As I'm sure you've guessed by now, the queen of all tragic rodents has not yet been swept up. At least, not by a man. By the magic of Lost on DVD and the Thursday night NBC comedy block, sure. By the evil witchcraft of the Food Network and every cupcake bakery on the Upper West Side? (and yes, I can find them all blind-folded), absolutely. But by a man? No. Or I should say - not yet. So last month, as a solution (or rather, an inept plot device engineered by someone who has seen way more 30 Rock episodes than is normal) I've decided to go out on 30 dates before my 30th Birthday - hopefully not with 30 different guys, although I'm not about to hold my breath. My Relationship Magic 8 Ball still points to Try Again Later - however much I may have believed, at the age of 18, that at 30 I'd at least be living with someone, even if at 18 I also believed that 30 was the age people started sleeping in coffins.
RIP, youth and stupidity.
"I don't even know what you're so friggen worried about, you're still so young," was what my grandmother was quick to remind me at dinner last week - and although I suppose in comparison to her 90 years I seem like a surly little ova, the next words out of her mouth were, "And if I die before I have any great grand-children, so be it. God's will."
(I swear, you have no idea how much wine it takes to get through a dinner at my aunt's house.)
All in all, I'm doing rather poorly thus far - 10 dates, no takers, and five more months to go.
But just to give you an idea of what I'm up against here, let me describe what I've dealt with so far:
- guys who dirty-talk me by asking if I've ever watched cat-porn on TV - as in, two house cats fucking. True story.
- guys who open with, "not that I go around talking about my money, but I'm fine with you getting whatever you want. If you want the deluxe with fries that's fine. I'll pick up the tab - I have a job."
- guys who begin with, "Wow, I was actually kind of thinking you'd be late because of the rain," after I catch him at the bar, flirting with some whore disguised as an innocent, ten minutes before we're about to get our free mini-pizza with beer on. (I paid for that beer, by the way, because he apparently "wore the wrong jeans" - like the ones missing a place to store his balls, apparently - yeah, thanks match.com. But here's a word of advice, ladies: Don't let that guy make out with you after the beer is gone just because you're bored and super-competitive and have a need to show up that girl at the bar because she's taller and blonder. That would just be crazy. And retarded.)
- guys who, when I push back our first date one hour, demand to know "why you are trying to jerk me around by my ball sac." (this gem via text message.)
- guys who don't call, yet send out of the blue, mispelled Facebook make-out pleas, and the next day follow it up with: "I think I messaged you last night? I'm so sorry. My ex-girlfriend texted me out of nowhere and it stressed me out, so I took an Ambien. Thanks for being cool. What are you up to later?"
- guys who get on the wrong train and end up in Babylon. Three hours away.
- guys who come over for dinner and immediately apologize for their appearance by explaining, in these exact words, "My friends and I were drinking. It was Boggle. It got ugly. Sometimes I go a little crazy." He had a huge black eye - like a panda, except not at all cute.
So this is my problem: have all the normal guys been taken? Have I missed my window? Am I sending out digital dating signals which can only be picked up by Douchebag Sattelite? Does true love even exist? Or has some cuter girl already stolen my one true love because she went to the right bar with free pizza - and I went to the wrong bar with free pizza and a guy who keeps his money in the wrong pants? Or is it me? Is that it? Is it the way my ass looks in jeans? Should I buy new jeans? Should I watch more What Not To Wear? SO MANY QUESTIONS, BABY JESUS!
Le sigh.
Why are there never any answers?
Maybe I'll figure it all out during the last five months of 2009 - with 20 more dates to go.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Monday, September 21, 2009
Jewish Holidays and Assorted Insanity
This year, like almost every year previous, I totally forgot about the September high holy holidays - not because I'm boycotting Judaism or anything, but because on my list of daily priorities, religion tends to fall somewhere between "dust top of hallway light fixture" and "sweep out chimney floo." In my mind, Rosh Hashana is merely the all-day feast that gets me out of work early on a Friday in mid-September, and Yom Kippur is its bipolar companion best known for a twelve hour marathon of willing starvation and misery. When I was a kid, that meant no basketball for my Dad and no compulsive cleaning for my Mom and no TV or Nintendo for me, which totally sucked balls. By the end of the day we were all just staring desperately out the window, waiting for sundown, that magic hour when it would all be over, eyeballing the pantry like a group of retarded, stoned people. I still think it's a wonder all Jews aren't bulimics. Thanks for the psychological mindfuck, God.
