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Wednesday, March 30, 2011

~March Madness

If you've been keeping track of the scoreboard of late the standing count is straight up shitty.  I mean, I think we can all agree on that, right?  Oh.  And another layer of this epically craptastic month is that I've given up pop and chocolate for Lent.  Yeah.  That's fuckin' right, I'm busy over here trying to avoid some sort of spree, or full on Fukushima-like emotional meltdown.  (By "spree" of course I mean of a killin' kind.)   Sans the comfort of cocoa goodness and chilled to the perfect temp, my friend, crisp, bubbly Dew.  Ugh. 

I've been feeling just awful.  I have never found myself so brokenhearted and miserable.  And on multiple home fronts too.  It feels like craptastic is being scored in NBA numbers, when I'm only equipped to manage NHL figures. 

But tonight for the first time I kinda feel a tad less terrible.

Awesome.

Ok, not awesome, but certainly a much needed and appreciated switcharoo.  Even if only temporarily. 

It started with a bottle of wine and a visit from a friend, (codename) Dole Pineapple, marking the official end of my, 'I don't wanna talk to anybody/I don't wanna see anybody' phase.  As well as my first indulgence in alcohol therapy. 

Hummm. 

Alcohol therapy.   I guess that probably shouldn't be a thing.  But as the saying goes, 'it is what it is'.   ...It's not like I hit the crack pipe :10 seconds after things started going shitty, kicked a puppy, got some crazy ass look changin' plastic surgery, knocked over a bank and devised some evil and painful way to exact revenge, so suck it. 

After Dole Pineapple's visit and some chardonnay I found myself taking the baby step of actually touching a pan.  That's right.  I made a grilled ham and swiss sammie.  My first BBG prepared meal since all of the heartbreak began.  Yes.  Fuckin' fine.  I'm a sad ass who's been livin' not on reds, vitamin C and cocaine, but on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, Marlboro ultra lights, large quantities of water and Chick O Sticks. 



The next day magically found me attempting to learn to bellydance, thanks to wacky cable offerings.  For the record, it turns out, I am incapable of bellydancing.  Lesson learned.  But at least I felt like doin' sumthin, ya know?

Then I morphed into a girl who listened to music again.  It started with the expected sad assed songs of heartache. 


(Example A)

But before I realized it I was cuing up other musical options. 




And gained a new respect for a lil' ditty I've always liked, but honestly, have only ever associated with my once beloved China Beach. (Boonie and Dodger shout out!)

Lady D and the gals knew a lil' sumthin' sumthin'.

As did this cat named Jaron.



Next thing I knew I was in need of a bit of "I wanna own a llama, I want less drama" 




And in, I don't even like Kayne news this:



(Yes, my musical tastes are what some may call a freakshow.  Suck it.)

Ok, so it's not like I should get a gold star or anything.  People get their hearts ripped out and stomped on every day, and endure far bigger and more traumatic issues than I'm juggling.  But with an actual meal (thank you ham and cheesy grilled goodness), a bottle of chard, and music that makes ya not wanna go loop a sheet around the highest beam, and a couple of almost normalish nights of sleep under my belt, I'm hoping some of the awfulness of March is starting to fade a bit.  I donno what tomorrow will bring, (hopefully a continued upward trajectory), but April, I'm putting you on notice:  I need you to be awesome. 




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Wednesday, March 23, 2011

~Nana Gets A Google

Yep.  Yesterday as part of hangin' with my Nana who's visiting with us for a few days, we set her up with an email. 

This is now Nana's 2nd trip to the interweb rodeo.  Maybe 15ish years ago she and Papa had one.  Things ultimately did not go well and the PC had to go live on a farm, in the country.  Lotsa grass and roome to run.  I actually don't know what ever happened to that computer...  But I always think of it as some petulant puppy that had to be sent away to some other household.  Maybe they gave it to their church or some friend, who knows? 

Nana was half scared of the magic box, mostly that she'd find a way to break it.  Regardless of how many times we assured her that she was unlikely to actually break the interweb.  And that was when she was in her late 60's/early 70's, but for some reason, at 82, we think things will be different this time.

