Bye Bye, Pie!

There's a light. Certain kind of light.

Although the rest of you may still be staring at that Bee Gees video (veeedeo) from yesterday's comments, I have moved on to my stupid Monday.

Okay, here. Here is the veedeo we're all obsessed with in the comments.

 

Dudes. I can't get past Robin's fine dancing abilities. Well. And Barry's shirt.

Dear Barry Gibb, You know I love you. But that shirt was effed up. The Wolfman Jack hair was fine, though. You're Barry Gibb. Poof it out, man. It's who you are.

No, really. Every time Robin starts with the dancing I get hysterical. It's like when I was little and heard the word "hips." For some reason I couldn't hang with that word. And everyone tried not to say "hips" in front of me because the 88 minutes of giggling weren't worth it. Oh, and Spiro Agnew. The name slayed me.

I was an odd child.

Oh. And f you just got here, my grandmother always pronounced it "veeedeo." Which, you know how in your family someone says something wrong, and then you are doomed to say it wrong your whole life after that? Like, once my cousin said, "Big bone-ded." I mean, she's in her 30s now and married. And yet we all say "big bone-ded."

I have to go. Please note the time, which is godawful early, and here I am up and showered and so forth. They asked me to come in early. To the place where I don't even really work. Where I was just supposed to work for a few days in April. Where I've been working late and on weekends. Now they need me to come in early.

What I'm saying to you is it's busy there. However, when the alarm went off at 6:00 instead of the usual 7:00, Edsel bounded out of bed as usual and Tallulah was all, "rully. you rully think lu get up dis hour?" and she rolled over and went back to sleep.

She hates me so much right now anyway. I just added to my annoyingness. Her incision continues to be disgusting, and the keep-her-quiet part is, you know, dumb. Although she doesn't do much when that cone is on. Mostly she stands eight inches from me looking forlorn. See above.

Okay, really going. Really. ...Oh! Just one more thing. Who's more annoyed with me now? You guys or Tallulah?

 

I keep hearing Hot Child in the City every time I get in the car. I mean, it's getting creepy. And no, I don't own a Nick Gilder CD or anything. I think it's some kind of message from the universe, but all I can figure is I'm so young to be loose and all alone. But let's face it. In whose world am I so young?

Going downtown now, to walk like I just don't care.

Yeah.

Beast.

For the first time, in the 16 workdays I have had here, I have down time.

Swear. It's the first time.

I wonder if this means we will be getting 94949393 tons of work right when it's time to go?

Anyway, it's been awhile since I assaulted you with YouTube. Have I made you watch my very favoritest video?

 

The first time I saw this, I laughed so much I fell off the couch.

And also, while I'm up,

 

I can't believe the Beastie Boys guy died. It's so awful.

In the late '80s, my father and I were on a road trip from Michigan to Atlanta. There were still cassette tapes then, and we had a deal where I'd put in a tape and then it'd be his turn. My father said, "Every time it's my turn, just put in that Beastie Boys tape." So I did.

By the time we were in Kentucky, I was just flipping that Beastie Boys tape over. We listened to it the whole way there, me with my new "I don't wake up grumpy. I let her sleep in" drink cozy I'd picked up at a rest stop.

 

Here's one of the songs from that tape.

Sigh. God, I'm old. God, death sucks. God, I'm deep.

Say it isn't so

"You know there's a Hall and Oates hotline," ...friend told me, like it was just common knowledge and I was the last to know. And no, I don't know what we were discussing beforehand that led to this riveting disclosure.

And who cares? THERE'S A HALL AND OATES HOTLINE? You make my dreams come true!

According to ...friend, you could call a number and it'd say, "For Maneater, press one. For Sara Smile, press two."

"Go ahead and call it now," encouraged ...friend, who is apparently out of touch and out of time, because although I DIDN'T call it then, I put it in my phone's Google search so I'd remember to look it up later. And when I did? All anticipatory and gleeful?

It's a bitch, girl. The number no longer works. I may have to get my private eyes on this--they're watching you, stupid nonworking hotline! Cause they're on my list. I can't resist.

