So, I went to the doctor's today and I got some startling bad news and I felt like this was the best place to share it with my friends (and the rest of you):
He says I have an icebox where my heart used to be.
Apparently, I also have a mild case of the Mondays. Which is weird, because I totally had my shots.
I appreciate your thoughts and prayers during this very difficult time.
Here's how I spend my time: I watch this one video of Tina Turner performing "Proud Mary" on YouTube like 15 times a day and practice, then I go to karaoke and I sing "Proud Mary" and I wonder how I can turn it into a marketable skill, then I re-record my voicemail message literally 30 times until it's weird enough and stupid enough to make me a social pariah and the black sheep of my family and then I watch "Ugly Betty" and "The Sarah Silverman Program" on DVR or whatnot and then I make dinner using random fresh fish and whatever I can find at Whole Foods whilst talking on the phone to Jeff about his hair because that's what he talks about constantly and then I write about it. Here. Point is: I don't really do much but I kinda feel really fullfilled. Plus... I did finish a play earlier this week and I'm kind of et cetera-ed about that. It's not going to win a Tony or anything but you know, whatever. Um, yeah, so the point is, I'm, you know, interested in getting some stuff done with, you know, my life and whatnot. So, yeah, you're excited. I do, indeed, find time to write plays and go to work and meet new people or something. So, yeah, I guess... OH RIGHT! SO, Valentine's Day, 2000, I was in this Latin class at Columbia and the teacher told us that since it was Valentine's Day we were going to spend the class translating poems about how love sucks. Which was weird, but whatever. And then she went on this totally unprovoked rant about how her husband had made her quit ballet dancing and start teaching and then he divorced her and... I don't know, my college career was CHOCK FULL of crazy teachers who needed to confess their entire lives to me. Well, not me so much as the entire class. Columbia was weird.
Everything was weird. It remains weird. All of it. And Latin is still a dead language.
Dear Friends, Former Friends and People I Pretended to Like:
It's come to my attention that perhaps we're all reaching a point in life where those of us without serious alcohol or drug problems start settling down, finding love and getting married. And that means open bar.
I know that perhaps we've grown apart in these intervening years, but I think the perfect way for us to reconnect would be for you to send me an invitation to your special day. I would love nothing more than to sit around, drinking booze on your tab, wearing a suit and reminiscing about that fun time we had that one time... remember? No... Oh, wait that was somebody else... but yeah, we always had fun, right?
Good times. As an added bonus I might even get up and do the Chicken Dance when the DJ puts it on. And maybe I'll grind with your grandmother to SexyBack (but only if your open bar includes topshelf liquor).
So, in conclusion, a wedding isn't really a wedding without a drunken Our Eric and though we may have gone our seperate ways since high school/college/last week I would love nothing more than to be there for you at your wedding (or committment ceremony... in case any of you have turned gay. Which I hope you haven't, cuz that's super gross.)
I'm using my extra hour to throw a tantrum! I stomp my feet a lot. And, apparently, I'm the bitchy one of all my friends. Snarky. Sassy. What-have-you. In any case, now I'm throwing a tantrum!
Why? None of your fucking business! TANTRUM TANTRUM TANTRUM!
My parents are coming to town today! I just remembered! I'm a disaster!
They'll be in Philly for my cousin's wedding. I consider this her second wedding, as for years we all thought she was secretly married to her own brother.
I'm a firm believer in dating outside the family so I fully support this.
But my parents! Will be in town! Today! Are we supposed to have brunch? Will they want a tour of the Liberty Bell? Is there a possibility someone will slip me $200? (No.)
I don't know. But if you see Bob & Judi Thomas roaming around greater Philly tell them I said, "Holla!" And also, "Call before you come. I gotta find a place to hide 20 empty bottles of champagne, eyeglasses with a dick for a nose, receipts from spending $50 on Chef Boyardee ravioli at WalGreens and a kind of suggestive Rolling Stones poster." No matter how old you get, your parents are always gonna be your parents, I guess.
Oh, and if you see Patti LaBelle, tell her to call me.
