
Finally, finally, after a tedious day of auditions, amidst a glowing golden aura, in walked …..
8) Bruno — Ah, Bruno. Bruno! Bruno is Robot Barry White. A voice full of honey and sex and a slap on the ass. Seriously. After swooning over Bruno’s first audition, I discovered I can actually tweak Bruno’s voice — adjust the pitch higher or lower, make it smoother or rougher, make it less breathy or more breathy. I shouldn’t have this kind of power. I’m just not responsible enough. The current version of Bruno — tweaked lower, rougher, more breathy, and ribbed for my pleasure, for God’s sake — is really a little too sexy. It’s naughty, is what it is. I’m naughty. A naughty little minx, I am. I’m almost waiting for him to start talking dirty to me. Seriously, Bruno. I’m waiting. Or, well … I could just read something to you and then …. you could read it back to me …….
Uhm ….. I gotta go …….
Do it light , taking me through the night
Shadow dancing , baby you do it right
Give me more , drag me across the floor
Shadow dancing , all this and nothing more
A live blog of my viewing of Any Gibb’s Shadow Dancing:
1) Andy, what’s with the Baptist sweater? My brother had that exact same sweater. No, really, every man at my church had that sweater. And one or two of the more masculine young ladies. It’s freaking me out. I’m waiting for this whole deal to devolve into Shadow Dancing at The Old Rugged Cross.
2) Oh, no! Andy! Dude! What’s with the pink get-up?? And the vest?? And you move like a Bobble Head doll. You’re frantic and jerky and — good Lord — apparently paralyzed from the waist down. Clearly, some sicko, taking advantage of your handicap, has dressed you all up in frothy pink against your will, ripped the buttons off your shirt to expose your compact and hairy little chest, propped you up on a stage and told you to wiggle about. Good thing I never saw this at the time I was mad for you and your cab-forward teeth. Would have killed my lust instantly.
3) The Shadow Dancers should really stay in shadow. Yamahama. They be bad.
4) At about the 2:23 mark, when you suddenly clutch the mic with both hands and close your eyes, uhm ….. honestly, I had to look away. It’s clearly a private moment and I feel, well, somewhat compromised being subjected to that, Andy Gibb. Take that Baptist sweater off right now, young man.
5) I’m still a little hot for your horse teeth though. I don’t understand it.
6) I’m unclear on something. You want me to shadow dance with you, but you want me to do it “light.” So there’s a fat-free version of shadow dancing, apparently? Help me, Andy Gibb. I want to understand this. If I’m going to shadow dance, why would I do it light? That’s like promising me ice cream then giving me frogurt. Like promising me cookies then giving me SnackWells. Like ….. like promising me something good then giving me something that sucks. I trust I make myself clear.
7) Hm. Is it just me or is this whole post laden with — totally unintentional — double entendres? I swear I’m innocent. And I’m Amish, let’s not forget. I have stated this repeatedly: My father’s family lived in Lancaster, PA and all that Amish stuff seeps into the collective psyche. It’s true. So don’t ask me what I’m even talking about, Ephraim. I don’t know. It’s the devil talking and now I’ll be grounded from rumspringa. Thanks, Beelzebub.
8) Still, Andy Gibb, you want me to do it “light” yet you want to be dragged across the floor. If I even understood this on any level, I imagine I would find this contradictory.
9) On the other hand, I want to play with your hair.
10) On the other hand, your complete earnestness about shadow dancing is still somewhat bewitching to me. And your healthy horse teeth.
Oh. I think I just hit puberty.
Our next-door neighbor, Loud Sex Guy, is two-timing on the loud blonde with a quiet brunette.
So next time I run into one of his girls, can I ask — all wide-eyed innocence now, “Oh. Did you color your hair? I thought it was blonde/brown. Uhm, it’s pretty.”
Because that’s how I roll. Giving encouragement whilst simultaneously planting seeds of doubt and paranoia.
Personally, I find the whole thing rather unsavory. Mainly because I find him rather unsavory. Shiver.
Because these are the kinds of things that clog my brain. Not the plight of GM or Chrysler, not the immigration issue, not the next Supreme Court appointment. No. No. It’s the minutiae that disables me, the excessive wondering if I’m normal which basically makes me abnormal which is no real surprise here.
So please. Answer these for me. (Copy and paste, copy and paste, pippa.)
You may give what you think is a typical, sensible range for these.
1) How many pairs of underwear should a person have?
2) How many bras should a woman have? (Men, unless you have an ardent opinion, you may skip this.)
3) How many pairs of socks?
4) How many purses should a woman have? (Men, see note above.)
5) How many ties should a man have?
6) How many pairs of shoes should a woman have? A man?
7) How many sheet sets should a person have for their bed — just the one bed?
8) How many pairs of sunglasses should a person have? (I live in Southern California; this is an issue. You are JUDGED by how many pairs of sunglasses you have.)
That’s all for now. Thankee.
