A Day in the Life

Since I’ve been living in Los Angeles, I’m sure plenty of people believe that I am living a very glamorous life.  Well, I am: I live at home, I have a two hour commute, and my mother makes me dinner every day.  It’s pretty rad.  However, sometimes I like to imagine that my life is even more glamorous, so I will share with you a day in the life of my pretend glamorous life.  Then I will share with you a day in the life of my regular glamorous life, just to see how little I have to go to achieve this fantasy.  You know me: always giving minimum effort to achieve maximum result!

PRETEND GLAMOROUS LIFE

9:00 AM:   Wake up to to the sound of “Crazy In Love” playing in my hotel suite at the Downtown Ritz Carlton.

9:01 AM:    Walk out of my room to find Beyonce playing a stripped-down version of “Crazy In Love” on the white baby grand piano in the penthouse suite adjacent to mine.

9:02 AM:    Fist bump Beyonce.

Something like this...

9:05 AM:    Fist bump Blue Ivy on the way downstairs because we’re cool too.

9:30 AM:    Have a champagne breakfast with Helen Mirren.  She reads the NY Times out loud in her English accent while I pour her tea.  It’s very fancy.  We’re both wearing crowns because we can.

10:00 AM:  Get picked up by my personal chauffer, Morgan Freeman, as we drive around downtown pursued by paparazzi.  Thank god I had those built-in missiles installed.

11:00 AM:   Meet up with Julie Andrews for a rigorous hike.  We climb every mountain, ford every stream, while following every rainbow till we reached “Your Dream”, a super-secret mountain villa for super famous people only.  I flash my veneers and we go in for some truffle fries, caviar, and peanut butter M&Ms.

12:00 PM:   Catch a helicopter down to Hollywood for some really successful movie premier.  I don’t really know what one, because I go to sooooo many, but it was fun.

12:30 PM:   Go to the park with Jon Hamm where we feed breadcrumbs to Lindsay Lohan.  Then we laugh about how handsome we are and talk about doing this again.

1:00 PM:     Get lunch with Paula Deen, Ina Garten and Mario Batali.  Then we realize the elevator won’t hold all of us, so we kick Batali off cause we don’t do gingers.  We have such a great time without him that we send him pictures of us at lunch with the text, “Suck it, Ginger!”

2:00 PM:     Receive a frantic call from Yo-Yo Ma saying he has become too arrogant to perform and needs me to come down to deflate his ego.

2:15 PM:      Traverse secret tube system used by famous people to travel to brothels and strip clubs without being seen.  Wave to Tom Hanks as he heads to “Hoe’s R Us”.

2:23 PM:      Arrive at Walt Disney Concert Hall.  Shred the cello until I reduce Yo-Yo Ma to tears in awe of how he will never come close to being half as good as me.  He considers himself successfully humbled enough to perform that evening.

3:00 PM:      Meet up with Taylor Lautner to go visit his family at the Alpaca Farm.

I couldn't resist...

3:30 PM:      Play a match with Roger Federer over in Malibu.  We get some beers afterwards and throw some darts.  Rafael Nadal’s face is the bullseye, naturally.  We have a great time.

5:00 PM:      Smoke some weed with Miley Cyrus, Snoop Dogg, and Tom Cruise.  Things get weird when Tom thinks Snoop is Katie Holmes and tries to make out with him.  Miley and I politely extricate ourselves from this awkward social situation.

7:00 PM:      Go to dinner and a concert with Celine Dion and Cher.  We heckle the shit out of Barbra Streisand, with Celine piping up that her nose looked like it belonged on Mt. Rushmore.  We got thrown out of the concert, but we don’t care cause we’re divas.

8:04 PM:     Secret handshake with Celine and Cher as we part ways.

Our secret handshake may or may not involve one or both of those hand gestures/facial features...

9:00 PM:     Attend plastic surgery consultation with Kim Kardashian so they can verify that my measurements are correct so that she can get the right amount of bounce on her next round of cheek implants.

