Blog, I didn't take any pictures today because it was a lazy Sunday to the max. After saying goodbye to Jimmy and Trishell this morning, we went to the grocery store and then immediately returned to the casa de McSwenny where we proceeded to eat ice cream, watch movies, and nap. Sure Carly and I took a very scenic walk this evening, but I'm not going to bring a picture-taking machine with me on such an outing. No no. Just water for hydration and my mad rock climbing skills, yo. Don't worry, Blog. I have an entire day to kill tomorrow. I'll go for the same walk and get some scenic snaps of ocean and rocks and shit.
Also, reading the above paragraph makes me realize I'm starting to sound like Casey McKinney due to the ample amount of time I've been spending with him. Give me a week and I fear I'll be dropping f-bombs all up in here while trying to convince everyone that goats have x-ray vision.
Since there are no pictures, I'll leave you with a portion of the safety video they show you on the Portugal airplane before it flies you to an island that's full of livestock and good times. I realize this might be more appropriate to post when the end of my trip is approaching and I'm getting ready to fly away on the Portugal airplane, but it's worth posting now because I need someone to tell me why a Victorian-era woman is on this flight:
And if that wasn't enough, you can find all five weird and European minutes of it here.
Sometimes I think my drinking habits have gotten out of control, Blog.
Case in point: Last week I was staying in a smoky and less-than-adequate Super 8 motel in Bellmawr, New Jersey. The "less-than-adequate" description is due to the shoddy housekeeping we had over the 8 evenings we slept on mattresses with cigarette burns in them. No biggie though. As long as I have clean towels and cups.
But last Wednesday night I didn't have a cup. It was that time of the night where I was turning in to watch The L Word and all I needed to make the evening perfect was a nice cup of wine to accompany all the lesbian sex that was about to happen in front of me. As I fired up the old Netflix and got myself ready for bed, I noticed that housekeeping hadn't kept up with the house enough to provide us with a fresh supply of plastic-wrapped hotel cups. I wish I could say normally this wouldn't be a big deal, but when it comes to wine and The L Word, it's a big deal. Honestly, lesbians aside, it's a big deal. I need a receptacle in which to carry my wine. If I don't have a receptacle in which to carry my wine, it's a big deal. Basically Blog, wine in an accessible container is a big deal to me and if that container is not accessible, than shit gets real.
Did I repeat that enough for you? I didn't? I need to put my wine in something so as to consume it, Blog. I don't know if you got the memo.
I had just spent the evening applying for several jobs for when I returned to Minnesota and therefore was in problem-solving mode. Sure problem solving looks good on paper and is easily talked up in a cover letter, but there is a fine line between corporate genius and homeless remedy, Blog. Last Wednesday I was both proud and humbled with what I can only attest to as my mad problem-solving skills in association with my alcohol consumption.
Because I am poor and was living out of a hotel room, I was eating a lot of what is known as Easy Mac. Easy Mac comes in a small plastic bowl that serves both as a cooking device and a dish out of which to eat. I had consumed Easy Mac earlier that evening and had discarded the bowl in the bathroom garbage (which had been miraculously changed by housekeeping that day). I remembered this as I frantically searched our room for a container that would hold my wine. The thought of digging through the trash for a plastic bowl lined with heavily processed and dried cheese made me feel like I should just get it over with and write "Anything helps, God bless" on a piece of cardboard and man the nearest street corner. But I pushed through my reservations and rifled through the bathroom garbage for my prized plastic bowl.
Granted, there was absolutely nothing else in that trash can. I admit I'm being a little dramatic about the whole thing. But really, it's an ironically sobering moment when you find yourself taking microwavable trash out of a garbage so you can recycle it as a wine glass.
And that is what I did and it worked. I had my glass of wine and my Netflix too. Was it worth it? Yes. I washed that shit with some hand soap and a wash cloth and hoped for the best. And the best happened as the lesbians figured out their respective relationships, hookups, and mistakes. I got a little buzzed and Andy slept soundly in the bed next to me. I'm not a lesser person of this. No. I'm a brilliant person because of this. I feel like I should put this on my resume as an example of making a hopeless and dire situation into something that is full of promise and wonder. If a potential employer can't see the success in that, then I don't know who can.
"Why didn't you just drink the wine out of the bottle, Samantha?"