I left her last night playin' Bookwoom on Mom's old/extra laptop.  This time we're trying to KISS (keep it simple stupid) it.  So far I've only told her about Google, which we've made her homepage and Gmail, so everything is together in one spot for her.  I also showed her how to Google and find her hometown paper, which she seems to like.  We've practiced sending a few emails back and forth.  We showed her how to Google things and return to homebase.  As we were reading an article, somehow it mentioned Uggs, and Nana asked what those were and we were able to Google Uggs, which she found fascinating.  She's also checked out her church's website.  ...Baby steps.



I don't know how this is gonna turn out.  Fingers crossed, when she gets back home she won't be too afraid of messin' something  up to touch any buttons, but only time will tell.

(Nana writting down her notes/cheat sheet for turning on the computer)

In other Nana news, yesterday also brought Nana a new spiffy pair of Converse.  That's right, my cute, sweet, 82 year old Nana is rockin' the 'Verse.  All the cool kidz are doin' it.  My Mini Me goddaughter and I have identical black Converse.  Welcome to 'da club Nana.  (Not 'da World!!  Nana can never visit 'da World, for obvious cursing and content reasons.)

(Nana, me and our kicks)


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Monday, March 21, 2011

~Farewell Firsts

I'm on the cusp of my final Papa first.  I've made it through the first Father's Day, my birthday, his birthday, the holidays and the new year.

Tomorrow marks the first year without him.

Yes, as if last weeks drama trauma wasn't enough, I've had this looming over my head simultaneously.

I thought by now I'd have some feeling of, hummm...clarity, maybe?  Peace?  A sense of ease?  I don't even know, really.  About my loss.  But you know what I don't have?  Any of that.  Gone is gone.  And it sucks.  Period.

The firsts were bad, because they were the first time I was experiencing those events in the new-ness of them being without Papa.  But now, now it's bad/hard because in addition to this last, and seemingly enormous first,  I'm so remembering what these last days were like last year.

I wish I somehow felt in a position to have some wise words. or profound thoughts about it all.  And maybe that's what I thought I'd be feeling?  Maybe next year I will.  (Although nobody should hold their breath on that.)

Today all I seem to be able to think about is how hard things were, and what I was doing on the 21st/22nd of March.  How I'd heard Papa holler in pain and just prayed for him to go, and not only go, but go right now.   When all of my prayers up until that point had been to keep him as long as we could and to keep him comfortable.  I switched on a dime that night.  I can still hear that scream.  I fear I always will.

I'll spare you everything else I learned about death these days and nights last year.  But it's left an indelible mark.  A bruise I hoped would fade a bit as time passed.

I don't know if things get easier, or better from here on out, or if this is the new status quo.  But at least going forward everything won't be a brand new, first.  I'll have some sort of point of reference, some level of expectation.  So, I guess there's that. 

For a girl who really doesn't like emotions and feelings and junk, I've been having a lot of 'em recently.  Too many.  I don't wanna be the BBG who wishes away time, but I need to get past these days/weeks.  I'm not sleeping well, which I'm sure does not help steady my roller coaster of emotions lately. 

Nana says, we need to think about and celebrate Papa's birthday, because that's the day that brought him to us, not the day he was taken from us.  I know she's right.  She usually is.  And I'm trying my best...







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Friday, March 18, 2011

~St. Patrick's: As It Was

St. Patrick's Day, per usual, brought crackedout'd-ness.   Even in my emotional misery wacky shit doesn't rest.

I'd been extraordinarily wishy-washy about doing anything at all.  Until the very moment the phone rang.  On one hand I just fuckin' didn't want to.  On the other hand, I knew if I didn't go St. Patricking I would likely never enjoy it again.  And with St. Pat's being my favorite of all of the days on the calendar, and the fact that I'd already missed the past two St. Pat's I felt like I had to at least try to do it.   Until this week I'd whole hardily been on the, "I'm reclaiming my St. Patrick's Day" kick.   

This time last year Papa started to take his final turn.  The year before that I had attended LB2'd's bacholorette party on the 17th.   Held at a mexican restaurant.  What's my problem with mexicans, their food or their delightfully boozy drinks?  Answer:  Nuthin'.  Except for the fact that sitting at El Guadalajara Mexicali Agua Uno Pistola Grill (and the totality of the spanish words I know) isn't exactly the proper surroundings for St. Pat's, now is it?

