Thursday, May 24, 2007
This is just sad
I've noticed lately that whenever I come across a reference to the philosopher John Locke (most recently on Kella's blog), I am generally confused because my mind automatically assumes that it's a reference to the character John Locke on Lost. And I know it's been five years (as of Saturday) since I was in college and had to think about things like philosophers on a regular basis, but come on. That's still pretty sad. Not that it prevented me from spending the whole morning reading the TWoP forums to find out what people were saying about last night's awesome finale. Maybe there's a Philosophers Without Pity site I could peruse over the summer to try to regain a little of my intellect.
I've noticed lately that whenever I come across a reference to the philosopher John Locke (most recently on Kella's blog), I am generally confused because my mind automatically assumes that it's a reference to the character John Locke on Lost. And I know it's been five years (as of Saturday) since I was in college and had to think about things like philosophers on a regular basis, but come on. That's still pretty sad. Not that it prevented me from spending the whole morning reading the TWoP forums to find out what people were saying about last night's awesome finale. Maybe there's a Philosophers Without Pity site I could peruse over the summer to try to regain a little of my intellect.
Monday, May 21, 2007
In my dreams
I'm pretty sure that last night I dreamt that I had a little tete-a-tete with Lindsay Lohan, during which she revealed to me just how out-of-control the paparazzi coverage of her life had gotten, and I promised to swear off all celebrity-gossip reading to help her in her crusade against them.
I'm definitely sure that, the night before, I had a dream that my father had arranged for Jesus himself (in town for the second coming) to make an appearance at a birthday party my parents were throwing for Jennifer Hudson.
Yeah, I think that on the list of wackiest celebrity dreams I've ever had, the Jesus-and-Jennifer-Hudson combo ranks right up there at the top. (As for the Lindsay Lohan dream, I was just relieved it wasn't true. Giving up The Superficial would take more willpower than I have.)
I'm pretty sure that last night I dreamt that I had a little tete-a-tete with Lindsay Lohan, during which she revealed to me just how out-of-control the paparazzi coverage of her life had gotten, and I promised to swear off all celebrity-gossip reading to help her in her crusade against them.
I'm definitely sure that, the night before, I had a dream that my father had arranged for Jesus himself (in town for the second coming) to make an appearance at a birthday party my parents were throwing for Jennifer Hudson.
Yeah, I think that on the list of wackiest celebrity dreams I've ever had, the Jesus-and-Jennifer-Hudson combo ranks right up there at the top. (As for the Lindsay Lohan dream, I was just relieved it wasn't true. Giving up The Superficial would take more willpower than I have.)
Friday, May 18, 2007
Lyrical blunders, part infinity
I haven't posted in a while, simply because I've been under a great deal of pressure. You see, this is my 1,000th post. And while none of you would have known that if I hadn't just told you (unless you've been obsessively counting my posts over the past five years, in which case you might want to get a hobby), it doesn't negate the personal pressure I feel every time I sign into Blogger and see "999 posts" staring back at me. I mean, the 1,000th post? That's got to be spectacular, right?
Well, no. After more than a week at this stalemate, I realized that my only choices here were a) post something (anything) and just get it over with, or b) abrubtly end the blog at 999 posts. Since I'm not quite ready for the latter, I've chosen to forge ahead and mark this momentous occasion by telling you about something that, while not spectacular, has definitely been a recurring theme in the history of this blog. That's right, it's time for yet another lyrical mistake!
I've listened to the song "Kate" by Ben Folds Five quite a lot, on account of having a friend named Kate who loves Ben Folds Five, and also on account of owning a copy of the album it's on. Yet it wasn't until a couple of days ago, on my drive home from work, that I finally understood what one of the lines was really about.
Actual lyric: Down by Rosemary and Cameron, she hands out the Bhagavad Gita
Lyric heard by me: Down by Rosemary and Karen, she hands out the bag of Nikita
Wow, two lyrical blunders in one line! The first one I'm indifferent about, because they're both a person's name meant to be a street name, so unless Rosemary and Cameron is some famous intersection I'm not aware of and not just something Ben Folds made up, "Cameron" and "Karen" are totally interchangeable in my book. As for the second mistake? Um. I really wish I had one of my trademark outlandish stories to explain this one away, as it would no doubt involve the title character (Kate) somehow procuring and then charitably giving away a satchel once owned by former Soviet Union leader Nikita Krushchev, but unfortunately, this is just one of those that I knew in my heart was wrong and yet never bothered to look up. But now that I think about it, would the scenario that I just made up on the fly really be that more ludicrous than this Kate standing on a corner and handing out copies of an ancient Indian epic? All right, maybe a little.
