Live (Aid) 8 in Philadelphia. July 2. Bon Jovi. Rob Thomas. Will Smith. 50 Cent. P Diddy. Sarah McLachlan (shut up, I will throw underwear at her, too).
Pratt, count me in! Although, you are responsible for unclamping me from humping Jon Bon Jovi’s leg. That is, if you can. 😉
On iTunes: Vanessa Daou, “The Long Tunnel of Wanting You”
I could be wrong. I often am. I wish I were this time. But I doubt it — my intuition’s too strong.
Not to say that “someday” couldn’t still happen. But, it seems so much further away. I always knew that, even if this weren’t an acid trip without the actual hallucinogens, there would be a delay. I’m OK with occupying myself in the interim — I’ve never been the type to open a gift before it was time. (Not that I get altogether that many gifts — you’d think I’d be a little more eager to tear into things when they come along as rarely as they do.) I don’t know. But I tend to appreciate things more than anybody else in the world — I know special when I see it. And I treat it accordingly. I guess I just wish the sentiment were reciprocated more often and in bigger, more obvious ways.
If my theory is correct, maybe it can be a good thing. I will see to it that it is. Maybe the impetus is there to eradicate the drama and the other roadblocks that I’ve inadvertently placed. I don’t know — I’m trying not to be shattered by a hunch, but do I really need something this huge to be confirmed? I can always at least try to comfort myself that a few too many drinking binges and happy pills in my 20s might have killed off some essential brain cells and that I’m not *always* right. But how, though, do you get over something that you believed was yours and could still be, but you’ve got to walk away for awhile? I’ll tell you how — you need to erase the possibility so that you can be pleasantly surprised if the horse you wanted on the carousel comes around again and is waiting for you to ride off into the sunset with it.
I suspect tonight will be the fourth night in a row without any sleep that doesn’t involve nightmares. But I guess those are better than having no dreams at all.
On iTunes: Tori Amos, “Sleeps With Butterflies”
Any gal who’s read Greg Behrendt’s “He’s Not That Into You” is familiar with his admonition of “Don’t Waste the Pretty.” He doesn’t want us fabulous gals wasting our time, energy and youth waiting around for assholes. In any event, Mom has a new saying, which is “Don’t Waste the Stupid.” She hates morons and believes that if someone is capable of assholitry, then he or she won’t waste a bit of energy in being the biggest possible jagoff. And, after spending the weekend sitting in traffic with people who shouldn’t be trusted with a sharpened pencil, let alone a vehicle, I get her point. 🙂
Anyway, weekend. Too bad it’s over, although I got *just enough* of a happy-hoedown at the family hacienda to be overwhelmed satisfied.
Not long ago, I told you that my grandfather started playing guitar again. Well, not only did he surprise me by playing for me, but he played one of my all-time favorite songs. He asked if I’d ever heard of “Me and Bobby McGhee,” and I asked if he could play it. And he did! When he was a musician in his day, he said that was often his opening song. Who knew? I mean, I have been in love with the song for-freakin’-ever, and who would have known that it was one of his signature live songs?
He also played me some original things he’s been working on. He was having some trouble with the fingerwork, but he knows so many advanced moves that I suspect it’s only natural that, at age 79, some of the moves are harder to do. But he remembers them. And he’s trying to limber up to play like he used to when he taught himself how during World War II, sitting in the bunkers with his buddies and playing the early rock songs and writing his own when he had a chance.
I guess I got to thinking (I, for one, NEVER waste my stupid!) about how many people are absolutely rolling in money, doing what they love. And the rest of us poor schleps are lucky to get by, most of the time. We put aside our hobbies as things to do “if we have time” as opposed to making a living — or, at least, a side venture — out of them. And we have no one to blame but ourselves, especially those of us who don’t have family obligations and are just too tired, lazy or unfocused to commit to creating beauty when it’s so much easier to park our asses on the Internet or in front of a television. I’d thought getting rid of cable and having no DVD player would encourage me to be more creative with my time. Heh. Yeah, not so much. And what is there in this world to commemorate the fact that I spent a lot of time in it?
In any event, it was weird being back in Pittsburgh. I love it there — don’t get me wrong. I dragged Mom up to my old apartment on Mount Washington to admire the view from my old balcony. But we went to watch the Memorial Day parade in my old neighborhood (in the South Hills), and it occurred to me that all of my friends who have moved to D.C. and now scoff at the people from back home, well, are kind of right. It looked like nobody even bothered washing their asses to be seen in public. *twitch* Like George Carlin said, if you wash nothing else, at least take care of four places every day: armpits, mouth and asshole. I swear, there are days when I really feel bad about my own appearance, and I feel like a fucking supermodel when I go back home.
Alas, but it wasn’t me attracting attention. A lot of the folks in the parade went to high school with me, but I couldn’t put names with the faces, and I don’t look a thing like I used to, so I was safe. *whew* But Mom was wearing some, uh, boob-enhancing attire, and you should have seen the old geezers killing themselves to stare at her chest. LOL. The two cops patrolling our side of the street were dancing around, craning their necks to look at her. And we knew one of the guys in the parade carrying a flag, and let me tell you — he had TWO flagpoles hoisted once he got a look at her! LOL. Gotta love these small-town shindigs. *shudder* I feel so dirty. 😉
Anyway, I did the trip up in three hours and 40 minutes. It rained like a mofo through Pennsylvania, and while all the pussies jammed on the brakes, I got it up to 95 mph on the Turnpike and hydroplaned the whole way. I kid you not — I was convinced I was going to get a ticket, but apparently the state troopers couldn’t catch me. Go Speed Racer, go!
Hope y’all had a safe and happy weekend, too, and that you didn’t get stuck in the traffic jam on I-70 like I did. If you were in the mess with me, I’m sure you heard me swearing. In fact, if you listen real closely to the wind, I’m sure you might hear me screaming “Fucknut!” in the distance to anyone who deserves it for not only not wasting their stupid, but also for sharing it with the few remaining “good” drivers in the greater metro area. …
On iTunes: Willy Porter, “Watercolor”