9:23 PM:      Punch Kim Kardashian in the face.

10:00 PM:   Go clubbing with Brad and Angelina

11:00 PM:    Perform a perfectly choreographed re-enactement of “Jai Ho” with Brad and Angelina.  All the brown people cheer.

12:00 AM:   Go to afterparty at Gwenyth Paltrow’s house.  You must have an Oscar statue in hand to enter, but I didn’t know which of my 27 to choose from, so I blew that joint.

1:00 AM:     Go to after-afterparty at Richard Simmon’s house.  Why? I don’t know, I just do.

2:00 AM:     Go to after-after-afterparty back at the Ritz Carlton.  Beyonce is riding a lion, and Jay-Z is riding an emu.  The theme for the party was Dr. Doolittle, so I guess it was fortunate I was already on my unicorn by the time I got there.

3:00 AM:      Close out the party and the night with a dramatic rendition of “Survivor” my Destiny’s Chilled, a Destiny’s Child cover group with Kelly Rowland, Michelle Williams, and Solange Knowles.  Beyonce falls asleep in a large-backed chair petting a white cat while the lamp shades her facial features.  Destiny’s Chilled looks terrified, but they do a great job.

REGULAR GLAMOROUS LIFE:

10:00 AM:    Wake up.

10:15 AM:     Wait around for my brother to come downstairs so he can make me scrambled eggs because I’m too lazy to do it myself.

11:00 AM:     Read the paper for a reaaaaaaally long time.

11:30 AM:      Wander around the house.

11:45  AM:      Look busy.

12:30 PM:       Go to the library  and peruse their encyclopedias, magazine, and large print sections.  Leave shortly after finding that the latest Mary Higgins Clark novel isn’t available yet.

1:30 PM:         Work out, but not to the point of sweating.  Wander around the gym a bit, using it as a time to get updated on Sports Center, as well as the latest gossip magazines.

2:00 PM:        Feeding time.  Anything in the fridge is fair game, even entire cheesecakes.

3:00 PM:         Wander around the house.

4:00 PM:         Get caught up on the 10-17 TV shows I couldn’t keep up with during the week.

5:00 PM:        Complain about being hungry, but be mysteriously absent when dinner is being prepared.

6:00 PM:        Feeding time again.  There is also an unwritten rule that if you do not finish before me, whatever is left on your plate is fair game.

7:00 PM:       Attempt to “conversate” with family unit.

8:00 PM:       Mock the stupidity of people competing on “The Amazing Race”

9:00 PM:       Decide between Game of Thrones, Mad Men, and The Good Wife based upon whichever has the most amount of nudity, witty reparte, and Jon Hamm.

10:00 PM:     Bed time.

So you see, I’m not really that far off from my pretend glamorous life.  Because at the end of the day, my life is pretty glamorous as long as Jon Hamm is a part of it.

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The Great Pumpkin

Our dear Ben (baby #2) was a bit unusual from the very beginning.  For those of you who know him, this is not a surprise.  For those of you who don’t, well, hopefully this is entertaining, like a story about seeing the Virgin Mary in a potato chip is entertaining.  It’s just my version of a tall tale.  Literally.  Why is he remarkable?  Well, he weighed 10 lbs 8 oz and was 23 inches long when he was born.  Considering that the average baby weighs 7 lbs and is 18 inches long, it was an interesting experience, to say the least, to literally give birth to a toddler.

He was born on October 27, 1989 right around lunch time; appropriate that he arrived in time for a meal.   The Great Pumpkin had been delivered!  Unfortunately for me, it was a c-section without the benefit of anesthesia. It had a bit of resemblance to the scene from the movie Alien when the first little monster blasts through the guy’s chest.  I had gained about 50 lbs with the pregnancy (damn you Baskin-Robbins Jamoca Almond Fudge), so I’m guessing that it took a little longer for the anesthetic to get around to all the parts that needed to be numbed up (aka fat).  The surgeon got started a little too quickly and we ended up with some very interesting video and audio.  Let’s just say I have hard evidence of how much Ben owes me for all that I’ve done for him!  Maybe he would roll his eyes and sigh a little less frequently if I showed that tape on a regular basis.