Okay, I'm done. I can't go for that anymore.

Hall and Oates hotline, every time you go away, you take a piece of meat with you. Marvin used to sing that, and you have no idea how many songs Marvin has ruined in my head. Also, do you like how I said I was done but kept going with the Hall and the Oates lyrics?

Why is every photo of these two so homoerotic?

And I realize I could just, you know, go on YouTube and hear any Hall and Oates tune I wanted--AND WHO DOESN'T DO THAT ALL THE TIME? but it was more exciting to CALL and get Maneater or what have you.

 

Why is he tired of playing Ovaltine?

So, that was my disappointment for the weekend. If I were a rich girl, maybe I could bribe them to put the Hall and Oates hotline back up.

Okay, really done now.

My baby hair with a woman's eyes will talk at you.

Right after I get my going-as-Hall-AND-Oates Halloween costume done.

I Got the Music in Me

First of all, Hulk went to visit Faithful Reader Joann last night.

How do you think that went?

Also, somehow last night on Facebook, where I spend entirely too much time even when I HAVE 900 PAGES LEFT to proofread, I got on the topic of my least-favorite song. And really, when I say I got on the topic, I did. I was kind of chatting with my own self. On Facebook. Who is the patheticest person alive? I mean, other than drunk Hulk up there.

For me it's I Got the Music in Me. I wish I could express to you how much I abhor that song. It makes me angry, that song. Because it is so terrible. Remember when Julie on --

Oh, crap. WHAT WAS THAT SHOW? With Valerie Bertinelli when she was cute. And annoying Bonnie Franklin being all pert. Oh for the love of all that is holy. WHAT IS IT CALLED?

ONE DAY AT A TIME! Oh, thank God. I was all, I know it's a stupid slogan. A Stitch in Time? The Facts of Life? Don't Breathe Under Water? Thank heavens and St. Joseph and all the children's aspirin I thought of it.

Of course I could've just Googled it.

Anyway. At one point Julie, aka Mackenzie Phillips, joined a band and sang I Got the Music in Me. I think I was about 10 and I was all, I want to slap myself with a concrete block. Please stop singing that song.

What about you? What song do you hate the most and why? Marvin was sure to stampede to the radio dial, because apparently I was married to him in 1971 with my radio dial, whenever Hotel California came on. Now when it comes on I listen to the whole thing even though I don't really like that song so much.

Mature.

Okay, so tell me yours. And tell me why you hate it. I may have asked y'all this before but people come and go so quickly here. I hope the person who wrote I Got the Music in Me hasn't arrived.

Best thing ever

I got this from Dooce's blog, but really, who is reading both me and Dooce? If you're reading her, there is no reason to read me. And if you're not reading her, is it me you're looking for?

Hello from ant1mat3rie on Vimeo.

 

He really was too good for Miss Piggy

I was up partayying all night. Okay, I was home by 10:00. Still, now I have to proofread the WORLD, so instead of blogging, I bring you this.

 

Dedicated to my pal Sleeping Beauty

I am still entertaining guests, so today I give you a video from our childhoods. Or younger-than-nowhoods. You may have to sit through a 10-second ad of a guy eating the top of a Big Mac.

 

If you love me, you'll get your hair cut like that. Also? Possibly the most boring video ever.

P.S. I just heard my mother call Edsel "Also."

I see the crystal raindrops fall

Good gravy. I spent so much time reading my comments and actual email from people I know in real life that it's now 7:30 and I have to rush. Fortunately I do not have to listen to Rush, and sometimes the end of my marriage feels like a tiny blessing.

And by the way, for those of you who don't read the comments, and I wish everyone either did or didn't read them--100% either way, and I know as a bisexual woman I am one to talk about being 100% either way, but it is HARD to repeat myself. Math is hard--Marvin's birthday was the other day.

"Did you get any good presents?" I asked Marvin.

"I got myself a guitar." Marvin said.

"SIGHHHHHHHH."

"Why do you possibly care at this point if I got a guitar?"

