Because I Have Nothing Better to Do

A few months ago, I credited the soundtrack to the movie of my life by taking a list of life’s events, putting my computer’s music player on random, then as each song came on, putting that song with the events on the list (in succession, of course).

I thought I would make it a bit more challenging, so using the same “movie” premise, I put my music player on random, wrote down the title and artist of the first 15 songs that played. Here is the list:

1. 5 Months 2 Weeks 2 Days – Louis Prima
2. Somewhere – Tom Waits
3. C’est si bon – Eartha Kitt
4. Cherry Bomb – The Runaways
5. Superhuman – Gus Gus
6. My Own Best Friend – Chicago Broadway Show Soundtrack
7. It’s a Raggy Waltz – Dave Brubeck
8. Chocolate – Kylie Minogue
9. Ruby Baby – Gling-Glo (Bjork)
10. I Could Write a Book – Ella Fitzgerald
11. A Question of Honour – Sarah Brightman
12. La Conga Blicoti – Josephine Baker
13. Tangerine – Herb Albert & the Tijuana Brass
14. Hurry Home – Sarah Brightman
15. Free Man in Paris – Joni Mitchell

I will now attempt to write a movie plot that corresponds to the song list, in the same order as they were randomly played.

…er, or maybe not. As I review the music list, I cannot see how I would ever be able to make a coherent movie from a soundtrack that consists of The Runaways, Josephine Baker & the ‘Chicago’ - 1996 Broadway Revival Cast Album?

Oh god! Now how am I ever going to back out of this post? What did I get myself in to? Oh god! Oh god! My career’s screenplay career is over!!!! Oh god! Oh god!!!

There Is Only One Conclusion...

Last week, as I was walking through a carpark, my eyes were attracted to shiny silver coins laying on the ground. Of course, I wanted to lunge down to scoop them up and shove them in my pocket before anyone noticed, but I stopped myself. I thought, "It is only about 45 cents, and you don't know where those coins have been."

As I stood staring at the coins out of the corner of my eye, I noticed there were other objects in the pile of coins. A well used eye shadow brush and a bunch of pink sequins... in the middle of an office car park.

There is only one logical explanation... someone mugged a drag queen.

I'm a Sucka for a Fella in Pearls

Do you know what I love about jazz? Or jazzed-up standards anyway?

No matter what year it is, no matter where I am located, no matter what I am drinking, no matter what I have in my bank account, When I close my eyes and listen to Ella crooning a Gershwin tune, I am without spatial time or place.

When I close my eyes, I am dressed in a sophisticated timeless glamour, saying only the most perfect and witty anecdotes… Life is simple, without consequence.

Can that feeling ever be produced when the music is off and my eyes are open?

"Little House" Withdrawals

I have finished all of the Little House on the Prarie episodes which you can buy on DVD in Australia, which is only the first two seasons. I am grumpy, depressed and walking around feeling a little bit lost in life. I believe I am serious withdrawal symptoms.

I have searched all of the DVDs in case I accidentally skipped an episode, but no, I have not skipped any of them. This realisation made me bedridden for about three days. I went on a hunger strike.... well, I would have if those potato chips didn't keep screaming "EAT ME!!! You know you want to."

I have tried to replace this addiction with musicals, a genre which normally cheers me up and gets me dancing around the house. I watched Fame, A Chorus Line, Dreamgirls & Chicago. All great movies, but it just wasn't the same.

Seriously, is there any one else out there going through the same issue? Can we form a support group?

Poetry is the Una-bomber.

I fucking hate poetry. What I hate more than fucking poetry is being connected to my fucking feelings as I fucking feel them. In a “situation” (note the quote/unquote), I have no fucking feelings. It is not until a few days later when I process my fucking feelings and react to them. The unfortunate part about this is that three days on is usually too late to respond accordingly without looking like a psychopath who has been festering in a remote log cabin writing manifestos. Which of course I am, but I don’t want to appear as such.

So what does this have to do with fucking poetry? Nothing.

Mid-Week Vent

So fucking what? You're boring.


...and you know who you are.

I Think I Also Need to Join a 'Little House on the Prairie" Addiction Group

Yes, I admit it. I cannot go one day without watching an episode of Little House on the Prairie on DVD.

I hate this show. I hate the goodie-goodie stories and the predictable lines from the characters. I hate the fact that anytime one of the Olesons say something of a mocking nature to one of the Ingalls girls, the response is always, “My pa says… “.

Last night I sat through an hour of Mary Ingalls’ dilemma of her new bloody glasses. I mean, what a waste! She goes blind in the end of the series anyway. I really hate this show!! So why can I not stop watching it? Or better still, why can I not stop buying the show on DVD?

No matter how hard I search myself, I cannot find an explanation for this addiction. It could be memories of a childhood crush on a sweaty Michael Landon, or maybe because I always wanted to be Nellie Oleson (she had the best candy). Maybe it is because it reminds of when I was growing up it was the only show on TV which my dad let us watch.

My dad turned christianity into something similar to a S&M fetish. He controlled everything we did or saw. We were not allowed to go to movie theatres because the same theatres that showed movies such as “Freaky Friday” or “The Sound of Music” were the same theatres that showed porn (I don’t know what theatres he was going to). We were not allowed to dance because dancing promoted sexual activity. TV shows were strictly monitored: The Facts of Life was deemed too racy.

So why, if this was seemingly such a horrible time in my life, do I have a strong affinity for this Little House on the Prairie? They used to air re-runs of it at 9:00 am on weekdays. Of course, being on at the time it was, I could never watch the re-runs as I was in school. Except for those few days a year when snow fell from the sky like manna and school was cancelled. Yes, I speak of the desperately wanted and often illusive snow day.

That special day when you wake up to a blanket of thick virgin snow and as you gobble down a giant bowl of Golden Grahams, you listen to the radio eagerly awaiting the announcer to list your school. Unfortunately, I lived a in a very strict school district and more often than not, the surrounding school districts cancelled their school day due to the weather but not mine.

So when it happened, it was special. My parents would schlep off to work and I would be left to my own devices. I would crawl back underneath the covers and turn on my little black and white television set and watch Little House on the Prairie. Heaven!

So that may just be the reason. I am not addicted to the show itself, but the feeling of happiness it brings to me when I watch it. My own private snow day everyday.