Because, Blog. That wine was in a box. And I'd rather drink it out of a washed plastic microwave bowl that's been in the trash for most of the evening than succumb to the awkward neck positions that would have to happen if I were to finagle the spout above my mouth only to end up dousing my entire face in sweet red alcohol. No, Blog. I'll play it safe and drink wine out of glorified garbage, thank you.
With that, here's a song I like and find appropriate purely for its title:
Blog, I am really glad that I figured this out. I am really glad that I'm acting on it (be it strategically). I am incredibly relieved that I found some validation in the risks I'm about to take in the video/speech below:
So many times I've been asked at this job to articulate what my dream job is. It's always assumed that everyone would rather be doing something else, but we are here because it's the responsible thing to do. It's what needs to happen in order to afford the simple luxuries that we've grown accustomed to. I'm amazed at myself for being able to ask "But what's the worst thing that would happen if I went after what I really want to do?". My entire job is based on giving others the advice and motivation they need to go after their dreams. What would happen if I took my own advice? What is the absolute worst that would happen?
I would fail. I would be broke. I would have to put my dream on hold and start up a lame desk job again. But what I would have then that I don't have now is the experience and satisfaction of giving it a go. Might as well take a risk. There's only so much time left on this earth.
Basically I'm just making it a habit to embed songs I hear on Triple J that I can't add on my Grooveshark or find on iTunes so I can keep track of them somewhere. The plight of being so exclusive with the music I listen to is a difficult one, Blog. As a result, I am the ultimate hipster.
Blog, I've neglected you. For that I'm sorry. I've been busy, see. I've been out and about. I've been working in box offices. I've been drinking with interns. I've been eating questionable deviled eggs.
I know. It's obvious. I went to a Jungle party.
Sigh. Jungle party. It's really the only thing to call it and yet it sounds incredibly offensive. Legend has it that Bain was on some sort of acid trip in the 70s (maybe 60s) and had a hallucination of a majestic jungle where theater apparently took place. He then made it into a reality by opening a theater, decorating it with trees and tassels, and naming it The Jungle.
Oh, you don't know who Bain is Blog? Well this should clear that up (he's the one on the right)...
What? You're not familiar with Bain's cameo as Mr. Mohra in the movie Fargo? Tragedy! Well, you'll also be glad to know he won this award back in '09. Sure, it sounds like a whatever kind of deal, but he got fifty grand out of it. Naturally he put it back into the Jungle by painting the walls of the theater red and green. And no, it doesn't look like Christmas in there at all. This sounds like sarcasm. It's not.
Bain is the epitome of the incompetent, strange, and overbearing artist who somehow turns out amazing work... like fitting a giant plant in his tiny apartment and having it be ok.
Bain's vision went into effect on Sunday when the Jungle's most current show Dial M for Murder closed. Of course he had to put on a closing night party to celebrate a successful run. Of course I had to attend.
I actually had a chance to stop by the theater Sunday afternoon to pick up a bottle of wine, because, well, you know... I like wine and the Jungle sells bottles of it to their employees on days when liquor stores don't. I may have timed my visit to fall during the second act so I could say hello to my concession and box office friends. Bain was there too; "exhausted" from all the planning he had done for the party that was to take place in his home later that evening. Sitting in an office chair, he went on and on about how "brutal" it all was. But the deviled eggs were going to be delicious. There was going to be plenty of wine. There was going to be a patio. For some reason everyone else was hungover, and he melodramatically showed us his concern by telling of his hopes for us "sparkling" for the party. I promised sequins and was a little sad when I showed up later that night with just a jeweled headband in my hair. He accepted it and offered me a chocolate.
It's funny that there is such a similarity found between the theater parties I attended in college and the one I attended as an adult on Sunday night. Half the guests were twice my age, and still there was the same vying for attention, witty banter, and of course odd sexual tension amongst, well, everyone. And what I mean by sexual tension is random group hugs and sitting on laps and intense conversations about how you were inspired to pursue the performing arts during your formative years. Also people like this guy might hit on you and do their best to be charming while you sit back and allow yourself to schmooze away just for the hell of it. It's what I thought I was going to get when I started doing improv back in 2007, but it never ended up that way. Attending a party like the one I did on Sunday night reaffirms that theater is what I need to keep in my life one way or another.
I swooned over the Jungle a couple months back when I started working there again. Four months later it makes me a little sad that I had put it out of my life for two whole years. What fun I've missed! I also feel incredibly lucky to have gotten back into such a lovely and strange group of people since they don't just have concession openings available for anyone. As a result, I got to attend a good old fashioned theater party complete with actorly schmoozing, physical domination (in the form of an impromptu yoga competition), and group hugs. It was fucking glorious.