My friend Beannie and I had made a plan to St. Patrick's last week, before all of the ta-doin's.  And I felt like I simply could not let him take this St. Pat's from me.   So out we ventured into the world of St. Patricking.  

Spurred on by our first round of a shot of Jameson's and a beer, don't worry, of the non-green variety.  (I don't know why I don't like the idea of green beer.  I just flat out think it's wrong.  And I'm the girl who's been known to use food coloring just for shits and giggles.  I've given my Godkids blue mashed potatoes before.  ...If it got 'em to eat, what the hell, right?  Why wouldn't purple butter be fun for a day?  I donno.  I just feel like green beer is sad and tragic in some way.  But I'm a freak, so...)   Shortly after communing with Jameson's, Beannie's hubby (and my last name buddy), E had the good sense to distance himself before sumthin' weird went down, as is wont to happen when the two of us hang.   Left to our own devices, Beannie and I quickly, and I would imagine, quite awkwardly, and poorly started a singing conversation with some deaf, redheaded, goatee'd cat who will now been known as "Ginger Deaf Man" across the crowded bar.  

And now you can see why Beannie and I are friends.  Why wouldn't I have a friend who also, with noooooo reason to know how to sign (neither of us know any deaf peeps) is up for badly signing to some stranger because it seems like an adventure?!? 


(FYI:  You can't hold a beer and sign.  Or hold a camera and sign.)

The three of us stumbled, (Fine.  Ginger Deaf Man seemed pretty proficient in his signing skillz.)...The two of us, Beannie and I stumbled through our finger conversation with Ginger Deaf Man.  He seemed nice enough.  He ensured that we were not beaned in the skull by the tipsy foursome engaged in a game of cornhole behind us.  (Is this wrong?  I caught myself watching to ensure that he didn't actually react to the banging of the beanbags behind us.  I'm not entirely sure why I felt the need to verify his deafness?  People of the world:  If I've told you once, then now I'm tellin' you twice;  Ima noticer.)  However, I became less of a fan of Ginger Deaf Man as the evening wore on and his chompers continued to greenen up (yes.  I made up a fuckin' word.  If Sarah Palin can, I can too.  Suck it.)  and as he kept popping into every picture snapped. 

Um.  Every fucking one.

(Beannie & E.  And, yep, you guessed it Ginger Deaf Man.)


I talked to many strangers/new people.  Some entertained me.  Some did not.  But at least none of 'em told me they loved me, started building a life with me and then dropped on me they were moving out of state in 7 days.  (Bitter much?  Oh, SUCK IT.  ...Don't I have reason to be bitter?!?!) 

I pulled a ponytail.  (Thank you world for continuing to bring guys with ridiculously amazing long ass locks into my world, er reach.)


I stickered people.  For those of the uninitiated, when I'm in a large crowd for fun occasions (tailgating, St. Pat's, etc.) I often like to put stickers on people.  A) I think it's fun.  2)  I'm wearin' one.  If'n I'm gonna look like a freak, guess what, you are too.  III) It's a great way to keep track of who I've visited with, and allows strangers to feel like they're good to talk randomly to other strangers who are wearin' the same symbol.  Win/win/win, right?

At some point I looked down to find that right where I felt like my pinkie toe, (yeah, the 'weeeeeee weeee weeeee' one, on the you guessed it, same foot as my earlier drama trauma) kinda hurt, was crusted in dried blood.  What happened?  I. Do.  Not.  Know.  Just a new fanstatical piece of this week that is trying to kill me... 

We checked out one more place as we made our way home(s).  For some reason, er no reason, really, it's a place very close to my pad that I'd never stepped foot in. 

But that didn't keep weirdness from blooming once I did step foot over the threshold.  

It was a pretty sparse crowd and we had plenty of hanging and congregating options.  From the group of people surrounding a table close to the door came a voice that hollered, "I know you!!  You two worked at xplace."  Beannie and I, who had indeed worked together at xplace, like, a decade ago, stopped.  Looked at each other.  Then to E, as if he'd somehow know anything about the weird-o-rama unfolding and looked back to the table emitting these words.  And then they said were our old boss' sons.  Once we looked at them and put them in context we were absofuckinlootly delighted.  The boys and their friend had worked in our office a few summers when they were in high school.  I couldn't believe we were seeing these kids, or that one of 'em was 27.  It was a mind blower for realsies.  They seemingly remembered everything, asking about all kindz a stuff and people, some that neither Beannie nor myself had thought about in yeeeears. 