In any case, when my aunt called last week and reminded me of my dormant heritage and the prospect of free food, I was immediately Jewish again, and after cleaning a bit, I hopped on a train to Long Island.
My aunt and uncle still live in the house my father and uncle were raised in, the same one I lived in for awhile before my parents moved us down to the sweaty groin of the United States, otherwise known as The South; the same house where, at one point, ten of us and four animals lived against code in four bedrooms and a den. So heading out there literally feels like taking a trip back to the cluttered era of Barbie and the Rockers, in which all of us kids shared the same Rocker. The little blue clubhouse my Dad built for us is still in the backyard. The wooden deck where we would sun ourselves in summer is still right outside the sliding glass doors. The kitchen where my grandmother put us all to work decorating her dirty novelty chocolates (for sale at Bingo halls across the tri-state area throughout the late 1980s) is relatively untouched. And living in this house, still, is my aunt - a loud, gossipy Italian Jew, and my uncle, who at one point, while working for a Jewish day school, had lovingly nicknamed the bus he drove, "The Yom Kippur Clipper" (complete with an impression of that sound yarmulkes make when wind whips through them.)
Classy folk, my family.
My aunt had set the table for the next day's "actual" Rosh Hashana dinner, which she claimed is the best way to do these things - a week ahead of time. As she explained to me, it takes days to polish the silver and set out the pumpkin centerpieces and organize the name-cards and fold the napkins into diamond-shaped envelopes and set out the M&Ms in saran wrapped crystal goblets (there are two of these,) and arrange the platters in alphabetical order according to which foods they'll hold - all platters clearly labeled with hand-written post-its. She does this every year, by the way. And every year, my uncle comes in after she's set what we'll call the first draft of her table, and says, "watch this" to anyone who will pay him any attention, and switches all the post-its and name-cards and place settings. Hours later, when my aunt inevitably returns to the dining room to finish some food item, we'll hear her agonized cries over the destroyed piece of art that was the dining room table, followed by, "Jon, you asshole."
The night before Rosh Hashana, therefore, is Hands-Off-The-Table night, so instead of eating in we headed out to a nice little Italian restaurant, and afterward, attacked and destroyed my aunt's infamously gobletted M&Ms ("Fine, just eat them all and ruin the ambiance, you assholes.") This period, otherwise known as a Jewish bonding ritual, involves a lot of uneccessary snacking and snarking at one another until someone finally tells someone else to fuck off, and a new dish is taken out and we start all over. I would assume there are more traditionally accepted rituals involved with celebrating Jewish holidays, but damned if any of us can name what they are outside of insults and food.
"Look how much weight you've put on," said my Grandmother to my cousin Sue, who was eating a mouthful of M&Ms. Meanwhile, my aunt was pulling some non-ambiance food out of the pantry (which is alphabetized by taste and genre, by the way) and offering it to us in the hopes of saving her precious display goblets.
"You've got to be fucking kidding me," said Sue.
"You misunderstand," said my Grandmother. "It's not an insult. At all. You were always such a beautiful girl. So tall and slender, with real curves. I'm asking you what happened."
"She's almost 30," reasoned my Uncle, who then went over to the pantry and said, "watch this," and proceeded to rearrange all the boxes and jars until the genres mixed unnaturally.
"Do you see what I put up with?" said my Aunt, "He just wants a rise out of me." And then she sat on her hands (I assume) to keep from immediately putting everything back.
"How is that not insulting?" said Sue. "You just called me a fat ass."
"Now you're putting words in my mouth. I never said the word fat ass. Why would I say something like fat-ass? Such a negative perspective."
"She's a beautiful girl," pointed out my Aunt.
"Yes," agreed my grandmother. "And I love her. She's just bigger now and there's more of her to love. Like a different girl. It's almost startling."
"Fuck you," said Sue, downing the rest of her M&Ms.
"Jo, on the other hand-" And my grandmother wagged an oatmeal cookie at Sue's older sister, Jo, "Looks amazing. Stunning. How much weight have you lost? Ten pounds? Have you been eating at all?"
"Fuck you," repeated Sue. "I work all day. I have to make more time for the gym. I know that." She popped a York Peppermint Pattie into her mouth from a wholesale-sized box my Uncle had pulled from the Sweets, P-Z portion of the pantry.
