MELISMAS MUST DIE!!!

And Mariah and Christina must suffer accordingly, too.

That is all.

The best years of your life (or something...) (part 3)

And to continue the series (here are parts 1 and 2)...here's what I'd tell myself back in 11th grade.

-- High school years are the best years of your life? Hmm...okay. Well, if you believe that, then this here's the best of the best. Enjoy it while you've got it.

-- Speaking of the best of the best: welcome to choir! And welcome to the top choir in school. And welcome to being one of the top tenors in school. And hey...let's go all the way. Welcome to being one of the top tenors in the whole goddamned state. Now go and rock All State. Enjoy rooming with S.W. (and you know exactly what I mean. Mm-hmm...) Oh, and I can't wait to see you go berserk at the dance to "Rock Lobster." One of your best moments EVER.

-- Have fun at Lollapalooza. Especially that makeshift drum thang made out of garbage. Another one of your best moments ever. You shoulda gone to the one the year before, but better late than never.

-- Two words: Henry Rollins. Get that man's poetry ASAFP. Head down to Wax Trax and get some of his spoken word shit. It will blow your mind.

-- Finally, enjoy that Skinny Puppy show. No joke: it'll be one of the best shows you'll ever, ever see...filmed handgun suicides, fake baby entrails thrown at the audience, and the most fun, wildest mosh pit you'll ever be in. No, it's not what most people would consider good entertainment, but if it works for you, awesome.

-- Here I go again, sounding like that damned broken record: SPEECH? AGAIN!? You really hate yourself, don't you? Um...wait. Don't answer that one. Quit. NOW. Or...y'know...don't. And don't come bitching to me about how tough life is. You don't have to make it that way.

-- Did you hear me on that last one? You don't have to go out of your way to make life hard. Life has a funny way of doing that pretty well by itself. For example...

-- *CRASH* Jesus. Congratulations on backing into that guy's car...while it was parked. Yeah, the one he has for sale. Wouldn't have happened if you were...oh, God, I give up. Have fun at that damned speech tournament today. And no, leaving the scene of a crime is not the smartest thing to do, regardless of what your well-meaning companion says to do. People are watching, even if you can't see them.

-- Okay, enough with the snark. You're frightened enough as it is. Let's hit Perkins again. I'll buy.

-- Your acne. No, it's not an issue. It's the way you're going about treating it. Snow cones of acetone to the face are...uh...kinda weird. Sulfur ointments stink, right? Those antibiotics you're taking for months on end are going to fuck you up for much longer and in worse ways than you'd imagine. I know you hate being a pencil-necked stick figure. So don't take that damned antibiotic that cuts your appetite in half! (If you want, I have some ideas...)

-- Oh, and that weight gain you're getting off of prednisone (for your bronchitis...AGAIN) may seem cool, but swim team will obliterate it in a heartbeat. Enjoy it while it lasts.

-- I hope you enjoy dating the Silver Skating Dame. You both are adorable. Seriously. And you really are gonna have some great times. Enjoy your time together.

-- RE: your dad. Yes, he's being an ass. But at the same time, he is trying to reach you. And that's not his forte. I'm not saying you need to fully embrace him. Just recognize that he's putting forth an effort.

-- Okay, now that you are REALLY pissed at me, take some time off, then let's hit Paris on the Platte. Get whatever you want. And let's stay up as late as you want. Delve into your inner Jack Kerouac.

Maybe I'll put a hole in your head...y'know, just for the fuck of it.

Oh, God, I'm gonna get political again. If this happens much more, I'll have to ask someone to up my meds or something. And I am not intending to flame-bait here, so don't flame.

Okay. It's a big one. Y'all ready?

A well regulated militia being necessary to the security of a free state, the right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed.

In the mad dash of gun-toters to defend their God-given constitutional rights to bear arms, I think there's something that we have forgotten. The first part of that sentence, to be specific. Now, this is my interpretation, and a relatively uneducated one. I have not yet read up on what our founding fathers were thinking when they came up with this amendment, but since it was the second one in our constitution, they obviously thought it was extremely important. But let's look at this all the same.

I feel like there is a huge disconnect between current reality and the first four words of this amendment. "A well regulated militia" does not really exemplify what our country is dealing with right now. Would a member of a well regulated militia gun down kindergarteners and teachers? Or enter a high school and murder fellow students, then commit suicide? Or gun down people enjoying a movie? Not in my definition. A member of a well regulated militia would not commit murder of one's innocent peers. That is the realm of insanity.

Here's where definitions really become important. According to Webster's 3rd (our stateside equivalent to the Oxford English Dictionary), here are the two applicable (not obsolete) definitions of militia:

1. a part of the organized armed forces of a country whose members live at home, carry on their usual vocations, and except for occasional calls for drill or instruction are liable to call only in emergency.
2. the whole body of able-bodied male citizens declared by law as being subject to call to military service
 

The way I read this is that as long as the use and possession of firearms is placed in the context of military service, whether by troops or civilians, it is fine. And this military service has to be well regulated, as do the people who participate in it, with the ultimate goal of securing and maintaining a free state. This does not mean people can just go out and get guns because they want to. They should be subject to regular training - and I doubt most folk out there would take issue with this. I mean, that's what gun clubs, target practice, and hunting are for. But they should also be subject to regular screening regarding their mental and emotional stability. I do not want someone buying a gun who is going through a divorce or was just fired, and who has anger management issues, psychopathic tendencies, or severe depression. This does not support a well regulated militia or the security of a free state. (Of course, this begs the question: what if said person already has a gun? Is the gun then subject to being confiscated? And who approaches said person to take that gun? I'm not quite ready to answer that one.) Also, what if a person wants a gun, but does not want to be a member of the military or in a similar supporting role? What if they just want to, say, go hunting? Hmm...I'd have a hard time taking guns away from people who use them purely for sport. (As you may have guessed, I'm just brain farting onto this screed by now.)

I don't view the second amendment as a carte blanche right to bear arms. It has to be taken in the context of a secure, free state, one in which parents feel safe sending their kids to the school of their choice, or people feel safe engaging in a night's entertainment of their choice. It has to be taken in the context of the first part of that sentence. And for now, that's all I have to say. Maybe more later.

(Note: after sifting through a few other blogs and articles, I'm starting to see more context behind the 2nd amendment, and can see that some of what I've written may be considered facile. But I still stand behind the logic of it. I'm not a fan of psychopaths with weapons.)

Apple lungs

So, dream this morning, right? Random stuff here. On stage, at a spelling bee (you'd be nauseated to know how often this dream recurs, even after all these years). Round after round, I'm fine. One round, I decide to nod off. I wake up a few words before I get up. But my stomach tightens up, and suddenly I think "oh no, this could be it." Apparently this is the national competition, since all eyes are on me, and in this dream, I'm the first two-time national winner in history, cracking my knuckles and ready to make it three. So I walk up, and they give me the word.

"Apfelungen."

See, German words are common, so I felt...ennh...okay about it. Definition (in my dream): a sudden windfall or pleasant surprise. I figured it was like an apple falling fortuitously and unexpectedly from the sky. After some thought and pleasant banter with the judges, I give it a go. I double the "l," and the bell dings me out. No three-time national winner this time.

So I woke up and immediately had to figure out what this word was. Looked the German translation up. Nothing. Then, just to see, I looked up "apfellungen." And came up with "apple lungs." Go figure.

Funny thing is, there's actually a blog out there by that name. Google to your heart's content, kids.

Thus ends perhaps the most random and useless blog post you'll read all year. Now go and stuff yourself silly with kale chips and kumquats.

Shower spray? Yup.

Not to get all Pinterest-y and shit on all y'alls, but...well, I'm gonna do it.

In our household, it's mainly my job to take care of the areas of the house that are more water-prone (kitchen, bathrooms, outside), and Mr. Man handles more of the non-water stuff (exception: laundry, for which I am eternally grateful). This means, among other things, scrubbing the shower down every so often until I can spray water on the glass walls and see it cascade down clearly. No sudden parting of the waters by soap scum or anything. That damned pink mildew crap has to be gone, too. I've been making the homemade soft scrub with lavender castile soap and baking soda (and as soon as I typed that, the Pinterest-averse cells in me just shuddered), like I've done for years, and the stuff works, no question. But the whole act of scrubbing gets old. I've been putting it off more and more lately, and the shower has looked worse all the time.

So shortly before Christmas, I found this page on Pinterest, and gave the spray-on shower cleaner a shot. WOW. This shit really works. And no joke, I haven't been more excited about anything else since the new year started. I'm ALL about anything that makes housework easier.
I haven't seen the cascading water like I'd like yet, but these glass walls are clearing dramatically. And mildew HATES this stuff. Easy to make, and pretty green, too. (I've always been leery of the shower sprays sold commercially that don't list ingredients.)
Only downsides: I have no idea how the writer can claim that the bottle lasts 7 weeks, unless she's taking a shower in a stall the size of a postage stamp only every week or two. I refill mine about every 7-10 days. Then again, I'm going to town on this shower. Also, I'm making it extra strong (more vinegar).
As I typed this, Mr. Man came in and regaled me about his recent adventures entering the bathroom after I sprayed the stuff on and getting hit by a tidal wave of vinegar fumes. So if you're averse to vinegar, you may want to defer this job. But for me, a simple spray-down after each shower beats scrubbing soap scum any day. Besides, that's what fans are for.

Pinterest does have its place. As do its detractors. Bless.

More airport hell.

Lots of things I would do were I benign dictator of this country. Banning car alarms would be one. And this would be another:

To all those who do not go to airports often, THIS would be required reading before each trip. And to get a good idea of the resentment and outright anger caused by disobeying these most basic rules of courtesy and efficiency, THIS would be required listening. Oh, and a required signed disclaimer stating that any injury to one's person as a result of infraction of these rules is the injured person's responsibility only.

In a nutshell, standing on the left is an affront to my very German sense of efficiency (and I am a huge proponent of the motto "lead, follow, or get out of the way"), and if I bowl you over, you had it coming.

"And to all a good..." *screech* *crash*

I draw the line at Christmas Eve church services where the pastor, such as he is, actually says "Scrooge was the kind of guy who would take the zip out of everyone's Christmas doo-dah."

Oh, yeah...no apocalypse. *yawn*

Things have kinda switched around here since a post I made a few years back about what makes Christmas...well, Christmas. The new stuff:

1. Love, Actually - Sappy, sappy, and trite. Love stories, all done in that lovable British accent. (Those Brits, so quaint...talking about love to each other while filming porn scenes together. And so charming! Flying to the US on a hunch to try to score chicks because Yankee chicks are such suckers for British accents! Well, um...yeah. Guilty as charged.) Also, I honestly think I would consider switching teams for Keira Knightley in this movie...she is so insanely adorable and effervescent and beautiful. But it'd be all off if Andrew Lincoln (the insanely gorgeous guy with a pulverizing crush on her) showed up, since I got a pulverizing crush on him when I first saw him. And finally, Emma Thompson and Alan Rickman. Oh, and some awesome music. And Hugh Grant in the only role of his I've ever been able to tolerate. And Liam Neeson as the coolest, most supportive dad in the world for...oh, just see it already. You'll love it. Even if you don't. You still will.

2. The Sound of Music - Speaking of sappy and trite. And overplayed. And sickly saccharine. And you know, I don't care. I've always loved this movie, and always will. I do keep it to one, maybe two showings a year, but Christmas is always a must.

3. Egg nog. Some things never change. Especially if you find a local dairy that makes egg nog. OMG but delicious. I've been drinking it by the quartful lately. Yes...that good. (Oh, and I don't bother with any rum or bourbon or whiskey or amaretto in it. Ruins its lovely smoothness.)

4. Cooking. Of course. After about four years, I think I've finally perfected making meringues, using a decorating tube and all. Peppermint and chocolate (with some flavoring...cinnamon or orange, usually) are the perennial ones. But then there's the fudge. The spritz cookies I tried this year that turned out great...all 7 dozen or so of 'em. The orange butterscotch oatmeal cookies. And I'm sure I'm missing one here. Oh yeah...my faves from years ago: the corn flake marshmallow wreaths, with cinnamon dot holly berries. I may have to make those next year, too. (I haven't even touched on the chocolate mousse pie or creme brulee...but I already brought those up.)

5. Ru Paul - Ho Ho Ho - This kinda straddles the line between quaint and fun. Recommended, even if only for "All I Want For Christmas" (...is my liposuction...and my cheek implant, and my chin implant, and let's see...my butt should be risen.) Ru's vamping is kinda amusing, too. But it does tend to get old after a spin or two.

6. Skiing - Well, we'll see. Mr. Man and I are headed up to the mountains with the whole clan. And lots of us ski. Problem is, I haven't skied in a few years, 'cause last year's snow was nonexistent. And since that time, I have been lifting lots of weights, but any sort of endurance training has been MIA. This came through loud and clear two years ago as I was skiing some blacks. Form was good, sure...but only for about four, maybe five turns at most before my thighs began burning fit to kill me. I was the last one down, usually, and people were asking me if it was my breathing that was a problem. Nope. Oh...and not only was this two years ago, this was also about 20 pounds ago. (It has not escaped my attention that some of that 20 pounds has found its way onto my calves, the likes of which are wedged into my boots so tight my feet may go numb.) So next week should be reeeally interesting. I'll report back...if I survive.

7. A new car! No, I'm not kidding. Brand-spankin' new. A Ford Fusion hybrid - a deep cobalt blue that's utterly gorgeous. Voice controls like you wouldn't believe. Navigation. Adaptive cruise control (so if there's a car in front of you, this car will automatically slow down). And an auto parallel-parking feature I cannot WAIT to try. Santa arrived early this year, and was extra generous. I'm not sure what I did to deserve it, other than drive my old, long-loved and lamented Subaru into the ground. The only downside goes along with skiing: we'll see how well its front-wheel drive self does up in the mountains, particularly with the snow that's supposed to start falling tomorrow and not let up much until Christmas.

Hear, hear!

So you want people to hear, hear what someone has to say? You agree vehemently with something someone has written or said, and feel it should be, uh, heard, heard throughout the land? You want people to gather closer to said source so they can hear, hear what they should? Then use those words. Hear, hear!

(Note: It's NOT "here, here.")

Nirvana - In Utero

I'm thinking it's because my first year of college sucked fecal cheeseballs. I mostly had a great high school career and succeeded in large part because I had a very well-defined schedule at all times. Once I hit college, that framework vaporized, and I realized how little discipline and ambition I had on my own, and what had only supposedly been my antisocial tendencies suddenly came out loud and clear. I was, by my reckoning, supposed to land at the front door of college, and continue soaring. Instead, I freefell and crashed. Homesick, withdrawn, lonely, and feeling utterly out of place in the land of cows, colleges, and Midwestern Lutheran contentment, I felt like someone could say "boo" to me, and I'd fall apart in a million shards of broken glass.

 

Not one month after I began my freefall, Nirvana provided part of my soundtrack. No trainjumper, I, I was not a big fan of Nevermind. "Smells Like Teen Spirit" was okay, but there was something about it that just didn't hit me the way it was hitting everyone around me, and the same went for the rest of the album. But since I was beginning my college DJ gig, I had to cater to the whims of college radio, and that required me to embrace Nirvana. As it turned out, In Utero was a pretty damned great album. As broken up as I was becoming, I at least knew someone who was suffering along with me, unafraid to put anger, anguish, self-destruction, brutality, defiance, and depression in such cathartic music. It provided a perverse foil to the good, wholesome Lutheran girls and boys around me, and I delighted in it.

The pop shit here didn't really grab me. You can take your "Heart Shaped Box" and your "All Apologies." Hell, even take "Rape Me." (And yeah, that's all "pop" in the harshest sense of the word.) The songs I really resonated with were the really soul-baring ones that went along with the most abrasive noise that Nirvana could come up with (with one exception). To wit:

Frances Farmer Will Have Her Revenge On Seattle - Uh, okay Kurt. I'll indulge your loopy song title. Just howl "I miss the comfort in being sad" a half dozen or so times, so I know we're on the same wavelength, and all will be forgiven.

Milk It - This is kinda the musical equivalent of what was becoming my life mantra at the time: that which does not kill you warps you for life. I've never heard a 4/4 time signature be played so obliquely and unrecognizably. And Kurt slurs so badly here you can barely make out "I own my own pet virus/I get to pet and name her" before screaming out "DOLL! STEEEEAAAAK!" as loudly and derisively as he could. Whatever that all means.

Tourette's - Place this one up there with Sonic Youth's "Nic Fit" off of their nifty Dirty. You got a simple four-chord progression, drums that bludgeon you at breakneck speed, and some totally unintelligible yelling. What more do you need for a one-man mosh pit in an cinder block and glass shard room?

Radio Friendly Unit Shifter - God DAMN. THIS is, I'd argue, Nirvana's pinnacle. All the rage that Nirvana had to offer, spurting in all directions, suddenly became laser-focused, despite the deranged feedback undulating through the whole song. Kurt didn't scream out the lyrics for once; he dead-panned them in a truly frightening way, made all the scarier because they were just that side of inscrutable. Except for the chorus, a simple "what is wrong with me" repeated over and over again that echoed what I thought every day. And as loud as the rest of the song is, the ending is a seismic speedball that grows uncontrollably and threatens to demolish anything in its path.

Dumb - Here's the exception. Soul-baring, but lounge-intimate and quiet. I really, really got this one. For someone who prided himself so much on his brains, and for someone who had so successfully cultivated a close circle of friends in high school, I sure felt stupid and out of place my first year at college. So of course I was gonna identify when Kurt murmured "I'm not like them, but I can pretend." And like willful Chinese water torture to my psyche, I absorbed every iota of meaning when he droned "I think I'm dumb" over and over and over. It was self fulfilling destruction. At least for that first year.

(Nice bit of trivia I just saw, courtesy of our good friends over at Wikipedia: In Utero was recorded in Cannon Falls, Minnesota...just fifteen miles from my first home away from home. Somehow so apropos.)