Ms. Prejean,

Stop. Stop talking. For just a few minutes. Seriously, I don’t know why nobody has told you this before now but all you’re doing is making it worse. I would say that your publicist should have the sense to tell you to can it but, truthfully, that guy’s pretty smart if he’s letting you ramble, make an ass of yourself, lie to the mass media and prolong this side show you seem oblivious to be emceeing.

Look, ordinarily, I really don’t care about beauty pageants. Frankly, I got over being judged in middle school so I don’t understand why people would volunteer to do it on the off chance they may win some cash and 12 months of recognition. (And, yes, I happen to be a decently attractive human being, so this isn’t just an angry ugly chick rambling at you here.) But, because you have made such grandeur public statements on behalf of “young Christian women”, you’re now suddenly dragging me and some of my good friends into the fray, which we really don’t appreciate.

Believe it or not, the rest of the world kind of doesn’t like Americans right now. (I know we’re big into screaming about how awesome we are all the time but, really, that just makes everyone like us even less.) They’re all pretty sure that we’re all a bunch of vapid, surgically-enhanced, superficial, Bible-beating hypocrites. And the real problem with that belief is that there are people like you WHO ARE LIKE THAT who are making international headlines and perpetuating these godawful stereotypes.

Since you seem a little clueless when it comes to abstract thought, I’ll make a list of grievances so you can clearly understand what I’m addressing here.

The Stereotypes You Are Perpetuating That We Wish You Wouldn’t Are:

1) All Americans Have a Victim Mentality, Especially the Young Ones.
No matter how much you publicly whine about somehow being “wronged”, it’s painfully obvious that you weren’t. And by continuing to whine about it, you’re just making yourself look like an idiot. Here’s what happened: You won Miss California. Good for you. The folks that run that particular organization forked out a lot of money to have your body surgically altered if you’d sign an agreement to jump through their hoops and live by their standards. And then you didn’t. And then you lied about it. And then you tried to sue them for holding you accountable for your actions. (Also another American trait that’s cringe-worthy.) Sure, the gays that chair Miss California Inc. were devastated at the ignorant, bigoted answer you gave but even if that wasn’t a factor, you were still flaking out on the boat shows where you were scheduled to appear and the Family Dollar grand openings where you were due to cut the ribbon. So say what you will about the Gay Mafia coming to get you because you “love Jesus” and are just trying to spread “His Word”, you were wrong. And, as an adult, people expect you to be accountable for your actions. Oh, and FYI: because you’re not, you’re just making yourself look even less credible.

2) Christians Hate Gay People and Jesus Did Too
I could literally spend all day rambling about how inaccurate this is but I’m sure that would be fruitless. However, let’s talk like two people who were raised in Sunday School. The cool thing about Jesus that made him so healing and appealing to everyone is that he loved and accepted everyone for what they were. In case you’ve forgotten, he hung out with drunks and murderers and hookers and all sorts of really gross people and he’d probably even hang out with you, too. His message was ENTIRELY about love. And he offered love and forgiveness for any type of sin, including lying or stealing or drinking to excess or adultery or murdering or – if you think love is somehow a sin – having sex with someone who has matching genitalia to yours.

So, running around telling everyone that Jesus has a problem with gay people and that you’re just this soldier standing up for your beliefs is not only incredibly hypocritical but just innacurate. You’re not a martyr for spreading hatred and intolerance. You’re not doing Jesus’s bidding by campaigning against people being in love. I mean, if we’re going to try to stop supposed “sinners” from getting married, are you going to try to stop drunks from getting married? How about non-Christians? I mean, technically, if you really believe this, you could spend the rest of your life limiting marriage to just Christian heteros.

I’m not so much a “Christian” as I am someone who recognizes God in all forms and respects the teachings of the people who spoke of Love (like Christ.) And, unfortunately, when you misrepresent someone who represents and initiated ideas that I believe in, you offend me personally, because I really don’t appreciate looking like a moron along with you.

3) Beauty Pageant Contestants Are Just a Bunch of Mindless Whores

I’m no expert, but I’m pretty sure there are a couple thousand beauty queens who want to punch your face in. (And, no, not because they’re totally jealous of your rockin’ bod.) Some of these girls are actually intelligent, with ambition and talent and would kill for a media platform in which to share their beliefs and spread awareness about noble causes. There are girls who could actually be talented actors/singers/models or who want to make extra money for grad school or who want to do something important with their lives other than be a beauty queen for a year if they could just get that big break. But, instead, we have you, yet another oversexed, greedy twentysomething hottie, wildly flailing around, contradicting yourself by yelling about morals and then having nude photos and a sex tape (God, how cliche can we be, here?) magically leak and then going out and writing a book about how all of this that has made you famous has destroyed you as a person.

AND YOU DIDN’T EVEN WIN THE DAMNED THING.

::Sigh::

You see where this is going? Even the poor girl who spent just as much time as you in the gym and rehearsed her interview questions just as hard as you did and invested just as much time and money into the Miss USA pageant as you did and actually won the “coveted” title isn’t getting as much press as you. What was her name again? And her mission was what? I’m pretty sure she’s talked to a couple hitmen.

Meanwhile, you’re showing the world that yes! You proudly let an organization purchase breasts for you! And yes! You have the obligatory spray tan and bleached hair and overwhitened teeth! And yes! You believe in Jesus but have no idea what he was actually about! And yes! You proudly argue like a 7th grade girl who’s being made fun of for being flat-chested! And yes! You do all this loudly and publicly with no idea how stupid this is making you look and no desire to step back and try to salvage some dignity or self-respect! Hooray for America!

I’m surprised your co-contestants haven’t tried to kill you already.

So, let’s recap: You’re making a lying, idiotic fool of yourself and your parents and your friends, of course. And you’re doing the same for those people who share a religious title with you. And you’re doing the same for beauty pageant contestants. And you’re doing all this in epic, international proportions, completely oblivious to the fact that in a couple years nobody’s going to care what you have to say and honestly don’t care now but we can’t peel ourselves away because we haven’t seen such a personal Hindenberg incident since Britney shaved her head and beat up a car.

Stop trying to be heard; you’ve made your statements, backed them up with your contradicting actions and the damage is done. Stop trying to make money. Stop trying to stay relevant. Stop telling everyone that you’re some sort of hero. Stop letting your publicist sell you out while you’re making money and getting attention for him. Stop lying to everyone about everything because we know and you’re just making it worse. Stop talking on behalf of people who are absolutely nothing like you. If not for us, then do it for yourself. Have a little dignity and just go away.

Because the blatant truth is that you’re not the Victim here; you’re the Lost, Self-Destructing, Dollfaced Moron. And haven’t we seen enough of that in pop culture?

Most sincerely,

Liz Pardue-Schultz

Behold, a cautionary tale of the most genuine sort about how faith and visualization sometimes aren’t enough, especially when inexpensive hair dye and inexperience are involved.

Last year, I got a wild hare in my ass after the high of my sudden domesticity came down and I dyed a bright purple streak in my bangs in a sad attempt to save myself from Boringstonville. I adored it, but after six months of fortnightly bleaching and weekly color touch-ups I had to resign myself to the fact that if I did anything else to this small plot of follicles, I would only succeed in enlongating my forehead.

So, I took myself to a real live professional (a rare, raaare occurence for me) who spent TWO HOURS putting stripping treatment on this 6″sq to no avail. She then dyed everything all one color in hopes to obscure the remaining color – again, to no avail.

Six months later, my hair has grown out significantly and it has become apparent that the color it was dyed is notably lighter than my actual hair color. In an[other] attempt to remedy this once and for all, I go for a hair dye in “Dark Chocolate” because it best matches my roots and it’s one of those things I love sporting just as the leaves start to change.

When I am dyeing my hair, I visualize, long, shining, luxurious locks of dark, flowing tresses that mesmerize and seduce. I hope to channel something Megan Fox-y or Catherine Zeta-Jones-y or [perhaps more realistic, if only a little] Kim Kardashian-y.

I am sorely mistaken.

When I was whining about my misfortune to a friend, she asked, “Okay, seriously. How bad is it?” I then relayed to her the story of a visit to a local convenience mart mere hours earlier during which the gum-chewing, brace-laced, dead-eyed minor behind the counter had [relatively] excitedly exclaimed, “Oh, wow! Has anyone told you that you, like, look exactly like Amy Lee? Like, identical.”

My friend didn’t stop laughing for a whole three minutes.

I would vow to remain in seclusion until I can afford another hair treatment (physically or financially) but that would only further the image that I am now one of the pale, mopey, anti-social Goth chick that I loathe so very. very. very much.

At least Halloween is next month.

~ I have my first audition in five years with a professional theatre here in town. While I’m excited to be getting back into theatre, I’m petrified as I haven’t acted in about 3-ish years, I haven’t sung anything except karaoke since my vocal register changed (pregnancy wreaks havoc on EVERYTHING) and, after thorough review of every performance I’ve ever given, I’ve pretty objectively realized I’m not much to look at on stage, nor do I have any level of awareness or implementation of any techniques I may have learned in my 5 years of arts school education. I’m afraid I’m going to look like one of those idiot ‘American Idol’ contestants who’s too deluded to realize they should stick to something else.

