I hate podcasts.
I'm SORRY. I'm sure your sister's really is magnificent. I'm sure if I just tried [insert fucking podcast here]...or gave a listen to...or have I heard...?
Yeah, no. I'm not going to like any of those, either. And look, I WANT to like them. I'd love another way to waste time; are you kidding? But, for example, there's one I came across this morning, and it was about Prince, and I'm riveted by anything having to do with Prince. Here are the following people I will drop everything (including your infant) to read about:
- Prince
- Carrie Fisher
- Sarah Jessica Parker
- Courtney Love
- Princess Diana
- Grace Kelly
- Barry Gibb
- Jackie Kennedy
- Kate Middleton
- Laura Ingalls Wilder
- Nora Ephron
- Freddie Mercury
I realize this makes me old, and so be it. The point is, today I clicked on a podcast about Prince, knowing full well that podcasts annoy the fuck out of me, and here's what I heard:
[Theme music] (Okay, I'm already bored. I have no desire to sit through your theme music.) Heyyyyy, party people! Okay, uhhhhhhh, ...yeah! Okay! Let's get this, uh, party started, uhhhhh....
And I'm gone.
I've no desire to sit captive while someone gets his thoughts together. And I guess that's it. I'm not interested in the rambling of some unprepared person.
Say, June, what do you think this blog is?
I KNOW. I didn't say it was logical. I just said that's how I feel.
I love reading Dear Prudence, the advice column in Slate (although between you and me, I preferred old Prudie), but that goddamn Dear Prudie podcast. Days I click on that site and it's the goddamn podcast are like the times when my pets are all anticipatory and then I set down a bowl of disappointing water.
o. it be the watur. [clicks away]
In other news, we had a company meeting and I forced unwilling people, as opposed to forcing willing people, to take meeting selfies with me. No one at work likes me.
Also, The Poet, who does fake liking me quite a bit, bought a short dress for the first time in three decades. Look how cute with her stripy tights.
Also, I had a date yesterday afternoon with someone I've seen before (Big Book of June Events). My date, and right now we're gonna call him My Date (heyyyy, party people, uhhhh, let's get this, uhhhh party, uhhhhh--oh, shut up. I am NOT an unprepared rambling podcast). Anyway, when I got to My Date, I told him how yesterday morning, I went over to my neighbor Peg's house, because Peg's daughter is over there packing and yes, it is sad.
"She's the one who broke your vomit streak, right?" asked My Date, who's a good taker of the important notes. Perhaps one of you could loan him your BBoJE.
"Yes, and now she's moving in with her daughter, and anyway the daughter gave me all Peg's hooch, because why move it with them, really. And here's the problem: It's mostly bad hooch."
"Like what?"
"White zinfandel. Lime-a-Ritas."
As you can see from our lunch spot, a spot My Date selected, snobby beer might be more his style. You have no idea how much pretentious craft beer surrounded us on this date. Holy hops. Anyway, I had to explain to him what a Lime-a-Rita was, and then we discussed ad nauseam me having a bad-liquor party, and then that segued into me having an everything-a-Rita party (hamburgers-a-rita, for example), and that devolved into having a Lime-a-Rita party with just the two women I know who are named Rita, and finally we gave up the topic because hello dead horse.
Later, we were discussing who we'd have dinner with, if we could pick anyone, and I was all set to say Laura Ingalls Wilder and Nora Ephron, just to see how a simple pioneer gal from 1867 and a cynical New York Jewish woman from 1977 would get along.
I was all set to say that till he said he'd dine with his great-grandfather, whom he'd never met, and then I felt like a dick.
But I went ahead and told him about my LIW and NE dinnier scenario anyway.
"That should be interesting." he said. "You could offer Laura a Lime-a-Rita, see how that goes."
And right then I knew, my podcast would be called Lime-a-Ritas with Laura Ingalls Wilder. Hey, pioneer people, uhhhh....
