I’m using my voice to write this post — I am not typing — and I feel I need to tell you all something.
The truth of how I feel about all of you.
Only one word:
Bowchickawow-wow.
Victory! Halachah of all.
Uhm, okay. Wow. Pride goes before a fall. “Halachah of all”??? What am I, Jewish??
That should be hahahahaha.
Proceed apace, pippa.
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.
1. I’m back.
2. I think. So I need to get things — perhaps old, stale things to you — off my chest.
3. Uhm, let’s see. Oh. Just so you know: Gay cabaret singer Adam Lambert will win this season of American Idol. But oh yawnnn. He bores me, pippa. In my opinion he’s too specifically gay and needs to tone down his fabulousness if he wants to reach a wider audience. I see him either continuing to work in cabarets and clubs or fronting a band a la Freddie Mercury. I don’t see him as a solo artist. He’s a specific kind of performer, to me. Over the top. Self-indulgent. Clearly, he’s the best singer in the bunch, but … bleeah. The audience seems to love him and I do think he’ll win, but then the audience loved Taylor Hicks, too, and just a couple of weeks ago Hicks couldn’t even succeed in giving away — literally — tickets to his concert. So winning AI is obviously no guarantee of huge success. Lambert always teeters on the edge of being too much for me. Too affected. In that homogenous AI venue … by himself … it doesn’t work for me. Elsewhere, I could see it. Oh, and lose the Liza Minnelli hairdo, hon. Gah. His hair is very discouraging to me. Although my opinion of his hair likely won’t keep him from winning. He’ll win if he can keep his self-indulgence and excesses in check. But, overall, I’m kind of bored with AI these days. I watch intermittently and don’t even know from week to week who gets voted off. Doesn’t hold my attention so much this time around. The outcome seems like a done deal to me.
4. On the other hand, I cannot get enough of America’s Next Top Model. I came to this show late — only started watching a couple of seasons ago. This may sound like a weird word to use, but I love the generosity of this show. Unlike American Idol, which is very guarded and limited about how the contestants are presented, Top Model allows you to see the girls at the house they share, having their cat fights, bitching to the camera, throwing up, you know, whatever model wannabe’s generally do. You get to see what goes into a photo shoot from the perspective of the shoot director, the photographer, the model. You learn what it actually takes to be a model and, guess what, it’s harder than people think. You hear the judges’ critiques to the models’ faces and then you hear their critiques behind their backs, my favorite part. Tyra and her fellow judges are brutal and catty and sometimes hilarious. And that’s what I mean by “generous.” Uhm, not that “brutal and catty and hilarious” equal “generous,” but that we’re given these various perspectives on the business and the process. It’s more dimensional than AI. We’re given more access. You know, American Idol, instead of adding a new strident judge, why not more behind-the-scenes moments? Why not more with the vocal coaching, how the songs are chosen, the ups and downs for the contestants? I imagine it’s because AI is very invested in these carefully calculated images of its potential moneymakers. The producer — Simon Fuller — has a vested interest in their successful careers; they sign contracts with his company. Top Model winners are given contracts with Elite Model Management, so I imagine the producer — Tyra — makes money not from the models’ careers, but from putting out the best show she can. No skin off her nose if the girls are catty bitches, which they frequently are. Just this week, a great moment, a stunning moment during judging. One of the girls, a real whiny self-doubter named Tahlia, kept expressing to anyone who would listen, “I suck. I’m not sure I should be here. Maybe I should go home. I think I wanna go home,” etc. The rest of the girls gathered together and agreed that if anyone else but Tahlia were sent home, they’d be pissed and maybe they should say something, you know? So the photo shoot — where they all posed as immigrants to Ellis Island — comes and goes and, magically, Tahlia’s shot was chosen the best of the week. It WAS amazing. She looked gorgeous. Not only was she not going home; she was TOPS for the week. So this week’s loser is selected and she’s about to hug Tyra goodbye and — oops, wait! — suddenly Celia, the oldest and most mature of the girls, steps up next to the loser and proceeds to throw Tahlia under the bus in front of everybody.
“Tyra, all week long she’s told everyone she doesn’t want to be here, so I don’t think sending someone else home is fair.”
Oh, Celia. Why? You’re one of the best in the house and now you just look petty. And, ohhh, pippa. Tyra ain’t havin’ none of it. Her huge eyes flash in anger.
“You know what I think is unfair, Celia? You saying this. That’s unfair. Tahlia has said nothing to me and nothing to the judges about this. We’ve made our decision. Take your place, Celia.”
Take your place, Celia.
Yeeowwwch. So beautiful and so dismissive.
Celia steps back into line, bows her head, and begins to cry.
Honestly, I cannot get enough of that crap right now.