Yes, the description of this party deserves an F-bomb.
Some of my Jungle brethren complete with intern, designer, actor, and of course concessionaires.
I can't shower you with enough close harmonies as of late, Blog. I'm glad that you love them as much as I do:
That and the moment at 2:09 is exactly what I want to do every time I find myself surrounded by strangers preparing to start a giant paint orgy in an alleyway.
I used to run along the edge of Lake Calhoun over the summer time, listening to The Current and watching the sun set. I would watch all of the couples and groups of friends walking and running and sitting and swimming in the hot summer evenings and would feel a dull and familiar jealousy take over. It was a hopeful jealousy and as I could feel it gnawing at me, I would look up to the sky at the airplanes overhead and daydream about the people they were carrying away from the city. I would wonder where they were going; who they were going to see; if they were crying or if they were happy. I'd lose myself in their made-up lives and compare my own anticipation with theirs. And it was a good anticipation. I was one of the happy passengers. I was going to be on one of those planes soon enough to see the person I would be able to walk and run and sit and swim with. I knew I wouldn't be alone for long.
But then something changed even though I didn't want it to. And one day after one of those planes had carried me back to this city, I looked up and my heart sank. A song I had never heard before came on the radio and the lyrics told me a truth I didn't want to believe. My gaze returned to the path in front of me and for the first time in a long time, the dull and familiar jealousy left me with an unfamiliar presence and calm.
This is that song:
The jealousy is back in full force now. It is no longer dull, it is no longer familiar. Instead it follows me; jabbing at moments that occur just when I think it's left me alone. I don't know what else to do but turn this song on its head and make myself believe that one day it won't be there anymore and that I'll be one of the hopeful and happy ones again. I am tired of this and I want it to be over.
Ok Blog, I'm done with the Craig's List ads. I promise. First of all, your formatting gets all weird when I try copying and pasting the numerous responses from my old hotmail account. Secondly, there is part of me that feels violated by all the email I've received over the past couple days regarding vomit and desires of getting to know me. Thirdly, there is guilt a-brewing for not responding to any of the various suitors who came a-knocking at my internet door. I understand I have entirely put myself in this situation (especially with the vomit part) so I will take responsibility and no longer complain. It was a good experiment to have play out. It also gave me a fun thing to blog about. But I can't do it anymore. I. Just. Can't.
I will continue on in a self-focused fashion and will allow whatever happens to happen.
With that, I ordered a case for my phone last week and it finally came in the mail today. It is beautiful and for some reason makes me ridiculously happy. I'm not sure why I'm so elated about it. It might have something to do with the fact that my main motivation for getting an iPhone was so that I could cover it up with fun art. And as we all know, sea life and rainbows are amazing; hence my opting to decorate my mobile device with a colorful squid.
I also started a Twitter account and have no idea how it works or what the point of it is. Since I'm totally in the dark about the whole thing, that's all I really have to say about it.
I had a million other things I wanted to mention here Blog, but now that I'm sat down with my glass of wine and Triple J playing in the background, I for the life of me can't remember what any of those things were. I know I wanted to embed this song I can't stop listening to on repeat. I love me a catchy beat and close harmonies:
I guess I could mention that I'm going to the Azores in a couple months. But it's a bit far off and I haven't even purchased all the airfare necessary for the trip yet, so it's something that I'm not really into writing about at the moment. I like writing about the here and now, Blog. Unfortunately, it turns out that nothing is happening here nor now.
I suppose this lack of zest for articulating anything that's going on with me is a sign that I need to go to bed. I've spent the last two nights up way too late blogging about strangers trying too hard to catch my eye via email. It is time to accept the bad taste that has been left in my mouth by the entire experience and retire to my chamber that is also my living room and kitchen and study. Oh the joys of studio living...
Just so you know Blog, I wrote the previous entry while in the midst of a really bad migraine. Re-reading it now makes me doubt the value of my Bachelors degree in English. Yet I'm too lazy to go through and edit the atrociousness that is the limited vocabulary rambling on about the day I was brought into this world. So instead, I apologize with a small entry.
Well, since I'm sad and unfocused Blog, you're turning into a sort of personal Youtube archive. Today I bring you a little ditty from CGP Grey, who I find to be both informative and amusing on many fronts. I'm also a little jealous of his ability to articulate such vast amounts of information in such short periods of time. This video happens to be short and sweet and still informative and amusing.
