Here are a few of the forty zillion things I’ve been mulling over during this week’s commute:
I’m extraordinarily grateful to have a paycheck coming in these days. Woohoo!
Amy Winehouse is starting to bear an eerie resemblance Endora from the television series Bewitched, which is sort of a shame because Agnes Moorehead was 64 when she started that role, and Amy’s only about 24.
I hum this tune a lot while I’m driving. Anyone remember it?
I think about my blog friend Kaylee an awful lot. If you have the time, please remember to pop in and say hi to her and offer encouragement. She has Meebo, so you can even do a bit of live chatting with her.
I’ve been considering this creative visualization thing, and the theory that in order to get what you want you simply have to imagine it. It seems like such an ethnocentric thing to me. I can’t make this process work, because I start feeling selfish and guilty and soon all I can think about are people who are starving, or living in war torn countries, or being kept as slaves in their father’s basements. Then I start to imagine that maybe I should creatively visualize saving the world.
My energy levels are low and I’ve been feeling rotten that I haven’t had more time to visit my blog buddies. Things’ll be back to normal at the end of May, and I’ll start lurking and leaving snarky comments again soon, I promise.
I’ve been thinking about all the outraged posts people have been writing about Miley Cyrus and the Vanity Fair photos, and I just want to say to all of them, “I agree with you completely.”
Remember how outraged Wal-Mart was when Vanity Fair featured Demi Moore, tastefully nude and pregnant, on the cover? They pulled the magazine from the shelves faster than you could say, “Bruce Willis is my baby daddy.” Eventually, they started carrying the magazine again, but hasn’t their lack of response to this one seemed a little strange? Oh, never mind– they’re the ones who carried pre-teen panties with “Who needs a credit card?” printed on the front. I guess it’s okay when it’s an underage girl.
I dream about the little doggie in my future. I’ve been pricing little teacup pups and they are so damned expensive–$600 to about $1200 for a teacup chihuahua works out to about $200-$400 a pound. I think I’m going to have to go for a cheaper brand, something in the $50 a pound range.
I was thinking about Peter Parkour, and what a great idea he shared about taping random thoughts. Last week, I logged over 90 minutes of mental meandering on my tape recorder, and although I’m only using a small portion of what goes through my head while driving, it’s wonderful not to have to try to remember all of the weirdness that flows between my ears during the week.
1-800-BAD TATS: I think there’s a desperate need for a tattoo hotline. Say you have an idea for a tattoo floating around in your head– cockroaches marching across your neck or a swastika on your forehead, for example. You’re just not sure if it’s a good idea or not, so you call the toll-free number to discuss your idea. The phones would be manned by otherwise-unemployable people with face tattoos and other regrettable ink, who’ve been specially trained to talk you down from your bad idea. They could even offer alternative tattoo ideas, such as a small, tasteful blade of grass hidden in your chest hair, or a tiny ladybug on your bee-hind. I see this as a win-win, complete with employment opportunities and a decreased chance that others will have to bear witness to unfortunate skin art.
Isn’t it weird, this need we have to categorize everything? We divide things by border, religion, sexual orientation, political party…The bleeding heart liberal part of me dreams of blurry lines, and “love one another.” When I rule the world, there will be no “us versus them.” Of course, some dumbass will immediately blow us all up.
For a couple of decades now, the Violent Femmes song, “Blister in the Sun” has made me bouncy and cheery every time I hear it. How can a song about some derelict, drugged out guy make me so dileriously happy? Just think about those first few notes at the beginning.
You’re bouncing, aren’t you?
I used my handy dandy tape player to record the license plate of a complete idiot who was tailgating me (once he passed me, on the right, on the shoulder, on the highway). Instead of reporting him, I’ve decided to dedicate my commuter bumper sticker idea of the week to him:
Many people in Dayton talk to themselves. I see it all the time while I’m driving. A few days ago, I drove by this fellow who was yelling and cursing at some invisible being. A week or so ago, we passed a woman who was having a heated conversation with herself while standing at a street corner. I watched her cross at the light and back again a few times, never ceasing to hold up her end of the conversation. I see these monologues going on almost every time I leave the house.
I think about how much I love Tom. The other night, he let me act out my entire morning ritual at the house where I stay while I’m in Columbus. Really. He let me describe the deck, how I counted the trees in the yard (forty-five), the different species of birds I see (numerous), and the sound of the frogs singing in a nearby pond at twilight. He let me go on about the morning sun, my stretching exercises, the two busy anthills whose progress I’m measuring… I adore him. He understands my love of this stuff, and he not only lets me ramble on about it, but he lets me perform it too.
While driving, I reminisced more about Memphis– about this phone number I used to call constantly. The phone number connected children to what was called “Dial and Smile.” An old guy named J.C. Levy, who possessed a kindly southern accent (I pictured him looking like Colonel Sanders), would recite silly poems about the animals at the Memphis Zoo. He’d written hundreds and hundreds of them, so that each time I called, there would be a new poem. At the end of each masterpiece, Mr. Levy would gently say, “Keep dialing and smiling– bye bye now.” Hearing those poems comforted me to no end.
As kids, we got to watch children’s programs hosted by guys with names like Happy Hal and Cap’n Bill. It seemed to me that Cap’n Bill may have had a bit of a drinking problem. He seemed perpetually hungover, and never seemed that fond of the children in his audience. He would chew on a pipe while drawing these terrible pictures with magic markers, then he’d mumble a bit and show some cartoons. I much preferred Happy Hal, an affable sort who had puppets and gave away toys.
There was also Dick Williams, who was not only a local news anchor, but who also hosted what the Guiness Book of World Records says is the longest running magic show in television history, Magicland. It ran from 1966 to 1989. We kids never missed an episode, and we were awestruck when a friend would actually get to appear in the audience on these shows. Mr. Williams lived in my apartment complex when I was a little girl. A few of us knocked on his door one day, and he very nicely did a few little sleight-of-hand tricks for us. I don’t think we ever bothered him after that.
While on the road, I thought about how much I heart The Smoking Gun. I’m a maniac for their photo galleries of mug shots. Sigh…they remind me of our little ‘hood.
I’ve been thinking a lot about the lack of originality in advertising these days. There seems to be some horrible bargain that ad agencies strike with aging rock stars, a pact with the Devil where a commercial now consists of little more than random images of a product with some old classic rock song used as a soundtrack. You can almost hear Mick Jagger and Eric Clapton shouting, “Cha-CHING!” every time they turn on their TVs.
If you are a young person, and you’re reading this, please know that this was not always the case. There used to be actual jingle writers who wrote catchy, original tunes to sell products, and they were so good that many of us old codgers remember them to this day. To me, that’s a component of great advertising.
McDonald’s, Dr. Pepper, Pepsi, Oscar Meyer, Cracker Jacks…they all had jingles, and people my age can probably sing them to you note for note. We still remember them, because they were great. Even smoking cigarettes and drinking beer seemed like incredibly life affirming activities, because the jingles were so catchy. Sometimes, they even threw animation in there too, which made it seem like even MORE fun!
Now when I see unimaginative commercials, I want to throw my shoe at the screen, but in the olden days, when hippies ruled the earth, they had great songs like this one:
I think that’s a nice way to end this one. More next week.