At that point, we moved on to a bowl of chocolate covered cherries, and as it's impossible to feel anything but joy and good humor while eating delicious maraschino cherries covered in creamy milk chocolate (The Dove commercials are true!) we segued onto pleasanter topics, like past holidays, and how we're all becoming old and feeble and developing weird physical ailments; that, of course, prompted me to (foolishly) mention how strange I thought it was that I'd once sprinted around this very dining room in nothing but socks and a diaper, which immediately prompted the "when is Jamie going to use her ovaries" discussion - an often popular topic at family functions - which then trickled into dessert number four - tea cookies with jam and chocolate chips. Delightful.
"Have you tried J-Date?" said my grandmother.
"How do you even know what that is?" I asked. "You don't even own a computer."
"I watch Dr. Phill," she said, wagging a tea cookie at me. "And according to Dr. Phill, everyone's online now. I'm sure you must know that. You have one of those space phones. So how do you expect to meet anyone if you don't even try? You're not working, you're not dating... Are you just choosing to be alone?"
"Yes," I said, "I'm purposefully endeavoring to have as little contact as humanly possible with the opposite sex."
Fast-forward an argument about the validity of J-date versus Eharmony (neither of which my grandmother had any sort of experience with), and she concluded, "I'm not saying you need to get married right now. I'm just saying, I'm old and will probably die soon."
"At least you're not the fat one," offered Jo.
"Fuck you," said Sue.
And with that, we moved on to Challah and diet soda, and Jo changed the subject, and we proceeded to gossip meanly about all our common relatives who weren't around and were thus easy targets, and after about an hour or so of that (fun times!), I was back on the train to Penn Station - rockin' out to Beyonce and recalling a Rosh Hashana from long ago; one that ended with all of my cousins and I in the foyer of (then my grandmother's house) playing that Halloween game - Light as a Feather, Stiff as a Board. We were all deadly serious about it, and had each set two fingers underneath Sue, closed our eyes, and dutifully chanted "light as a feather, stiff as a board," when Jo asked for a sign from the other world and my uncle laughed like Dracula and hit the light-switch, plunging us all into darkness. We screamed, we dropped Sue, and then we proceeded to trample over everything in sight in our terrified, no-holds-barred zeal to get back into the living room. Some of us cried. Some of us told our fathers to take a hike. Dogs were barking, cats flitting all over the place; it was pandemonium; meanwhile, my father and uncle were laughing hysterically. My aunt smacked my uncle in the head and my mother called my father an asshole, and either one or both of them felt bad enough to let us all have a second round of dessert. Thus the evening ended in what I feel is true Jewish spirit- everyone gathered together around six different cakes from Walls Bakery. Again. For the eleventh time. In one night.
Oh, Judaism.
The older I get, the more I believe that religion actually has very little to do with what's important about your heritage.
In any case, when my aunt called last week and reminded me of my dormant heritage and the prospect of free food, I was immediately Jewish again, and after cleaning a bit, I hopped on a train to Long Island.
My aunt and uncle still live in the house my father and uncle were raised in, the same one I lived in for awhile before my parents moved us down to the sweaty groin of the United States, otherwise known as The South; the same house where, at one point, ten of us and four animals lived against code in four bedrooms and a den. So heading out there literally feels like taking a trip back to the cluttered era of Barbie and the Rockers, in which all of us kids shared the same Rocker. The little blue clubhouse my Dad built for us is still in the backyard. The wooden deck where we would sun ourselves in summer is still right outside the sliding glass doors. The kitchen where my grandmother put us all to work decorating her dirty novelty chocolates (for sale at Bingo halls across the tri-state area throughout the late 1980s) is relatively untouched. And living in this house, still, is my aunt - a loud, gossipy Italian Jew, and my uncle, who at one point, while working for a Jewish day school, had lovingly nicknamed the bus he drove, "The Yom Kippur Clipper" (complete with an impression of that sound yarmulkes make when wind whips through them.)
Classy folk, my family.
My aunt had set the table for the next day's "actual" Rosh Hashana dinner, which she claimed is the best way to do these things - a week ahead of time. As she explained to me, it takes days to polish the silver and set out the pumpkin centerpieces and organize the name-cards and fold the napkins into diamond-shaped envelopes and set out the M&Ms in saran wrapped crystal goblets (there are two of these,) and arrange the platters in alphabetical order according to which foods they'll hold - all platters clearly labeled with hand-written post-its. She does this every year, by the way. And every year, my uncle comes in after she's set what we'll call the first draft of her table, and says, "watch this" to anyone who will pay him any attention, and switches all the post-its and name-cards and place settings. Hours later, when my aunt inevitably returns to the dining room to finish some food item, we'll hear her agonized cries over the destroyed piece of art that was the dining room table, followed by, "Jon, you asshole."