Blog, maybe it's time I made you more controversial. I mean, aren't you a little tired of hearing about my day and my emotions on the mundane things that happen to me all the time? Maybe I should start having opinions about world events and issues. There's a global economy out there, whatever that is. Maybe I should make comments about it to you. There was this whole protest thing that happened across the US and the world. Maybe I should record my thoughts and feelings on it. There are crazypoliticianseverywhere. Maybe I should link to videos of them more often.
Or I can continue being myself. That advice applies to not only job interviews and dates, but also to writing in you. It's not good to pretend to be something you're not on a public forum. It can be exhausting and holes can easily be poked through the facade you are trying to create. Yeah. I think I'll keep it to the mundane activities that occur in my day to day experience. If for some reason those occurrances get me going on a political rant or a moral debate, then so be it. I can always make a point to follow these rules and these steps to enhance you and myself in one way or another; whether you end up controversial or a mere narrative of my life.
I should really buy juice when I go to the grocery store, Blog. I've been thirsty all night and I find water to be boring, so I've been drinking milk non-stop. It's delicious, but as for quenching my thirst goes...
Instead of sucking it up and putting back some water, I've just been refilling my glass with the sweet, sweet two percent that I've been partial to since my childhood. It's so comforting. So satisfying. So delicious. Now if only I would stop being thirsty all the time.
Oh well. At least I drink milk. The other day my improv coach started going on and on about how we as humans aren't designed to ingest milk. I totally am aware of this, but I don't care. I bet we're not designed to eat pop tarts either, but what's stopping Kellog from stocking my local grocer's shelves with magical toaster pastries with artificial fruit filling? At least milk comes directly from nature... for the most part. At least it's full of calcium and vitamins and fat and delicious. I'm glad I'm one of the lucky ones who didn't catch the lactose intolerance (knock on wood).
Appropriately enough, I'm listening to goofy Australian DJ's talk about cheese as I check out the Triple J radio stream this evening. Honestly, I was hoping for a little more music, but I guess the only way they can wile away their Monday afternoon is to talk at length about how awesome dairy products are. Reason number 847 why I need to go there one day. Though it seems that their sense of humor is along the same lines as the Brits. This isn't surprising since they both use the term "wanker" at an unhealthy rate, yet still manage to be endearing. OH FOREIGN ENGLISH SPEAKING COUNTRIES!
I love that I'm writing about dairy in what could be considered a sort of diary. Dairy Diary. Thus the title of this post was born.
I wanted to make a point to post today, Blog, for the sheer sake of having something that is time stamped with today's date. There's really not much to say outside of the fact that I really need to crack down on my line memorizing if I'm going to be kicking ass and taking names tomorrow night at Huge Theater. I'm in a pretty good spot, don't get me wrong, but I want to lock it in. Polish it up. Make the most of it. "It" being the half a script I am currently memorizing only for the other half of it to be improvised by someone I haven't met yet.
Anyway, there's that, and then there's the time traveling I did last night when I stepped into the Jungle and back into 2006. Five years ago, I started working there. Two years ago I stopped. Last night, I came back. While some things have changed, it for the most part is the same old Jungle that welcomed me to my life in Minneapolis. The lights were dim, the coffee was brewed, the patrons were old, and everything had tassles attached one way or another. There was a point where I found myself literally hugging the concession stand, because that's how I communicate my elation to inanimate locations. I cleaned the cappuccino machine, I counted the money. I poured wine, I described cookies. I rang the intermission bell, I peeked into the theater to see the end of the show right before the lights went down for the evening...
Blog, my penchant for learning about notorious serial killers has lead me to this:
The little statement at the beginning pretty much explains it all, but in case you're too lazy to watch, that clip right up there pieces together all the highlights of serial killer Rodney Alcala's appearance on The Dating Game back in the 70's. And, spoiler alert, but he wins. That chick chose him as her date after asking ridiculously cheeky and embarrassingly executed (no pun intended) questions. Luckily she went back on her decision after the show had wrapped up and declined a date with him because she found him to be "creepy". In the end she saved herself from being strangled and balled up into a peculiar position in the comfort of her own apartment. And no, it's not like he decided to become a serial killer after he was rejected by the goofy and awkward Cheryl. He was in the midst of a killing spree at the time this was filmed. If my sources serve me correctly (those sources being Wikipedia) he was locked up just a year after this aired in 1979 and has been in prison ever since; most recently residing on death row after being convicted of a bunch of rapes and murders in California.