~ I just got back from a seriously blissful weekend in Atlanta. While the trip was primarily to visit with my husband’s family, I spent about half the time visiting with my own family and friends which was just incredible, almost to a degree I wasn’t expecting. The Bear and I drove my mother’s behemoth 1998 Suburban down for the 6-hour trip a day early (we had piles of babythings to return to my cousin who gave them to us mistakenly believing they were through with having children) and spent a night and an extra evening visiting with one of my oldest and dearest friends (it’s interesting; I haven’t known her longer than any of my other childhood friends, but she’s the only good friend I can say I’ve been close to the longest.) in her AMAZINGly posh little neighborhood in the Highlands area of Atlanta. The Bear and I stayed with her and her poor, unassuming fiance who was so tolerant of Chloe’s incessant excited squeals while he was recovering from a very very recent oral surgery that I feel I owe him a kidney or something. Anyway, being able to catch up and spend some actual “hang-out-and-talk-about-stuff-other-than-general-catch-uppery” time with her was a rare treat and then being able to see her again the next night at her family’s Football Marathon Extravaganza was even cooler. (Best meal I’ve had in years. Literally. Her brother smoked melt-in-your-mouth barbecue and this crazy Bacon Explosion – we called it the Coronary Log – that was woven bacon wrapped around sausage wrapped around bacon and smoked into a magical, life-shortening log of majesty. And then her dad provided home grown Georgia peaches for homemade peach ice cream that almost made me start speaking in tongues.)
Aside from getting to have a social life with real, actual friends who aren’t obligated to be around me for familial or occupational reasons, I was able to visit with my siblings one morning for a mind-altering breakfast at the Flying Biscuit where I devoured an organic pumpkin pancake stack drizzled with maple syrup and pralines that, also, made me consider going into the priesthood or taking Jesus as a groom. We hit the Decatur Book Fest which wasn’t nearly as cool as I was expecting (I was hoping for book sales galore and only got indie authors hawking their wares en masse) but I did get to meet the guys from Mental Floss and yell at them for monopolizing all of my productivity and spare time with their addictive informative site and intriguing trivia. Plus, I got one of the founders to sign a book for me! Whee! The highlight of this whole thing, however, was that I got to spend some time with my siblings who I always just assume want to be around me to see my daughter. However, when my brother seemed genuinely excited to hang out with us sans Bear later on that evening I’m not sure I’d been so touched in a very long time.

And THEN, as if my weekend wasn’t emotionally rich enough, I got to stop off at my cousin’s incredible little bungalow in Roswell, Georgia where he and his wife made us lunch and their daughter spent two enamored hours bringing the Bear into hysterical giggles I haven’t heard other than when she’s being tickle tortured (Always go for the feet with little wet wipes. Works every time, even during frantic sobs of age-associated protest.) I tend to gravitate toward my cousin as a means of shared sanity as we both have been the ones in our families who have absorbed that swept-under-the-rug dysfunction and have had the residual emotions manifest in our mental states. Because of our shared experiences with years of therapy and learning how to implement those tools into the sanity surrounding us, we have a lot in common in that we look at things objectively and are often the ones accused of being melodramatic or just insane by those who would rather blame and ostracize the “crazy one” for familial craziness instead of beginning a process of self-evaluation and transformation themselves. (::Sigh::) Nonetheless, while both of us have reached a point in our lives where we’re emotionally self-sufficient and no longer willing to sit around and whine about being victims or other cowardly shows of general laziness, we have a mutual understanding of the ability to look at dysfunctional insanity and disassociate with it on a personal level, which is something I often feel very very alone in. It’s always nice to be able to get together with him and compare notes although sometimes I feel bad that our conversations usually go that direction before moving on to anything else, simply because we see each other so rarely and it’s such a sense of relief to have someone who understands who is also within the family. (Luckily, both of us have fantastic spouses who are objectively level-headed but still always on our team… even if we’re wrong… That being said, there’s something to be said for having someone who can understand and relate to my exact situation because he’s witnessed and experienced the exact same things from the exact same people. There’s definitely a sense of validation there.) And he’s always the first family member I send an email to when I’m dealing with great emotional upheaval or conflict in my personal, family-related life as he’s distant enough to deal with the situation objectively but close enough that he can make observations about the usual participants and the roles and persuasions they embody within the family dynamic.
All this being said, that poor guy has gone through far faaaarrr more family insanity and mental fuckery than I eeever have (selfishly, I’m unbelievably thankful for this) so, while his life experiences are always to caricature-esque extremes, I feel like I can really learn a lot from his journey to self-realization and his ability to emotionally liberate himself and find happiness in his own life. It’s very inspiring, although heartrending to hear, let alone to physically observe.

So yeah, it was a great weekend for me and a surprisingly emotionally refreshing one to boot. Granted, the Bear has gotten to an age where she’s really selective about her choice of activity and hates being redirected with a passion (It’s so bad that if we try to pull her off a staircase she’s been playing on for ten minutes in public, she’ll fling herself on the ground and begin screaming and kicking. This happens no matter what personal agenda goals of ours conflict with hers, even to the more minute detail, like changing her diaper when she would rather sit and play with her toes. It’s EXHAUSTING.) so it was really hard to go along with the adamant plans of the in-laws without flat out refusing. There were a few times that they were intent on doing a certain thing at a certain time and were inflexible about it, which is perfectly fine and honestly completely understandable and even relatable to us as people who used to have lives with plans and agendas but, being that we have a child who often restricts our freedoms and abilities to do anything according to regimented plans we were constantly trying to assert our inability to participate, which was taken more personally than intended. We were adamant in insisting the group go on without us and enjoy their time in town while we joined them while we could but that usually backfired on us as well. So we found ourselves stuck in awkward positions such as the Sunday morning incident when we took the Bear to a hot, overcrowded zoo filled to the brim with Labor Day Family Vacationers during which she only showed interest in – again – climbing stairs, running after her peers and… that’s about it, actually. As predicted she showed little to no interest in the animals who were barely visible in their tiny but hilly entrapments and, after realizing that we had plans different than hers, began fussing about everything. She didn’t want to be carried, she didn’t want to walk, she didn’t want a juice box, she didn’t want anything in particular but to scream and insist on pushing the stroller up and down a massive ramp and then scream more at us when we tried to thwart her plans. In addition to battling an oncoming migraine that lasted the rest of the evening, I was practicing breathing techniques to restrain myself from angrily reminding everyone that I did say this would happen and that we would definitely have been better suited for her to have visited in the early-to-mid afternoon, after her nap when all the other kids were still taking theirs and she could have a little more breathing room like my husband and I said at the beginning. (I’m sorry to sound like a ruthless bitch here but we do, after all, spend all our time with this little person. We do have a general idea of how she functions and her inability to adapt to anyone else’s plans. It’s a flexibility we’ve been forced to learn in order to keep screaming meltdowns to a minimum and maintain some semblance of sanity.) When the Bear fell asleep in the car before we left the parking lot and was awake by 1:30 p.m. within an hour of us laying her down for a nap, I was even more frustrated by the validity of my prediction. (It was the one time in my life I honestly wished I could have been wrong just to avoid more of the I-told-you-so’s-and-why-doesn’t-anyone-listen frustrations.) ::sigh:: And, of course, when we insisted that the rest of the group stay and get their money’s worth out of their visit, we were met with genuinely well-intended “of course nots!” which were appreciated but not out of character and was even more of a reminder that this often happens in such situations that could easily have been avoided. I’m definitely not saying that it doesn’t royally suck to have a child who is such a prima donna and demands her way on schedule all the time (it totally does), but, knowing that this is the sort of person who is often among the most popular in this sort of family gathering, I would think that those around us would try to accommodate that for the sake of everyone’s sanity at the least. The weirdest part of all of this is that it’s beneficial to EVERYONE involved when concessions are made to keep her happy as we are all given more time to enjoy ourselves and nobody’s having to run off to quell her fussiness, so, again, the insistence on ignoring our always-accurate warnings is beyond me. Especially since there have been a surplus of consistent examples to back my assertions’ accuracy. Still, though, we’re frequently ignored when we attempt excuse ourselves from late-night public dining ventures (again, always from the best intentions from this group of people who just want to include us) and other out-of-synch plans that inevitably end with elevated stress during an epic meltdown.

However, I was incredibly grateful at the offer to take the Bear off our hands for an evening while me and the hubs enjoyed a night out on the town (Don’t go see “Extract”, by the way. Not much to talk about at all and I’m not even sure it’s worth a DVD rental in six months. Seriously disappointing with a protagonist story very similar to that in “Office Space” without nearly as much relatable humor and sense of direction or varied levels of emotion. Everything just felt hollow and forced and, while the cast was full of individually appealing personalities – Mila Kunis is funny, quirky and hot, as always. Jason Bateman is handsome though a bit bumbling and uncertain… as always. Beth Grant is a particular highlight, returning as one of the most hilarious obnoxious bitches imaginable which, despite her real-life sparkling personality, is what she’s simply genius at. – , together they were just like an eclectic collection of thrift store furniture “finds” that are divine by themselves but look like an apartment in a schizophrenic’s mind when flung into the same room. Not an ounce of chemistry in the whole group. So there’s my mini review.) And I was secretly relieved that the in-laws were the victims of Poopocalypse II later in the evening as I’m not sure my heightened exhaustion and end-of-day stress could have handled such an involved event while keeping myself from breaking into tears. (Again, a 6-hour trip with someone who loathes confinement more than myself is taxing of multiple days’ worth of energy and emotion.) Greg and I went to an actual party with real adults that had other stuff to talk about than having babies and then we went out to a movie and stayed out until midnight. I cannot remember the last time we did that together. 11:30, sure. But midnight? Not since I was pre-pregnancy. Amazing.

~ So I’m gearing up for a big week here. Recovery laundry and babycare from this recent trip, a last-minute monologue cramming session, a trip back to Myrtle to return my mom’s car this weekend… it just don’t stop, apparently.

This is me with nothing to say but still feeling the need to write something. I’ll indulge with ramblings about self/pop culture/Burning Man/etc. Feel free to abstain.

~ Donald Duck has always been my favorite of the original Disney characters from the time I was a small child. This still has nothing to do with the fact that I loathe it when people try to emulate his voice. It always sounds unintelligible and just ridiculous.

~ I’ve realized that anything Nick Park is behind I’m pretty much automatically going to adore. Aside from the Wallace and Gromit productions, “Robbie the Reindeer” and “Shaun the Sheep” are just infectious with clever joy.