UPDATE: While trying to satisfy my curiosity about "Rosemary and Cameron" (turns out they are real streets, albeit ones that don't actually intersect, in Chapel Hill, North Carolina), I came across another interpretation of the lyric here: Down by Rosemary and Cameron, she hands out the bong of Evita. Ha! Drug paraphernalia belonging to the former first lady of Argentina is way funnier than some Cold War knapsack.
I haven't posted in a while, simply because I've been under a great deal of pressure. You see, this is my 1,000th post. And while none of you would have known that if I hadn't just told you (unless you've been obsessively counting my posts over the past five years, in which case you might want to get a hobby), it doesn't negate the personal pressure I feel every time I sign into Blogger and see "999 posts" staring back at me. I mean, the 1,000th post? That's got to be spectacular, right?
Well, no. After more than a week at this stalemate, I realized that my only choices here were a) post something (anything) and just get it over with, or b) abrubtly end the blog at 999 posts. Since I'm not quite ready for the latter, I've chosen to forge ahead and mark this momentous occasion by telling you about something that, while not spectacular, has definitely been a recurring theme in the history of this blog. That's right, it's time for yet another lyrical mistake!
I've listened to the song "Kate" by Ben Folds Five quite a lot, on account of having a friend named Kate who loves Ben Folds Five, and also on account of owning a copy of the album it's on. Yet it wasn't until a couple of days ago, on my drive home from work, that I finally understood what one of the lines was really about.
Actual lyric: Down by Rosemary and Cameron, she hands out the Bhagavad Gita
Lyric heard by me: Down by Rosemary and Karen, she hands out the bag of Nikita
Wow, two lyrical blunders in one line! The first one I'm indifferent about, because they're both a person's name meant to be a street name, so unless Rosemary and Cameron is some famous intersection I'm not aware of and not just something Ben Folds made up, "Cameron" and "Karen" are totally interchangeable in my book. As for the second mistake? Um. I really wish I had one of my trademark outlandish stories to explain this one away, as it would no doubt involve the title character (Kate) somehow procuring and then charitably giving away a satchel once owned by former Soviet Union leader Nikita Krushchev, but unfortunately, this is just one of those that I knew in my heart was wrong and yet never bothered to look up. But now that I think about it, would the scenario that I just made up on the fly really be that more ludicrous than this Kate standing on a corner and handing out copies of an ancient Indian epic? All right, maybe a little.
UPDATE: While trying to satisfy my curiosity about "Rosemary and Cameron" (turns out they are real streets, albeit ones that don't actually intersect, in Chapel Hill, North Carolina), I came across another interpretation of the lyric here: Down by Rosemary and Cameron, she hands out the bong of Evita. Ha! Drug paraphernalia belonging to the former first lady of Argentina is way funnier than some Cold War knapsack.
Thursday, May 10, 2007
The ride with you was worth the fall, my friend
Ever since I discovered yesterday in my finale frenzy that the title of next week's Grey's Anatomy finale is "Didn't We Almost Have It All?", the song has been swirling around in my head. That's not as bad as some of you may be imagining, because I secretly love that song. For one thing, it's really fun to sing at the top of your lungs. (As is Journey's "Open Arms." Just a little tip from me to you.) For another, it's the title of a section in one of my favorite books, Judy Blume's Summer Sisters, which I've made it a point to read at the beginning of each summer every year since my senior year in college. But the real reason I love the song is because it reminds me of my childhood, a fact that didn't hit home until I was finally forced to do what you have to do when you just can't get a song out of your head: download it on iTunes.
It was there that I became reacquainted with one of my favorite albums from my youth: Whitney Houston's sophomore release, Whitney. My family took a lot of car trips in my younger days, yet we had preciously few tapes that my sister and I could listen to on our red (hers) and pink (mine) walkmans, which meant that every single tape left an indelible mark on my young heart. While I somehow managed to come into possession of a few of these tapes (I still have and listen to the Big Chill and Dirty Dancing soundtracks, although I'm pretty sure I lost the Beatles compilation and Huey Lewis & the News's Sports somewhere along the line), Whitney was one that slipped through the cracks. So when browsing through the album on iTunes this morning, it was like being reunited with an old friend.