The night before Rosh Hashana, therefore, is Hands-Off-The-Table night, so instead of eating in we headed out to a nice little Italian restaurant, and afterward, attacked and destroyed my aunt's infamously gobletted M&Ms ("Fine, just eat them all and ruin the ambiance, you assholes.") This period, otherwise known as a Jewish bonding ritual, involves a lot of uneccessary snacking and snarking at one another until someone finally tells someone else to fuck off, and a new dish is taken out and we start all over. I would assume there are more traditionally accepted rituals involved with celebrating Jewish holidays, but damned if any of us can name what they are outside of insults and food.
"Look how much weight you've put on," said my Grandmother to my cousin Sue, who was eating a mouthful of M&Ms. Meanwhile, my aunt was pulling some non-ambiance food out of the pantry (which is alphabetized by taste and genre, by the way) and offering it to us in the hopes of saving her precious display goblets.
"You've got to be fucking kidding me," said Sue.
"You misunderstand," said my Grandmother. "It's not an insult. At all. You were always such a beautiful girl. So tall and slender, with real curves. I'm asking you what happened."
"She's almost 30," reasoned my Uncle, who then went over to the pantry and said, "watch this," and proceeded to rearrange all the boxes and jars until the genres mixed unnaturally.
"Do you see what I put up with?" said my Aunt, "He just wants a rise out of me." And then she sat on her hands (I assume) to keep from immediately putting everything back.
"How is that not insulting?" said Sue. "You just called me a fat ass."
"Now you're putting words in my mouth. I never said the word fat ass. Why would I say something like fat-ass? Such a negative perspective."
"She's a beautiful girl," pointed out my Aunt.
"Yes," agreed my grandmother. "And I love her. She's just bigger now and there's more of her to love. Like a different girl. It's almost startling."
"Fuck you," said Sue, downing the rest of her M&Ms.
"Jo, on the other hand-" And my grandmother wagged an oatmeal cookie at Sue's older sister, Jo, "Looks amazing. Stunning. How much weight have you lost? Ten pounds? Have you been eating at all?"
"Fuck you," repeated Sue. "I work all day. I have to make more time for the gym. I know that." She popped a York Peppermint Pattie into her mouth from a wholesale-sized box my Uncle had pulled from the Sweets, P-Z portion of the pantry.
At that point, we moved on to a bowl of chocolate covered cherries, and as it's impossible to feel anything but joy and good humor while eating delicious maraschino cherries covered in creamy milk chocolate (The Dove commercials are true!) we segued onto pleasanter topics, like past holidays, and how we're all becoming old and feeble and developing weird physical ailments; that, of course, prompted me to (foolishly) mention how strange I thought it was that I'd once sprinted around this very dining room in nothing but socks and a diaper, which immediately prompted the "when is Jamie going to use her ovaries" discussion - an often popular topic at family functions - which then trickled into dessert number four - tea cookies with jam and chocolate chips. Delightful.
"Have you tried J-Date?" said my grandmother.
"How do you even know what that is?" I asked. "You don't even own a computer."
"I watch Dr. Phill," she said, wagging a tea cookie at me. "And according to Dr. Phill, everyone's online now. I'm sure you must know that. You have one of those space phones. So how do you expect to meet anyone if you don't even try? You're not working, you're not dating... Are you just choosing to be alone?"
"Yes," I said, "I'm purposefully endeavoring to have as little contact as humanly possible with the opposite sex."
Fast-forward an argument about the validity of J-date versus Eharmony (neither of which my grandmother had any sort of experience with), and she concluded, "I'm not saying you need to get married right now. I'm just saying, I'm old and will probably die soon."
"At least you're not the fat one," offered Jo.
"Fuck you," said Sue.
And with that, we moved on to Challah and diet soda, and Jo changed the subject, and we proceeded to gossip meanly about all our common relatives who weren't around and were thus easy targets, and after about an hour or so of that (fun times!), I was back on the train to Penn Station - rockin' out to Beyonce and recalling a Rosh Hashana from long ago; one that ended with all of my cousins and I in the foyer of (then my grandmother's house) playing that Halloween game - Light as a Feather, Stiff as a Board. We were all deadly serious about it, and had each set two fingers underneath Sue, closed our eyes, and dutifully chanted "light as a feather, stiff as a board," when Jo asked for a sign from the other world and my uncle laughed like Dracula and hit the light-switch, plunging us all into darkness. We screamed, we dropped Sue, and then we proceeded to trample over everything in sight in our terrified, no-holds-barred zeal to get back into the living room. Some of us cried. Some of us told our fathers to take a hike. Dogs were barking, cats flitting all over the place; it was pandemonium; meanwhile, my father and uncle were laughing hysterically. My aunt smacked my uncle in the head and my mother called my father an asshole, and either one or both of them felt bad enough to let us all have a second round of dessert. Thus the evening ended in what I feel is true Jewish spirit- everyone gathered together around six different cakes from Walls Bakery. Again. For the eleventh time. In one night.