~ If leprechauns are so worried about people stealing their pots o’ gold, why don’t they invest it or spend it or something? Perhaps their fighting-Irish Napoleon Complex is only satiated with the knowledge that they have great wealth in a tangible form. The ego associated with material things, I guess.

~ I’ve got to learn to let go of my control issues. After hours of watching children’s television, I’ve realized that I am completely incapable of watching any cartoon without becoming frustrated in the inconsistencies and plot holes. (Honestly, though, how can Squidward’s house become flooded or tears be visible if Spongebob lives under the sea?!?)

~ After a few weeks with this writing course, it’s become evident that I blow as a writer unless I’m talking about myself. Fan. Tastic.

My professor is very encouraging but I still feel insecure when he says things like “Once again, you’ve made a stellar effort.” I know I’m working my ass off to push myself but that doesn’t mean I’m producing anything worthwhile. I don’t need praise for my effort, I just want to know that I’m not sucking in this genre.

I don’t know. The one short story I wrote for the fiction writing class I was in a few years ago that I thought was absolute garbage and was fully expecting to be mercilessly criticized for was awarded the unofficial Blue Ribbon of the semester. (The professor – a nationally recognized author – actually sketched a little one on the final draft. I kept it after all these years because it makes me smile.) So I get that all art is subjective but if I hate what I’m producing I feel really unethical accepting any sort of praise for it or trying to submit it to competitions, etc. Somehow being awarded for something I don’t stand behind feels like lying to me.

(The same thing happened with some photography I submitted to the student literary journal that last semester of undergrad. The piece I thought was my all-time best work wasn’t even published while the one piece that took the smallest effort, wasn’t that visually appealing and was honestly about to be left at home won a freaking award.)

~ The Gosselin parents are sad, pathetic people with personalities of white bread toast. Why is the media so fascinated with yet another crumbling marriage between two people who exploit their children for money? Why are we giving them any more attention or justifying/perpetuating their chosen “career” any more than we have to? And why hasn’t someone at least told Kate that her hair is unforgivable? (There; that was my superficial snarkiness coming out.) And why are these women latching onto and publicly fighting over Jon for “fame”? Really, he’s not attractive, he’s clearly just having a textbook mid-life meltdown and he’s not famous so much as highly publicized so the whole thing won’t have mattered in six months and they’ll have wasted their 15 minutes on that. Ew. (Oh, there it was again.)

~ Every year during this time I get a little down because I’m missing out on Burning Man for yet another session. It’s one of those things I’ve longed to attend for years and years now but never had the money or the time to make the drive and set up camp. I have a friend who has gone for about 5 or six years now whom I visited in Berkeley. While there, she took me to a warehouse in Oakland where a bunch of Burners live in little makeshift apartments and work on art all day. They were scheduled to have a party that night but, because it was so cold, we ended up just standing around a trashcan bonfire and chatting about various life experiences. Still, though, just being around all this incredible, innovative art (including the famed Dr. MegaVolt!) and these people who just live out these wild, pronoiac fantasies was awe-inspiring. Then, a couple years ago, I spent a while in Asheville, NC, helping an amazing performance artist I’d met at a folk art show get ready to make the long trek out there. I helped him wrap up some huge projects, like a random spiritual-and-philosophical-beanbag-toss game where the rules and challenges were subjective but always rewarding. He also has this unbelievable art car he’s transformed from an ambulance that he uses along with his stage show in which he discusses and pontificates about absurdist philosophy under the alias Mister Doctor Professor. We also spent a lot of time building a tent that could entertain masses as well as weather the daily sandstorms that blow up at the festival. And I loved every minute of it.

I know these kinds of people are few and far between and are usually the ones who are laughed at or mocked by the larger, consumerist society and I also realize that in my saying that it makes me into a TheMan-fighting cliche but I really, honestly, do not care. These Burning Man-like events and are just things you do for the sole purpose of enjoying life and exploring your own mind and pushing your limitations and/or concepts of joy, communication and creativity. These are the types of people who excite and inspire me more than any other, even if I can only watch from a distance.

So during Burning Man week I always feel a bit of longing to be out enjoying the insanity and all-night partying and unbelievable art projects (the 55-foot long, electronic, metal, flaming Serpent Mother built by the Flaming Lotus Girls in 2006 is one of my absolute favorite works of art of all time) and the insane contests (from the obscene and vulgar to the absurd and family-friendly) and just all of it. I hope it’s still going on when I finally have enough money and time to go.

This year, however, I’m going to try to refocus my energy to tapping in to the positive vibes Burning Man generates. Certainly such a large convening of ecstatic minds in celebration has to emit some incredible rifts in the global energy. I want to be a part of that somehow. Maybe I’ll paint something…

~ This morning I was enjoying my weekly cup of Decaf Hazelnut Creme coffee when the Bear started clamoring for a taste. Figuring she’d hate it, I gave her a sip to which she replied, “MMMMMMM!” and then began reaching for more. After a few minutes fruitlessly attempting to fend her off, I decided to put a tiny spoonful in a sippy-cup of milk, like a baby latte that would actually have some nutritional benefit. Suffice to say that it worked. I just have to make sure this doesn’t become a habit.

It’s one of those Fridays where I’m going to share random thoughts. And I’m not in the mood to argue about any of them.

~ I’m going to visit my Gran next weekend. I’m unbelievably excited about this and the chance to watch her interact with Chloe on a one-on-one basis.

Gran’s amazing. She’s one of those women who used to be a beauty queen and still adheres to those standards of beauty, always going to the gym, always worried about her weight (and everyone else’s), never leaving the house without makeup. I kind of hate that trait in anyone else but in Gran it’s so endearing. When we go to the country club, she’s the kind of woman who’ll see her peers (or even women 15 years younger) hunch-backed in 30-years-outdated housedresses and pincurl perms and lean over to slyly state, “I hope I never look like that.” And really, she’s a remarkably beautiful woman, even at 85. She has Christopher-Lloyd-white hair that comes down to her shoulders in soft waves and these bright blue eyes that have slowly lost most of their twinkle in the 9 years since my grandfather died (the man was a dream husband, which is why I get so touched when my Gran tells me my own husband reminds her of him) and the most beautiful, unrestrained laugh I’ve ever heard in my life. She’s totally a pistol but she never diverges from her Southern, dignity-always mentality.

Alright, here’s a ridiculously cool testament as to how remarkably rad Gran has been her whole life: When she met my grandfather, she was engaged to this big Texas oil tycoon and had a rock the size of my face to prove it. Anyway, she was in the beauty pageant for the Greensboro May Day Queen and her escort was a no-show. One of her friends ran over to this group of soldiers in uniform and asked, “Hey, will one of you guys escort my friend?” When she pointed over to Gran, apparently the group was slack-jawed until one little guy from a poor little town in the mountains of NC offered to do it. That was my granddad. Like something out of a movie, she won the pageant (of course) and had Grandaddy walk her home, during which she asked him to take her to dinner (pretty forward for the early 1940′s) When he came back to pick her up that night, he was a little early and she answered the door apologizing for not being ready yet. My cousin did this amazing interview with my grandfather before he passed and recorded the whole thing that he gave to us on CD. On it my grandfather talks about that evening and he closes the story by saying, “When I got to the door, she was wearing her engagement ring, but when she came back downstairs she wasn’t. I remember thinking, ‘Well, that’s something, isn’t it?”

So yes, they were married a year or so later (she wore the dress she wore for the May Day pageant) and they had five kids and he was a wildly successful man who was loved by everyone in his county and they were at the top of their social ladder for manymany years and it was all just splendid and perfect.

But hold on. It TOTALLY gets better. After my grandfather died in 2000, we were kind of worried about Gran but knew she’d busy herself with meeting old friends (she’s been in the same bridge club for 50 years) and going to the gym, etc. In 2005 I was in Australia and was talking to my dad about how Gran was doing and he kind of got this amused tone in his voice and said, “Well, she’s kind of seeing someone.” and went on to tell me about this guy who had been sending her flowers and talking to her on the phone for hours a few times a week and was flying in on his private jet to visit her.

Yeah. That Texan she broke up with 60+ years ago to marry my grandfather called her a few years ago and is still trying to win her over. I hope to God I have game like that when I’m 85. (Although I still wouldn’t date most of my exes even then. This is not up for debate.)

Anyway, that’s Gran. She’s the kind of woman who told me to walk 2 miles and drink one cup of black coffee and one glass of wine for every day I was pregnant. (She also told me that if I gained more than 20 lbs. during my pregnancy, my doc wouldn’t deliver my child. Heh… Old people and their crazy ideas.) She offers beer to everyone who visits, unless it’s still morning and then she’ll offer a Bloody Mary or a Screwdriver.

A few years ago we had this family reunion and before she went on her walk one day, she found me and showed me this headband I’d made for her when I was in the 1st grade. (It was made out of Hot Loops. Remember those things?! And you wove them together using this weird finger-weaving method?) She mentioned that she’d always used it to work out for the last 20-ish years and always thought of me when she did. I was touched.

Later that evening, she and I sat out on the porch talking and watching the ocean. Before she turned in for the night, she mentioned how much she loved talking to me and how she always felt we were kindred spirits. I reciprocated the sentiment and told her how much it meant to me to have a grandmother who loved me so much. To which she replied (and I may never ever forget this as long as I live), “Of course I love you honey. Why else would I have kept that tacky headband all these years?”

Awesome.

~ The fact that Cathy Guisewite still has an active career with national syndication crushes my optimism for the modern human spirit more than anything else in pop culture. At least reality television is deliberately idiotic. Nobody cites the “Cathy” comic as one of their guilty pleasures.
And I’ve never been one of those angry feminists who gets mad about stupid shit. I really only get passionate about important causes like the government getting out of our bodies/relationships and women getting paid the same as men, etc. But why in hell isn’t she receiving hate mail every single day for actively perpetuating these abysmal stereotypes about the overweight, ever-”victimized”, middle-aged woman who’s adept to society and malleable to public influence? Personally, I think it’s worse than anything Hefner of Flint has ever done.