(Former 16 year olds, Beannie et moi)

We noshed on some pizza.  I gotta tell you that piece of ewwy gooey, cheesy, doughy goodness may have saved my life.  Given my booze consumption ratio, by all rights I should have felt craptastic on Friday, but I didn't.  I woke up at 5am feelin' fine baby. 

So the 2011 St. Patrick's Day lessons learned?

  • Pizza can save your life.  Or at least you from a hangover.
  • Booze apparently is the answer.
  • Weirdness will happen.  Always.
  • That I should really explore using this magic box to look up one of those interweb-y 'how to' videos to see if that might make me a better signer.  I learned signing from a book. 
  • Clearly, I can not resist a long ass ponytail on a dude.  I just think it's a hoot.  And I feel compelled to yank it.
  • Seeing people who you once knew as a 16 year old, now as grown ass adults, makes ya feel old. 
  • Even St. Patrick's Day can be kinda sad.  Even when it's being kinda fun.


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Wednesday, March 16, 2011

~The 3 Things Last Friday Brought Me

  1. My first gray eyebrow hair.
  2. My period.
  3. Double D coming home to tell me he'd quit his job and was moving to Virginia Beach next weekend.
Surfuckingprise.

Ok, technically, the whole period thing was not really a surprise...

I did however, sit there stunned as he held my hand and said, "I have something big to tell you" as it was followed with the news.  I sit here still stunned as I type this.  'Unbelieveable' (fine.  unfuckingbelievable) is the only word I have for what has happened over the past few days.

Where to start?

I had 8 months and 5 days of some of the best times of my life with him.  We talked often of how easy everything was between us, how we were just in sync and how fortunate we were to have found one another.  We had meshed our lives together; families, friends, living arrangements.  We had had discussions on the subject of if we felt we might have the legs for a forever thing.

So, that's what it was like for anyone who's just coming in on this tale.  Of now,  woe. 

When we met he was hours away from visiting his brother in Virginia Beach for a three day birthday trek.  He told me early on that his plan was to move there in September.  However, he met me, we clicked and were serious pretty quick, so by September/October after consideration he decided to stay in Ohio, and with me.   

While I was obviously pleased about his decision, during our discussions in the fall about it, I had flat out told him that going to Virginia Beach for me, at this time was impossible due to family situations and other responsibilities currently in play.  But, that I wasn't wholly opposed to the concept, and that in the future as long as we were as happy as we are that it would definitely be a possibility for me.  That I'd grown to care for him and it would hurt my heart a bit, but that he was in charge of himself and ultimately the decision to stay, or go was entirely his.  'Cause that's how I roll.  I'm a pretty much, just say it type girl, ya know?

Flash forward to Friday.  Horrible, horrible Friday. 

I'd never known him to be anything other than respectful, kind, thoughtful and loving.  Not one second of the every day we'd spent together since July.    Until that night. 

Obviously, I was so hurt that he had made this unilateral decision without word fucking one, any discussion with me.  I mean?  Who does that?  A: People who regardless of what their words say, don't hold you in high regard do that shit.  I was shocked by the news.  I was shocked by his behavior.

We spent the next 48 hours in some hazy land of me trying to understand what the fuck was happening and why, and him talking but never really providing a reasonable explanation of how we were ending up here. 

He spoke a lot of words about, "you and the kids being the only things that make me want to stay", and about "us having so much promise together", and about "love".  The only thing that kept flowing through my mind was, "...and you've picked a fucking place over all of those things, and me."  He even tossed out sentences like, "we can do the long distance thing". 

But at the end of the day actions speak louder than words, and really, all of those words still said;  I picked a fuckin' place over you, oh and by the way, without even bothering to fucking mention it to you until 7 days before I go.  

And there's nothing on the up and up about that.  No matter how you cut it or try to spin it. 