Although I loved "I Wanna Dance With Somebody," "So Emotional" and "Didn't We Almost Have It All?" beyond all reason, my hands-down favorite on the album was "Love Is a Contact Sport," which was perhaps the most stupidly named song until Britney Spears came on the scene in the late '90s with "E-Mail My Heart." The reason for this love was simple: When I was in second grade, a new dance and gymnastics studio opened up in my town. My sister and I, despite having no indications of gymnastic talent, immediately ditched dance (we had already been taking tap and ballet for a couple years at a studio in another town) and signed up for gymnastics. We were so bad at it that we didn't make the cut to perform in the big recital at the end of the year, and therefore we had to sit in the audience while all of our friends who had smartly stuck with dance got to perform. The crowning performance that year was a number featuring the "big girls" (i.e., the few high-schoolers who still took dance) and the "little girls" (our friends) as opposing football teams, set to the tune of "Love Is a Contact Sport." They got to wear really big T-shirts that looked like football jerseys--the big girls' said "Big Angels," and the little girls' said "Little Devils." Oh, how I coveted those big T-shirts! The only thing that could comfort me during this dire time was listening to the song repeatedly on my walkman and imagining myself on stage with the big girls, too.
You know, I think I probably need to cut off this musical trip down memory lane before I start downloading Mariah Carey and Celine Dion, both of whom nursed me through many an adolescent heartbreak.
Ever since I discovered yesterday in my finale frenzy that the title of next week's Grey's Anatomy finale is "Didn't We Almost Have It All?", the song has been swirling around in my head. That's not as bad as some of you may be imagining, because I secretly love that song. For one thing, it's really fun to sing at the top of your lungs. (As is Journey's "Open Arms." Just a little tip from me to you.) For another, it's the title of a section in one of my favorite books, Judy Blume's Summer Sisters, which I've made it a point to read at the beginning of each summer every year since my senior year in college. But the real reason I love the song is because it reminds me of my childhood, a fact that didn't hit home until I was finally forced to do what you have to do when you just can't get a song out of your head: download it on iTunes.
It was there that I became reacquainted with one of my favorite albums from my youth: Whitney Houston's sophomore release, Whitney. My family took a lot of car trips in my younger days, yet we had preciously few tapes that my sister and I could listen to on our red (hers) and pink (mine) walkmans, which meant that every single tape left an indelible mark on my young heart. While I somehow managed to come into possession of a few of these tapes (I still have and listen to the Big Chill and Dirty Dancing soundtracks, although I'm pretty sure I lost the Beatles compilation and Huey Lewis & the News's Sports somewhere along the line), Whitney was one that slipped through the cracks. So when browsing through the album on iTunes this morning, it was like being reunited with an old friend.
Although I loved "I Wanna Dance With Somebody," "So Emotional" and "Didn't We Almost Have It All?" beyond all reason, my hands-down favorite on the album was "Love Is a Contact Sport," which was perhaps the most stupidly named song until Britney Spears came on the scene in the late '90s with "E-Mail My Heart." The reason for this love was simple: When I was in second grade, a new dance and gymnastics studio opened up in my town. My sister and I, despite having no indications of gymnastic talent, immediately ditched dance (we had already been taking tap and ballet for a couple years at a studio in another town) and signed up for gymnastics. We were so bad at it that we didn't make the cut to perform in the big recital at the end of the year, and therefore we had to sit in the audience while all of our friends who had smartly stuck with dance got to perform. The crowning performance that year was a number featuring the "big girls" (i.e., the few high-schoolers who still took dance) and the "little girls" (our friends) as opposing football teams, set to the tune of "Love Is a Contact Sport." They got to wear really big T-shirts that looked like football jerseys--the big girls' said "Big Angels," and the little girls' said "Little Devils." Oh, how I coveted those big T-shirts! The only thing that could comfort me during this dire time was listening to the song repeatedly on my walkman and imagining myself on stage with the big girls, too.
You know, I think I probably need to cut off this musical trip down memory lane before I start downloading Mariah Carey and Celine Dion, both of whom nursed me through many an adolescent heartbreak.
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
Dare I dream?
I have a lot that I want to write about (including my recent hang-gliding experience), but for the moment, I seem to be stuck on one of my favorite subjects. For once, it's not mice or Thailand, so therefore it must be my old standby: TV.
Right now we're heading into finale season, which is pretty much my favorite time of the year. It seems odd that someone who loves television as much as I do would relish the descent into an extended hiatus, but I've generally found that shows tend to save all their best material for the finales. With the exception of the usual annoying cliffhangers (I'm looking at you, Lost), most shows use their season finales to satisfactorily tie up all the loose ends that have been floating around all season.
But then there's the series finale, which is a horse of a slightly different color. By the time the series finale rolls around, most shows are past their prime. (And if they're not, they likely don't know that the season finale they're preparing will actually end up being the death knell for their series.) Then there's the challenge of how to pay fitting tribute to multiple seasons in one episode, wrapping it all up with a resolution that will satisfy the majority of your fans. It's no wonder most series finales are crap.