Last night I got a little Melon Colleen because I realized it'd be a year I've been living in Philadelphia before long and what do I have to show for it? I've become part of a fabu-hideous triumvate of friends who adore each other and may or may not make or break each other... but one part of the trio up and moved to Hanover so... we're back to square one. I love living with my roommate but I hardly see her anymore. And I hate my job as much as I did the one in Baltimore. I thought about the Year in Pictures post I did last new years and wondered what (besides the perpetual "I drank a lot") I'd list of note.
I thought I was in a little bit of a rut... not a rut, so much as a valley. I've had a wild, wonderful summer. Perhaps the best summer. And I've met two amazing people--JD and Penn, for those of you who follow the sporadic updates--with whom I share a unique connection and a fair amount of codepency. But the words to a Diana Krall song keep wafting through my head like cold autumn wind through the window. Summer is over, winter is near/Are we stronger than we belive? JD had moved away and with him went a large chunk of my social life and self-confidence. Nevertheless, I had started writing again in earnest, working on turning "Wasted"--my faux-fabulous fictional autobiography--into a one-man show and starting two new stage projects.
All my efforts, however, kind of felt unrealized. I can't say why. I just didn't believe myself most of the time and I kept casting a backward glance at falls past and remembering how every year I lumber into the changed season with renewed resolve and big plans and something always happens to change the course. Not to sound melodramatic or undeservedly weepy, but the most searing example of this comes from September 11th. I got up early to go to Math class, having decided that my Junior Year was the one beat, having decided that I was in a better place than I'd been in a long time. Having made peace with all the changes that I'd made over the previous two years and ready to make more. And I came home and, of course, the world changed. And my world changed. And... well, I still haven't decided whether it changed too much or whether I hadn't changed enough. But, in any case, my junior year I fell apart and eventually moved back to Baltimore and 4 months later found myself in an unsatisfying, hateful job with managers from hell, basically friendless and creatively stunted. And that's when I started this journal.
And I say all that to say that I'm a creature of habits and these habits are not mysteries to me. Every fall I try to build and the cold comes in and I decide that building isn't for me. Every job I take turns out to not be what I thought it was going to be because I take jobs that take me away from what I really want to be doing. Every time I think that my life is changing I write about it in my LiveJournal, tracking the planned rise and eventual plateau.
JD called tonight. He's moving back to Philly by week's end and we'll once again be working the same job. And, as happy as I am to have him back, I let myself be tempered. This summer's never coming back and January will be here before I know it. And after that every January after that. Until my body gives up the ghost. So, is this the year, the fall, the rise that I resist the temptation to wax hyperbolic and just do the thing? Honestly, I don't know. But trying to recreate the euphoria of this summer is impossible and unwise. Plus, I realize that enjoying myself in the moments that we created, talking about all our creative plans and living forever, is freezing time and makes movement impossible. So, fall brings change, I understand that. And I want to change with it. And I want my desire to move forward to coexist with my desire to stay in the best, most promise-filled moment. Can I do it? Can we all? Can JD realize the next best thing here in a way that it became exceeding clear that it wasn't possible in Hanover? Can we all enable each other to be the things that we always say we want to do? Can I resist the hyperbole and actually accomplish? Summer is over, winter is near. Are we stronger than we believe?
Excuse me, miss I don't mean to sound like a jerk But I'm feeling just a little stressed out from work Could you punch me in the stomache and pull my hair? Spit on me, maybe gouge my eyes out, yeah.
Fat Joe sat in my section today at work and tipped me $80. He and his entourage were discussing how big a mistake it was for Angie Martinez to have pulled out of her judging gig on American Idol a couple seasons back. While Martinez publicly explained at the time that she couldn't be mean to her fans, turns out that the real reason is that she was with child at the time and didn't want to be pregnant on TV. Fun fact of the day.
I then went home and perserverated about whether or not to buy the hot Nero-collared peacoat I found at Zara for $250 the other day. And I read an article about this new hair dye for your pubes. So I bought hot pink. Because nothing says "Run away, quickly... you've made quite a mistake" like a fuschia crotch.
Okay! Stacey was right. It's only just beginning... More later, I suppose. In the mean time, I think I broke my tailbone sitting down to hard. Or perhaps (more than likely) by bringing sexy back. I also maybe bruised my shin. Being excellent is very hard.