There's more about Rodney the Rapist (and murderer) at Cracked.com, which is where I learned about him in the first place.
This whole thing just makes me appreciate how far the screening process has come for, oh you know, everything since the 1970's.
It also makes me want to punch myself in the face for reading about serial killers late at night as I, a young, single, and conventionally attractive twenty-something woman, spend the evening alone in my apartment. I think it's time to watch a little bit of this and call it a night.
Blog, I haven't bought peanut butter in a year. That's a long time for someone who used to live off of peanut butter sandwiches. Ooh, and even better, grilled peanut butter sandwiches. It's like a grilled cheese, but with peanut butter. Try it sometime. It'll blow your internet mind. I promise.
Why haven't I bought peanut butter? I don't know, Blog. I don't know. I think it's just that I kept forgetting for some reason. And then I forgot enough to where I don't even think about it anymore. I might have at first regretted my forgetfulness once I returned home with no peanut butter in hand after a trip to the grocery store, but now it's gotten to the point where it's not even part of my life anymore. It's really sad to think about since peanut butter and I used to have such a strong and involved relationship. What's more is that I had a taste of peanut butter over the weekend and now my palate has been reminded of the glory it holds within its sticky substance. Blog, I must break this strange and accidental habit I've acquired over the course of 2011 and buy some goddamned peanut butter. It's time.
In other news, here are some things that I hate and love...
I hate parallel parked cars that don't understand how much space they are taking up. Either you get your ass flush with that yellow line, or you go elsewhere. I understand you want some wiggle room between yourself and your parallel parked car neighbors, but five feet is too much. If you can fit two of you in the space you've so selfishly taken for yourself, then I think I should be allowed to attempt to violently park my boat of a car in the half a space you've so graciously left me in order to give you an updated lesson in parallel parking etiquette.
I hate that band The Decemberists. I don't like how their music sounds and I don't like the lead singer's voice. What don't I like about their music? I don't know. Those melodies rub me the wrong way. I find them boring, predictable, and sickening. That guy's voice is whiny and annoying. Enough said.
I hate the band The Hold Steady for many of the reasons I stated above for hating The Decemberists. Boring melodies, don't like that lead singer's voice. Most of all? Stop rhyming so much. Just. Stop. I can't handle rhyming for the sake of rhyming, unless it's a clever sonnet or something. But The Hold Steady isn't made up of clever sonnets. It's made up of a dude yelling rhymes into a microphone with a boring guitar riff playing in the background.
I hate being super hungover, like I was yesterday. I also hate shots of jag and gin and tonics combined with copious amounts of wine. This may or may not be related to why I hate being hungover. It's hard to tell since memories of Saturday night are fuzzy. All I know is that feeling like someone is drilling into the left side of your head is not the best way to spend a Sunday. Also, falling down on your way home from the bar might be a sign that it's time to stop with the alcohol intake. Just a thought.
I hate that the person who's clothes are taking up both dryers downstairs doesn't have a proper concept of time. Your shit's been dry for 45 minutes sir/madam. Make the trek down to the basement to gather your garments so I can dry mine. Lord knows the moment I go down there and remove those clothes myself, you're going to enter into that chilly dungeon of a laundry room and things are going to get real awkward real fast.
But you know what?
I love how it smells down there right now. Though you are pokey with your laundry pick up, I'm curious as to what detergent you're using. It smells magnificent and if I could make my wardrobe carry that scent all my troubles would come to an end, I am certain of it.
I love being really hungry and knowing exactly what I want to eat. Tonight it was macaroni and cheese. The craving actually started last night when I for some reason found myself mesmerized by this ridiculousness:
Three quarters of a box of mac and cheese later, I'm pleasantly stuffed. But what I love even more than eating mac and cheese when it's all I want in the whole wide world, is washing each bite down with a sip of cold milk. Oh the dairy! The dairy of it all!! Thank you cows. You are my favorite kind of livestock right now.
I love calling lunch dinner and dinner supper. It brings me back to the days of eating gravy bread at the kitchen table and fruit cocktail for dessert all while silently judging my brother who wouldn't wash his dinner (or supper for that matter) down with a glass of milk but instead drank boring tap water that ended up giving us all giardia. Reason number 1,583 why milk is way better than any other beverage (besides wine) ever in the world.