~ You know, I used to think that Peter Dinklage had to be the bravest man in Hollywood. Here’s a man who is incredibly talented and went to the most superficial place on the planet to pursue a career in which he doesn’t use his size as a gimmick. Okay, sure he’s been given roles that were written for midgets but he’s never resorted to stereotypes and cheap sellouts in those roles; he’s always portrayed as a normal person with real emotions and intelligence (Like the literary genius he played in ‘Elf‘ or the Liz Lemon suitor on ‘30 Rock‘.) However, he’s also been given roles in which his size had absolutely nothing to do with the part. For one extremely impressive example, in 2006 he portrayed a lawyer in the true story of Jackie DiNorscio (Find Me Guilty) who, in reality wasn’t/isn’t a small person at all. That, to me, is pretty incredible. So, I’ve been a fan because of his incredible talent, integrity… and smoldering eyes… and deep, authoritative voice… ::shudders with arousal:::

But then I realized that if I was to name the Bravest Actor in Hollywood (and I’m not even going to get into the absurdity of the notion that people “take risks” in roles that require them to be “brave.” Give me an effing break. Yeah, I get the concept behind that, that a poor portrayal might destroy someone’s career or the director’s vision but please… Don’t flatter yourself by acting like you conjured up some deep, ancient courage to play a public figure.) it’d be Steve Buscemi. Hands down. Think about it. That guy looked in the mirror and said, “Yeah, dammit. I’m going to be in films.” And he never got any plastic surgery, he never fixed those crowded teeth, he didn’t change a thing to try to fit into any of the aesthetic requirements of modern cinema. And now look at him! He’s, like, constantly employed and he’s practically a household name. Sure, his roles are limited to the “skeezy” category, but he’s been given the chance to move around in that field during his career. There was “skeezy renegade hero” in the dreadful ‘Armageddon’, there was “skeezy psychopathic killer” in ‘Con Air’, “skeezy drunken black sheep/broken spirited brother” in ‘The Wedding Singer’ and then there was “sensitive skeezy older-man love interest” in ‘Ghost Town’. You really have to admire the versatility there.

So, bravo Buscemi. You’ve shown us that in life you can chase and obtain your dreams if you really honestly believe in yourself. The message isn’t lost on me.

~ The knowledge that people are arguing about health care changes based on the singular fact that they’re too greedy and too selfish to help people who can’t help themselves is disgusting and heartbreaking to me. Alright, I don’t necessarily agree with the health care plans in question at the moment and I know that there are going to be people who take advantage of any system, but the idea that so so many people really believe that poor people or people with disabilities who have no way of improving their situation actually enjoy taking government handouts and being powerless over their lives is just ridiculous. Again, I know those people exist but can’t we give the majority the benefit of the doubt?
(And yes, the knowledge that all these people whining about not sharing and acting like uneducated morons in courthouses are primarily upper-middle class, white, privileged citizens is somewhat embarrassing.)

~ I’ve just sort of gotten into Hunter S. Thompson (I is a late bloomer) and, while I get that the man was a genius and a literary revolutionary and had that sort of Crazy where his thoughts were “out there” but somehow made a lot of sense, but mostly I think he was just an asshole.

The thing is, while I think everyone admires/envies the type of person who says “Fuck society!” and lives by their own agendas and sticks strongly to his convictions of idealism, when it comes down to someone who lives a life proud of his substance addictions and constantly in a state of inebriation (admittedly pretty appealing to some people), no matter how functional he’s able to be in his professional life, he’s still going to carry all the classic traits of an addict. And that’s how it was with this guy. He was unbelievably selfish and manipulative, he had nothing but abusive relationships, he treated his friends and coworkers like shit… it’s really a wonder anyone hung out with him at all after a while. Sure he was revolutionizing the media and I get that guys like Jann Wenner had him around to sell magazines, but I’m kind of astounded that there were enough people who loved him to have written an entire biography constructed exclusively of personal anecdotes from friends. (‘Gonzo: The Life of Hunter S. Thompson’ if you’re interested)

There are two main things that people believe they are so far better at than they actually are: singing and being funny. However, if there is anything more painful and awful to watch than someone who mistakenly believes they can sing, it is someone who truly believes they are funny and desperately are not.

This is why I’m terrified to chase my real, secret dream of becoming a comedy writer… but I’ll get to that in a minute.

I say that these are the “two main things” (aside from, say, being well-read or knowing how to act or something else that is completely subjectively judged) because these are the two things that everyone has access to attempting every day of their lives and that throngs and throngs of misguided people flock to various auditions for in hopes to find success in these coveted crafts. It’s far harder to be convinced that you’re a brilliant doctor if you’re killing people left and right or that you’re a fantastic pilot if you can’t even turn a plane on, right? Those are things that require actual evidence of talent and capability in order to acheive success at. But people who mistakenly believe that they are great singers or groundbreaking comedians aren’t required to have any sort of tangible evidence that they have any competence or training in their field so they’re more likely to hurl themselves toward it in complete delusion. Maybe it’s because those who can entertain are considered heroes in our culture, maybe it’s because those people who are mistaken about their talents think that fame and recognition for these likable talents will make them feel loved, but whatever the case, these are the two things that people in any social class or setting attempt to demonstrate constantly, whether to small audiences or on a nationally-syndicated television show. And they come in droves as those most willing to make colossal asses of themselves.

This starts on a basic level, which we’ll call Level 1′s (The Socially Unfunny.) Usually there is one person around who loves to think of him/herself as being “witty” and “sarcastic” and will also brag to new friends that these are among their best qualities. And, while they may actually have learned the definition of “sarcasm,” their development of the implementation of the technique apparently stalled immediately afterward. (Typically around the early 90′s.) Level 1′s are incessantly interjecting commentary that is not only insipid and predictable but is almost nauseatingly unfunny. True, the comments they make are technically “sarcastic,” but they are in the very most primitive form, indicative of the exhausting Chandler character on ‘Friends.’  Usually, this behavior is found in children ages 10-17 who have just learned about the idea of sarcasm but still have no grasp in irony. (And, for the record, this was definitely me for the majority of my adolesence. Another problem cured through sobriety!) However, when this person is any older than 18, it just becomes obnoxious.  

For example, if a friend of one of these Level 1′s (L1) was to trip and fall in front of the L1, the L1 would automatically be inspired to say something like, “Hey, next time why don’t you try walking?” or “Walk much?” Sometimes the L1 will take it to an L1.5 response and hint at irony, like “Look out for that sidewalk; it likes to shift.” Another example of an L1.5 response would be if, say, a frequently-unkempt person had decided to skip a bath for a day and told their L1.5 acquaintence, only to be told, “And that’s neeeeeever something you’d do. Because you’resoooohygenic. ” [Insert I'm-totally-kidding-wink here.] Any of these variations are categorically Level 1, though, because they are agonizingly dull, uninspired, obvious and outdated. (Because I was a candidate of L1 status as a drunk, it serves as yet another strong reason as to why I should avoid the booze.)

The Level 2 gang is only slightly advanced in that they understand the basics of generalized wit, sarcasm, and perhaps even humor-inducing elements/formulas but their voices and attempts are based on the trends of popular contemporary comedy styles. These people are funny enough to stand out in small groups of people and L2.5′s may even attempt a career but ultimately won’t be able to make any name for themselves or find any real success because they are simply carbon copies of real talent. An L2 probably adorescomedy and is capable of reproducing various styles of humor that are all relevant to current pop culture. For example, an L2 can mimic the Random-Humor style of “Monty Python” just as well as he can cite obscure references like “Family Guy” has earned vast recognition for [beating to death.] Although it’s an easier format, many L2′s are popular for their ability to channel the revolutionary (at the time) Awkward-and-Silly humor that Adam Sandler introduced and Andy Samberg continues today. And, a very advanced L2.5 may even be able to grasp the absurdist satire styles that create such shows as “South Park.” All are popular subgenres of comedy for a reason and, recognizing this, an L2 is happy to jump on board.

And the very worst of these egomaniacal Unfunnies are the Level 3′s. L3′s are so convinced that they are humorous that they have committed their lives to treating the world to their humor. These are the types who are capable of thinking outside of the box but their attempts at humor fall into the unsuccessful subcategories of comedy like Pretentious Humor, So-Abstract-Nobody-Gets-It Humor, So-Twisted-And-Disgusting-That-You’d-Have-To-Be-Soulless-To-Laugh Humor, or So-Overwrought-With-Intention-That-Nobody-Gives-A-Shit Humor. Similar to the Level 2.5′s, the L3 often copies popular styles of humor although on a more elitist level. An L3 is more likely to mimic the Uncomfortable-And-Awkward-Situation Humor as popularized by shows like “The Office” and “Kath and Kim” (The UK and AUS originals, of course. This type of humor requires subtlety in order to really be effective and if there’s anything Americans cannot seem to grasp it’s exactly that. Oh, and the idea that we’re not a theocracy… but that’s another conversation.) and even in the groundbreaking “Napoleon Dynamite” (most recognizable by it’s overquotation from L2′s.) These people believe they are the next Andy Kaufman, that they are going to shake up the way we all accept humor, that they are going to redefine the comedy world, and the only reason that they haven’t been able to touch the masses is because they’re ahead of their time and nobody recognizes their greatness yet. But L3′s are not destined to become actual comedians because they are chronic Unfunnies and the only genuine humor they display is the sad fact that they cannot see how terrible they are and the complete irony that their life often matches the exact crappy comedy they’re writing/performing.

I am petrified that I’m destined to become a Level 3.