Of course, a lot of them could avoid this fate if they'd just take my advice. The Friends writers didn't, and while their finale wasn't terrible, it wasn't nearly as good as it could have been. So I'm going to try again, this time with Gilmore Girls, which will be airing its series finale next week.
Sometime in the past year (probably during The Summer of Gilmore), I was suddenly struck with what I believe to be the perfect ending for the show: Rory goes to Fez. If you don't watch Gilmore Girls (which is probably most of you; I suspect Dave and I are the only ones still watching it, which is probably why it got cancelled), I'm guessing you don't care what this means, and therefore I won't go into a lengthy explanation. If you do watch the show, though, you can certainly appreciate the sheer brilliance of this idea. Given that next week's episode is titled "Bon Voyage," I'm hoping for the best.
In keeping with this post's finale theme (and in an attempt to address some shows people actually do watch, just in case anyone's still reading), I figured this is as good a time as any to post my personal top 5 finales of all time (subject to change, of course, in the coming weeks):
5. The Office, Season 2. I downloaded this from iTunes last summer on a sick day, and I must've watched John Krasinski tell Jenna Fischer "I'm in love with you" at least a hundred times. And not just because I secretly wished he were talking to me instead--it was the most perfect line delivery I've ever heard, with equal parts pain, relief and incredulousness. Even if the rest of the episode had sucked (it didn't), it would have earned a place on the list for that moment alone.
4. Felicity, Series Finale. Or, more accurately, what was supposed to have been the series finale. This one would be higher on the list if not for that technicality. But as I've said before (and will undoubtedly say again), I refuse to recognize the utterly stupid, WB-placating time travel episodes that follow it. So for me, the graduation episode will always be the real end to the series. And I can think of no better way for it to end than for Ben showing up and telling Felicity that it's his turn to follow her.
3. Dawson's Creek, Season 3. This is one of my favorites for two reasons: One, the final scene with Joey and Pacey--after all the misery Dawson puts those two through during the season, it's always a relief to see them happy, together and sailing the hell away from him. The second reason is that I love, love, love the Television Without Pity recap of this episode. I think I've actually read it more times than I've watched the episode. And yet lines like "Dawson snorts with enough force to propel a nearby squirrel into the creek" never fail to crack me up.
2. Grey's Anatomy, Season 2. Yes, it was three hours long. And yes, there was quite a bit of contrivance that led to having a high-school prom in a hospital. But there was also an abundance of all the things I love most about GA, namely superb acting, illicit sex and lots of crying. Oh, so much crying. And if this episode didn't compel you to go out and download that Snow Patrol song...well, you're a stronger person than I am. (Then again, history has shown that I tend to be pretty weak when it comes to that sort of thing.)
1. The O.C., Season 1. Back in 2004 (i.e., that fabled time when The O.C. was still good), this set the bar for what a season finale should be, and it has yet to be surpassed. The parallels to the beginning of the season were great, and the acting was all-around wonderful, even from the notoriously wooden Mischa Barton and Ben McKenzie. Plus, it never fails to make me cry (it's always the scene in the closing montage, where Kelly Rowan breaks down into tears and Peter Gallagher comforts her, that gets me) and it introduced me to both Iron & Wine's "The Sea and the Rhythm" and Jeff Buckley's "Hallelujah." So I kinda have to love it.
I have a lot that I want to write about (including my recent hang-gliding experience), but for the moment, I seem to be stuck on one of my favorite subjects. For once, it's not mice or Thailand, so therefore it must be my old standby: TV.
Right now we're heading into finale season, which is pretty much my favorite time of the year. It seems odd that someone who loves television as much as I do would relish the descent into an extended hiatus, but I've generally found that shows tend to save all their best material for the finales. With the exception of the usual annoying cliffhangers (I'm looking at you, Lost), most shows use their season finales to satisfactorily tie up all the loose ends that have been floating around all season.
But then there's the series finale, which is a horse of a slightly different color. By the time the series finale rolls around, most shows are past their prime. (And if they're not, they likely don't know that the season finale they're preparing will actually end up being the death knell for their series.) Then there's the challenge of how to pay fitting tribute to multiple seasons in one episode, wrapping it all up with a resolution that will satisfy the majority of your fans. It's no wonder most series finales are crap.
Of course, a lot of them could avoid this fate if they'd just take my advice. The Friends writers didn't, and while their finale wasn't terrible, it wasn't nearly as good as it could have been. So I'm going to try again, this time with Gilmore Girls, which will be airing its series finale next week.