(Dear Cold hard truth,
I see you.  You suck.   I hate you.
~BBG)

Exhausted, I stopped trying to figure out the why's and focused in on the what he'd done. 

And what he'd done was most certainly made a decision, and a decision on how to handle it in a way that was decidedly unkind, and as I later put it to him, "showed nothing to me but a lack of regard, feeling or integrity".  And that regardless of his words, that his actions and behaviors displayed that he, "couldn't have made the decisions [he] did, and handled things in such a way to be so hurtful and have taken my feelings into account.  A person just could not put this into play and come from a place of love.  This came from selfishness, cowardice and shortsightedness."  Fucking stupidity.

I don't want you to think he's a bad guy.  I mean he did do me a favor, as he pointed out when he said, "at least I didn't come home and just pack up one day."  Sooooooooo congratulations Double D:

My actual response was that, "right, cause that's what's makin' you honorable here..." 

Yep.  At least you didn't do that. Gold fuckin' star. There were 67 thousand other ways you could have made it to Virginia Beach, all of which started with a conversation with me about it actively being back in your mind as a desire, and no longer a "in the future" thing instead of what you ultimately did do.

By Sunday he'd made arrangements with a few of his friends to come get his boxed up stuff to be moved, and was having lunch with one of his kids.  I told him to tell them how much I'd miss 'em.  

I was at home thinking about the entirety of the situation he'd created.

At that point, I'd been put in a corner.  A position where I felt my only options were to be a doormat or a bitch.  (A craptastic rock and hard place to be put into, btw.)  Then one of my favorite quotes crossed my mind, "you deserve what you accept".  And I knew that I didn't deserve anything that had happened the previous 48 hours.  I knew that I had to get with the program of the new standard of conduct he had established two days ago, that because it was a done deal-- as much as it came completely out of the blue and sucked and made zero sense, what else can ya do?  It is.  Ya know?

I felt like the only choice I had in the whole unpleasant and unnecessary situation was to decide if I was going to have him staying here, for the next miserable 5 days, me vacillating between being sad, intermittently angry, and wanting him to hug me up and say he was making a terrible mistake (the doormat option) or (the only other option that was left) and just going ahead and making the decision to put an end to this nonsense now.  The bandaid was coming off due to his actions, I was left with deciding to rip the bandaid off, instead of slooooowly tearing it off.  I made the choice not to sanction his actions, not to send the message that what had transpired was in anyway, by any one's assessment, ok.  My heart didn't want to make that decision, but my brain knew it was the appropriate thing to do.  

So there's fucking that.

Oh, and Saturday?  Well, Saturday I somehow was startled and kicked something under my desk and broke the nail out of my, 'this little piggy went home' toe.  So.  Ya know.  There's that too.  Just in time for flip flop season and my toe nail may be actually falling off. 

Wow, things are fucked up awesome.





 


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Sunday, March 13, 2011

~Wow

Unfuckingbelieveable.

Detials to follow. (Sometime)


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Thursday, March 10, 2011

~Fr. Drunky Boozy

Now I've been tipsy a time or two. So who am I to throw a stone from my glass house? But really now. I'm pretty fuckin' confident I've never invoked Oprah's name.




My favorite slurry statement, er, according to the reporter, "threat", is:
"Oprah Winfery's gonna have her fat ass down here and you are gonna have your ass up the wall." 

Outstanding!!

In the spirit of Lent, peace be with you, Fr. Drunky Boozy.  I have a feelin' you're reeeeally gonna need it.


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Tuesday, March 8, 2011

~First (& Last) Shamrock Shake

That's right, I woke up yesterday morning and for some unknown reason, I decided that it was the day I was gonna try my first Shamrock shake. 


I even alerted  my FB peeps of my impending plans.  (I don't know why people complain about the minutiae people put on their FB status?!?... hehehe

So at some point I hauled my fat ass over to McD's. 

I ordered. 

I sat in the drive thru line realizing that I didn't even know what flavor a Shamrock shake was.    I decided probably mint or pistachio and awaited in anticipation the serving of the magical and storied Shaaaaaaaaamrock shake. 

...And then I took a sip. 

I immediately did not care for it.

