Jukebox Baby

I love music.  My introduction was in the 70s as I was growing up and it developed into a broad selection.  The only songs that I remember from my childhood encapsulate the time: “December, 1963 (Oh, What A Night)” by The Four Seasons and “The Theme from Mahogany: Do You Know Where You’re Going To?” by Diana Ross or “On The Radio” being sung by the one and only, Donna Summer.  Everything was about having a party and enjoying life or melancholy wishful-thinking.  As I got older, my tastes became more defiant. In high school I easily listened to Samhain, The Misfits, and Slayer just because I was rebelling against some random thing or maybe I was just expanding my horizons.  Even if the songs were not my cup of tea, I gained a new respect for music, even though in retrospect, some of those songs I heard were hardly mystifying.  Topics generally ranged from anger to angst to turmoil to suicide to self-loathing.  Quite a mix of topical views that my age–at the time–embraced.  What I managed to love about music was its malleability, it’s way of conveying various emotions, interpreting those emotions and translating them into a form that would reach a mass audience.  Back then–I might add–no matter what the feeling was, there was a sense that songs did have a point.  In my opinion, the 80’s changed all of that with the genius invention called MTV and its new way of expressing creative ideas in visual form.  Now that was when it played music videos ad nauseum.  But being from that generation, I related to this new art form and once again I gave it a hug while mindlessly muttering the catch-phrase: “I want my MTV!” 

Before I tackle you with my view of the transition, let me first set the stage.  Most kids my age: about thirteen and a half had never seen anything remotely interesting when it came to music.  Oh sure, we’d ogle the paper sleeve of our favorite 45’s and marvel at the artwork on the cardboard covers of the LP (which sometimes had ’surprises’ in the brochure-style folds and creases–yea!), but we never had an intimate view of the band who sang.  The only time you could catch performers was on American Bandstand, the Soul Train, Solid Gold (with the Solid Gold dancers!) and late-night talk shows like The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson.  Then on some random day, my best friend, Barbara called me all excited.  She asked me to tune into a television station still in its infancy (UHF) that aired music videos at 3 o’clock every day after school.  You have to understand that there were maybe four major channels at the time: CBS (Channel 2), NBC (Channel 4), ABC (Channel 7), and WPIX (Channel 11).  The color television set was a privilege to have and shared by the whole family, which meant that Mom & Dad got to watch whatever channel they wanted and you had to live with it.  By this time, smaller sets were becoming more and more frequent, so I finally got my hands on my very own small black & white television.  And the way that I felt back then about having my own tv, you’d of thought I landed on the moon or something.  The way my tv set was made, there were two dials.  One was to manually (yes, manually) change the television stations.  The other was to tune into a different frequency.  Which meant that just by setting the channel to the UHF, didn’t mean that you were already tuned into the station automatically.  No.  You had to skillfully maneuvre past the channels with nothing but static and handle some vertical hold issues.  And the only way to get the station was by changingthechannelsonthetvthisfast, but when the picture came up miraculously, you felt as though you were witnessing The Dawn of Man.   The very first music video I ever heard, which played at the start of the program (which was called something simple like Music Hits or, Best Hits or Greatest Hits–a little help here?) was “You Spin Me ‘Round” by Dead Or Alive (but really I think this link is pretty intriguing because it shows the evils that plastic surgery has rendered on poor Pete Burns, lead singer of Dead Or Alive).  That period of my life was especially influential because it helped me realize why popular music was, well, popular.  That’s when I got to be well-versed in Duran-Duran, Cyndi Lauper, Michael Jackson, The Go-Go’s, Adam Ant and countless others.  Back then, even Willy Nelson was cool thanks to a little duet with Julio Iglesias about girls they’d loved before. 