Oh, Judaism.
The older I get, the more I believe that religion actually has very little to do with what's important about your heritage.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Too Many Dead Celebrities, Too Little Time
Seriously, Universe. What is going on? First Natasha Richardson with that freak head injury and then Farrah Fawcett and Michael Jackson on the same day, and now Patrick Swayze? Are you there, God? It's me, Jaime. Please stop killing our celebrities before they can do Dancing With the Stars.
Before I continue, I should clarify that I don't normally sob into my popcorn when celebrities die, although I'm not completely hollowed out inside either (despite what my mother insists whenever we discuss my lack of husband and babies) and clearly, I realize the death of any human being is a terribly sad thing for the family and friends of that human being. I'm just saying, if I don't know you personally, it's kind of impossible for me to have an opinion one way or the other, and I'm definitely not going to your candlelight vigil. (Sidenote: I was once witness to a candlelight vigil for an actress who was still alive. No joke. Idina Menzel fell through the stage the day before her last performance of Wicked, a show I worked many moons ago, and bruised her ribs. The paramedics took her to Roosevelt hospital and gave her painkillers. Hours later, bawling fans were standing outside the theater in their freshly painted, neon green, puffy-paint OUR THOUGHTS ARE WITH YOU and DEFY SADNESS t-shirts, with their green roses and green witch-hats and green candles, and playing, from a lone boom box underneath the poster with Idina's photo and the Tony award stamp on it, an acoustic single from her album, unfortunately [or hilariously] titled, "It Only Hurts When I Breathe." Creepy? Ridiculous? Hysterical? I don't know. She was three blocks away, high on morphine and lying in bed with man-candy Taye Diggs, watching Access Hollywood. You make the call.)
That said, there's something so inherently strange to me about the passing of Patrick Swayze, even though we all unfortunately saw it coming for a long time. This is the guy who pulled Baby out of the corner and taught her how to get her groove on, 1989-version-of-1964 style. This is the guy who made sexual clay pots with Demi Moore. He was such an inherent part of my childhood love affair with the genius Cheese Whiz of late 80s/early 90s cinema that his death is like that of an old elementary school friend who kicked it before I could Facebook him. Vividly, I can still remember watching Dirty Dancing for the first time, my cousin Joelle and I spending at least fifteen minutes beforehand trying to get the blasted tape-deck door of the VCR to STAY THE HELL shut. (I feel like half of my TV-watching time in the 80s was spent yelling at that bastard VCR as it randomly opened and shut like some demon-bitch Jack in the Box.) Dirty Dancing was worth it. Dirty Dancing was just one of those movies. It made you want to put on an ugly, salmon-colored salsa skirt and hop into Doc Brown's Delorean and travel back in time to the fictional 60s so that you could go to Kellerman's vacation resort and do lifts in the ocean at sunset with Patrick Swayze. Because that mofo? was DREAMY. Right? I can still remember dancing like an uncoordinated white girl (some habits you never outgrow) in an attempt to reproduce Swayze's moves to The Time of My Life, except my dance partner was Joelle, who - although slightly more coordinated than me, in that way Autistic kids are slightly more coordinated than Down Syndrome kids - still hit her head on my grandmother's night-table during the chorus and bridge (which may or may not have been my fault as I may or may not have promised to catch her.) I can still remember the sounds of my grandmother clamoring around in the kitchen, making dinner. ("Carl, get the hell out of my way, and don't you dare change the channel, $25,000 Pyramid is on. Go find the girls - are they watching the fucking TV again? This floor isn't going to clean itself.")
Ah, memories.
That Patrick Swayze, such an intrinsic part of my childhood universe, could be gone forever, is so sobering - as if a chunk of the 80s was just killed and trampled by the high-stepping Marching Band of Time. (Shut up! It's a perfectly good band nerd metaphor.) This also means both guys from the SNL Chippendales Stripper sketch are now gone, which of course means I've been asking the universe those serious questions. Things like "What the hell?" and "Why the fuck?" The answer, sadly, is we're growing old, my fellow Gen-Xers, and we're apparently dragging a ton of random B-Celebrities down with us.