You know, I don't know. Just the IDEA of it irked me. Does he NEED a new guitar? How could be possibly NEED another one? He has 97 of them, as you may recall from how I could never Swifffer under the bed. Now the undercarriage of my bed is as clear as a bell and how often have I Swiffered under there, do you think?

Okay, I was not going to drone on, because now it's SEVEN THIRTY-FOUR, so I wanted to get to some pertinent facts.

1. Let's not have a book club book until the whole Thanksgiving/Christmas/Hanukkah/Kwanzaa/whatever pagan thing happens in December/okay, this is as culturally and politically sensitive as I can get/New Year's thing is over, okay?

2. Remember a year or so ago when I did that cool project where you all took a picture of where you where on a particular day? You wanna do that again? Should we do it on Thanksgiving or is that too soon? If it's not too soon, send me a picture from Thanksgiving day (does not have to be at the dinner table) with the time of day, where GEOGRAPHICALLY you are (Denver, not "in my kitchen") (I got a lot of "in my kitchen" last time) (can you tell?) and email the photo to me. Try not to email a 394959304054030-foot-wide photo. And I realize photos come in feet quite a bit.

3. As soon as THANKSgiving, as they say it here, is over, we will start our good deeds project, and why does this blog get so busy at Christmas/pagan ritual time?

4. Yesterday at work I had a ton to do, which you'd never know from all the picking-up-of-women online I did (oh, just read my COMMENTS already), and after the first hour I was there I shouted across the room to my coworker Vilhelm Oyster. He answered, but the part where no one else chimed in with something snotty got my attention.

"Vilhelm? Are we the only ones here? Is is just us in this room?"

Vilhelm immediately burst into Just the Two of Us, and naturally so did I. I did the high parts. Which is what you always want.

 

God, what a horrific song. Anyway, we surmised it was indeed just the two of us, because no one told us to shut the Sam Hill up. I guess everyone is on Thanksgiving vacation, or they checked themselves into some kind of facility, having to work so closely with Vilhelm and me.

I'm sorry. Ima need you to play this whole song and jam out to that stupid steel drum and horn solo at the end. I want you to sway around your house with a brandy snifter. Yes, with brandy in it, at 7:50 in the morning.

You can make it if you try.

Okay, am leaving. Will totally be late for work at this point and Vilhelm will fire me.

In which June hurls herself shamelessly at Lenny Kravitz. That is probably the first time that has happened to him.

Firl,

Firl. Who hates herself? GIRL. I meant GIRL. Anyway, firl, I worked late Wednesday night and I have to be back at work at 7:00 on Thursday morning. So I am writing my post Wednesday night before I get to bed early. And now I'm thinking of Shirley McLaine in Terms of Endearment when she's trying to be all sexy with Jack Nicholson, "And I'd like to get to bed early" and then one of those kids screams at her, "GRANDMA! GRANDMA! GRANDMA!"

My POINT is, I have to bust this post out. I have to bust a move. You want it, you got it. Because I have already accomplished the feed-the-pets-walk-the-dogs portion of my evening. But now I have to stampede through the write-my-blog part so I can be in REM very soon.

Remember when I said, "Ooo! Tonight I can do whatever I want!"

Yes. If by "whatever I want" I meant sleeping.

Crap.

So, firl, in lieu of a real post, I thought I would be sort of annoying and link to some songs that remind me of college.

 

When I was in college, I was a bartender at a health-food restaurant. I understand that serving alcohol alongside a salad or, say, mashed yeast is kind of nonsensical. Look, I didn't INVENT the restaurant, okay? I just WORKED there. My point is, I played this song all the time, and I am certain my patrons enjoyed the part where I sang along to the high parts. Because I have quite a voice on me.

Is what I do.

I was what they called the Happy Hour Bimbo. I worked 3-9. Which was perfect because it was after tanning hours and before good drinking hours. Study and classes? Pfft. Anyway, the point of me was to give the sleazy professors someone to leer at before they went home. I used to be kind of hot.

Ohhhhhh! Ohhhhhh-ooooooooo!Oh!

You know you want to hear me singing it.

 

My first two years of college, I dated the guy I had dated in high school. It was one of those this-is-my-first-real-relationship-let's-make-every-mistake-possible things. We were possessive, we were drips, we were horrid to each other. And yet? This song makes me think of hanging in his room, watching him put Spritz Forte on his big pompadour hair. It is a happy memory.

I have not seen nor talked to that guy since probably 1988. No idea where he is or what his hair is up to.

  

One summer, I got to go to London on scholarship to study with my favorite professor, who I worshipped and who by the way was not Lenny Kravitz. A bunch of us went, and we stayed in dorms in Regent's Park, which was lovely and the whole thing was really great. On weekends we'd go to Paris or Scotland or Wales, you know. As you do.

My point is, I had a boyfriend. Different from the pompadour boyfriend. This was a really-curly-hair-thank-god-we-didn't-procreate boyfriend. He was on an archaeological dig in the middle of Mexico, and though he said he'd try to write, he never did. Not once. I spent an inordinate amount of my time IN LONDON worrying about this dumb mop-haired guy.

A really nice person who was in my group stood under my balcony and played Let Love Rule for me, because he knew I liked the song and he was trying to cheer me up. He really should have played Dry Up, June. But whatever.

Dryyyyyy Uuuuup, Juuuuuune. And also? Mr. Lenny Kravitz? My email is right here on this blog, and I am available-ish and I am way hotter than Lisa Bonet and man can I cook. Shut up, you guys.

  

I love this song. It reminds me of driving around my college town in my red Honda Civic, which kind of makes me sad because Marvin and I had our first kiss in that car. Nevertheless, I rocked out with my cassette out in that car. Also, I saw R.E.M. in concert at Pine Knob and during this song, Michael Stipe, who let's admit is is a crabby appleton, stopped and said, "Will everyone stop throwing money at us? It hurts, and we don't need it."

I have no idea what this song is about. I mean, it's about the flowers of Guatemala, but why? Is there something I should know about and don't because I'm a selfish ethnocentric American?

Okay, firl. Off to bed with me. Oh, I will be sorry when that alarm rings and I have to leave my Lenny-Kravitz-warmed bed.

Lord, Lubricate My Bones

Yesterday I was feeling mighty blue. Sobbing constantly blue. Couldn't eat blue, which, bonus!

And I am happy to tell you I had a friend in my hour of need.

Okay, mostly Marvin came over because I had tons of leftover lasagna from my book club, which met here Sunday night. Still.

That's my "the-word-'Greensboro'-written-in-Hebrew" shirt, which I love. I similarly got one for Marvin, back when we were still cohabitating, only his is forest green. Note my shirt is blue, to match yesterday's mood.

Anyway, I told Marvin about Daniel Boone person-who-shall-not-be-mentioned, even though he probably didn't want to hear about it, but hey, free lasagna. And my lasagna is effing good. When you make one dish, you do well at it.

So he's sitting over by my color-coordinated bookshelf, Marvin is, and he gets down a book.

"Hey. This is mine," he says, interrupting my reverie.

Y'all. It was this whole book of--guess what?--horrifically bad album covers. I know the title keeps it a mystery.

Dude. You have never seen such, you know, bad album covers.

I started to titter a tad.

And maybe giggle.

And, you know, pee myself.

Was in physical pain at this point.

Could I? Could I have a night cap with Larry? One can dream.

June's new motto. And also hairdo.

Once I got to the lubricated bones, I was a mess. I was laughing so hard I thought I might barf. Oh, Reverend Clarence.

And really, maybe you...shouldn't.

Am weak. Why is there an eightball in a casket? I have no idea.

I guess I do not need to tell you I was...cheered by the bad-album-cover book. As in, Marvin left and I was in a heap on the couch. Oh, dear God.

Also? I didn't let him have it. The book, I mean. Hey, he left it here. Possession and nine-tenths and all.

Anyway. Thank you, Marvin, for having a stupid book like this that I never once looked at before this night.

And of course, thank you for the dove.