Since I’m in some kind of music mode today, here’s another video (not by my sister, FYI):
In case some of you have forgotten/never heard of Mr. Moroder, he’s responsible for many of the late 70’s/early 80’s most endearing movie scores, including Midnight Express. (Also, sadly, Electric Dreams.) He’s been a source of inspiration for numerous contemporary groups, including Daft Punk (yay) and Bearforce (boo). Show a little love.
A FOURTH OF JULY BONBON CORN DOG FOR YOU
(BECAUSE “BONBON” JUST SOUNDS UNAMERICAN)
Some of you may have seen this before, but I think it’s totally worth reposting because (a) “Miss USA” is one of my sister’s best songs/videos, and (b) today’s the Fourth of July, so it’s, like, topical and stuff.
That said, I’m hoping this particular image of America will improve in about six months. You know what I’m sayin’.
This is what I tell people: Life is often beyond my control, and I accept that. I am not obsessive about the things I cannot change. I have learned to give in and let nature take its course.
This is the truth of the matter: In my old age, I have become complacent. Lazy, even. When I was younger and more energized, I kept my physical and emotional lives in rigid order. Nothing out of place. And while I’ve come to see that there’s a lot of chaos in the world, and I know that sometimes that’s interesting and even productive, the fact of the matter is that if I weren’t so lazy, I’d be trying to amend things to suit my needs. I’d also be driving myself crazy and giving myself ulcers. (I had my first at age nine, but that’s another story.)
In the photo above, on the left, you see what I see every afternoon: shadows of the Virginia Creeper climbing across my shaded kitchen window. On the right, you see the Virginia Creeper in question and that it is not only climbing across the window, but also inside it. Our house is being invaded, covered, slowly but steadily. And I have yet to do anything about it.
I suppose if it were a life-threatening kind of thing–if, say, those were poisonous asps instead of vining tendrils–I’d probably have addressed the problem by now. But they’re not asps, and I’m lazy, and just look out that window: do you see our neighbor’s yard, which is one giant mass of aggressive, insidious flora? It is daunting, to say the least.
Maybe I need a nap.
I am becoming my grandmother.
I’ve noticed it before, creeping up on me in little ways, little mannerisms. The look I give people when I know they’re full of it. The way I sigh–lovingly and exasperatedly, but mostly lovingly–when Jonno, propped up in bed on most of the pillows, asks me to fetch something just as I’m sliding under the sheets. My willingness to smack reptiles on the head with a garden hoe. Those were some of my grandmother’s most endearing traits, and I’m happy to adopt them. I’m less happy about the thought I had the other day, which involved some pocket change and the Vegetable Man
For those who haven’t had the pleasure, the Vegetable Man cruises the streets of the Marigny, Bywater, and Treme neighborhoods of New Orleans, singing through a megaphone mounted to the top of his truck: “I got bananaaaaaas, I got tomatoooooes, I got cauliflooooower” and so on, depending what he’s got to sell that day. I’m kind of a fruit nut (insert pun here), so I’ll sometimes run outside and flag him down for a couple of pints of strawberries and a few plums, since it’s convenient and his prices are cheap.
Anyway, I was at the hardware store over the weekend (I also have a fondness for caulk), and the cashier was out of fives, so she gave me a wad of singles. And I thought, “It’ll take me days to go through these. I ought to just put them in a little box by the front door so I’ll have money when the Vegetable Man comes by.” And then I thought, “OMIGOD, I HAVE JUST BECOME MY GRANDMOTHER.”
Because that’s what elderly people do, right? They have their little quirks, their little time-savers. They keep all the rubber bands from their morning papers in a Mason jar on the end table, or they save the twist ties from broccoli bunches in a little tray in their junk drawer. Well, in a split second, in one quick, strange thought–one that I’d never had before–I joined their ranks.
I am getting old and quirky. I am already cantankerous. Please do not put me in a nursing home. Not yet.
Update: As per Tiff’s request, I’ve taken down the link to her videogame, which she says isn’t quite ready for prime time. (Not that sturtle.com counts as “prime time”, but you know.) Patience, my sweet, patience.
Also of note: apparently that game is not her first, but, in fact, her fourth. The first–which has sadly been taken down thanks to Disney and its battalion of over-caffeinated lawyers–involved taking naughty photos of Miley Cyrus. Topical and sassy. That’s my girl.
Recently, in my inbox: “Ron Jeremy is now your friend on MySpace!”
THINGS THAT OCCUPIED MY TIME THIS WEEKEND
WHEN I WASN’T WRESTLING WITH A VIDEOCAM
AND ITS FEROCIOUSLY ANNOYING FORMAT ISSUES
FOR THOSE ABOUT TO ROCK BE PRIDEFUL
Selections from Screaming Queens: The Riot at Compton’s Cafeteria
FACT: There is nothing quite as comfortable or cozy as a cloudy midday in June, coupled with the distant sound of rolling thunder.
ALSO FACT: There is nothing quite as disturbing as a sudden torrential downpour, coupled with gale-force winds and a barrage of hail the size of shooter marbles.
sturtle [dot] com 