You know what I don't like about the Pussycat Dolls' "Buttons" video? Absolutely nothing.
I mean, flying chairs! Spontaneous combustion! Badunka-dunk!? Best. Thing. Ever.
In other news, I can't seem to leave the house without dropping like 50 bucks. What is wrong with me? Like, I go to Rite Aid and suddenly I'm pulling out a Grant and wondering how this came about because all I needed was some face wash and a Twinkie. JUST ONE TWINKIE.
Furthermore, I think my iPod is broken and it's really testing my patience because I was TOTES going to go iPodding out in the city on my way to Chestnut Nails so they could rip some hair out of my eyebrows in my continuing quest to look like Vin Diesel.
Now I can't do any of that. Because you can't fucking go iPodding out in the city to get your eyebrows waxed without an iPod!
So, instead I'm going to go lie on the couch and be sad and watch The Wire on OnDemand because cable is the answer to all my problems.
Oh, and you know what I don't like about Justin Timberlake's new album? Nothing. Well... I'm not really feeling that Three-6 Mafia song. I'm like, listen JT: "You can channel MJ and Prince and you can be all sexyback and white boy ghetto and pretty boy and rough around the edges and you can say things like fuckers and it's all good. But I don't really need you rocking with those 'Hard Out There For A Pimp' boys. You're not that hard. Those mothers won an OSCAR. And then thanked Jesus in their acceptance speech. That's hard, yo."
That's what I'm like.
Hmm... what other natterings can I drop on you? Oh! I watched Celebrity Duets last night...? Really? I mean NONE of those people can sing! Jai Rodriguez is obvy going to win and everyone else makes me thank my lucky stars for the fast forward key. P.S. Lea Thompson has totally gone from being Marty McFly's hot MILF to being a soccer mom before our eyes. Like rocking out to "That Don't Impress Me Much" whilst in like for the drive-through ATM, wearing sunglasses that change tints when you go inside, going to bed after the 10 o'clock news, last R-rated movie she saw was Fair Game starring Cindy Crawford and Billy Baldwin in 1994, can't figure out how to send a text message, real live soccer mom. A shame. Do you remember when she was the hot ballet teacher in Little Rascals? For real.
I think the only reason that I'm going to keep watching the show is because Little Richard plus anything equals euphoria and Little Richard plus a sassy, bloated, Botoxed Marie Osmond is basically what I've always envisioned Heaven would be like. Mormon heaven, of course.
Anyway, I've been upright for far too long. Gotta go.
Hey girl! Can I call you 'Lis? Listen, 'Lis, I'm not really feeling this whole Edward Scissorhands gets caught in the rain hairstyle of yours... Can we go back to the springy amber ringlets? It looks like you're auditioning for a Panic! At the Disco video. Just saying.
Am I not good to you? Do I resist the temptation to throw you at unattractive people or during rousing games of dodgeball? Do I gently press the keys when text messaging, even when text messaging angrily as I often do? Have I ever spilled my drink on you? And if you asked everything else that I own if I had spilled anything on it, wouldn't everything else reply, "Oh yeah, he has totes spilled his drink on me. Like pretty much constantly"?
Then why, oh why, are you being such a gay-ass?
I know you think it's funny to not send me text messages and then, like 7 hours later, suddenly have them appear. Acting all, hmm, maybe you were drunk and don't remember when I sent these originally. Of course, I was drunk! But I am smarter than you. You are a phone.
And I know you think you're cute when you take naps in the middle of my phone calls. But that is only cute when babies do it. And babies, might I remind you, also shit themselves and sometimes grow up to be celebutantes and release albums that nobody wants so, really...
Be not mistaken. Even now, people will say, "Oh, your sleek silver RAZR is so so sleek and so cool." And I reply, "My phone isn't cool. My phone is an asshole."
You have two weeks to get it together and after that we're not friends anymore. You think I won't get a Sidekick, do you, you rat bastard? I will TOTES get a Sidekick. And I will give you to a homeless person in lieu of actual change or food. Yeah, that's right. Jerk.
Have you SEEN the insane new Beyonce video?! I must admit, I have a weakness for sassy lady singers accessing their inner scorned, Angie Bassett burning a car in her bathrobe, Charlie Baltimore and Mary J. joining the cast of Chicago, Glen Close can't touch this, hair-flinging angry diva. And this video, "Ring the Alarm" has all that in spades.
Here's Beyonce doing like the Flashdance in hell. I call this, The Devil Wears a Man's White Shirt and MAC Makeup. Actually, it kind of reminds me of that scene wear Rose dances in the gentleman's club in Bye, Bye Birdie... but that's neither here nor there.
Oh, and here's Beyonce channelling Catherine Trammell and looking all shifty-eyed, like her trigger finger is getting itchy. Like CHICKEN POX ITCHY...
Oh, now she's in a sunny, white room, beach in the background... but she's still fucking pissed. It's like... she's shitting on every woman who ever filmed a love song on a sunlit beach... INCLUDING HERSELF. Beyonce is amazing.
And the end of the masterpiece, finds B surrounded by reporters who are surely asking her questions like, "How many horses died in the making of that ponytail?" And, "Do you realize that those are not earrings in your ears? They are 40" rims." But Beyonce soldiers on, ignoring them all and continuing to bring the seizure-like gyrations (it's like Cirque Du Soleil meets a total neurological collapse) and wild eyes she perfected in her "Deja Vu" hysteria.
This is the ultimate Yes, I Am Your Psycho Ex song. And, really, there's nothing better than having one's status as a Psycho Ex validated by the Original Independent Woman. If Jennifer Aniston had performed this song on Saturday Night Live while ripping a photo of Brad Pitt in half, all Sinead O'Connor and such, I would have burned my Team Jolie shirt right there in my living room... insane, yes, but I think Beyonce would want it no other way.
This song is called "Ring the Alarm" but I've redubbed it "What? Only Skinny White Bitches Can Act Crazy?! Fuck A Paris Hilton."
So, who else is up on this Last.FM tip? It's pretty simple--you download a tracker for your iTunes which then reports the music to which you listen to the site, which tabulates various and sundry charts (oh, how I love a chart) and makes recommendations. I've been doing this since March and it's kinda cool to look at trends in my musical tastes over the past 6 months (a LOT of Pink, apparently).
Hit me up on there. Search the username dantesaint
In other news: what has been sucking (even more than it usually does) lately? That would be MySpace. Get it the fuck together, Tom.
Finally, Gatorade is not a tasty beverage. In a cagefight between Gatorade and Vitamin Water, Gatorade was totally all Mike Tyson about it at the weigh-in, biting people and falling all over the place, so the match was called on account of acute suckiness.
Hahahahahahaha... This cover makes me laugh every time I see it (which is like every 7 seconds... the G.D. internet is all abuzz, even though it's all rather duh-worthy.) Here's the news in French:
L’ancien membre du boys band ‘N Sync, Lance Bass, est gai. C’est la révélation qu’il a faite au magazine People qui sera en kiosques ce vendredi.
Bass a confié qu’il se devait de cacher son homosexualité lorsqu’il faisait partie du groupe pour ne pas nuire à ses collègues.
If I were Lance Bass, I'd be thankful that in the years since Ellen came out, People has done away with the overly familiar "Yep" preceeding the big news. Coming out to People Magazine is lame enough without sounding like a backwater hick while you do it.
Still, I think the mag could use a little more finesse when it comes time for their next big celebrity outing. How about, instead of the huge yellow leters, maybe something more tactful, such as sparkly pink letters like those annoying MySpace comments. And instead of "I'm Gay" about something more undestated, like "Big-Ass Homo. Huge." It's the little thing, I think, that will help us all to be more open and understanding of our D-List celebrities and they're so-late-in-the-game-we-don't-even-care announcements (and didn't we know this, like, 3 weeks ago when you were all playing dress me up, dress me down with Reichen at Rehobeth--the Disney World of Gayness... unless, of course, Disney World is the Disney World of Gayness... Hm.)
In other news, I met a porn star last night. She gave me her business card and told me to look for her on Playboy TV. I told her as soon as I finished my drink, I was going to rush right home and set my TiVO.
Dude, I love Justin Timberlake's "SexyBack" with an unhealthy amount fervor, but the Madrid-filmed video... que? I mean, I suppose super low-tech Central European espionage of the mid-70s TV show variety is sexy... especially when fused with scenes set in a vaguely futuristic Gattacca-esque, um, lobby... but I'm not really sold. Timbaland comes out looking the best here, riding high on creating some of the summers hottest jams he pulls the ultimate music video phone-in: appearing on a grainy television screen shouting things. Now that's hot.
1) General creepiness, in a Point Blank-Nixon and Reagan latex mask sort of way 2) The personal threat of nearly underaged girls, both in general and specifically 3) Future career prospects, excluding reality television and/or product spokepersonship 4) Hair
I'm on an internet atrocious music roll over here in do-nothing-ville. Have you heard the song, "Colin Farrell is My Bitch"? Written and recorded by the stalker lady who accosted him on The Tonight Show recently, the song is, dare I say it, almost worse than the Duff's cover of "Material Girl."
Nah, nothing is worse than that. Not even a song that starts with four or fives choruses of "I fucked Alec Baldwin in his ass." Seriously.
SWEET NUMSY! I just had the extreme misfortune of Hillary and Haylie Duff's GOD-AWFUL cover of "Material Girl." I have never in my life wanted to die more than I do at this moment! I am STABBING MY EARS WITH MY KEYS. WHY? WHYYYY?
I have come to love Google even more after geekily exploring the many capabilities of Google calendar tonight. Not only have I created 5 different color-coded calendars for my busy busy life, but I've also set it up to send me pop-up reminders when logged on, SMS messages on my phone reminding me of certain events, and e-mails of my daily agenda at 5 am daily. True, I don't really have anything much going on in my life, but it's all about planning for the future. I'm debating making my calendar public, as it would ease passive-aggressive event planning amongst friends (i.e., "I see that you are going to happy hour at Mixto on Wednesday. I suppose I'll be there as well.") Full over-exposure, little by little. Plus! I do intend to one day be doing something and I'd like to be ready when that day comes. In the meantime, my calendar consists of concerts (green), gym classes (yellow), work (blue), film festival showings (red) and general stuff (mostly happy hours, but also including birthdays and birthday parties and... you know, whatever cool stuff I do all the time.)
Part of me thinks it's all rather redundant, a lazy man's substitute for a pen and paper. But mostly I think that this latest invention--like Google Maps and Google itself--leads to a greater synergy for an overstimulated populace in a distracting age. The challenge I set before myself is to be in control of the behemoth rather than being overwhelmed by its extreme functionality. We'll see. Maybe I'll become a social butterfly with a V8 engine of efficiency and uber-organization. Or maybe I'll just post my calendar on MySpace and be 12 years-old and all-too-easily stalkable. (Fall back, psychos). Whatever.
Oh, today I spent my late afternoon sitting on a bench in Rittenhouse Square with Carrie (burgeoning music star of American Idol semi-fame) watching a curly-haired man play frisbee with a kid of 10. The man was wearing a striped belt that Carrie labelled Gucci and which I labelled Ralph Lauren (although I thought, in reality, it was probably Gap) (what does it matter, you ask? Oh, darling dears, will you ever learn? It doesn't. But it did.) We had that conversation that one has every now and again when one is single and almost monkish (like myself) or almost engaged but sort of disengaged (like her) where you wonder what it's all about and why people just can't be... and you're unable to fill in the blank of what you want people to be other than by your side, like Sade says, and you're not lonely or despondent... just a little perturbed. It was hot and it was humid and the people-watching was not ideal, but we'd just come from Applebee's, which has become my neighborhood bar because of the semi-friendly, semi-cute bartenders and all was well.
Earlier, we'd gone to the Gap where we'd hated everything and each bought one thing. (Aside: Carrie shops like Carrie orders food. Here's how Carrie ordered a salad at Applebee's--"I want the house salad, but half of it, and with none of that bacon shit. You put bacon on everything here. I hate that. Do you have a light dressing? Is it peanuty? No? What does it look like? That sounds awful. I'll have the light ranch." Carrie is demanding but fabulous, I think, and I love to be around her, which may sound perverse but I think it's somewhat normal.)
After the Gap we went to Blue Mercury, a cosmetics boutique complete with the bald little gay salesperson, the blond perky salesperson and Janice Dickinson. We were there for Carrie's lipgloss, which had to be shiny but not too shiny, pink but not too pink and also not too mauve. 45 minutes later we leave and she's $71 dollars poorer due to lip gloss, blush and some sort of hair cream which really did make her hair look managable and soft though I couldn't possibly tell you how or why or in what way.
She had buyer's remorse right outside and we exchanged the lipgloss. At the counter, I noticed a pink bottle of perfume with a scarf around its neck. I smelled it and immediately fell in love. It didn't smell perfumy, indeed, it smelled like my last cologne. I asked Janice Dickinson how much it was. She looked down her nose at me and said, "It's a little feminine."
I looked at her askance and said, "Well, so am I. But I like the smell of this. How much?"
She walked away.
Earlier, as Carrie had been perusing their wares, I was looking at various skin creams that advertised their calming effect. As I have very excitable skin, I was rather interested. Sadly, I watched as everyone around me was asked if they needed help, but never me. So, I decided, no, I did not need any help and left. After Janice Dickinson's dismissal, I felt doubly insulted.
In Rittenhouse Square, I told Carrie about all this and we fantasized about the ridiculous moment when I'll walk back in Blue Mercury and buy that $150 bottle of perfume/cologne.
"I'll ask her, 'You work on commission, right?'," I said. "And I'll be wearing a big floppy hat and black and white polka dots. Then I'll pick up the bottle and say, 'Big mistake. Huge!'"
"And you'll be carrying all these bags," she said. "Like a Gap bag. And a Daffy's bag. And a CVS bag."
"And a McDonald's bag!" I said. "And a bookbag!"
And we both laughed and laughed because Pretty Woman is the best movie ever. Then we imagined that Janice Dickinson would look at me in my ridiculous Vivian Banks on Rodeo Drive get-up and retort, "Uh, the commission on that bottle is, at most, $7.50... so, yeah." And we laughed and laughed. Because the pursuit of looking (and smelling) like the person you feel you are on the inside is something that is only realized in the movies.
I've become pretty much insanely obsessed with videos from various productions of Dreamgirls on YouTube. How obsessed? I will even watch numbers featuring a trio of white high school girls (bitches can sang, okay?). One, in particular and quite naturally, stands out amd I've taken to watching it two or three times a day. I have a problem, I know.
I'm talking, of course, about Jennifer Holliday's performance of the signature number "And I Am Telling You (I'm Not Going)" at the 1982 Tony Awards show. It's one of those things is stunningly fabulous that you know it can only have happened live and it was by sheer miracle that it was videotaped and survives today. We all know that she kills that song dead, but I had no idea the level of intensity and emotional rawness with which she performs. It HAS to be seen to be believed. I've never seen anything like it since. Here's the link.
Also, if you're so inclined, some other equally as stunning moments from other Tony Awards shows:
Tonya Pinkins sings "Lot's Wife" from Caroline, or Change (this video isn't actually the Tony performance but some sort of theatrical bootleg--a weird cottage industry, I suppose. Nevertheless, the performance is still amazing): HERE
Kristin Chenoweth and Idina Menzel perform "Defying Gravity" from Wicked at the Tonys: HERE
Ooh! This is a good one: Eartha Kitt sings "When It Ends" from The Wild Party. This wasn't actually on the Tonys, but I saw it live a couple years back and it was literally a showstopper. They closed the curtain, the show stopped, she sang, it was amazing, the show then proceeded. Watch it! HERE
Oh my God, Bernadette Peters sang "Rose's Turn" from Gypsy on the Tonys like 15 minutes after Tonya Pinkins sang "Lot's Wife" and Idina Menzel sang "Defying Gravity." It was a heart attack situation. Watch her face, especially: HERE
Hugh Jackman gives one of the few show-stopping male performances in "Not the Boy Next Door" as Peter Allen in "The Boy from Oz": HERE
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dantesaint's journal
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