When the what if's

and the maybe's
and the probably's
weigh me down . . . I sing myself a little tune. I focus on it and it helps to get me through.
When I took my SAT's I sang The Thong Song. Yep.

Here's a good one, that helps me get some sleep.

Saturday Night Lullaby . . . Today

Signing off for the weekend.





P.S. This came by way of THE red head. Guess they are good for something. Like giving you the kick in the arse you needed. Spanks.

Story

I've been dying to tell this one since October.

The scene: Winnie the Mini-Van, driving along 95 to a New Hampshire Wedding, with me at the helm and as Sara my Navigator

The song: Cookie Jar, by Gym Class Heroes

Me: I love this song.

Sara: It's about a guy being unfaithful.

Me: Noooo. It's a song about cookies.

Sara: Noooooo. It's a song about cheating . . .

Me: Prove it.

So Sara breaks down the lyrics like the fantastic English Major she is.

Sara: . . . and so, you see "cookie" is Travis' metaphor for "women."

I'm just sitting there with a huge as grin on my face.

Sara: You knew that the entire time didn't you?

Me: Yep.

Sara: So I just rambled on for nothing.

Me: Nope, you got a chance to use that BA you worked so hard to get. ::silence for a minute:: And Sara . . . I like cookies more than man-whores so . . . deep down, on some level, I like to think about it in the literal sense. Besides in a few years Nabisco will use it for a commercial or something and it really will be about cookies.

Sara: Wow. Cookies are deep.

Me: You have no idea.

I love Cookies.

Everyone's In On It

So waaaaay back in November, I wrote a post on my myspace blog about how I felt like I was cast in some sick play. I was getting at things more metaphorically . . . actually, more specifically I was thinking about Goethe's Faust. But I was thinking about that, I realize because of some of the events unfolding in my life.

It really is all fun and games until someone gets hurt. I don't want to hurt people anymore, and I don't want to get hurt. Shitty jokes, anecdotes aside.

So in the famous words of some crazy black lady that my silly little brothers quote all the time, "Imma do me, and you do you."

Amen, sistah.

Aaaaaaand that was my stance until I was perusing my old Logic and Philosophy text book (I must have been seriously bored in that class, the doodle-work in the margins is epic) and I read a humorous example for Inductive Arguments whose true premises DO NOT ensure the truthfulness of their conclusion,

For example, in 1986 after the success of Star Wars and Return of the Jedi, it was a pretty safe bet that the next film produced by George Lucas would be a box office hit. So movie-goers in 1986 could have constructed the following inductively strong argument:

1. All of the movies produced in recent years by George Lucas have been successful.
2. The latest film produced by Lucas will be successful

Unfortunately, the film turned out to be Howard the Duck.

Amazing.

Dear Paul Tidman and Howard Kahane,
Do you blog?
WTF.
Sincerely,
Cindy Mayweather

We all exist in shades of Gray.

I like the heat.

But I'm usually not allowed in the kitchen, on account of the fact I almost burned the house down three times because I forgot I was boiling water (yep, I've ruined 3 tea kettles). When I do cook, I still need to look at recipes for such things as pasta, rice, mashed potatoes and these suckers . . .

Live . . .

Who Killed Amanda Palmer?

Paul Weiss: the Original Scenester

I fell in love with a fugly little Jewish man from New York about . . . 7 years ago, and our affair has not ended. I think if Prof. Paul Weiss knew that in college campuses and house parties across the nation he would be deemed the ever so demonized, "scenester" he would get a good chuckle. Paul Weiss integrated himself into particular "scenes," most notably the one of the "creator" or "artist," in order to better understand the roles played out in those scenes. Method-philosophisizing. He wasn't doing it to be a dick or to prove any particular theory. He simply wanted understanding.

He would probably be a poser about being a scenester . . . woah, my head just exploded a little. I've never considered it to be a problem that I like a lot of different things. Nor have I ever felt a need to justify liking different things.

I will take the time to justify one of my loves: poetry.

Simply stated (though I could argue with my fancy schmancy training in Formal and Informal Logic) if you like music, then you like poetry. Please don't make me break it down for y'all.

::folds arms with a defiant head nod:: So there, you closeted Beatnik, you. Don't have a cow, man!

3 Cheers for JSTOR!!!!!!

Why yes, Walrus made my day.

A coworker, Ana, reads Spanish romance novels at work. I always adore looking at the cheesy covers (and the beautiful men). Yes gentlemen, women are hounds too, if you're not Raoul Bova . . . trust me, she's not into you for your looks (and that's better anyways).

Thank you Walrus for providing me with some pretty entertaining thoughts with Don Gillmor's Harlequin Romance Cover Gallery. I love that a genre designated for women took so long to start to objectify the "men" in the same way women have been objectified since . . . forever? I love the last frame. Save a horse, ride a cowboy.

Ahhh yes, insert Big and Rich here. There's just no excuse for that music video or the title of the website that post is found. Love it. "Y'all Wire." I wonder what the wireless options are in the Open Range.

And a little Trace Adkins talking about booty. Honky Tonk Badonkadonk. Slap your grandma!!!

Aaaaand I've never seen this video until about 2 minutes ago . . . but was Chesney's sexual orientation thaaaaat much of a question to anyone else who saw this?

Keep on keeping on.

Bottle it up.
My mom made her and I lunch today. BLT's. I hate bacon. But I love company.
Thanks, Mom.

The truth shall . . .

set me free.

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