I don't want to wait for our lives to be over.

Found in a box of paperbacks from 2004, intended as summer reading prizes:

Also in the box: a Buffy paperback about Cordelia, a Clueless tv show tie-in, a Sabrina the Teenage Witch (although not my favorite Sabrina, which features the world's saddest piratical eye patch. Like, I think they just took an old pictures of Clarissa and sharpied an eye patch on.*), and a Popular. Remember Popular?
Here's the back cover blurb of Bayou Blues

"No one is allowed."
Joey, Pacey, Dawson, and Jen shudder at the housekeeper's ominous words. It's dark and gloomy at one end of the Southern plantation where Jen's cousin Monique lives, and nothing's been touched in the off-limits wing since 1870. Isabella Percy, Monique's relative, died there of a broken heart, waiting in vain for her true love to return after the Civil War.
A spooky mansion, a secret tunnel, a romantic love story, and some voodoo: Dawson is convinced the group is in for the adventure on their lives.
But evil is near.

Jinkies!

*

Why is this blog different from all other blogs?

Yeah, this post? Let's just say that if you didn't think my whole "Taco Seder" thing last year was funny, you might want to go check out something else. 'Cause we're all about the blasphemy here at PoBaL, especially during the Easter/Passover season. Now, on to our story...

I turned on the tv, saw this, and was intrigued. Turns out, it's the story of Passover. Or, as the Christians call it, Exodus. I also find the term "Israelite" interesting. Like no one's going to know you're talking about the Jews or something.
Look, it's a plague! And another plague! And, uh, raising dust that will turn into a plague!


Man, when God smotes you, he does a thorough job.
Oh, check out Jewy McHeeb-bergstein. He's our narrator and host.
I'm not sure, but I think those dark, Semitic circles under his eyes might be painted on.
For the record, there were a few Jewish cowboys, ladies and gentlemen. Big guys who were great shots and spent money freely.
More plaguing it up (this is my favorite of the plague pictures):

Every time Moses talks to Pharoah, he's in the bath. What is this, Old Testament slash?

And check out Moses' expression in this one:

That's not, "Let my people go!" That's, "Hey buddy, you know--heh heh--we were both drunk, things happened..."
If you're interested there's more on my flickr. I'm putting them in a slideshow so everyone can enjoy the magic of this seasonal and poorly animated show my TV can barely get a signal for.
Melissa, feel free to use this post in your godmotherly duties to Rose.

Wooord! The Ghostwriter Drinking Game

And now, ladies and gentlemen, I give you...

Drinkin' 'n' Watchin' GW*
Drink when/for

• new Gaby's in the episode
• Calvin is in the episode
• Hector makes a grammatical error
• there's sexual tension between Tina & Alex
• exceptionally bad line execution
• some sort of fake product/brand name is shown or mentioned
• anything overly "ethnic" happens
• Lenni displays her "talent"
• Rob displays his "talent"
• Jamal uses science
• Tina videotapes something or mentions being a filmmaker
• holes in the Ghostwriter mythology
• celebrity or pre-celebrity
• ill-fitting clothing
• exceptional stupidity *drink twice if it's not Gaby*
• Tina's wearing her retainer
• "Everything's in Brooklyn!" phenomenon
• cop says, "I don't know how you kids do it"
• Frank, Kathryn, etc use wooden old-timey slang
• deep social issues
• tension because there aren't enough letters for Ghostwriter to send a message
• a code is cracked
• Jamal acts "suave"
• mention of the High School of Science
• Lenni flips out at/is rude to her dad's girlfriend
• Jamal has more immediate familythan his grandma
• bad computer effects
• the handwriting is obviously different
• someone says "rewind"
• someone says "peicing the puzzle"
• someone says "Ghostwriter!" like they forgot about him
• fake music
• bad dancing
• mention of the casebook *drink twice if it's not Gaby's*
• someone wears too much makeup
• there's an unnecessary use of a computer
• someone new sees Ghostwriter
• a team member's in a life-threatening situation *drink twice if it's not Gaby*
• *drink twice if a team member is suspected by anyone*
• mention of Lenni's mom
• team member in a tunnel of some sort
• bad accents
• Tina's family is mentioned or shown
• Rob's carrying a skateboard
• criminals that do completely retarded things
• someone's passing puberty is obvious
• wooden British slang when Jamal's in the UK

(We think this was written 2001-2002.)

Thursday's rags when Monday comes around

Before you do anything else, go over to Tim Gunn's blog and read about the episode that just about killed me.
I hate you, Michael Kors, Elle woman, and Kara.
I miss Andrae already. I would totally wear that topiary dress. With my pointy black pumps and my hair all pinned back? SO cute!
See, this is the thing: if you put together a plant-and-flowers challenge, and half of the people left, people that you've chosen, are all about the highly impractical, wearable art, couture-ish angle, and you're all Michael Kors lame ready-to-wear, aren't you at least partly at fault? Can't you kind of be seen as setting them up to fail, at least a little bit?
Take Santino. The judges saw his stuff, selected him, and then were consistently yelling at him for doing the same sort of thing they chose in the preliminary rounds.
Lame.
I do, however, completely heart Tim Gunn. "Andrae, be proud of your fine showing and see you at the Red Lobster!" How can you not be in love?
How I feel with Andrae gone.
Here's some more Andrae.
Don't worry, I won't get this ridiculous everytime someone I like leaves. I just really liked this guy, I think he's really talented, that gutter water dress was amazing, and I can't begin to describe how much I wanted Kara to go home.
***
Billboard Feb 4 2006

• cover: "Going for Platinum: Winter Olympics Target Youth Audience With Huge Roster of Music Stars"
  
• and there are 10 musicians pictured, including Lou Reed & Simon LeBon.
  
• Who targets a youth audience with Lou Reed?
  
• By the way, I still hate the Olympics.
  
• I think I saw this James Blunt guy on something and he was awful, but I don't remember.
  
• More about Matisyahu, which is just so strange.
  
• Agh! Waxy Barry Manilow! Huge picture!
  
• Yay, nightmare-inducing work situations.
  
• Apparently, Conservative Canadians = Yay! for Music Business.
  
• Too bad it equals boo for everyone else.
  
• I'm also annoyed, as usual, by all things Bare Naked Ladies.
  
• and my stomach hurts. I think there might be something going around.
  
• At first, I thought it was my poor eating habits.
  
• Then I had another scary, middle of the night theory, but then I went back to the eating habits.
  
• Didn't stop me from rocking some Indian food and Project Runway last night, though.
  
• Wednesday, had another bad fish sandwich.
  
• I can't be the only person to have seen Eva Longoria's dance club song on SNL a few weeks ago, can I? It was really funny.
  
• Wow, there's a lot about Canada this issue.
  
• Cara, have you become an editor for Billboard?
  
• Chris Cornell is to be the face of John Varvatos' spring 2006 campaign.
  
• I used to wear his men's cologne.
  
• Varvatos, not Cornell.
  
• & I've always hated Soundgarden.
  
• Here's an entertaining caption: "Flipsyde with Michelle Kwan"
  
• And there's Lou Reed again.
  
• Seriously, what's Lou gonna do? Bring in that all-important "We hate everthing, but I guess we hate the Olympics a little less 'cause Lou's involved" hipster vote?
  
• Oh, now I have to read, er, skim this stupid article just to find out.
  
• The Donnas are being referred to by their real names now.
  
• Sellouts.
  
• Ah-ha! Lou's manager is going to try and turn Olympic performance footage into a Bravo special. It all makes sense now.
  
• Sometimes I forget that NBC owns Bravo.
  
• I'm hungry through my slightly queasy stomach.
  
• Good thing I've got something simple, like saag paneer leftovers, for lunch.
  
• I'm happy and angry!
  
• Anthony Kiedis looks like Cameron Crowe in this picture.
  
• Jewel's got a new album coming out.
  
• You can all make fun of that on your own, right? You don't need my help.
  
• Lou gets to be a "rock visionary" on the Backbeat page.
  
• Under that, we have Gene Simmons (cue noises of disgust) standing veeeery close to the cross-eyed columnist.
  
• "The three sons of rock legend Ricky Nelson..."
  
• That's right, Gunnar and Matthew.
  
• After the rain, indeed.
  

just a steeltown girl on a Saturday morning

I hate working weekends. I just thought I'd get that out there. I had Friday off, and I planned on doing all sorts of things, like a library visit, getting Junior's oil changed, changing kitty litter, etc. Then I got way-laid by The Purse and Passions.
Which, first of all, can anyone tell me exactly what Liz framed Eve for? And I love love love that Whitney is a nun now. How do you solve a problem like having a child with the man who you later realized is your half brother? How do you hold a sunbeam in your hand? I also like that whatsherface, Ethan's wife, is becoming more bitchy and soap opera badgirl, as opposed to just the whiny little bitch who feels threatened by Theresa.
Passions remains a great show, because I could work on an increasingly complicated knitting project (that was kind of a pun, b/c it was complicated b/c I was decreasing--don't kill yourselves laughing, people) and still figure out the major plot points, at least about the characters I want to know about. I don't give a shit about the "sexy" new bartender and Ivy's family.
Also Friday there was supposed to be Boy Hanging Out, which didn't happen, and I'm hoping was some sort of misunderstanding. I had my fill of stupid boy notcalling with the last one.
Instead, I went out with Melissa's Potential Boy of Interest and his friends. I'll let her tell this story, but, suffice to say, whomever's responsible for me conversing with certain members of this crew, you and perhaps your Grandma Eva owe me a drink.
I'm thinking I may leave this window open most of the day, at least until my anime program at 3, and add to it as things occur to me. It's just not a PoBaL (ooo, acronym! I'm such a damn librarian...) post unless it's 3 years long, right?
***
Also, Legs fucked up my knee last night. Seriously, it hurt for awhile after I disengaged his claws from my flesh and confiscated the ball of yarn. I wasn't just continuously bringing it up to not go off on the guy who was unaware that there are people out there without home internet access, I swear.
***
Anyway, The Purse is mostly done. The knitting part is over, with mixed results. That means that, while it doesn't look quite like I intended and I need more practice decreasing things and keeping my stitches uniform across all the rows, it still looks good. Now I just need to futz with the lining, sew up the sides, and figure out what kind of closure I want. I'm thinking magnetic snap thing. Can you just buy those?
I can't wait until I can actually use this thing!
***
More crafty nerdiness!
Over on Craftster, I'm participating in what's called the "Little Visitor" swap. At first, I thought this was an Aunt Flo reference, but it's actually much better/twee-er. In short, the idea is that you send a stuffed thing to your partner, who gives it a tour of their town, makes it an outfit, and sends it back with a photo album of their trip.
What does this mean for you? Local friends who have always thought that Tree was kinda weird won't have to worry about seeing him for a few weeks, since he'll be on vacation in New York City.
You will, however, have to put up with me showing Humor the Speech Team Whale all around our fair city.
And yes, he's coming out dancing with us, unless I find out he's allergic to cigarette smoke. I'll also be putting pictures on the internet, where all my other pics live.
***
OK, it's after lunch now. So some of you guys have spent the last week or so listening to my steady bitching about
--Ooo, fall Houghton Mifflin preview!--
this group of kids that have been using the library as their playground, despite the perfectly serviceable playground right outside the library. I even have a speech: "Don't run, don't jump down the stairs. You don't climb on the furniture; you don't throw the blocks, nor do you hit each other with the blocks."
Of course they don't listen. Damn 4th graders think they're grown. But then, inevitable, one of them gets wronged by
--Crap, the kid that is kind of consistently trouble just wandered out with a group of friends. I'm really hoping nothing happened.--
the rest of their irritating pack, and comes to tell on them to the librarian.
Which, first of all, I'm not a teacher, bitch. And, second of all, I don't care. Maybe, if she's so mean to you, you shouldn't hang out with her. Maybe none of you should come into the library AT ALL.
At least for the next 2 years, until you're 6th graders and officially mine.
Anyway, the point to all this is that one of them has taken our newfangled IM reference availability to mean that they can tell on some kid apparently harrassing them over the internet.
"He's at the library. Can you get him to leave me alone?"
Except a lot more typo-ridden than that.
***

I've been looking so long at these pictures of you.

Debauchery! Craftiness! KITTIES!
All here, all the time. Or at least until someone complains about how poorly I photographed them, and then we'll talk.

And now I have to share the lengths I'll go to for a surprise. This morning, me an' a cup of coffee were hanging out in my room, listening to NPR, thinking about how dead all the Gaza protesters would be if they were from that other group of people the Israeli army's always after, when I hear some familiar music.
The "Six Feet Under" theme.
Faster than fast, at 7 AM, I run into my living room, singing, la la la I can't hear you Terri Gross so you can't ruin it for me.
And it worked.
(I don't have HBO, so I've only seen up to the end of season 3)

Anybody got a flashlight I can hold under my chin?

In the Year 2000: My So-Called Life Edition
(also includes some Jessy-looking-back-ness and a bit of Krakow-bitching)

OK, this show always seemed to flirt with being a suburb of Pittsburgh, so I may make some Southwestern PA-specific references. My geographic proof: Brian's got a 3 Rivers Arts Festival poster, there's a shot (I think when they go see Buffalo Springfield) of a PATransit bus stop sign (if I was really good, I could tell you what busses--buses?--were on it and figure out where the show took place from that), and the Chases have the Carnegie Museum Romare Beardon poster on the wall. I know, because my parents have the same poster. But are we really to believe the Chase parents would attend a museum show of a working class African-American artist? I'm not buying it...
On with the show!
Angela: Still dyes her hair red. Has her master's in teaching (congrats, Lara!!). Teaches remedial high school English classes. Every one expects her to burn out, but she's still going. Last month, she had a very that-scene-in-Fargo-where-Marge-looks-up-her-old-"friend" dinner with Brian Krakow. Except he didn't cry or lie about dead wives. Or lie when he cries.
Brian Krakow has a wife, who he would totally leave for Angela, if she just said the word. He's a professor in the History and Philosophy of Science Department at Pitt. They've adopted a couple kids, who walk all over him. One of them is a student of Angela's, which is how he says he found her, but really he's been Googling her regularly since graduation.
[A Brian Krakow aside: do boys really think that the answer to attaining the seemingly unattainable girl is to spend as much time following her around, being an assface? 'Cause it really isn't. If you can't be nice to a girl you like who doesn't like you, or has no clue you like her, perhaps you should avoid her, or simply tell her the truth, instead of pissing her off. Just a thought.]
Rayanne = rehab. Then she moves in with Rickie, until he kicks her and her deadbeat boyfriend out. She discovers a talent for fancy restaurant waitressing, spent some time at the Lamont, and now works at Angela's dad's restaurant. The deadbeat boyfriend is no longer a boyfriend, but still on her couch.
Jordan Catalano got caught stealing a car with his older brother. Luckily, his lawyer took pity on him and took him to live with his family in Upper St Clair, where he met a girl named Anna, who taught him to read using comic books and a plastic horse. And I would now what he had been up to very recently, except our stupid president had to interrupt to force his idiotic and extremely selfish plans for Social Security on the country.
Rickie: This is hard! Rickie has a string of older, richer, kinda pushy boyfriends until he finally wises up and leaves the Pegasus alone. This is also when he decides to move off of the Mexican War Streets, and onto the Southside, despite a somewhat sordid history with a clerk at that Carnegie Library branch. One night, he goes to Zythos for 1/2 priced martinis and a blind date (set up by his foster dads, who are still doing the same things they were in the show), which goes tremendously well. Rickie works for Highmark, and is always nice to the temp. Most days, he eats lunch with a girl who likes to pretend 60s-era Pete Townsend is going to marry her.
Angela's former best friend whose name I can't remember: see Kristy. Except with whats-his-face, who she was having sex with. You remember that whole thing, right? Aside from Angela's mom, she's the main person looking for signs of burnt-out-Angela.
Angela's dad left Angela's mom, and for a much better lady. He's patched his relationship with Angela, but Danielle is another story. He finally got that damn restaurant off the ground.
Angela's mom got over Angela's dad surprising quickly, by moving on to an even more ready-to-be-whipped jerk. Angela can't stand him, but Danielle likes all the extra attention and presents. Angela's mom also is even more work-crazed and horrible. For awhile, she tried to lie to new friends and business contacts about the number of marriages she's had. She's also had every photo from Angela's teen years retouched, to "correct" the hair color.
Tino is still doing the exact same thing. Like McConoughy in Dazed and Confused, he gets older but they stay the same age.
Danielle works for the stupid printing business. She always talks about finding a new job, because her mom is always over her shoulder, never trusts her with any responsibility, etc etc, but still needs her mommy. Here's hoping she actually grows a pair sometime soon. Angela just wishes she'd stop calling all the time.

Well? Thoughts?

I think it's strange you never knew.

(bonus points to anyone other than Tiff who gets the joke in the title)

Who wants a story?

I don't know why, but I was thinking about this story earlier today and decided to share, since I think there are people reading this who don't know it, and it's a great story. Unfortunately, I lost the original telling, so if anyone still has that email (Tiff? Cara? Alison Farinacci, whereever you are?), if they could send it back along to me? Thanks. And Google isn't helping for the published version, which I don't like anyway, mostly because I come off as kind of a judgmental bitch. Which I'm not. At all. Stop laughing, you.
Anyway, on to the story, which I shall call, "Desperate for Dinner"...
Now, I don't exactly advertise this, because it makes me look bad and pisses me off, but I didn't date in Pittsburgh, until the last 8 months or so that I lived there. We're defining "date" as hanging out + making out. You should all be remembering that this is the town I grew up in. Yup, it's that sad.
It seemed especially sad one summer night (2001), when 3 girls (me, Tiff, and Cara) were on the Historic Southside, doing something that involved free beer and was sponsored by the Pittsburgh City Paper, my less favorite Pgh free newsweekly. The only redeeming-and-relevant-to-this-story thing in the City Paper was this column where they would set 2 people up on a blind date, then interview them later about how it went. Oh yes, we applied. A short time later, I went on my date.
This would be where that email would come way in handy right about now.
We were set to meet in Squirrel Hill, at the Murray Ave Grill. I got there early. I had time to meet a magazine-buying Richard and see a cute boy that, in retrospect, I should have pretended was my blind date. I also had time to invent worst case scenarios, like what if he showed up in a Peewee Herman suit. Then I realized that this was actually a best case scenario, so I stopped.
I should tell you what I was wearing, because I looked really cute. And yes, I remember. I had on a short black skirt, a navy tank top, white knee socks, and--shit. Shoes? Maybe these Nine West faux trainers I used to have. I should tell you what he was wearing, because total schlub. T-shirt and shorts. Sneakers, but looked like the sort who would wear sandals, and I specifically said on my application form that I have an aversion to sandals. He tried to explain his appearance and general out-of-itness by telling me about some plane he had just gotten off of, from a wedding, but here's the thing. Why schedule a stupid, free newsweekly sanctioned blind date the same day that you get off a plane from somewhere? Not cool.
He also owned no TV, and me talking to someone with no TV and very little frame of pop culture reference is a sad conversation indeed. Also, I said "post punk" and he said "Green Day?" Here's the real sad thing about his lack o' TV: my main concern during our dinner was that it would end in time for me to watch "Bands on the Run" because it was the episode where we found out who won. Tiff and I were rooting for Flickerstick, with their Paul Westerbergian guitar player.
Really, the things I'll do for a free meal.

Epilogue i: Afterwards, I went straight over to Tiff's, where her date turned out to be even worse than mine. I'll let her decide if she wants to share. And Flickerstick won. Hooray!

Epilogue ii: A couple days later, I get a call at work from the terse and irate writer of the blind date column. This is when I was one of only 2 clerks in the children's dept of a busy urban library, during summer reading program, so I couldn't exactly have a long conversation, which Ms. Writer wasn't happy about. I said something about how, had I wanted to meet a boring bland normal guy, I knew where to find them, and wouldn't have needed the City Paper's help. And my depiction in the City Paper just gets worse and funnier from there.
The column never used people real names, but exactly how many girls with bat tattoos who look "like a 50s librarian, but a punk version of a 50s librarian" are out there?

Some other time on "Jessy's Sad Life Storyhour": Unfortunately Large Pants.

I am the biggest nerd, and I really need a nap.

Oh shit! Choose-You-Own-Buffy!! Is this the best thing since sliced bread, or what?
Anyone interested in buying some cat food and garbage bags and bringing them to my house tonight so I can go straight home after work?

I wanna reach out and grab ya

I've found a new home for Gob Bluth. It's in this book: , by Judy Waite. Now, it is in England, and teenagers, and there's a murder, but, let's face it, doesn't Gob strike us all as the sort of guy who wouldn't mind being surrounded by teenaged girls? Also, everyone is kinda dense, so he'd be right at home. But here's the real reason this book is the perfect place for him: everyone acts like they've never seen a magic trick before. Seriously. The main boy character is a busker at one point, and he makes a small object disappear, and a bystander crosses herself. He also has some woman chasing him around London, convenced that he can heal her daughter. The main girl character impresses a bunch of bad apple teenagers with card tricks. C'mon--don't these people have uncles? Has no one ever "found" a quarter (sorry, a pound coin) behind their ear before?
So yeah, not exactly the world's greatest book.

we like dancing and we look divine

So I did give up on A Great and Terrible Beauty: I found the 3rd Artemis Fowl book on cd at the library on Saturday. I love the guy who narrates those, so much that I’m actually kind of disappointed I read The Wish List, instead of listening to it. I also got Firefly (so I can finally watch the end of it—Katie and I didn’t last that long at our great Fireflyathon last year), Waiting for Guffman, which I probably won’t get a chance to watch before it’s due, Puff by Bob Flaherty, Lads by David Itzkoff, and a book of 3 novellas that I can’t remember the title of right now. Puff is good so far, both in a general way and in an every so often I laugh out loud kind of way.
I had my 3 day weekend and feel like it was jam-packed, which was nice for a change. Friday I painted my bathroom bright pink, which my landlords will discover tomorrow when they have to do a walkthrough for some reason. I told my building manager about the dripping in my bathroom, but I don’t know if that was necessarily the right thing to do. Because I know they won’t fix the roof, the source of the problem. If anything is done, it’ll be done to my newly-painted bathroom, where a mess will be made for me to clean up, once the maintenance people finally get the hell out of there. It’s at times like these that I really wish I had a house, so that all this kind of junk was my responsibility. Slumlordship is only fun in Monopoly. Friday night I watched To Wong Foo with Melissa and a bunch of her friends. Fun, but the movie just made me want to watch Priscilla, Queen of the Desert, which is the far superior drag queen flick, for my money.
My Saturday night plans were switched to Sunday, so I got to go to 80s night. It was so much fun to just dance like an idiot and drink cheap gin again. I did feel pretty stupid, though, when I realized that I was the only dancer playing air keyboard during “Take On Me” or pumping my fist at the end of “Dancing with Myself”. It’s a good thing he didn’t play “Like a Prayer”, because I would’ve had to break out the dance Tiff, Cindy, and I made up, and no one wants to see that. Also, it was strange not instinctively knowing what the next song would be. Ah, Lou: you play the same damn set every week. Pittsburgh hipsters are creatures of habit, I know, but c’mon.
And then Sunday I saw Ray. Why, o why, was this the script they used for Ray Charles’ life? It read like one of those made-for-VH-1 movies, leading to a whole discussion comparing those movies. Verdict? The Meatloaf one is the best, and the Lennon-McCartney one is the worst. So many other things about it were good, which only makes the script thing worse. You can be the best actor in the world, but when you get saddled with lines about being blind and afraid of the dark, or have to work through a withdrawl scene so unoriginal I fully expected a dead baby to start crawling across the ceiling, as opposed to just in pools of hallucinated water, talent just doesn’t go as far. No, Jamie Foxx, you’re not, but you see my point. And sorry, buddy, but the Academy isn’t giving you shit this year. Take it up with Clint. Wait…is Foxx nominated for supporting Tom Cruise? Maybe he’ll get that. And the “Hit the Road Jack” scene? I was wincing. In a dark theater.
Luckily, the costume and set design were flawless, so I spent most of my time admiring the ladies’ clothes and coveting the mural behind whats-his-face’s desk at the big record company. Anyone wanna paint that in my hallway? And trying to ID the producer guy at Atlantic, who I finally realized was Endless Mike. I love that guy.
Normally, I guess I’m just not that much of a fan of the musician biopic. They have to have something extra to hold my interest: an almost cloyingly postmodern story structure, like 24 Hour Party People or De-Lovely, or homoeroticism, like Velvet Goldmine. Or Robbie Williams, like, um, De-Lovely.

Do you sell walnuts?

Well, here I am on another dead Saturday. I was supposed to go out last night, but I've got this thing against paying a cover for bands downstairs when I know I'll be upstairs the whole night. Turns out I should've probably paid the extra money and deadened my senses with a little gin. Instead, I read for a bit (the first book of Lynne Ewing's new series*) and went to sleep, only to be woken up a couple hours later. Conceivably, this is when I would have been getting home anyway, except drunk enough to not notice that, due to my apartment's flimsy construction and wooden floors, it sounded like my downstairs neighbors were having a party in my closet. A party with a stereo nazi, because it's not bad enough that the Pixies, while awesome, don't exactly lull me to sleep, I also have to only hear the first third of every song. And I think someone downstairs was yelling about an ugly girl, and I was so mostly asleep and neurotic that my first thought was, oh no! they think I'm ugly!
I've actually been waiting for this to happen for some time, ever since I found out I was living above 2 guys still in college. This isn't a "oh you kids" thing, but it's true: when you're in school, you can pretty much do anything any time of day. Responsibility is different. You can even start hammering things at midnight, as my neighbors did last week.
Mostly, I'm not sure what to do. Not only do I want to be Mrs. Mean Old Lady Neighbor, I also understand that sound travels really fucking well in my building. Which is why I've been wondering what exactly they've heard from me. Embarrassing best friend phone conversations? Breakdownish Mom phone conversations? The stupid shit I say to my cats? None of this is what I want virtual strangers to hear. Maybe that's why people become more distant as they become more urbanized: no one wants to run into the neighbor they heard screaming at his kid the night before.

***
Random pop junk:

• What the hell is up with Point Pleasant? Who said, Let's combine Twin Peaks with the awkward Christianity of Joan of Arcadia and throw in the "satire" of Desperate Housewives and cast it with a bunch of "teenaged" boys, doe-eyed girls, and Housewives rejects, all of whom only serve to make Grant Show's acting abilities seem stellar? And what purpose did it serve to give Show's character a vaguely vintage suit and some broken dreams in the latest episode? Why don't they just let Warren be the evil guy, instead of what seems to be an ineffectual minion? Pure evil has to get out from behind the sign-up booth to turn the thermostat up to cause mayhem? Come on. I'm so perplexed; I must keep watching.
• Last night, between Pixies' songs and some unrecognizable dance-y stuff I heard the unmistakable sounds of "1979". First, let's take a moment to acknowledge that, despite not having heard this song in at least 6-7 years, I still immediately recognized it. Because, even though "1979" was never a particular favorite (I usually don't like the smash single off '90s albums--if I were rating Weezer, "Buddy Holly" would be at the bottom of the list) the Smashing Pumpkins SPOKE TO ME in high school. But you know what? Not so much after I turned 20 or so. Somehow, "I'm all by myself/as I've always felt" just isn't an amazing lyric to me anymore. It constantly surprises me that there are actually a lot of people my age who non-nostalgically like the Pumpkins, while it never surprises me that they still have 14 year old fans. In the words of Tiffany (the friend, not the mall pop princess), they're so high school deep, that I don't understand anyone over 21 taking Billy Corgan seriously. It's weird.
• Also along Tiffany-the-friend lines, she's working on a list of her favorite love songs, as an acknowledgement that it's not just another manic Monday coming up.** When you're talking about something like this, it's physically impossible to not start creating your own list. But you know, I'm not so well-versed on the love songs. I'm more a fan of the crush songs. Here's a list of some of my favorites:

1. "You and Me and the Moon"--Magnetic Fields ("I'm a little bit shy/you're easy on the eye")
2. "Minneapolis"--that dog.
3. "Long Island"--that dog.
4. "1-2 Crush on You"--The Clash
5. "Customer"--The Replacements
   

*Looks trashy and fun; mostly just boring. And I want to throttle Tolkein for making runes such a part of hackneyed fantasy. I tried to read Daughters of the Moon (or some such title), Ewing's other series, a couple years ago, when I was trying to quit Fearless' repetition cold turkey, and now I remember what drove me back to Francine Pascal's arms.
**I'm sorry, I really couldn't help that. It just typed itself, I swear.

You can also see which character you are. I got Jane, surprise, surprise. Although there were moments when I was purposefully trying to answer like Trent.

California, here we come. Or, Street lights! People!

I'm bored and don't want to do any of the things on my "Stuff To Do At Work" list because all I want to do is get on the stupid Ohio roads in my new car and drive home, so here's my as-promised entry about The O.C.
You can take that as a warning to leave, if you want. Because this entry is just going to get shallower and shallower and girlie as hell, whether I get around to making "valid" points or not.
OK, first of all, this is a great show, that feels kind of targeted exactly to me. It's got the adult trashiness of Melrose Place, my favorite-est non-reality trashy show EVER, plus the added teen trashiness I never got to savor with Beverly Hills, 90210 because I was always too busy being a humorless sullen teenager during its glory days. It's also got the cute nebbish poindexter nice Jewish boy, who one would think would be right up the Jessy alley and the blond one, who I'm actually more attracted to for some reason. Who knew?
And then there's the music. I will always make excuses for the theme song, because Jason Schwartzman and I belong together. He's like the perfect mixture of poindexter and greasy hipster, plus he plays drums. (As a side note, if you're getting bored of my talk about certain cute boys, go find a Billboard magazine. There's a very pretty picture of Conor Oberst, and maybe you like him better. Also, The Ramones won some award and Marky accepted, being like the only one left, but they refer to him by his last name, as in, "Ramone accepted the award on behalf of the band." I thought this was funny, anyway.) Plus, in the first episode I actually got around to watching, Journey got name-dropped at a Walkmen concert. Two great tastes that taste great together. Plus, I welcome any excuse to tell my Walkmen concert story. And here it is:
For like 5 minutes when I lived in Philadelphia, there was a Steve Madden outlet near my apartment. Steve Maddens are great shoes for my skinny feet and I found these baby blue pointy mary jane flats. I would have gotten pink too, but I found the blue in my size first and Kinko's wasn't paying me enough or giving me enough opportunities to wear pastel colored shoes to rationalize getting both. The first time I wore my new shoes out I had them on with black tights, a very short houndstooth skirt and that boy's dark royal blue sweater. Me and my awesome outfit took ourselves to see The Walkmen, because the other band that I forget was playing way too far away and was more $$ and Alison Farinacci (who I'm still trying to confirm is not dead, by the way) had to study at the last minute and couldn't drive us back to Pittsburgh to meet Jon Scieska and get my Stinky Cheese Man bobblehead autographed. The Walkmen, on the other hand, were playing less than 5 blocks away at the indie rock frat. Yep, there's an indie rock frat at UPenn. And they had a keg, but you had to pour the beer into a Faygo can to drink downstairs, because YOU WERE AT A FRAT HOUSE. The show was really awesome, though, not in the least because This Radiant Boy opened and covered either a Pavement song or a GBV song (I saw them twice and don't remember which was when) and The Walkmen were super good, sounding more like what I've heard of the second album than the first. I hadn't heard them at all before I saw them, because I like doing that. Oh, and I ran into the kid who had come into Kinko's a few days before with a Super8 camera and met his roommates and Jesse Tei and Amy became fun friends for the rest of my Philadelphia stay. I should get in touch with them.
But the point of this story is that people in Philadelphia were still moshing 2 years ago and they moshed to The Walkmen in the indie rock frat and they moshed on my shoes, which is why I don't care what happens to my pointy baby blue mary jane flats, because they've had messed-up points since the very first time I wore them. And then The Walkmen were on a trashy tv show with cute boys. And I think we're full circle now, and can move on to the criticism of said trashy tv show.
I've been watching the first season dvds and, as much fun as I've been having, I can't help but be annoyed at the Seth/Anna thing. Once again, cool-seeming guy passes on cool cute fanboyish girl for normal boring girl. Although, throughout the whole Seth/Anna arc, I kept thinking, "Why are you surprised? You are supposed to be from Pittsburgh, the town that some days feels like it invented the cool boys only want boring girls issue."
And yet I still miss the stupid town.
***
Obligatory collection development moment: with YM now gone to that big GirlWorld in the sky, should I order TeenVogue or TeenElle for the library?

it's hard to stalk someone when you don't know their schedule

Relatedly (did I just make that word up?), <undisclosed location> Public Library's (now referred to as ULPL) mediocre service just keeps getting more and more so. Mediocrer? Like a clerk who says, "I believe so," when asked if checked out books will be due the same day as a renewed box set. Also, the western branch teen hole? If I lied down in it, I could touch all four shelf-walls. And I'm a short, short girl. It's also such a box that you could probably film porn in there and no one would be the wiser. Yes, I've watched Comedy Central's Porn and Chicken. Shut up.
Some extraordinarily stupid things that have happened to me today:
So I've got this program I'm doing tomorrow, which I really hope people will come to but I'm not holding my breath, because I learned the optimism lesson from my last attempted YA program. I think, music would be nice, but, as has become crazy obvious lately, I know next to nothing about popular music. Damn you, lack of magic free cable! Easiest solution? There's a laptop in the meeting room I'll be holding the program in, and we are all wireless and fancy. I'll just boot up one of those Yahoo stations and it'll be cake. BUT. I can't connect laptop to internet. Then I think to just throw a bunch of cds into Windows Media thingie (so much less intuitive than iTunes), hit random and Whammo! Fun time in Music City. BUT. Although the meeting rooms are more accurately thought of as two rooms which can be connected if attendance dictates, the speakers in them are wired as though it is one large meeting room, part of which can be closed off if need be. Music in one room, music in both rooms. This is so stupid, I think I might throw up. I hate when things don't make sense. Unless it's funny, and this so wasn't this morning.
Then I went to lunch. I deposited my paycheck, then drove down to carplace to pay Buddy's bill. I had forgotten my checkbook this morning, so I went with the good old debit card. Which was denied. Mechanic B (A, who dealt with me last week, was also there) says that he's seen a lot of debit cards have limits. Is this the biggest amount I've put on the card? Yes, because after I was quoted the correct labor time of 5 1/2 hours, Buddy's water pump cost more than the couch. Sure enough, breaking the amount in 2 works. For the first half. Ah, my huge multinational bank-created innocence has been sullied once again.
Just for the record, I've been more or less responsible with keeping up with this bank account, so I know the money's in there. Stupid card.
Some patron insinuated that her translating and archeology degree was somehow more useful than my film studies degree. And was generally insulting. All I did was ask if she needed help, to which she pulled that always annoying (in no matter what situation) move where someone says you never have what they want, implying that their tastes are ever so much better than everyone else's. Then why are you here, mook? At least when I say that, I'm refering to a place I never go, and I try to come off as apologetic or self-effacing, not that my tastes make me cooler or smarter or something.
I was worried that someone would eat my hotpocket from the freezer because my name wasn't on it, but then I realized how Andrew from Buffy I was being, and that shut me right up.
You like how I can call myself out for being a nerd by making a super nerdy reference? My lameness never fails to impress me.
***
I finally finished Planet Simpson by Chris Turner. For the most part, I liked it, and it was fun to be back in that crazy-obsessed Simpsons space I lived in when Meleah, Ben, Cara and I all used up ILL time quoting Ralphie. Basically, imagine Greil Marcus' Lipstick Traces, but about the Simpsons. Turner sometimes comes off as a crank, particularly when talking about capitalism, and sometimes it feels a bit dated how he talks about the under-40 set, almost as though we're still living in the cultural climate of Ann Power's Weird Like Us and/or Slacker. (I could make a righteous Canadian dig right here, but I won't. Because I like Canadians, much as I enjoy all peoples with fun accents and socialized medicine.)
Mostly I like reading a nonYA book that doesn't make me want to tell Dave Eggars to shut up. However, the book frequently uses Poochie to make points about the media and the Simpsons' roles within tvland, while never mentioning Roy. Seriously, what's up with that? Roy's probably my favorite one-time character, too.