I loved Saturday night up until I got so drunk I couldn't form thoughts in my mind. That was most of the night for the record. To be a part of such a great group of people and have my spot there with everyone was a really great and entirely new experience for me. Everyone had their person, and everyone had each other. The guys had the guys, the girls had the girls and we all loved each other at the end. Of course, then Jon bought me that shot of jag and things were downhill from there. But up until that moment: magic.
I love this song on the radio right now. Of course I have no idea what the song is or who sings it, but I like it because it is interesting for me to listen to. The word "naked" is part of the lyrics. There is sycopation going on. An overarching melody is happening in the chorus. Sing it mystery band. All in all, the tune reminds me of some of the metal bands my college boyfriend and I would listen to as we drove the strip in Bemidji for hours and hours on end during our freshman year just so we could get some alone time with one another, though this song isn't quite metal. Also now that I'm an adult, I don't need to take refuge in a 1992 Ford Explorer for some solitude. I like, Blog. I like. No, love.
Oh, and we mustn't forget. I love this guy. I love this guy on his buffalo:
Monday, September 19, 2011
This song blog. This song. It is the epitome of what it feels like to be in a new situation that is exciting and wonderful and full of anticipation.
Fuck it. I'm going to embed this shit:
I can't say any more. Not now, blog. I'm sorry. I know I pour my heart out to you on most occasions. But know that when I hold back, it's something that's especially serious and exciting that I will only spill to you in copious amounts after time has passed me by.
Yes, it's been nearly a month since I last wrote in you. I have good reason. I unfortunately can't elaborate at this point which breaks my heart. But one day I will continue the ridiculous story that is my personal life being thrown up on an internet forum; be it public or exclusive. We all reserve the right to write about our experiences, don't we.
For now, I'm off to bed to sleep. Perhance to dream.. No, I'm not Hamlet. My dad didn't die and my uncle didn't marry my mom. I'm not in love with a suicidal crazy named Ophelia. And the only Rosencrantz and Guildenstern I know are that of the Tom Stoppard variety and don't even think I'm getting that theatrically pretentious on this Monday night, the night of the Ivey awards. I'm better than that blog. Hell, I don't even dream. And if we're honest, everyone at the end of that play probably deserved to die anyway.
Hmmm. It's probably the wine talking at this point, but I could act in plays and be a great performer, but why pretend to feel that great emotion when you can feel it as yourself, firsthand for real and for the worth of actual consequence that it will have for you?
Well, I guess you don't get paid to feel your own emotion. Not in monetary amounts anyway. But it seems that there's this strange satisfaction about it that overshadows all of that anyway.
Yup. The wine hath taken over you, blog. It's time to turn in and be a resonsible adult for once in my life. Ha! Resonsible. It's my hybrid between responsibility and reasonable behavior. I can't lose with that, can I.
Ok blog, I'm not one who is savvy with pop culture by any means, especially music. I like music. I listen to music. But I know nothing about music nor do I know about the people who make said music. I don't even know words to songs. I just know the songs that I like, the songs I can have on in the background, and the songs that I despise.
So it comes as a surprise to me when I make a musical connection like I did tonight. I have my grooveshark up, which if you are like me and like music, you should totally grooveshark it since it is the best thing ever. Anyway, my grooveshark is groovin', playing tunes and jamming out and some Nina Simone comes on. Now the only reason I know about Nina Simone is the same reason I know about pretty much any other music I have on my grooveshark. I heard a song of hers once on The Current and then looked up her name on Grooveshark and randomly added a bunch of her songs to my playlist. Done and done. I know she tends to sound like a man, can play the piano like a bitch, and is no longer alive. That's about it.
So tonight when this song of hers, Sinnerman, came on I was surprised because suddenly I wanted to buy a cell phone. HTC (and I don't even know what HTC is) totally stole the main lick of this song for some stupid ad campaign of theirs! The funny part is I always liked the little tune they used in their commercials and always wished I could find the actual song they were playing for it. But alas, I accepted the fact that I'm pop culturally illiterate and would never even know where to begin with obtaining such precious knowledge. The end.
And here I am knowing a whole three things about the woman who made up and even played said lick! I continue to amaze myself with this shit time and time again.
Anyway, take a look (or perhaps just a listen) for yourself, blog.
HTC's catchy commercial:
And Ms. Simone's 10 minute masterpiece complete with clapping!
I was going to write about how I successfully unclogged my drain tonight, but I'll save that nastiness for another day. Speaking of nastiness though (and for my new found ability to embed videos into you blog), here's a gem that I have no one else but Trisha Grover to thank for:
