I'm heading to the ATL tonight for my baby brother's engagement party and, as I'll be seeing one of my best childhood friends Little Sara, I decided to make a good mixed dance tape for after the grandparents take the kids home and the adults remember that we all used to party together (hey Veronica, is this a run-on sentence, you genius?).
So, in honor of Little Sara, I found this killer Salt 'N Pepa song that we used to dance around to at the lake during "Moms' Weekends at the Lake" festivities. It's off the Colorssoundtrack so this would have made us about 13 and 14. We had great taste event then...
I filled the rest of the CD with songs that I cannot help but pop around to in the car, giving this entire town the impression that I'm lame. I am, but not because I like to dance, so get over it.
Here's the track listing because I'm proud of my mixed-CD abilities. Anyone who knows the movie High Fidelity understands this. Let me know if you want a copy...
Oh yeah, and my friend "Stella," who's a total bitch, sent this to me yesterday in honor of my buying a house. It actually reveals a lot about Stella. Dance Music for the Soul
Let the Rhythm Run -- Salt N' Pepa Crazy -- Gnarls Barkley Good Luck -- Basement Jaxx Roses -- Outkast Smooth Criminal -- Michael Jackson Ridin' -- Chamillionaire Word Up -- Cameo Since U Been Gone -- Kelly Clarkson (American Idol be damned. This chick can sing.) Just a Lil' Bit -- 50 Cent Miss Independent -- Kelly Clarkson Cry Me River -- Justin Timberlake Just Like U Said it Would Be -- Sinead O'Connor Helena -- My Chemical Romance My Humps -- Black Eyed Peas Got You Where I Want You -- The Flys Sure Shot -- Beastie Boys Hips Don't Lie -- Shakira Promiscuous -- Nelly Furtado What? -- A Tribe Called Quest
This record turns 20 this year. This was Morrissey before he got really into his own drama. This album is hilarious and disturbing, not to mention essentially 80s.
"As Rose counts the money in the cannister, who comes sliding down the bannister, a Vicar in a tutu, he's not strange. He just wants to live his life this way."
Because if I heard of one more interpretive performance art piece I was going to lose my grip on my ability to not punch someone in the face
I have much new respect for the troupe of girls at the dance studio. Not only did these classy, sophisticated, talented ladies transform into warped circus-freak, screeching punk rock chix before my eyes, but their cover of an L7 song along with some originals ("Bitch-ass Dog" and one about being a freak ballerina among them) surprised and delighted even the ever cynical and BS-detecting Lord Somber. In short, it was a very good time. No saccharine social commentary, no holier-than-thou "artistic" achievement, no attempt at being anything other than -- well -- fun. It's rare around here lately and it went a very, very long way. Hopefully I can get a pic of the spectacle known as The Circus Peanuts (hence the name of the band) posted soon.
So, a couple of the lovely ladies I dance with will be doing a sort of Whisky-A-Go-Go thing at the Roadhouse this evening with the musical stylings of Shitty Candy accompanying them. I have no idea what to expect but I believe any group of people that can plant their tongues that firmly in their cheeks without fear of ridicule must be of quality stock. Much like the tribute I saw on Halloween to some great 80s bands where Mr. Bielli had Freddie Mercury down to a tee -- a wife-beater tee that is. Good stuff.
What's more, these girls can move. I have been humbled trying to keep up and I danced for the better part of 10 years. And they just don't get the notice they should because, I think, they do it for the pure love of dance, not for the vain love of attention. So, if you're around, come and see them tonight around 11 p.m. It should be interesting...
One more thing -- I had this surprising conversation in the breakroom at work where a co-worker made the statement that it was hard to believe, watching the World Cup tournament, that Europeans were so racist in their competition. I mean, she said, I can understand it here, especially in the South because of our proven racism, what with slavery and all.
Good Lord.
Just where do you think the slave trade began? Um, and the Greeks and the Romans. And the Egyptians. And every other nation in the history of the freakin' world.
It was so much less shocking to hear of racism in the World Cup than to listen to this girl's willful ignorance of human nature and her limited world view. It is unfortunate that enlightenment has waxed and waned the way it has throughout human cultural advancement but to forcibly mitigate it -- when the facts are right in front of your face every day (Anti-semitism in Europe? Muslim slums in France? The Balkans, Somalia, etc...) -- just plain pisses me off.
The mark of maturity is being able to stop, look around, and employ diplomacy no matter what faces you, especially when dealing with human beings. Let's face it -- some people do down right dirty, unethical, tasteless and plain-old tacky things. But we all deserve the respect of having a good, sober assessment and sizing up of our role in the situation.
What happens next, if the assessment proves disappointing, is where I always trip up. I think I might be an insensitive bastard...
First, does this organization scare the crap out of anyone else? I remember a conversation I had not too long ago about the whole oil for food scandal and Kofi Annan's family connection to that situation. I was told unequivocally that Sadam Hussein was a business man and we shouldn't fault him for trying to make a little dough. I wish I had something clever and logical to say to shut that down but, really, morality and human decency sort of does the trick for me. This site is interesting in relation to all this bureaucratic ballyhoo.
To combat the recent spate of unholy births here lately, I'm pleased to announce the Bob's daughter is a joy, Lizzie D is expecting and some old friends from the Bar Softball League here in town are about to have their second child. Thank God the world will be populated by more than little Damiens. I was worried there for a while...
And finally, I got my first mean comment posted to this here blog. Fantastic! You can see it just under this one if you read the comments section. You're nobody till somebody hates you. Angelina knows this is true. Here's the best part about it: apparently this person is not a fan but would indicate in their comment that they spend a lot of time discussing their assessment of my character with their friends. Um dude, go find something you like... I am, however, what this person (and I'm certain I know them because only someone who knows me could be gripped by such vitriol. I've been known to inspire this; and sometimes, given the person, really enjoy inspiring it...) says I am -- out of touch with reality, hypocritical and a flat-out liar. Next time have the stones to leave your name and we can discuss my therapy.
Okay, so it wasn't directed at you... I just had a bad day.
What I meant to say yesterday was that my friend Bob let me spend the night at her house after four Maker's Mark and ginger ales at Fox & Hounds in Buckhead. (Apparently, even slightly drunk, I've still "got it" when playing pool. Yes. I do.) There were actually three British guys at the bar, probably eager for the comforts of the fox hunting culture they left behind on the main. They were discussing, when I walked up, how they'd only let "non-ugly girls do that." Right-o.
Anyway, Bob wore a t-shirt like the one in this post as her jammies. I peed a little laughing.
Drove around the old neighborhood in Atlanta this weekend. Took the road I got my first speeding ticket on past my first true love's house, crossed the street to my friend's house where, because his parents spent the entire summer in Europe, I pretty much lost a great deal of time in his home the summer before college, and finally to the elementary school recreation field where my sister Laura introduced me to -- ahem -- funny cigarettes. Made a lot of great big plans on those neighborhood roads -- sometimes I feel like I let all those who thought I was some sort of genius (funny, I know) down because my genius-ness has not manifested itself very dramatically. I feel this poignantly when those in this new life look at me with pity or derision or bewilderment as if they wonder why I bother at all. I just want to scream -- "People thought I was special once! They thought I was smart and beautiful and they liked me. They genuinely thought I had something to offer to the world. You can't make me forget that. I won't let you Goddammit so stop -- Please, stop...!"
But I don't. I keep my head down and let my friends -- whom I see only occasionally, this past weekend for example, remind me that I once was the kind of person who would never let the pathetic insecurities of others affect the way I saw myself or designed my future. It's good to be reminded that I had that once. I think -- I really think -- it might still be in here somewhere. But letting it loose now, surrounded by the small minded -- the type who think the image of happiness is just as good as the real thing (I mean, you're the only one who has to know and what everyone else thinks is what really matters, right?) -- would be like putting your hair up for a tractor pull. Or, as the Bible says so eloquently, casting pearls before swine.
I just get so scared sometimes -- in fact, it kept me up pretty much the entire night last night -- that swine is all there is...
I have a great friend named Bob. She's known as Robin to most others but I coined Bob somewhere in the 25 + years we've known each other and it just fits her really. Trust me, she's such a Bob. Anyway, Bob's headed down to the dirty South this weekend from the slightly less dirty South (to Atlanta from Richmond, Va.) to hang with the girls and introduce her first baby Sophia Grace (which, if you read this Bob, I think I told you I really liked that name and then you up and name your baby this several years later. Or, it was a wine-soaked dream I had... Either way, it's a good name and little bit definitely fills it out).
Bob and I met in the 1st grade; in fact, there are pictures that exist of us partying like it's 1999 in 1982 at someone's birthday party. We also danced together for years -- I will always associate her with sequined spandex outfits, legwarmers and opaque, shiny tights.
We traveled through elementary school together (ooh Bob, in moving last week I found an old Pleasantdale Panthers sweatshirt. Field Day was awesome!); and then, albeit for a while in different circles, through High School.
When we hit college, we were dorm roommates and then flatmates for several years. She moved back to Atlanta and I stayed in Athens. She got married. I became a reporter and, later, other things. She moved to Oregon, then San Francisco, then Virginia. Now she's coming home to visit and I can't wait to see her! We share a sense of humor, you see. Things that make us laugh are incomprehensible to others. And we don't give a damn. So, Bob, if you're reading -- "10:53! ...sniff"
Lookin for the nigga who pulled a pistol on my homie
Know what I love? When non-ghetto folks try to use ghetto slang like "represent" or "keep it real." It reminds me of that scene in Office Space where uber-white guy Michael Bolton is blasting that Scarface song but turns down the radio and rolls up the window when the black peddler approaches. I'd love to pop a cap in their phony asses.
Generally I think sitting the fence is weak. Make a decision, right? But I gotta say, as much as I admittedly logically and logistically accept that alien life in the universe is a reasonable probablility, culturally sometimes it's best to just tell a few close friends. Especially when you've been a conehead.
I'm all moved in -- except for some books and kitchen things. My sister wanted to beat me down for not having more boxes. She's much more organized than I.
So, I had blocked out just what a hell-hole I was living in as it was what I could afford so I made the best of it. My soon-to-be sister-in-law was shocked that my landlady had the conscience to allow me to live there and would continue to raise the rent regardless of the mold growing in the bathroom, the leaking washing machine, the open floor vents, the "hasn't been painted in 20 years" rustic look, etc., etc...
So, good riddance slum lord. You, along with anyone else who took pleasure in my struggles (you know who you are, you bastards...) may sit and, lest we forget, spin. (Sorry parents o' mine. It just seemed appropriate in a kitschy, 80s kind of way...)
Happy Friday!