In high-school, MTV was my poison.  I spent countless hours glued to the tv set much to my parents’ chagrin.  I bathed in their music video countdowns (uh, minus Carson Daly, thank you).  Their mix of VJ’s from Martha Quinn and Kennedy to Kurt Loder and Adam Curry became our familiar friends.  We stayed up all night to watch Headbanger’s Ball Liquid Television.  The music videos could have been corny, but they were memorable: Tawny Katane somersaulted on the hood of a car, Madonna rolled around in belly-button revealing clothes, Prince got out of a bathtub while doves flew about.  The music was synthesized so every song sounded like it being heard through a funnel.  It was light, cheery and all about decadence and fun.  MTV couldn’t have come at a better time.  Everything was in neon colors and brights!  The way to listen to it was in tape form, so you’d go to the mall, buy a bunch of Memorex and get your friends to “dub” you bootlegs that cost nothing.  The sound quality wasn’t great, but you just were excited to hear the new tunes that it didn’t matter.  It also promoted comradery because you couldn’tbe angry at your best friend for too long if you really wanted her to record U2’s, “The Joshua Tree” album, now could you?

When I entered college, though, my tastes started to really change.  I became more aware that The Police didn’t just sing, “Every Breath You Take”, but had a host of other albums I’d never heard of.  Going to the college bookstore was like a spelunking expedition.  You could find tapes dirt cheap with artists you may not have even heard of.  My new obsession became R.E.M. and I played the heck out of their “Green” album–just ask my sister.  She’d gotten tired of me raising the volume to play, “Get Up!” every morning before school.  I think she still hates me for that. 

I know this is going to sound weird, but I discovered Pink Floyd in college.  Yeah, it’d taken me that long.  It happened in one of my favorite English classes where a young girl named, Apricot Bigglesworth (not her real name) made friends with me.  I say friends, but really, college was a strange place that involved lots of people who really didn’t care what you did or didn’t do.  Apricot was no exception.  We weren’t chummy outside of class, but in class, we were friendly.  She was kind of like a star you couldn’t pin down and I was all moody-blue.  At least, that’s the impression I wanted to give off even though others were probably more aloof to me than I was to them, but hey…college.  Born in the wrong time period, Apricot was all-hippy-all-the-time.  She’d come to every class with two props: oranges and coffee.  An odd mix to be sure, but she was an individual.  One day, I asked her about her weekend and she described some kind of trip she’d been on (after smoking reefer) and how enlightened she became, at one with her music.  I’d never smoked anything, so I wondered what the heck the girl  was talking about until she nonchalantly handed me one earplug on her earphones.  The rest was trippy, man.  She had single-handedly introduced me to one of the greatest bands of all time: Pink Floyd.  “Oh yeah.  I’ve got all sorts of albums in my basement.  They’re all originals, man.  Yeah.  You should so, like, see the psychelic colors that show themselves on my wall when I’m listening to it.  It’s great.  Then came a little bit of The Beatles, some classic Rolling Stones, and a touch of Led Zeppellin.  My eyes had been shut to the mysteries of the universe and now came the flood…

In my sophomore year, I interned for Angel Records which handles the classical music scene in Manhattan.  Twice a week I traveled to 8th Avenue in New York and began my education in classical music.  I ended up falling in love with Hildegard Von Bingen, mainly because I had to package hundreds of those cd’s for sale.  It was a complex origami nightmare and I was so glad to leave after 3 months in Corporate America.  It was there that I realized that music was transitioning into a marketable, packagable thing.  No matter how haunting an aria was, it was still who was on the cover that sold the record.  I listened to The Scarlett Pimpernel, the soundtrack from Annie and traditional symphonies, and even got to meet the great Itzak Perlman (even though I nearly ran the man over).  But I digress…

Over the years as I’ve gotten older; the music (like me) has changed.  I’ve grown accustomed to more mellow grooves and indie-type jams.   I want songs with substance and lyrics worth a damn.  Hence, my love of Johnny Cash (and not that Walk The Line stuff, more of his American Recordings hymns) and the new Bruce Springsteen sans E-Street Band.  Reflective, inviting and challenging moralistic odes that feed my soul.  On my yukebox play some deep meaningful ballads, some creations by Radiohead or Bjork that are a fusion of lyrical and haunting.  And toss in a little Coldplay for good measure, but only if it starts becoming too much of a downer.  You with me?  Then, let’s party like it’s 1999!  C’mon, you loved that song, too!

As The World Turns

Life can be a soap opera.  Believe me, I know. 