I’ve always secretly dreamed of being a writer for SNLor some comedy-based performance company in general. Then when Tina Fey started stepping out I became even more excited with the realization that women are finally starting to get taken seriously as brilliant comedians capable of entertaining masses on an intelligent level. Although I’ve been performing on stage since I was 6-ish, I’ve come to the realization that I’m just not that funny to watch, really. And when I’m watching recordings of my performances I am literally sickened by all my terrible artistic choices and the opportunities I missed and my general cluelessness when it comes to creating a presence. With that in mind, I was fortunate enough to write and perform with a quite successful comedy troupe in Melbourne, Australia a few years ago and just adored it. I enjoyed collaborating on ideas with others, I loved feeling like my work was something people really enjoyed and I became intoxicated with pride and glee when a line or sketch I’d written garnered laughs and applause. Again, when I watch my performances from those shows now I blatantly cringe at my awkward stage persona (and the sad realization that I don’t even have the brilliance to make that work for me, like the dozens of awkward comedians we love because of their weirdness) but I really started getting excited at the idea that maybe some of my thoughts were original and maybe I wasn’t completely idiotic to the comedic cues of social consciousness.

The problem is, I’m 99.9% positive I’m not a funny person. I mean, I can feed right in to obvious jokes and can even adjust these responses to match the demographic preferences of my immediate company (so, I’m pretty L2, even though I’m not as blindly confident as the aforementioned L2′s in the descriptions) and there are times when I’m genuinely on a roll about something and have people chuckling more than usual, but when it comes to real, uniquely stylized humor, I’m completely inept. No unique voice, no original thoughts or concepts, nothing that doesn’t fit some preconceived, overused everyday format.

And this gets even more frustrating in my daily life as I’m a bit addicted to really bright, insightful and/or progressive comedy in almost any form. While I love to read popular humor writers like The Sedaris, The Eggers, Sloane Crosley, Jenn Lancaster, Erma Bombeck, Everyone at The Onion, etc. and I looooooovewatching/following stand-up comedy like I’m a paid reviewer (Patton Oswalt still being my favorite; I’m almost to groupie status with my collection of essays and speeches and bootlegs… I like that he’s intelligent and well-read and expects his audience to be so as well instead of catering to the lowest common denom crew. It’s admirable.), I’m constantly becoming discouraged with the realization that I am not as brilliant as these people I’m so in awe of. Sure, half the sketches on SNLthese days are so terrible a 3rd grader on heroin could’ve written them, but for the most part, comedy has made a massive comeback since the Great Comedy Massacre of the late-80′s-early-90′s. And I feel like a prepubescent white kid trying out for the NBA for even daring to think that I could work in this industry.

Thank God I’m not clueless as to my inabilities because I would HATE to be one of the previously discussed idiots blindly plunging forward in a ridiculous confidence. But on the other side of the coin, I’m wondering how much of that is realistic and if, by some wild chance, my fear is actually holding me back from even so much as attempting to contemplate researching the ability to begin this dream. (No, seriously. I’m that hesitant.)

So today I’m at a party in the Chicago area and happened to fall into a conversation with a woman who was very good friends with a woman who started as a performer at Second City, where she met The Fey (cut to me having a Gat-damned heartattack) and from which she transferred to SNL. When H.R.H. Fey decided to begin her own empire of genius, this woman (we’ll call her K.) was invited to come with and is now a writer for ’30 Rock.’ (This was the part where I lost my bowels.) Trying not to gush (I mean, this was a person who knew a person who knew Mrs. Fey. It’s not like I was touching Her garments or using my hair to wash her feet.) I mentioned how much I loved the show, admired The Fey’s work and influence on the industry and had always really wanted to get into that sort of thing but was limited with my lifestyle and location for the time being. After I told her I’d had a little experience working and writing with a real, legit troupe she casually mentioned that she’d be happy to send a message to K and ask for any insight into getting into the industry, if she’d be willing to take a look at some writing samples and offer criticisms, etc. I was mortified at how childishly excited I became at a mention of a chance this woman might mention me to someone who knows someone who knows someone that will more than likely turn into absolutely nothing at all. This woman had never met me, will probably never see me again, has never read any of my work, and honestly was probably doing the typical just-being-nice-because-I-mentioned-a-connection thing. Still, I turned into a moron but was able to create an adult persona until I was able to attack Greg with the embarrassingly non-existant “news.”

And then I started thinking, What if, by some wild freak chance, this woman I met today was serious and wrote to K and I somehow got in contact with her and was asked to send some writing samples or something equally improbable… What then?

What I mean specifically is “What the fuck are you going to give them? What do you have to offer at all?” Greg and I have agreed that we’ll up and move anywhere it takes for the other to realize their dream no matter how ridiculous. So relocating or taking a dream job or any of that isn’t my question in this case, mostly because I literally never think it will ever be a reality.

So it all comes back to me not ever wanting to be a clueless, arrogant L3. Sometimes I so wish I had that idiotically blind superego that so many untalented artists have, like Adam Levine who literally believes that Maroon 5 is the greatest band on the planet. (He said this with no irony intended. At. All.) Because even though those guys look like giant arrogant idiotic douchebags, their crazy confidence has made them successful and able to express their art and bring it to the masses… which is exactly the objective. (Although when Tenacious D parodies these guys’ attitudes, it’s just amazing.) But I can’t do that. I can’t go out there and proclaim to be the next Bill Hicks and tell show producers that I’m going to pwn the industry and be the greatest writer they’ve ever worked with. Hell, I can’t even confidently convince someone that my best essay will make them crack a smile. So charging headfirst completely assured that I have any talent at all is a LIE.

My husband and I have always made the promise to each other that if there’s something we’re aspiring to do or be that we are blatantly incapable of, we would be honest and tell the other so as not to cause the other person years of rejection and heartbreak. This, of course, was decided while watching one of those American Idol season premiers where they show the god-awful singers who were never told the truth and are just making themselves look ridiculous on national television. And yes, I love my husband enough to save him from public shame and humiliation.

So anyway, this evening I sat down and told him to be honest about whether or not he thought this was a valid, obtainable dream to even attempt going after. Not that I don’t want to be a columnist or pen a memoir or get my counseling degree, but if the opportunity arises for me to reasonably chase my wild dream I’d prefer to go after it above anything else. And he said I was hilarious. And then I asked him if I was creatively hilarious or just run-of-the-mill hilarious. And he said I was creative and I catch him off guard with quips all the time. And then I asked him if I was innovative and capable of creating new, unique premises and executions of comedy and he said, “Um, sure.” so I asked him to give me an example of a time that I’d had a unique, original thought that wasn’t just a riff or takeoff on someone else’s… And then he started rubbing his temples and chuckling and asking God why he couldn’t just have a wife that nagged him about normal things.

So that’s why I’m awake until 3 a.m. wondering if my fears are valid and if they’re even going to matter in the long run. (Either way, worry isn’t doing me any good. I know this.) And then I wonder if I’m ever going to be able to get a really incredible opportunity without feeling completely undeserving of it.

(RE: The Title. Name that showtune!)

~ There are two moments in sitcom history that make me cry everysingletime I see them in reruns. The first is when Jack and Karen sing “Unforgettable” in the series finale of “Will and Grace”. The second is episode 424 of “The Fresh Prince of Bel Air” (‘Papa’s Got a Brand New Excuse’) when Will’s father Lou shows up for the first time in 15 years. They bond and decide to turn over a new leaf, Lou (played by the incomparable Ben Vereen) agreeing to let Will travel with him back to the East Coast for the summer. At the very end of the episode, however, Will’s dad bails on him again and leaves the news with Uncle Phil who tells him what a disgusting father he is. This is enough to get the Choke Throat but when Will learns of it he presents this monologue that is perhaps the most moving thing I’ve ever seen Smith perform and easily one of the best moments ever on prime-time television. (Watch the 3-minute monologue HERE. And get some tissues ready. That last line is the nail in the coffin.)

~A reader just told me she missed my prattlings so this is really what this blog entry is about. I’ve been superbusy between this new business prospect Greg and I are fervently collaborating on and working toward, battling this ongoing undiagnosed gastrointestinal problem, studying like a maniac for the GRE (and only feeling dumber by the day, still), running a functioning household, holding down the freelance writing gigs I do have, and trying to talk myself into starting Chloe’s socialization practices (Mother’s Morning Out, playdates, etc.)

I’ve still been writing to my pen pal every week and I’m honestly still enjoying it and our deep conversations. Although we haven’t spoken directly about her specific crime, she has mentioned that a lot of people have sent her hate mail over the years after seeing her listing on WriteAPrisoner.com but she feels the same way I do in that she doesn’t require forgiveness from anyone other than herself, her Higher Power, and those that she has directly harmed. It sounds like, after 7 years in the slammer, she’s really used the resources that the prison does implement to start mental recovery. She’s mentioned that, if anything, the penal system only produces criminals unless the prisoners actively seek out help and reform, which is what she feels is the best expenditure of her time. I admire that. I also really like that she’s not an idiot. I know that sounds bad, but she never graduated from high school, so I kind of expected someone not quite literate or some other shallow preconceived notion of what an unfinished undergrad education would provide [that I realize is horribly wrong of me so there's no need for a preachy commentary.] However, not only is she rather intelligent and self-educated, she’s really into literary criticism and philosophy, which I love! I’ve been looking for someone to indulge my penchant for critical analysis and general bookish nerdiness and that’s something we both share, not having anyone to really compare mental notes with. It’s nice.

Me and Greg are working hard on our new project and hope to launch it in the next 6 weeks. I’ll be sure to start plugging it publicly once we’re on the brink of a formal presentation. Although it’s a bit of a risk and there’s no guaranteed success with it, it’s something we’re excited about simply because we feel like we’re being proactive about our progress and our future and we finally have something that we can work on that isn’t directly dependent on the responses of other people. (Although any business eventually is, it’s not up to other people whether or not we get it started.) Plus, it’s inexpensive and will only cost our time and energy, so this makes it another appealing risk that we can afford to take at the moment. Sorry to be so vague; again, details will come in the next month. I promise.

Somehow, I’m staying busy but still managing to read a new book about once a week, which leads me to highly recommend Christopher Moore’s Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Jesus’ Childhood Friend. First of all, it’s HILARIOUS and, although irreverent mostly, it always keeps the pure image of Jesus intact so there’s never any rewriting of recorded history involved (and, thus, no book burning by crazy Christian fanatics whose faith is threatened by literary musings… idiots…) Like other Jesus fanfiction I’ve read, Moore tries to fill in the blanks of what really happened during those years between 12 and 30 but, unlike the other works (the dreadful version Anne Rice cranked out is what I’m mostly referring to), he never diverted from fact, but really gave Jesus a humanistic character, in that he had the same cravings and feelings of any young man and wasn’t some omniscient being right from the start. Moore also takes the time to make a few little side jokes pertaining to modern cliches and unanswered religious traditions. For example, Christ and Biff spend their adolescence(s?) seeking the 3 wise men who apparently knew that Jesus was something important when he first showed up on earth and trying to get answers about his supposed identity from them. They spend Christ’s 18th birthday with Balthazar, who lives in a fortress with a demon he keeps captive in exchange for eternal life (not relevant to this story) and 8 Chinese concubines (who are fantastic lovers and have hilarious names to coincide. Like the girl called “Keeper of the Three Tunnels of Excessive Friendliness”) who make him a glorious feast of Chinese cuisine. Biff points out that eating Chinese food on Christ’s birthday is a tradition that Jews have maintained up until today. Heh. That’s just clever. So yeah, it’s the best book I’ve read in a longlong time, which was sadly followed by Rue McClanahan’s “My Five Husbands” which is the most boring piece of drivel I’ve ever picked up. (Seriously, it’s like she didn’t even have an editor.)

So that’s the news in brief. Correspondence, perpetual health issues, plans to visit my Gran in a couple weeks, reading, studying, working on secret business mission, writing, researching grants and scholarships for both grad school and this research book I’m still planning to write… You know, the norm.

The Bear is 17 months old this week which means it’s time for another trip to Wal-Mart for ubercheap pro photos to send to family and friends. At the moment she has 2 ear infections (I hope we’re not going to have to get tubes put in,) a disgusting scalp condition that is requiring a steroid cream to treat, and the worse diaper rash she’s seen yet (which really isn’t that bad considering this is only her second.) So between my mental and gastrointestinal prescripts and her various drugs, I’ve been to the pharmacy 3 times in 8 days and I’m sure they’re convinced I’m a hypocondriac. Although aside from prescription buttcream, I HIGHLY recommend Bordreaux’s Butt Paste (that’s the real name) for diaper rashes even though it smells exactly like every Ben and Jerry’s Scoop Shop I’ve ever visited. (Seriously. I don’t know why.)

~ This all brings me to the piece de resistance, which is for me to indulge on my worst guilty pleasure to date: American Idol: Season 8

First of all, even though I wasn’t particularly “rooting” for anyone, I’m really glad Kris won. Not only was he by far the most talented musician, but he brought something new to the show, which was the exercising of artistic talent. I loved his rearrangements of popular classics and really think he’s one of those artists we may be watching for a while. Granted, I don’t really get into the whole Jason Mraz/Jack Johnson/Ben Harper acoustic-sensitive-guy thing so much (I tried. I really did. I just can’t. After DMB’s “Crash” I just lost interest. I need rock. All the time.) so I won’t probably won’t be buying his albums, but I think he has great potential to turn that genre on it’s ear. And that’s exciting. Also, while Adam Lambert is fun to watch and/or look at, his need to shriek his high-note talent at the end of every song like it’s a freaking magic trick is going to get really old. Plus, he really didn’t do anything too different to compete with Kris’ arrangement talents and, the one time he did, it was kind of boring. I will say, however, that his finale show with KISS was b’dass and I was totally enrapt during the whole performance. It’s amazing someone could make KISS fun and relevant again, if only for a few minutes.

The other unsung performance of the finale show was Cyndi Lauper and Allison “The Latina Kelly Clarkson” Iraheta doing a beautiful rendition of “Time After Time”. And who knew Lauper could rock a dulcimer?! She wins bonus bonus fanpoints from me.

And then, of course, there was Nick Mitchell “Norman Gentle”‘s unexpected return to the Idol stage, which sent me off my seat in excitement. Sure, the boy’s only got one song that’s worth a damn, but I think he’s genius for having the balls to take a comedy-based fictitious character/performance art piece to a pop-oriented show like AI. I hope to God he gets some gigs and starts running the cabaret circuit. I’d buy tickets to any show he books anywhere close to the Southeast.

The rest of it was just kinda “meh” for me. I don’t like Rod Stewart at all, but watching him drunkenly stumble around was interesting. And Greg and I do a great rendition of Lionel Richie’s “All Night Long”, so it was fun to treat ourselves to that. And that was about it.

Let’s talk about me. Just a little more.

~ Aside from the actual relationships I’ve had, I’ve been on a lot of “dates” with various men/boys over the years. (At the moment, I’m not including casual sexual romps in this list of dates.) The problem with me, however, is that during many many of these incidents, I didn’t realize we were on an actual date until later on in the evening when he went to pay for dinner or a movie or tried to make out with me and I found myself in the awkward position of having to “reject” someone with whom I’d honestly never entertained thoughts of romance/sex/etc. You’d think I would’ve learned how to differentiate but then, I didn’t even know my now-husband was into me until the moment he kissed me.

~ I hate Scooby-Doo. Always have. It’s boring, it’s annoying and it don’t make me laugh.

~ I now weigh in lighter than I have in 9 years, since the spring of 2000 when I went on the Atkins Diet and lost 15 lbs in two weeks that immediately came back when I allowed myself more than 15 grams of carbohydrates a day. If I lose another five pounds (which I plan to) I will be the lightest I have been since the 8th freaking grade. (This is all sort of surreal to me as I’ve struggled for over a decade to be rid of this extra baby weight and am now watching it slowly melt away without frantic overexertion like I’m used to.)

~ There are some old guys (over 60) who rank in my Top Ten Sexiest List. However, my Top Ten Sexiest Old Guys List looks like this:

1) DUSTIN FREAKING HOFFMAN
2) Ed Harris
(Gran and I share a little crush on this one. Yum.)
3) Paul Newman circa early 2008.
(I know, I know. He’s not around anymore, but I still think he’s fresh enough to keep on the list, although at #3 instead of #2.)
4) Patrick Stewart
4) David Bowie
(I cheated. It’s a tie for #4.)
5) Morgan Freeman
6) Tom Robbins
(That’s right; I’m such a nerd that writers made my list.)
7)Pete Townshend
(Yeah, I was all about Daltrey but the man just didn’t age well.)
8 ) Mark Harmon
(So I’m a typical housewife; so sue me.)
9) Ian McKellen
(I don’t care whose team he plays for. The man’s handsome.)
10) Harrison Ford
(I’m sorry. He’s a cliche but he’s so necessary.)

(Yeah, I never got on the Sean Connery bandwagon. In fact, I think he’s a little overrated. Sorry.)

~ Screw “Wicked Games”, the most turned on I have ever been and continue to be while watching a music video is watching Pelle Almqvist screaming and rocking out in “Hate to Say I Told You So.” Something about a teeny tiny man with a tremendous ego who can scream like a banshee is so freaking hot to me. (And that sexy, exhausted face he makes while keeping the beat during the bass break… oh man.) I still enjoy a good one-handed viewing of that video from time to time.

I get “tagged” to do these time-wasting meme’s all the time, but I actually like this one and think it fits well on this particular blog. So here we go. Feel free to join in:

25 Albums

Think of 25 albums that had such a profound effect on you they changed your life or the way you looked at it. They sucked you in and took you over for days, weeks, months, years.
These are the albums that you can use to identify time, places, people, emotions. These are the albums that musically shaped your world.

In vague/rough order of importance:

Ten – Pearl Jam

I don’t think this one needs any real in-depth description being that my ever-present love of the band has to be exhausting to those who don’t share my enthusiasm. However, while this particular album is a given in my personal list, I’ve found that different songs land in different areas in my life. “Even Flow” was the first song I ever heard by the band, sitting mesmerized on my couch while “illegally” watching MTV while my mother was out of the house and not yet realizing the effect that moment would have on the rest of my life. The morning after I lost my virginity some nine years ago, I climbed into my car to go home and “Black” was the first song that played from my stereo, so I always associate that song with that time in my life. “Once” reminds me of the first time I saw Pearl Jam in concert (2004) because I pretended not to know the words and my bee-eff-eff promptly gave me Incredulous Stink Eye. 

 Elton John Live in Australia with the Melbourne Symphony Orchestra

My old standby. When I was two years old, my father kept me up late one night to watch this concert when it was aired on HBO. Since then, ‘Your Song’ has been our song (which is why I began sobbing the first time I heard him singing it to my daughter once when he was rocking her to sleep. I’m such a sap.) and he’s constantly kept it around in his car along with a handful of his other staples. The whole album is beautiful, actually, even if you don’t like Elton John and the arrangements are staggering. There are many of E.J.’s hits on the album that I don’t like the original recording of simply because of the way they were performed with this symphony. It’s honestly one of the most underrated albums of all time. (I’m saying Top 3)

William Shakespeare’s Romeo + Juliet Soundtrack – Various Artists

I somehow managed to receive this CD from my 8th grade crush, although I’m not sure how considering we never actually dated and there was no Secret Santa exchange to speak of that I can recall. However, that entire winter I remained engulfed in the compilation, often playing the soundtrack on repeat for weeks. That January, I went with my family to Snowmass, CO and listened to the darkly-romantic CD on the four-ish (maybe 6-ish?) hour drive from Denver to Aspen. Even now when I listen to Radiohead’s incredible “Talk Show Host”, I am taken back to the frigid Colorado countryside, how it looked so barren and lonely at night and how it seemed like a perfect rendering of my sad, lonely, adolescent heart. 

“I want to be someone else so I’ll explode.”

 Demon Days – Gorillaz

Perhaps the most frustrating argument from this music fanatic’s perspective is the ignorant notion that Gorillaz is simply a hip-hop/rock fusion band based on the 5 singles that have graced the American airwaves. ::: Sigh ::: Being that the general public of America has absolutely no idea who Damon Albarn is (or what the name of his most successful band was… or more than two of their songs…) and even less of a concept regarding his massive influence on music in the last 15 years on a global scale, it is far past fruitless to try to engage a casual listener into a riveting discussion pertaining to the genius of the virtual group better known as Gorillaz. Frankly, I could go on for weeeeks (and have, actually) discussing the various levels of innovative genius found in the Gorillaz project, from the marketing of four fictitious characters in order to cloak Albarn’s countless collaborations which create the whole soul of the “band” (freaking GENIUS, I say!), to the unbelievable risks these collaborators take in their musical ventures, bridging genre gaps and melding sounds with more success than we’ve seen since the arrival of Beck. 

However, being that I don’t want to spend the next month composing a thesis on the matter, I’ll take this back to a personal level. I bought the ‘Demon Days’ album the minute I arrived back in the States in 2005. After my initial delirious rapture in being introduced to every single track, I found myself obsessing about analyzing each track, dissecting every sound and deciphering every artistic choice. I even bought the vinyl LP (from the record shop in Athens, GA where the album’s producer – Danger Mouse – got his first job! Danger Mouse, by the way, is one half of the recent musical phenomenon Gnarls Barkeley. But I digress.) The whole album is just staggering in it’s beauty and complexity and real, genuine power. I felt absorbed by all of it, especially the last two tracks which are a combined gospel-style medley of two of the most inspirational, perspective-altering, heartrending songs I’ve ever heard (as performed with Albarn and the London Community Gospel Choir. Not. Even. Credible.) They’ve become my anthem during my darkest hours and in my most depressed episodes, I’ve found myself repeating segments of the chorus.

“Turn yourself round, don’t burn yourself, turn yourself. Turn yourself around to the sun.”

 OK Computer – Radiohead

Alas, I was the weird kid on my 9th grade trip to NYC who bought the weird album by that weird British band with the weird music and the weird faces. (This, of course, was four years before we’d all go off to college where every other dorm room was plastered with ‘Kid A’ posters and Thom Yorke’s effervescent moaning seeped out into every hallway.) And from the moment I put the CD in my Discman, I was madly in love. Every song resonated in my soul, every sound released something in me I’d never been able to identify, every movement controlled my emotions like marionettes. Even to this day, I consider it a special day when I can lose myself in the entirety of OK Computer. (Kid A coming in as a close second, by the way, although, despite the fond memories of cutting school to purchase this album and listening to it in a McDonald’s parking lot, the haunting melancholy of the album is what comes over me the most when I regard it. Brilliant, though! And not as pretentious as Sigur Ros…. stupid emo kids and their made-up language.)

 Tommy: Motion Picture Soundtrack – The Who

Oh, like you’re totally surprised. After seeing the movie, I just cannot get into the original ‘Tommy’ album as recorded long before the film was considered. I know. It’s practically sacrilegious and painfully shameful for any decent Who fan. I don’t give a crap what any critic or fellow musician says (Liam Gallagher, I’m talking to your drunk ass…), I think the movie – while rough in spots… namely Eric Clapton’s ridiculously bad scene – was nothing short of genius and every single actor and guest star was absolutely brilliantly cast. Tina Turner was a riveting, insane Acid Queen, Elton John was a hilariously, stoically arrogant Pinball Wizard and Ann-Margret was one sexy drunken psychopath. Love. 

 The Best of – Jimi Hendrix 

I was a bit of a late bloomer with the psychedelic era, but once I found it I was hooked.

Mmmm.. The summer of 1999. I bought this album only knowing one song on the whole thing and found myself listening to it every single night on my way to sleep while I was working at a summer camp in the mountains of North Carolina. I couldn’t get the wailing riffs and haunting melodies out of my head for a second and I enjoyed the significant rush I got during “All Along the Watchtower.” Jimi Hendrix’s band was aptly named as even in his recordings, he is still an all-encompassing experience.

The Grand Illusion – Styx

Another one from my dad’s timeless rotation, this one reminds me of roadtrips to the beach when my dad would take me with him for a whole week each summer. (He used to commute here weekly from our home 2 hours away.) Just me and him. Doing anything I wanted to do. This album was our soundtrack for many years. 

 Odelay – Beck

This album came out my 8th grade year but I didn’t fully embrace it until my freshman year of high school when I listened to it with my then-BFF and tried to learn the absurd lyrics. Even today, this album stays in my car for immediate access and it is impossible for me to hear any song from it at any time in any location without involuntarily squealing in delight. It’s absurd, it’s revolutionary, it’s simple, it’s brilliant, it’s non-categorical, it’s timeless. It’s perfect.

Debut – Bjork

Hey, I just wrote about this one the other day. Summer after high school graduation when I ran around town every night dancing with the illegal Irish immigrants who come to the beach every year for summer work. I painted watercolor and laid on the beach and wore slightly more risque attire than I’d ever dared and it was a really wonderful time even though it was extremely short-lived. I accredit Bjork’s first attempt at a solo career to helping to nudge my self-exploration along and fueling  this new sense of creativity that seemed to emerge overnight. Her music inspired me to step out of my expectations and traditions and think differently for a change, without worrying about the end result. She’s continued to do that in the years since, but this specific album is where I retreat when I want to get back to that mindset of great possibility. 

Tenacious D – Tenacious D

I bonded with my best friend over the humor and harmonies of this album. No matter how unbelievably immature and utterly pointless the D’s array of tracks may seem, their inherent genius and incomparable musical talent peeks through the penis jokes and is ultimately what keeps me coming back to them year after year. Although the music on their movie soundtrack far outweighs any on their debut album, the latter has much more sentimental value for me. 

Big Calm – Morcheeba

Sure, it sounds like late-20th century hippie porno music, but after seeing them perform at Lilith Fair, I was hooked on their sultry sounds and incense-laden sensuality. This album is the best of the band’s, unfortunately, but it’s still one of my favorites for a mod-style, chilled out evening.

 Aha Shake Heartbreak – Kings of Leon

When I first arrived in Australia, one of the FIRST questions one of my housemates asked me was whether or not I listened to the Kings of Leon. When I got home I immediately bought Aha Shake and plunged headfirst into the gloriousness of these emaciated brothers’ sound. They honestly began to give me hope for the future of rock music and moved in me something I hadn’t felt from music since I was first listening to the earliest of grunge. Now, my Aha Shake album has been autographed by the band from when I snuck back to their tour bus after watching them perform with Pearl Jam, which naturally enhances my passion for the band. The album however, is tangible evidence of my realized hope in our generation’s musical future.

 What’s the Story Morning Glory? – Oasis

I wrote an essay about this album, too, about a year ago. 7th grade I remember hearing “Wonderwall” for the first time and feeling my heart undulate with the slow cello progression. The whole album escorted me through the tumultuous-yet-trite years of my earliest adolescence and allowed me a place in which to burrow away from the loneliness and heartache of experiencing a Christian, small-town America as a liberal girl totally unaware of any worth she may possess. Some songs let me cry, some let me dream… it was a nice reprise. 

In the last year I repurchased this album from having misplaced it over the years. It landed right in that familiar spot in my heart and I felt an incredible release, unlike anything  I’d been able to feel in years of therapy and meditation. 

 Celebrity Skin – Hole

I kinda missed the Hole boat when they were first on the scene (probably due to my mother’s frantic attempts to keep me away from the grunge scene… She threw out my Nirvana Unplugged album and, later, my Morrissette Jagged Little Pill. Sigh…) but at the end of my freshman year of high school I was suddenly in love with C.Love and her incredible lyrics. Sure, I loved the train-wreckery and discarded glamour and shameless self-promotion of the rock goddess, but, initially, I was set alight by her words and sounds. I wanted her confidence, her lyricism, her talent, maybe even a little of her fame. I’ve since become an all-out Courtney fanatic but this album and it’s anthems have been a central grounding point for my life in the last decade. I can still listen to the Celebrity Skin album from beginning to end and feel every single song, no matter where else my mind may be at the time. 

 Yield – Pearl Jam

Alright, yes. There are two Pearl Jam albums on here. So effing sue me, alright? Jeezum. You’re lucky I don’t have more from Pearl Jam or The Who or Radiohead, but I kept myself cool and tried to limit my entries, so the importance of the band wasn’t misconstrued, but the works that most effectively influenced my life were mentioned.

Twister The Motion Picture Soundtrack – Various Artists

Say what you will about the rather tragic movie, the soundtrack is one that I’ve replaced in my arsenal despite having misplaced it three times.  While there are a couple seriously unlistenable tracks from the likes of Shania Twain and other country-blechks, the bulk of the album is pretty great, including a “new” Van Halen track, a harder Goo Goo Dolls song, a quirky-yet-fun Red Hot Chili Peppers ditty, a brilliant Tori Amos piece and an amazingly lovable performance by the crowd-of-weird-hippies pleaser Rusted Root. I listened to it on repeat the summer of 1998 as I travelled with a group of high school peers across the country on a 3,000 mile Wild West road trip/tour. It’s safe to say the album always taps back into that exact era.

 Midgets with Guns – Pain

Easily the most underrated band that’s ever been ignored by mass media, Pain is a brilliant fusion of ska and punk (two genres I don’t usually gravitate to) with hilarious lyrics and an incredible sound. I remember driving back and forth to college during my freshman year and singing loudly, with reckless abandon along with the excited, fun-loving energy of the whole album. It’s like an ice-cream cone and a trip to the fair for my soul.

 Rock Spectacle – Barenaked Ladies

Ehhhhhn. This one is a bit hard for me to talk about, but it’s imperative to an honest, complete list. Basically, I spent 7 of my first 22 years involved in a toxic on-again-off-again relationship. While the relationship had it’s good times, none were as innocent, emotionally abandoned, and intoxicating as the first few months we were together. (So yeah, I guess we spent the rest of the time chasing the white dragon in a sense.) I loooooved this album of BnL’s that was released just months before their explosion into mainstream radio and was prone to listening to it to the point of exhaustion. Some of the tracks are absolutely incredible (“Brian Wilson” being one of those.) Anyway, this was the CD I was listening to when I let this young man share a headset with me. This lead to hand-holding and light caressing and an eventual kiss that kicked the whole thing off. One of the songs on the album was considered “ours” and it was beautiful even though it was written from the first-person perspective of a suicidal window-washer. (Heh. Irony.) 

Anyway, after the years of turmoil and pain, I’m no longer able to listen to the album for fear of being yanked back into that insane emotional upheaval. Which is a shame, really, because it really is an amazing album. I kind of consider my relationship with that album an analogy to the relationship I had with myself during that time and how that specific relationship distorted my ownership of self in general and is responsible for a lot of my lost innocence and cut-and-dry perceptions of relationships and personal vulnerability… 

…Or it could just be a CD.

 The Score – Fugees

This is going to sound racist although I absolutely don’t mean for it to. In my 7th grade year I was good friends with a lot of the black kids that went to my jr. high. Where I grew up there was real integration and everyone seemed blissfully unaware that there were supposed to be flaws in our differences. Only when I started high school and moved a couple hours south was I told that there was something socially weird about associating with people of different races. This was the first time I heard racial slurs (seriously, at 14) and saw a long-seeded sense of segregation that kept people away from each other and I simply couldn’t understand it.

Anyway, this album came out in the midst of my jr. high experiences and holds a great fondness in my heart, not only for it’s musical genius (it’s an unbelievably great album) but for the innocent friendships I had without the societal injustices and disappointments I would soon encounter. 

 Surfer Rosa – The Pixies

You know that side of yourself that’s a little insane? That has lilting, uncertain realities and brash, unsettling thoughts where your cracks aren’t just showing but are, in fact, leaking and molding around the edges? Yeah, that’s what this album let me tap into and learn to embrace for the first time. I like the crashing chaos, the real-life awkwardness, the distorted melodies, the screamed lyrics. It’s a catastrophic symphony and is rightfully placed with it’s public acknowledgements and honors for it’s influence on recent music. 

 Surrender – The Chemical Brothers

Heh. Late-high school. Lots of raves, lots of candy, lots of drugs. I remember listening to this album’s whirling sounds while driving late at night from party to party. We were careless, invincible, effing stupid. Maybe not really happy, but certainly having fun.

—-

I know, I’m short by three, but I’ll have to pick this up later. I’ve spent WAY too much time involved with this little literary practice. 

….. Jeezum, that took forEVER.

Due to the current age of my firstborn, I have suddenly found myself immersed in the colorful, Hensonian world of ‘Sesame Street’ for the first time in two decades. And, just like 20 years ago, I am mesmerized and delighted with the show on a level that cannot be described. Of course, these days, my awe is perched on a different level entirely.

The most remarkable thing about ‘Sesame Street’ is that the show bases itself around simple absurdist quasi-dramas amongst an intra-species cast of characters and has found success in this humble formula for almost four freaking decades. (That’s right; there are kids who were watching the show’s first season 38 years ago who are now going through their mid-life crises and perking up for retirement.) While the show has taken a few occasions over the years to acknowledge major life experiences (Luis and Maria’s Wedding, Gordon and Susan having baby Miles, the ballsy move of tackling death when Mr. Hooper passed away…) the show primarily focuses on basic discussions and conflicts usually requiring basic skills of deduction from audience members and/or the more childlike of characters (usually Elmo, Zoe, and the ever-annoying Telly.)

To say that ‘Sesame Street’ is among the ranks of any other children’s shows that have come and gone during its run is not only ludicrous, but is pretty ignorant and unbelievably disrespectful to the work of Jim Henson in general. Unlike such traditional children’s shows like ‘Mister Rogers’, ‘Captain Kangaroo’, and ‘Howdy Doody‘, ‘Sesame Street’ shook up the industry by taking a more interactive style to education and entertainment and thus, more successfully integrated itself into a long-term staple within the American childhood experience. And I’m not even going to begin to delve into the revolutionary effects Muppeteering had on the world of puppetry, both creatively and as an industry. (Seriously, folks, I could prattle about the genius of Henson for weeks if given a chance.) So yeah, comparing the “Street” to shows like “Yo Gabba Gabba” or “Barney” not only belittles the genius simplicity of such an effective educational technique, but refuses to acknowledge the incredible creative revolution that is realized within the show’s very existence. 

Or, to simplify, calling “Sesame Street” just a children’s television show is directly equivalent to shrugging off  The Beatles as just another pop culture trend. Gah-ross.

So yeah, there’s all that to think about during my daily excursions to ‘Sesame Street‘. And then there’s the cultural aspects of the legendary show to take into consideration. Over the years, the show has literally hosted over a thousand celebrity guest stars who don’t take any time to boast about their celebrity statuses to the oblivious children at home but who, instead, take a moment to perform in relative obscurity and really enjoy themselves. Just in the last week, I’ve watched Neil Patrick Harris discuss the word “curly”, Jenny McCarthy discuss the word “insects”, Jonah Hill talk about the magic of having a moustache, and the sexy sexy sexy Mike Rowe host an episode of “Dirty Jobs” right from Oscar’s trashcan. (This, of course, only added to his unrelenting, undeniable ruggedly-handsome sexiness. I believe this move was a shoutout to all the housewives who were watching. So, see? The Children’s Television Workshop is watching out for us, too.)

Regardless of the glitzy celebrity status of the show, millions upon millions of children across the globe tune in to watch “Sesame Street” every day. In fact, the show is so widely broadcast that additional characters have been integrated into other countries’ broadcasts to incorporate aspects of foreign cultures. For example, the South African broadcast of the “Street” routinely supplements sketches with a character named Kami, who is HIV-positive and educates children about this rampant disease and encourages acceptance of those who are infected. (Although she garnered massive protests from the shielded, xenophobic fearmongering stay-at-homers in America, she has been received with tremendous appreciation and critical acclaim for her success in reaching out to her international audiences. She even did a PSA with President Bill Clinton to discuss her disease with the children of America. Pretty cool.)

Now, naturally, the show isn’t all sunny days and weather-thwarting singing. Frankly, I think it’s an abomination that Kevin Clash has taken it upon himself to monopolize the last third of every single show with a segment called “Elmo’s World.” So, not only are we guaranteed at least 20 minutes of high-pitched incessant giggling from what used to be a sideline character, but, if Elmo is integrated into the daily plot of the episode, then we can look forward to a whole hour with this single 3-and-a-half-year-old character who really isn’t any more notable than any other character. And yeah, okay, I get that Tickle Me Elmo was a massive phenomenon that one Christmas where people were beating the everloving piss out of each other to get this vibrating plush doll, but you know what? That was 15 YEARS AGO. The youngest sect of kids who were privy to this consumerist event are now graduated from high school and classifying themselves as voting, smoking, porn-reading adults. So, I think it’s safe to say that they’re no longer a target audience. And if anyone’s been paying attention, it’s just common knowledge that Elmo marketing hasn’t seen nearly the amount of attention or success that it did in the mid-90′s. And still, because of this “Elmo’s World” noise (which my daughter happens to love) the show has sidelined dozens of classic, dynamic characters, including the incomparable Grover, who is imperative to the educational benefits of teaching humility. Cookie Monster is now just a passing nutritional spokesmonster (SACRILEGE!), Bert and Ernie are reduced to claymation figures who appear eeeevery so often, and nobody hears from Super Grover, Herry, Barkley, the Two-Headed Monster, Frazzle, or Reporter Kermit anymore. For shame. 

But, if I’ve learned anything in my years visiting the street, it’s that the show continues through the good and the bad. Perhaps the crap Elmo’s World years are just retribution for giving us a few years of a young-and-not-yet-famous Savion Glover to play with before he went off to making Broadway history. 

Still, though, there are a few visible cracks in the pavement that tend to tug at my heartstrings in every episode. I remember watching Maria and Luis fall in love, get married and have their daughter Gabrielle. Now they are two weathered actors whose lines and general fatigue seep through the genuine excitement they still bring to every performance. Seeing the actress who plays Gina as Steve Buscemi’s girlfriend on “The Sopranos” a few years ago and seeing the actor who’s portrayed Gordon as a tiny, voiceless character for four minutes on “Sex and the City” broke my heart in more ways than one. First, of course, because the illusion of these characters I’d watched since I was a child was finally, ultimately snatched away from me at the tender age of 23. Secondly because the budgetary cuts were forcing actors on the most beloved show on television to seek other work. These glaring realities were something I always assumed I was safe from through the ongoing magic of television and any Henson subreality. 

I don’t know; maybe that was “Sesame Street”s ultimate objective. The nurturing of children during their most formative years and then gently setting them afloat in the world with the harsh face of reality? 

Whatever the case, I will continue to watch, attentively, and create these same realities for my daughter where monsters are friends and one’s greatest problem lies in discovering the location of the Letter of the Day. It feels like the alliance I made with the late Jim Henson has now become a winking comraderie, in which I am responsible for continuing his great vision to generations after him. This is a duty I’m more than elated to carry out, no matter how foolish such an idealized reality may seem to my adult eyes.