Turns out (spoiler alert!!), it's some weak ass, creepy mint chocolate chip shake-- without the chocolate chips, and really now?  Isn't that what makes mint anything a good combination?!?  Thin Mints aren't just minty.  They're chocolate-y.  Junior Mints?  Again, chocolate.  It is the key.  And in my opinion, a sadly lacking component of the Shamrock shake. 

Double D came in shortly after my newest food experience.  I asked if he'd ever had one and he said no.  (We really are freaks who deserve each other....)  So, of course, I forced my Shamrock shake on him.  He knows me long enough to know that just sometimes it's just easier and better to go the fuck along, rather than try to fight (or reason) with my BBG mind.  The look on his face after his sip was the same face I suspect I made as I tried it. 

So, Shamrock shake verdict? 

Hated it. 

Glad I tried sumthin' new.  Check.

Oh?  Exactly how much did I dislike my experience?  I only really consumed the wh-h-h-h-h-h-ip cream and the cherry on top.  After one more confirmation sip of the sake I had to have a Pringle palate cleanser.  Yep.  Ronald let me down.


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Sunday, March 6, 2011

~Is It Just Me?

Or does this kid:

(The esteemed Alfred E. Newman)

Look like this kid:

(Scotty sumthin' or the other from American Idol)
...Alright.  This kid.


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Saturday, March 5, 2011

~1984 Calling


(Stolen from a pals FB posting. Thanks! [?And sorry?] Somp)

This was my, talkin' on the phone with (one of)  my HS crushes, (codename: Mikey Mouse) jam!! 

Seeing this made me flashback to the handwritten lyrics to Hello he gave to me in a 'note' as we saw each other in the hall, back in tha day.  Heeheehee. 

A two-fer.  A out loud cackle and a sweet memory.  ...As Charlie Sheen would say, "winnnnnnning". 


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Friday, March 4, 2011

~Locked Up (aka: Everything Changes?)

I was chatting with AnonD the other day, who told me that someone we knew has been sprung from the hooskal.  He wasn't a friend, really.  An acquaintance we knew a million years ago as a co-worker. 

He's been locked up since 1993.  As we were talkin' about it, it dawned on me how different of a world he's reentering from when he was last cage free.  I mean, I got my first, in my house computer in the mid-ish 90's.  I know pokey people have access to pc's, but imagine being separated from the world when very few people had magic boxes in their homes to getting sprung into a life where elementary kids know how to run such technology, and it fits in your palm? 

And cell phones.  Again, obviously being locked up isn't the same as being completely information deprived, like a vegetable*, but when he went in, everybody didn't carry a cell in their pocket.  People talkin' to themselves was a sign of mental health issues in the 90's.  In ot-eleven it's a sign of a Bluetooth user.  And 'texts' was simply the $0.25 word for books.

1993 was the year Bill Clinton was sworn in as President.  It was the year terrorist hit the Trade Center the first time.   Women pilots were first allowed to fly war planes.  Gas was $1.16.  John Wayne Bobbit briefly lost his junk.  Sinead O'Conner was busy rippin' up a pic of the Pope on SNL.  Michael Jordan retired for the first time, and Andre the Giant died.

Since '93, the existence of black holes has been proved, OJ and AC took a slow ride and Jerry Garcia died.  We learned the name JonBenĂ©t Ramsey, we cloned a sheep, viagra was born, we partied like it was 1999 (cause, ya know, it was) while awaiting Y2K.  We've made a movie about snakes, on a mutha' fuckin' plane no less!  The Walkman was killed with the release of the iPod,  Lance Armstrong lost a ball, Budweiser is no longer American owned, there was a song about thongs and BP tried to kill everything in the ocean.  A guy won more Gold medals than Mark Spitz and then got high, Princess Dianna died, the universe discovered a Boyle, a Beiber and a smokin' baby thanks to a new fangled gizmo called YouTube.   Kenny Rogers no longer makes chicken, and now looks like this:



I hope as much as the outside world has changed since he was incarcerated, he's changed.  I hope unlike the Gambler's face, for the better. 


(* My apologies to vegetables in nursing homes and hospitals everywhere.)