Sometime in the past year (probably during The Summer of Gilmore), I was suddenly struck with what I believe to be the perfect ending for the show: Rory goes to Fez. If you don't watch Gilmore Girls (which is probably most of you; I suspect Dave and I are the only ones still watching it, which is probably why it got cancelled), I'm guessing you don't care what this means, and therefore I won't go into a lengthy explanation. If you do watch the show, though, you can certainly appreciate the sheer brilliance of this idea. Given that next week's episode is titled "Bon Voyage," I'm hoping for the best.
In keeping with this post's finale theme (and in an attempt to address some shows people actually do watch, just in case anyone's still reading), I figured this is as good a time as any to post my personal top 5 finales of all time (subject to change, of course, in the coming weeks):
5. The Office, Season 2. I downloaded this from iTunes last summer on a sick day, and I must've watched John Krasinski tell Jenna Fischer "I'm in love with you" at least a hundred times. And not just because I secretly wished he were talking to me instead--it was the most perfect line delivery I've ever heard, with equal parts pain, relief and incredulousness. Even if the rest of the episode had sucked (it didn't), it would have earned a place on the list for that moment alone.
4. Felicity, Series Finale. Or, more accurately, what was supposed to have been the series finale. This one would be higher on the list if not for that technicality. But as I've said before (and will undoubtedly say again), I refuse to recognize the utterly stupid, WB-placating time travel episodes that follow it. So for me, the graduation episode will always be the real end to the series. And I can think of no better way for it to end than for Ben showing up and telling Felicity that it's his turn to follow her.
3. Dawson's Creek, Season 3. This is one of my favorites for two reasons: One, the final scene with Joey and Pacey--after all the misery Dawson puts those two through during the season, it's always a relief to see them happy, together and sailing the hell away from him. The second reason is that I love, love, love the Television Without Pity recap of this episode. I think I've actually read it more times than I've watched the episode. And yet lines like "Dawson snorts with enough force to propel a nearby squirrel into the creek" never fail to crack me up.
2. Grey's Anatomy, Season 2. Yes, it was three hours long. And yes, there was quite a bit of contrivance that led to having a high-school prom in a hospital. But there was also an abundance of all the things I love most about GA, namely superb acting, illicit sex and lots of crying. Oh, so much crying. And if this episode didn't compel you to go out and download that Snow Patrol song...well, you're a stronger person than I am. (Then again, history has shown that I tend to be pretty weak when it comes to that sort of thing.)
1. The O.C., Season 1. Back in 2004 (i.e., that fabled time when The O.C. was still good), this set the bar for what a season finale should be, and it has yet to be surpassed. The parallels to the beginning of the season were great, and the acting was all-around wonderful, even from the notoriously wooden Mischa Barton and Ben McKenzie. Plus, it never fails to make me cry (it's always the scene in the closing montage, where Kelly Rowan breaks down into tears and Peter Gallagher comforts her, that gets me) and it introduced me to both Iron & Wine's "The Sea and the Rhythm" and Jeff Buckley's "Hallelujah." So I kinda have to love it.
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
World domination: achieved!
If I hadn't already suspected that MySpace had managed to achieve its apparent goal of taking over the entire world, this post of Holly's probably would have clued me in. And if I still had any lingering doubts, the voicemail that I received from my friend Chris yesterday would have cemented it. It went as follows: "Hey, Clare, it's Chris. Call me back and tell me what your MySpace name is so I can add you as a friend."
Yes, that's right. It seems that we've moved well beyond the point where "Are you on MySpace?" is a conversation starter. Now it's just assumed that, if you don't live under a rock (or in a bag), you must be on MySpace. Perhaps I should just pick up and move to Dubuque now, because I still have no intention of jumping on the MySpace bandwagon. And not just because I hear all the good derogatory URLs are taken.
If I hadn't already suspected that MySpace had managed to achieve its apparent goal of taking over the entire world, this post of Holly's probably would have clued me in. And if I still had any lingering doubts, the voicemail that I received from my friend Chris yesterday would have cemented it. It went as follows: "Hey, Clare, it's Chris. Call me back and tell me what your MySpace name is so I can add you as a friend."
Yes, that's right. It seems that we've moved well beyond the point where "Are you on MySpace?" is a conversation starter. Now it's just assumed that, if you don't live under a rock (or in a bag), you must be on MySpace. Perhaps I should just pick up and move to Dubuque now, because I still have no intention of jumping on the MySpace bandwagon. And not just because I hear all the good derogatory URLs are taken.
Subscribe to Posts [Atom]