While in my bathroom, I managed to overhear a VERY loud conversation where a man in his scruffy “I’ve-had-way-too-much-to-drink-therefore-I-can’t-lower-the-decibal-level-of-my-own-voice” is busy telling the whole world his, or rather, his sister’s life story.  Now, I know that her name is Meg and that she can’t stop drinking because she lost her husband ten months ago and her loving brother is wondering (aloud!) why she hasn’t gotten over it already.  Seriously.  I can’t tell if the conversation is coming from the bar downstairs or whether the fella is outside talking to a neighbor.  You see (like a soap opera) the walls are paper thin, everybody knows way too much about everybody else’s business, and there’s betrayal around every corner.  Betrayal that can make people want to do as this man wants to do: go to “Vermont” just so he can “relax” because heaven knows his sister is a miserable drunk that needs “a man in her life to get herself together”.  Great advice, bro.

I almost feel guilty for eavesdropping, but it’s kind of like watching the results of a wreckage.  You hope that nobody got hurt, but you still have to sneak a peek just to see the carnage firsthand.  I admit it.  I am a desperately horrible rubber-necker.  I crane my neck muscles as far as they’ll go (kind of like a turtle) until I see blood.  It’s not as morbid as it sounds.  Okay, maybe it is.  But I really think that it’s a learned habit that I acquired in my youth watching my mom run to the windows to catch the best view of the neighborhood fights or domestic disputes that could be at times hilarious or completely disheartening.  Either way, it was our own form of entertainment; crammed up in a stifling apartment building, overhearing arguments that spring up frequently,  the music of the downtrodden.   It seemed that this was the nature of the environment.  Blue collar towns that bring big trouble because of the stress of trying to make the rent or to pay the bills on time.  Husbands coming home from a late night out with the boys, after leaving the women the responsibility of taking care of the kids all day, was the perfect recipe for an outburst.  The perfect soup for a “It’s a wonder why I even come home!” comment and a “If you want to stay with your friends so badly, you should just pick up and leave!” revelation that almost always resulted in the cops coming to break up the squabble.  No one pressed charges, of course.  It would inevitably end with a sober-up squad-car ride along with empty promises that it’d “never happen again”.  Of course when it did happen again the following day or week, the argument would pick up right where it left off and my mom would be hanging halfway out the window just to catch the show.  Then there was the glass-to-the-door trick which didn’t always work, but managed to rid us all of our ennui.  It was always worth it to try and try again as if our life’s blood depended on the riot passing through the glass to our ear drums.  Did you hear that?  I think he said that she’s better shut up or he’ll hit ‘er.  I’m calling the police.  It was something to distract us from the misery of our own lives.  We could relish in the fact that at least our lives weren’t that bad. 

But forget all of that.  The best was yet to come this evening when a near-fight broke out in front of the bar.  As usual, it began as a war of words that escalated into a lot of huffing, puffing and threats of blowing the house down.  It never amounts to anything more than a display of manhood when the harmless cat-scratches and positioning end with male egoistic peacock struts up and down the block.  I often wonder why men always need to walk off their words as if every step is intended to be a scare tactic or assertion of what you’ll get if you mess with him.  Ooh, I’ll stomp on you with my big scary boots…but good…! It doesn’t do anything for me.  I prefer the aforementioned removal of the t-shirt.  That one’s more effective.  The strut isn’t terrifying or remotely intimidating.  It just looks like a goon is passing.

A few minutes later, the battle royale was over.  Most of these things are short-lived.  But I still had that funny brother conversation going on and managed to catch an off-handed remark about Meg’s hair color.  So I says to her, I says, why don’t you color your hair from the gray?  You can’t have it half gray and half color like that!  It drives me nuts how she don’t think about anything until I tell her to.  You believe that?

You can’t make this stuff up. 

I wonder if all of life’s private conversations would be allowed to take place if everyone in the world suddenly became aware that people around them listened.  What if say, after a particularly revealing confession someone were to use the information gathered in your weakest moments against you?  It’s really simple to get to know the names of the players in your soap opera, specifics on what’s going on in your personal life, and how often you make trips out-of-state to “get away from the bitch”.  Don’t even get me started on the cell-phone conversations gone awry.  Do the locals really need to know that you went out drinking last night and that your best friend’s on the rag?  No.  Too Much Information is just what we get used to feeding the general public, shining a fog light on our most intimate uglies.  When you get down to it, we all have horror stories, comedic anecdotes, and tall tales to tell.  But we must be wary: lest we invite too many viewers to our latest installment of, As The World Turns.  And turns.  And turns.

~Fin~

Image of Me:

I am way offended.  It seems that people have an image of me that doesn’t seem fair and I have to get it off my chest because if I don’t I’ll feel like a tool even though I’m so not and some may still think that I am because of this image they’ve created in their head about me.  Ugh!  How did it get to this point?  Oh, you know, Dick and Jane were talking by the water cooler and Dick says, “Hey, want to hang out on Friday at this random club?”  Jane, being the whorey bitch goddess that she is, responds, “Of course!”  Enter me.  I kind of mention to Dick and Jane that this sounds kind of neat and I invite myself too.  Only Dick can’t stop ogling Jane and secretly hopes that I really won’t come.  Hence, they dis-invite me.  I feel hurt, but then comes the kicker: Dick has the nerve to say, “Oh well, you’re in a really different place and all.  You’re settled.”

What the hell???

This is what I do not understand.  Am I married?  No.  Am I involved in a relationship with someone?  Yes.  Does he have me all locked away in an ivory tower?  No.  Am I a big girl who can go out and do whatever she pleases?  HELL YEAH!  So why do people automatically peg me as this “boring” chick who doesn’t go out and is perpetually forbidden to enjoy her life?  I dunno.  What’s with that anyway?  Who says?!  Oh yeah, Dick.

Thus begins my anger and struggle with this so-called ‘image’.  Just what does a girl have to do to enjoy herself? It begins when a few weeks ago I described myself as a homebody.  I am.  But, I do like going out and enjoying lunches with people, dinners with others, and having company to enjoy some things that I like to do.  I don’t want to hide behind some fabricated version of myself like an aloof celebrity reinventing themselves for a career on the silver screen.  (Aside: This reminds me.  Why in the heck do people always expect too much from me like I’m supposed to play their heroine, their rock-star goddess?  I mean, I have a natural tendency to make up words and phrases and do sometime speak as though I’m a throwback to another time.  Ah, slang.  You’ve been good to me).

Everyone has a distinct way of speaking.   For me, I have a set of terms that I use frequently.  Most call them, -isms. I  don’t know why I  have a tendency to use oft forgotten verbiage from bygone days where you could call someone a “card” or a “fuddy-duddy” and it was normal.  Sometimes, my phrases get lyrical even.  I’ll say something like, “Just because it doesn’t smell like teen spirit, doesn’t mean it’s all bad.”  I just can’t help the pop-culture references and the splices from television-show residue like, “Whatcha talkin’ bout, Willis?”.  I guess that’s why people find me so fascinating or funny.  Then again, I could just be full of shit and am subliminally creating a cooler version of me.  I dunno.

They say that inside everyone is a secret version of themselves.  Some are realized and become personas that you reveal to specific people.  For example, a friend from college will get a different version than your coworker would.  We are almost always versions of ourselves and that’s why when we try to combine them, it can confuse and mystify.  But I learned my lesson when I played the getting-to-know-you game with a friend from college and my friends from work.  It failed because each felt that I was overcompensating for the other when really I was splitting myself in two.  The college friends knew me one way, the coworkers knew me as being another way.  It was very revealing because although both ways were true, I ultimately realized that I couldn’t be both at the same time.  And let’s face it: we are different people depending on the occasion.  I will easily be one with my mom than I’ll be with my dad.  I’ll behave differently but both are versions of me.  I guess that’s what’s so confusing.  I’m not fake with one and real with the other, but I am definitely just…well…different. 

It’s the guise of being human I guess.  But that’s what makes it so interesting when we first get to know a person.  Perhaps we just want to get to the essence behind that human being.  It’s the mystery, the challenge of discovering someone’s personality.  Sometimes, we’re shocked how that mystery grows and gets deeper as the years roll by.  Sometimes, it’s just disappointing.  Whatever it is, it’s a helluva ride.

So…who do you wanna be today?

Feed Me Cheese, Not Bologna!

Big girls like myself who love our weight have to stop lying to ourselves.  It isn’t like we can’t lose weight the good ol’ fashioned way.  We can.  But somehow, we sit around the house long enough, we get to thinking that maybe there’s some sort of shortcut, some easier way, some bargaining tool that will aid us in the perpetual quest to stay thin.  Hence, the success of stupid diet programs, dietary shakes, fitness clubs, and horrible tasting nutritional bars.  The latest is some new supplement being pushed by our government with an ad that talks about how women lose weight differently than men.  It’s effective.  It’s even convincing.  The problem is that it’s a crock of shit.

Everyone’s in on the ‘trend’ that won’t go away.  Anna Nicole Smith did the whole, “TrimSpa, baby!” campaign and was successful, but we all know now what helped Anna lose the weight… Even my favorite crazy rocker, Courtney Love is not beyond the hype to come out saying that she lost the weight the old fashioned way, even though we also know that she’s a recovering herione addict and did admit to a little surgery here and there.  Duh.  She even went so far as to post those photos of her in an itsy bitsy teenie weenie bikini in an impromptu photo op to prove it.

So what I’m trying to say is that there’s no quick-fix.  Unless you get surgery, starve yourself, develop an eating disorder or get all kinds of obsessive spending countless hours in a gym, then you won’t lose weight.  But, if you diet and exercise you’ll be fine.  Or, like me, you can just decide that bigger is better and eat whatever the hell you want and worry about it when you’re dead.  Vive la difference! (And Bon Appetit!)

Celebrity Mockery

Having trouble reading?  Well, you should head on over here, then:

It’s Raining, It’s Pouring

While the world is stuck at home feeling yucky or down because of this noreaster passing through, I am happier than a clam.  I love rain.  I prefer to be indoors while it pours to be able to focus and listen to the drops fall.  I’ve been called, “morbid” and ”strange” for loving that downpour that douses the flowers and make green seem greener.  They don’t see what I see.  I enjoy walking in it even.  Rain just has a way of making me feel happy.  I tried to think of the real reason  behind this obsession with rain, but really,  I think it is a result of several reasons. 

The story goes…

That when I was in the womb-room (before I was born), my mom had a strange craving for dirt.  Not just any dirt, but the soft earth after a Puerto Rico rain.  Thus began my introduction.  Of course, I could never just know these things.  My real memory of the pleasure of rain came years afterward while, prior to a storm annoucing Spring, my Dad instructed my sister, me, and my mom to join him outside to reap the benificent shower that represented good luck.  The rain came down and we stood in it; my sister and I enjoying the large puddles and my mom and dad laughing and getting completely soaked.  As my parents stretched out their arms, they allowed the rain to wash away their worries, their fears, their adult burdens.  Who’d of thought…rain as a solution?? 

Rainy weather in my family always meant a good time.  And it couldn’t be a coincidence that my sister, as we were growing up, couldn’t pronouce the word “Rain”.  It became a private mission of mine to get her to say it properly.  Each time, I’d say, “Rrrr…”  She’d follow, “Rrrr…”  I’d repeat, “Rrrr-ain!”  She’d answer, “Wayne!”  It never failed.  Then there was the time that my family and I went on our summertime trip to The Lakes.  We usually went to Lake Hopatkong and would enjoy a little swimming, a little fishing, a little berry-picking, and some good eats.  But there was this one time…we decided to go but my parents must not have heard the weather report.  As we set up the picnic table with our barbecue, dark storm clouds were gathering over our heads.  I don’t even remember my dad and my mom wavering.  Instead, they just reacted–my dad fashioning a makeshift canopy out of a quilt that my mom had sewn, while my mom set me and Eli up underneath the picnic table.  Me and Eli pretended that it was our cottage in the woods and were almost glad that we didn’t have to deal with the persistent bugs ruining our meal.  Even when we had bought a swimming pool for our backyard, rain was never a deterrent.  Many a day we went outside for a swim while the rain poured down.  It added an extra element of excitement.

My favorite rainy day story has to deal with another family outing that involved an unplanned trip northeast.  As my dad drove, me and Eli complained about how we didn’t want to be on a family trip.  My mom complained because we’d left the house ill-prepared and my dad grew insistent that it wouldn’t spoil our fun.  Oftentimes our outings began this way: spontaneously and rashly but ended up someplace else.  So we went along with my dad, upset that we weren’t being heard.  We ended up at a water park and were disappointed to say the least.  Somehow though, it ended up being a lot of fun as my dad puchased swimming trunks for me and my sis, towels and flip-flops.  The whole trip was corny, but we made the best of it and sure enough, there was rain.  While we were cold and sopping wet, we froze while seeing a cheesy magic act and laughed the whole time.  That’s the way it was.  It was always great.

So come, noreaster, come.  I ain’t afraid o’ you…

This Is Your F***in’ Captain Speaking:

In another installment of Truth Is Stranger Than Fiction: the pilot shouting obscenities.  You just can’t make this stuff up.

How do you not know that you’re being heard through the in-flight loudspeaker?

Good Afternoon, Passengers this is your captain, Stubing.  Today the weather’s..holy S**t!  Did you know that this isn’t working?  Forgive me but there seems to be a problem with my…what the f**k?!  That’s never happened before.  Tell that bitch to call me back.  And…I don’t care if it’s 80 degrees in Florida, I know that I’ll turn this f**kin’ plane right around.  Did you hear me?? What??  Fine.  FINE!  I’ll take the call.  Hello??  What??  I’m getting ready to fly and…You owe how much on the f**kin’ house?  Bitch, I told you that I’d f**kin’ kill you if you ever, EVER missed the mortgage.  Can you hold onto this?  Yes, I’m talking to my co-pilot.  My co-pilot.  No,  no it isn’t Eleanor!  I told you that she’s back in Cincinnatti.  I stopped banging that ditzy broad a long time ago.  I-I can’t believe you’re bringing this up right now.  I’m about to take the f**k off!  Didn’t you hear me?!  I told you last night that I’d be in Denver tomorrow.  Yeah.  Well it can’t be helped.  What do you mean??  Just take care of the f**kin’ rent, that’s all!  I’m not yelling.  THIS IS YELLING.  YOU HEAR ME NOW, BITCH??  That’s right.  Just go ahead and leave.  What the f**k?  Where you at??  You’re where??  You f**kin’ whore!!  Ladies and gentlemen, this flight’s been cancelled.

If I could’ve been a fly on that wall.  Uh, cabin.  Heh.

Funny Things That People Actually Say

I have a bad habit of eavesdropping.  Most writers do.  We are so good at listening that we often forget to actively participate in our own lives, even.  But I seriously cannot believe some of the intensely personal conversations that go on.  Do these people even realize that at any given moment they could be spied upon revealing the most intimate parts of themselves?  Probably not.  But if they speak loudly, then they’re just asking for it, I tell myself.  It makes me feel better about the whole listening in on their conversation thing.  Here are the funny things that I overheard people actually say this week:

1. “So I said to my fiance, listen buddy, I’m the boss of you for the rest of your life.”  I couldn’t help but think, ‘Oh yeah.  That’ll last. 
2. “Paper cuts hurt!”  So does listening to you talk about how much your paper cuts hurt.  Ok, next topic.
3. “Ugly guys hit on me.”  Seriously, I wouldn’t advertise this one unless I am issuing a call to arms to all ugly guys everywhere.  Believe me, once they know they keep on coming…Consider it a self-fulfilling prophecy.
4. “I’m too cute to be a prostitute!”  Uh, I don’t even know how this conversation began.  How do you even start up a conversation like this??  To whit: I’m too smart to be a whoremonger.  Or, maybe I’m too dangerous to be a stock-car driver.  Maybe I’m too dimwitted to be a President?? 

There you have it.  It’s time to place your ears to the doors, turn off your headphones, and listen to what people have to say.  It’s its own form of entertainment.  You can find out the most witty, oddball, funny, personal information about everyone you eavesdrop on.  Then, if you’re smart you can use it as a future form of blackmail.  C’mon!  Like you wouldn’t…

Because…

…anytime is a good time for pie.

…Zed’s dead, baby.  Zed’s dead.

…You’ll always be mine.  Always and never.

…that was fuckin’ trippy.

…that’s pride fuckin’ with you.

…The gimp’s asleep.

…I don’t tip.  I don’t believe in it.

…I’m trying real hard to be the shepherd.

A: What is all the reasons I’ll watch the new QT / RR collaboration: Grindhouse. 

Anyone who doesn’t realize how wonderful the inside jokes are in Quention Tarantino (QT) and Robert Rodriguez (RR) films are, really need to watch Pulp Fiction, Sin City, Kill Bill Vol. 1 & 2, Once Upon A Time In Mexico, Four Rooms and Reservoir Dogs.  Back-to-back.  With intermission and popcorn preferably on a large-screen tv in surround-sound.  One must keep in mind that Quentin is the king of pop-culture so there will be references all over it of signature inside-jokes to his fans.  But if you are not familiar, I thought I’d make a list of a few that you could also cross-reference with imdb.com if you so choose:

1.  Red Apple Cigarettes
2. Tex-Mex references
3. bare feet
4. Band-aids
5. katana / samurai swords
6. car trunk camera shot
7. black skinny ties, white shirts, black suit
8. gorgeous cars (i.e. Pussy Wagon, cherry-red convertible)
9. Yummy Mummy & Fruit Brute cereals (both discontinued monster series)
10. Quentin cameos

It’s a gas to see what else they may come up with in the course of this now, double-feature.  So hold onto your seats, kiddies…it’s gonna be a fun ride.

If you spot any Quentin-Rodriguez-esque add-ons let me know.  I love what they both come up with.  See ya in the movies!

A Post (For Women ONLY):

I’m irregular.  Not just in general, but in a feminine hygiene kinda way. (If you’re still male and reading this: I warned ya).  For most women, this unwelcome visitor, Aunt Flo is often the worst part every month.  Well, in my case, Flo doesn’t give you any hint to her coming but will arrive late and decides to bring other guests like her friend, Mrs. Cramps and Miss Bloat.  Just when you least expect, she floods right on in and didn’t even bother to knock or ask for permission.  The nerve of some people! Now my body is indeed a temple and I like to keep it neat, so realize that Flo’s surprise visits are made more horrid because she always has a sixth sense to arrive when my house is the cleanest.  Hence, my fear to wear any light colored clothing until after I know Flo’s been by.  OK?

Here I was having an already lousy week because my job’s less-than-stellar and there’s this annoying project I’m working on.  But on the bright side, I said to myself, ‘It’s a short week due to the Good Friday.’  That’s when I felt this irritating ovary pain that unless you have experienced firsthand, is really hard to explain.  I will attempt to using this example of my mind’s thoughts during the excruciating period (pardon the pun):

Oh no.

Please, dear God, no.

Ow-ee, Ow-ee, Ow-ee ouch!  Here comes the pain…

Oh, dear God.  Please kill me, kill me, kill me.  I want to lay down.

Must. Survive.  Stabbing Pain.

I want to kill something.

I want to stab something.

Someone must suffer.  Dear Lord, someone will suffer.  I will make sure of it.

Once the initial hatred is gone, then comes the shooting pain up and down your leg.  After that, you feet swell up and you feel sore.  Not just in your feet, but ALL OVER.  Then, crampscrampscrampscrampitty cramps.  Some more pressure and…voila!  Bleeding!  Yippee!!! (only, NOT)

The pain makes you feel uncomfortable and annoyed at just about everything.  But here’s just a quick list of some things that bother me when I’m suffering from my period:

1. Noise (including whistling, desk-tapping, or gossiping)
2. Motion
3. Colors (especially if they’re bright)
4. Sunshine
5. Cold
6. Heat
7. People (including but not limited to: men)

Well, that’s almost all of the things that annoy me when I seem to be dying a slow, painful death.  The terrible truth–and forgive me for being so damned blunt but I did warn you–is that your sole wish is to be left alone to bleed.  All you think about is laying in a river somewhere to bleed.  Why a river?  Well, it’s the only thing I can think of that can wash away that nasty not-so-fresh feeling.  Just carry it downstream somewhere.  Shock the hell out of some fish.  Ewww….grossed out yet?  Told you to stop reading.  Jerks.