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Wednesday, March 2, 2011

~Cryertainment

So the other night Double D and I were flippin' around tv.  He stopped at The Green Mile.  Here's what I fuckin' know about The Green Mile:

  1. It's a movie about guys in the pokey.
  2. Tom Hanks, Michael Clark Duncan, or Duncan Clark, (Note to Michael;  If you are not a serial killer, and I presume you're not, three names is too much for us to remember.  Serious biz, I can think of maybe four actors with 3 names, and one is Jan Michael Vincent, yep...I'm old, but I can think of many more serial killers with three names.  And really now, the middle name is what we hear when we're in trouble.  That's bad.  As are serial killers, of course.  So really, choosing to use three names starts out with kinda a negative connotation for many people.  I'm just trying to be helpful.  You're welcome.), and as it turns out, David Morse, who I've always thought was a cutie.  Waaaaaay back to his St. Elsewhere days.  ...Oh.  Was that too much sharin'?  Well, really now, if you really had sumthin' better to be doin, you'd be doin' it.
  3. That the movie The Green Mile exists.
There were about 45 minutes left to the movie when we spied it.  I asked a lot of questions.  Who's who?  What's the connection and/or context?  Mostly because I knew, knew I'd never see that movie again.  Everything I know about The Green Mile strikes me as the kinda sap that makes ya cry. 

And you know what I don't like? 

A:  Shit that is gonna make me feel bad. 

And cry.  (It's why I don't watch Charlie Brown.) 

Ima watching...watching...watching.  Then they light up ol' Michael next name/final name .   And then old Mr. Jangles. 

(I feel like I'm not spoiling anything for you.  I mean, if'n ya were interested in The Green Mile, wouldn't ya have seen it already?) 

Know what happened next? 

Tears.

Fuckin' H20 seeping from my seein' orbs.

Wiping my peepers, I turned to Double D and got all, "this is why we only watch cop shows, The Soup and the news!"  (Disclaimer:  We do watch other things.  Like Jeopardy.)

It made me a sniffle-y, red eyed mess.

As I was tellin' D (who will from here on out be known as AnonD, as in anonymous D.) about seeing some of The Green Mile, I decided I just don't get entertainment designed for crying.  I can't seem to process why in the world anyone would want to be subjected to something that results in tears.  All of those movies, movies I've never seen; Terms of Endearment, Sophie's Choice, Titanic, blah, blah, fuckidy blah...Why?

How is that fun?  Or entertaining?  Why would I pay to cry?

I don't seek out food poisoning, toe stubbing or other unpleasant things.  I certainly wouldn't pay for 'em.  But cryertainment is, seemingly not only acceptable to a vast number of viewers, and lucrative for those who make such movies, tv shows and, even though I don't really read, books too.  (I can fuckin' read.  I generally don't.  There is a difference.  Suck it!)

I still don't get it.

Because I'm the noisy sort, I Googled the top tear jerkers and found the list to contain:
  • Titanic (One of my biggest sources of pride is that I've never seen it.)
  • Life Is Beautiful
  • Kramer vs. Kramer (I saw it as a child.  Once.  I cried.  Never saw it again.)
  • Bold Encounter (I've never even heard of this one.)
  • Old Yeller (Really?  A movie about a dog dying?  If someone paid me, it's still something that I have nooooooo interest in.)
  • Field of Dreams
  • Ghost
  • E.T. (Alright.  I saw this with a chum [see:  Weird & Random aka: The Ramble #1/June '10] in middle school.  I cried.  I haven't watched it since.)
  • Brian's Song
  • Longtime Companion (Again, wholly unfamiliar.)
  • It's A Wonderful Life (Nope.)
  • An Affair to Remember
  • Sophie's Choice
  • Bambi (Ok, I probably saw this as a tot, but I don't remember it which leads me to believe I didn't watch it often, or even ever again.  And I'm guessin' this wasn't a BBG pick, sooooooo, Thanks Mom?)
  • Terms of Endearment
Three of 15.  Of the 3 I've seen, none have come out since I was old enough to make entertainment decisions for myself. 

For you peeps who've seen and enjoyed (???) such movies, well, keep on cryin'.  For the record, I think it's weird. 

Double for the record, I am fully aware that if you've spent any amount of time in the BBGW, you think I'm weird.  

Good enough... 





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