5. Oh. Very important! A whispered conversation with MB in the pre-show semi-darkness of the theater where I ask him to see if he can pinpoint why I refuse to see the movie Milk.
“I know you know.”
“I do?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Okay.”
“Remember, this is me we’re talking about, so think something stupid, then make it even more stupid.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
“Uhh …. you won’t see Milk because it’s called Milk.”
“Thaaat’s right, Crackie! Milk. Meeelk. I mean, what movies have “milk” in their titles? Okay, well, that Milk Money movie with what’s-er-name, uhm … Melanie Griffith. But that’s IT. I mean, what? Lord of the Milk?
“Milk Wars”?
“Milkin’ in the Rain”?
“12 Milky Men”?
“No Country for Old Milk”?
“How Stella Got Her Milk Back”?
We were losing it already, rapidly becoming those people you become wary of as you sit in the movie theater, waiting for the previews — you know, those loud, chatty people you worry will JUST NOT SHUT UP once the movie starts, but we could not help it; our self-amusement knew no bounds. And, basically, with that last one from MB, I was lost. Gone. Shaking in hysterics in my seat, repeating “How Stella Got Her Milk Back, How Stella Got Her Milk Back” over and over. I’m laughing about it right now. (And I did manage to calm down before the movie started.)
How many other fabulous new movies could be created by just changing one word of an old movie to some variation on “milk”? The possibilities are endless. Come on, Hollywood. Step up. I’m giving you gold here.
5. Snippet from the boardroom firing on “Celebrity Apprentice.” I caught a portion of this show last night — oh, who know why? But, apparently, Dennis Rodman is on this version and he’s falling apart, ditching projects, drinking constantly, being a worthless wanker. He seemed completely out of control to me last night and, yes, he does seem drunk most of the time. So the boardroom turns into this impromptu intervention. Hahaha, awesome. SO glad I saw this, because Jesse James, Sandra Bullock’s husband and custom motorcycle entrepreneur, flat out says, “Dennis basically has a drinking problem.” All the other celebs are sitting there — Joan and Melissa Rivers, Herschel Walker, Clint Black, etc., and they agree. They agree it’s bad and sad and Dennis just sits there with his sunglasses and his tats and his piercings looking like a douche. Jesse James, more articulate and savvy than I thought he’d be, continues to BRING IT, but he’s kind about it, empathizes with Rodman, “I used to have a problem, too.” He tells Rodman, “I’ve seen when we’re out on the street working a project together how people’s faces light UP when they see Dennis Rodman, and then when they approach you and try to talk to you, I’ve seen their faces fall with the disappointment of what you’re really like, man. It’s sad. We all like you and know there’s a good guy in there, but you have a problem.”
Others chime in with similar stories because Jesse James had the balls to open the door. Good for him. I mean, Brian McKnight had to tie Rodman’s tie for him, for God’s sake! He’s a mess.
Rodman tries to defend himself. “Phil Jackson said I was the best player he ever coached.”
Trump says, “Better than Michael Jordan?”
“Better than Jordan. Better than anyone. I won five championships. I never gave no one no trouble.”
Football great Herschel Walker chimes in. “But that was the past. We’re talking about the present, Dennis. What are you doing now?”
Ow. But maybe necessary coming from a fellow sports great. Oh, and also? Herschel Walker suffers from dissociative identity disorder, formerly called MPD — I Googled him — but all his team members on “Celebrity Apprentice” talk about what a rock he is, how solid he is. He seems that way. Plus, he’s yummy. Yummy scrummy.
Jesse James again. “All I wanna say is I’m sitting between two sports legends. Notice the difference.”
“You’re saying there’s a huge difference between Dennis and Herschel?” says Trump.
“Yes, sir,” say James.
Rodman interjects. “Outside of this boardroom, I can kick anybody’s ass at ANYTHING!”
“Well, then why don’t you kick our asses at being a good person?” says James.
Pippa, seriously. That has to be the best line on a “reality” show ever. Really, the best line I’ve heard in a long time in any venue: Why don’t you kick our asses at being a good person? Funny and poignant and TRUE. Jesse James is now my hero. Rodman really is messed up. Of course, he was fired, but everybody tried to hug him, wish him well, offer help, etc. It was actually really touching. I hope he got it, but I don’t think he did.
Now, go out and kick ass at being a good person, okay?
So so cute. (I think the “E” is my favorite.) And I’m not just randomly declaring alphabet favorites, pippa, I swear. Click on the link so you’ll know what I’m talking about.
Entirely too smushable.
Hello, pippa! I’m having some technical issues and will be without a computer for a couple of days here.
ACK! Can we all lay cyber hands on my computer and say “BE HEALED!!”?
I will either see you in a few days or, uhm …. never again. But let’s go with the former, okay?
Fingers crossed. Prayers said.
See you soon.