So in conclusion, God, I want to know when this madness is going to end. Don't you understand we need these people for our reality shows? THEY'RE STILL FILLED WITH PURPOSE! THEY STILL HAVE THINGS TO DO! HAVEN'T YOU EVER WATCHED I'M A CELEBRITY, GET ME OUT OF HERE?
Sigh.
Think on it awhile, God. That's all I ask.
Before I continue, I should clarify that I don't normally sob into my popcorn when celebrities die, although I'm not completely hollowed out inside either (despite what my mother insists whenever we discuss my lack of husband and babies) and clearly, I realize the death of any human being is a terribly sad thing for the family and friends of that human being. I'm just saying, if I don't know you personally, it's kind of impossible for me to have an opinion one way or the other, and I'm definitely not going to your candlelight vigil. (Sidenote: I was once witness to a candlelight vigil for an actress who was still alive. No joke. Idina Menzel fell through the stage the day before her last performance of Wicked, a show I worked many moons ago, and bruised her ribs. The paramedics took her to Roosevelt hospital and gave her painkillers. Hours later, bawling fans were standing outside the theater in their freshly painted, neon green, puffy-paint OUR THOUGHTS ARE WITH YOU and DEFY SADNESS t-shirts, with their green roses and green witch-hats and green candles, and playing, from a lone boom box underneath the poster with Idina's photo and the Tony award stamp on it, an acoustic single from her album, unfortunately [or hilariously] titled, "It Only Hurts When I Breathe." Creepy? Ridiculous? Hysterical? I don't know. She was three blocks away, high on morphine and lying in bed with man-candy Taye Diggs, watching Access Hollywood. You make the call.)
That said, there's something so inherently strange to me about the passing of Patrick Swayze, even though we all unfortunately saw it coming for a long time. This is the guy who pulled Baby out of the corner and taught her how to get her groove on, 1989-version-of-1964 style. This is the guy who made sexual clay pots with Demi Moore. He was such an inherent part of my childhood love affair with the genius Cheese Whiz of late 80s/early 90s cinema that his death is like that of an old elementary school friend who kicked it before I could Facebook him. Vividly, I can still remember watching Dirty Dancing for the first time, my cousin Joelle and I spending at least fifteen minutes beforehand trying to get the blasted tape-deck door of the VCR to STAY THE HELL shut. (I feel like half of my TV-watching time in the 80s was spent yelling at that bastard VCR as it randomly opened and shut like some demon-bitch Jack in the Box.) Dirty Dancing was worth it. Dirty Dancing was just one of those movies. It made you want to put on an ugly, salmon-colored salsa skirt and hop into Doc Brown's Delorean and travel back in time to the fictional 60s so that you could go to Kellerman's vacation resort and do lifts in the ocean at sunset with Patrick Swayze. Because that mofo? was DREAMY. Right? I can still remember dancing like an uncoordinated white girl (some habits you never outgrow) in an attempt to reproduce Swayze's moves to The Time of My Life, except my dance partner was Joelle, who - although slightly more coordinated than me, in that way Autistic kids are slightly more coordinated than Down Syndrome kids - still hit her head on my grandmother's night-table during the chorus and bridge (which may or may not have been my fault as I may or may not have promised to catch her.) I can still remember the sounds of my grandmother clamoring around in the kitchen, making dinner. ("Carl, get the hell out of my way, and don't you dare change the channel, $25,000 Pyramid is on. Go find the girls - are they watching the fucking TV again? This floor isn't going to clean itself.")
Ah, memories.
That Patrick Swayze, such an intrinsic part of my childhood universe, could be gone forever, is so sobering - as if a chunk of the 80s was just killed and trampled by the high-stepping Marching Band of Time. (Shut up! It's a perfectly good band nerd metaphor.) This also means both guys from the SNL Chippendales Stripper sketch are now gone, which of course means I've been asking the universe those serious questions. Things like "What the hell?" and "Why the fuck?" The answer, sadly, is we're growing old, my fellow Gen-Xers, and we're apparently dragging a ton of random B-Celebrities down with us.
So in conclusion, God, I want to know when this madness is going to end. Don't you understand we need these people for our reality shows? THEY'RE STILL FILLED WITH PURPOSE! THEY STILL HAVE THINGS TO DO! HAVEN'T YOU EVER WATCHED I'M A CELEBRITY, GET ME OUT OF HERE?
Sigh.
Think on it awhile, God. That's all I ask.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