I told you there was a good reason we called him the Great Pumpkin...

He arrived for his first visit to my room in an incubator meant for an average baby.  I’m pretty sure it took a couple of nurses to jam all of his parts into the tiny plastic box.  His face was pressed against the side with a look of someone in a too small snowsuit in the middle of July.  When we opened it up, it was as if a pressurized device was suddenly released.  Of course he was crying, but it wasn’t a normal cry.  He sounded like he had already gone through puberty, quite low and very loud.  No cuddling with this one, it was straight to the feeding.  His head would get soaked with sweat every time he ate, a giant burp at the finish and then fast asleep (from exhaustion).  This was his (and my) life for quite a while.

It wasn’t so much raising him, it was more like wrangling him.  I was like the Steve Irwin of parenting. He didn’t like to waste any time snuggling with me, endearing himself to his big sister nor cooperating with much of anything.  He was all about the action in the room.  He preferred to be held facing out, so he wouldn’t miss anything.  My favorite and most fun activity of all; cramming him into his car seat.  Think of trying to load a giant pissed off raccoon into your car 5 times a day.  Ben might not have had claws, but OMG he was wild!  He grew so large so fast, it was as if he was a subject in a top secret super baby growth experiment.  Kind of like how they fatten up a calf these days. He seemed to skip babyhood and go straight to toddlerville.  Once he was able to sit up and feed himself, his high chair was his favorite spot and my only job was keeping that plate resupplied.

You thought I was kidding? Now, you try to get this into a car seat. I dare you.

He quickly grew big enough to be a “playmate” for his older sister Anna. God love her, as she had to put up with what I liked to call ” Conan the Destroyer.”  She wanted to play house but he wanted to play house demo team.  She would plan to play school: she’s the teacher and Ben is her student, but most of the time the game was “put Ben in the “principal’s office again” for breaking the school rules. She would play quietly with her dolls, while he played his “throw those dolls against the wall while running screaming through the house” game.  Ben seemed to learn from experience only.  He already thought that he was smarter than me and had to see for himself that sticking his finger in the flame of a candle would  hurt.  Just the beginning of the thousand times I would say “I told you so.”

It was a relief when he was old enough to start school, mainly for Anna’s sake.  I thought it would be nice to prepare Ben for the kindergarten class he would be attending, just to calm any first day of school jitters.  After a chat with the teacher and a tour of the classroom, Ben turned to me with a look of complete disgust and hissed, “Mommy, they still take naps and they don’t know their ABC’s!  Mommy, THEY CAN”T EVEN READ!!”   (If anyone has a life quote that defines him, that one is it for Ben).

I'm sick of "Go Dog Go", get me "The Lord of the Flies" next!

Away we went on another of our many adventures with our “super” Ben.

Never average and never boring…sigh…fingers crossed….

In the Criminal Justice System…

On Friday evening, I was taking my laundry to the wash and fold, and I saw this sign taped to a lamp post.

Immediately, I lost my shit right there in the street. My roommate looked at me like I was a total nutcase. I do realize that this brands me as a naïve transplant- real New Yorkers growl and mutter angrily about things like this- but frankly, I don’t give a flying turd. I love Law and Order SVU. I LOVE Mariska Hargitay. I was devastated when Chris Meloni left the show. The first episode of this past season when Captain Cragen tells Benson that Stabler is not coming back and she starts weeping in the crib at the station house, just ugh. Heartbreaking. He really owed her more than that.

If I weren’t at work today, you can be sure as shit that I would be out there trying to see what’s going on. In my fantasy , Dick Wolf himself would see me and be like “Hey! You! You look like somebody who should be on this show!” I could play any part he could think of; sorority girl wannabe at Hudson University with a sluttily dark secret, disgruntled shopgirl who was in the wrong place at the wrong time, terrified nanny who never meant for anything bad to happen, and the list goes on. My small part would be so memorable that it would turn into a recurring role, and Mariska and I would become buddies. I would start helping with her Joyful Heart Foundation, and we would totally bond over that.  She and I would have wine nights all the time and take Pilates classes together.

Mariska: I need a drink.
Me: You got it, gurrrl!

Alas, I’m just a receptionist with big dreams who has a mild to moderate obsession with this show. Oof. Still sounds kind of like an SVU character.

Hey, You Never Know ®

I started a new job this week, which is made possible in part by the fact that I got let go from my old job two weeks ago. Losing that job was interesting for several reasons. First, despondent as initially I was, my friend Malka pointed out that it wasn’t really that I got fired, it was just that I didn’t get hired. She was right, because it was a temp to perm job, and they just decided not to perm me. Second, the more I think about it the better I feel about it, because my hatred for that place was only offset by it’s abundant supply of free club soda.

Still, when the temp agency called and told me I wasn’t working there anymore, I was bummed, but I think I handled it like any person with 85% of a grip on their life would.  First, I was surprised. Then, I got a little weepy, first out of disappointment, and then out of fury. I called my friend and complained. Then, I got Thai food. Then, I got drunk in my apartment. Then, I didn’t get out of bed for 18 hours. After that, I went on vacation and got a haircut. And now I have a job again. See, things have a way of working themselves out right when you really need a new pair of jeans.

The whole experience got me thinking about the differences between working and being out of work. At this stage in my career, I don’t have a career and if I’m being totally honest, I don’t find answering phones all that fulfilling. So I’m not really sacrificing anything in that capacity. But a job does allow me to buy things, and I noticed that the second I became unemployed, all I wanted to do was order take out and get manicures. Alas, those things are luxuries, and not really justifiable ones when you aren’t getting paid.

Oh thank God.

So naturally, I was THRILLED on my first day at this new office (where there is no club soda, but also no assholes who steal my club soda), when my coworkers invited me to join the office pool for New York’s Mega Millions lottery. Everybody kicked in 5 bucks, and we bought a bunch of tickets.  As I’m writing this, the NYMM website reports the pot to be at $640,000,000. So if we win, all 19 parties involved will receive $33,684,210.53.

I have been temping a lot at financial firms, so I have been around a lot of people with really severe amounts of money. I’ve had the opportunity to think about what I would do with $33 million. I have decided that I would put most of it away for at least a year or 2 so that I don’t go nutzo all at once. I’d probably come up with a system where I annuitize it for myself, but I digress. I would put MOST of it away, but the first thing I would buy would be a really killer mattress. I don’t hate the mattress I have now, but I would definitely buy like the best, most fantastic Tempurpedic mattress ever. Also, probably some sheets that cost more than $17 to put on it. Because, yes, I am currently sleeping on sheets that cost $17. Totally not fit for a multi-millionaire. Bitch, I could BUY that K-Mart.

Oh, I know I won’t win. I had better not get ahead of myself. The cable subscription is still on hold. It’s still nice to dream. And like the New York Lottery slogan goes,

Confessions of a Table Dancer

A few nights ago, I received the following email:

When I read it, I panicked. After college, I’m sort of a grown-up, right? How is it time for me to graduate?

As much as I hate to get nostalgic, it’s hard to not at least reflect a little bit when I read these kinds of emails. So much of my life has changed in the last four years but there has been one constant…

DANCING

For those of you who have not seen me dance, know this–what I lack in skill I more than make up for in enthusiasm and commitment. As I type this I can admit my technical shortcomings but when I’m dancing I forget that I’ve never taken a dance lesson in my life. I don’t know what to call my personal style but I do know it includes a lot of stomping, jumping, and running. I go for it.

Example:

 I didn’t go out much my freshman year but I found places to dance (my dorm room).  Here’s a picture of me busting out a sweet move from the Single Ladies video.

Sophomore and junior year I really took it to the next level. I spent Thursday through Saturday nights dancing around my friends’ living room. One day, we decided to literally take our dance moves to the next level. Suddenly we weren’t just dancing–we were table-dancing. It was half dancing, half furious attempt to break the wooden coffee table.   We had some good dances on that table but, like all good things, table-dancing came to an end. Most of my friends blame the glass coffee table that took the place of the wooden one- I think it was more than that…then again I have been known to read into things…it probably didn’t help that my table-dancing counterparts, with a few exceptions, graduated last year. For whatever reason, table-dancing died out.

I miss that living room. I miss my friends. I miss table-dancing.

Last semester I tried to resurrect table dancing (too close to Easter for this?) but it didn’t catch on. My friends kept making excuses like “Amelia, the table is too rickety” or “Amelia, the ceiling fan might hit us” or “Amelia, no one else is dancing. It’s just you!” I wouldn’t give up! If no one would dance with me, I’d dance alone! For Halloween, I dressed up as Amelia Earhart and set out to attempt a solo table dance! What could possibly go wrong?!?!?!

Look how hopeful I look…

Just like Amelia Earhart (R.I.P.?)

I was busting a move on a rickety table in my friend Brendan’s basement when tragedy struck. It was just like Amelia Earhart…only maybe not quite as bad. I was knocked off of the table by a low-hanging ceiling fan. After the accident, a friend took me home and put me in my bed. I woke up the next morning with a black eye and a new, personal understanding of Amelia Earhart’s crash.

This accident, which I consider my personal Mid-Pacific crash, was a wake up call.  I’m about to graduate from college. Maybe it’s time to call it quits…like Amelia Earhart did after her Mid-Pacific crash. I think that ceiling fan was trying to tell me “Grow up Amelia! Table dancing is over. That part of your life is over!” but, again, I have been known to read into things…

If that ceiling fan was trying to send me a message, I don’t want to hear it! I don’t want to live in a world without table-dancing! Maybe I’ll get hit in the face with a ceiling fan, but sometimes you have to take risks in life…just like Amelia Earhart! I promise wherever I am, if there is a table, I’ll be dancing on it.

So I hope your tables are sturdy ,New York City, because I’m coming for ya.

Tall Tales

My daughter Anna and I love tennis and have played it for many years.  We used to play together, until she got so good that it was a little scary to be on the other side of the net from her.  She’s a 6 foot tall lefty who could give you a concussion if she connected your head with one of her volleys.  You can’t ever relax when you’re playing her because it’s almost impossible to get out of the way of her 100+ mph evil kick out wide serve.  O.K., pretty much any of her shots are frightening, especially if they’re coming toward your face.  She appears to be a very nice woman, but it’s really a trap.  She lures you into underestimating her with a sweet disposition and pretty smile.  Then, she hits an overhead near you that’s just a little too close for comfort.  She says she’s “sorry”, but you’re not so sure she really means it.  At this point, the seed of fear has been planted, and you know you’ll never come near the net again.   I think she’s kind of like a tennis assassin in disguise.  Let’s just say it’s a relief that she’s found her own group of super-athletes to play with and I don’t have to be her victim anymore.

She knows what a fan of the game I am, and she generously made plans for us to spend the day at the BNP Paribas Tennis Tourney held in Indian Wells, Ca.  It’s one of the biggest tournaments of the year and all the top pros were going to be there.  It was sunny, in a gorgeous setting and we planned to cram in all the tennis watching we could in one day.  There are several outdoor stadiums to choose from and you can wander the grounds, from the beer tent to the practice courts.  We decided to not have too much of a plan, and just find whatever tennis suited our fancy.

We started with a John Isner singles match, pretty cool because he’s cute and super tall and we had a chance to witness a 141 mph serve…it’s kind of like watching a round green fuzzy bullet being shot from a tennis racket.  As Conrad likes to say, he “pwned”  the serve.  We then mixed it up with a women’s singles match and found a good one that lasted almost three hours.  We saw what zero body fat and unbelieveable fitness looks like.  Inspiring?  No, more like impossible.  So, we were inspired instead to have a beer and soft pretzels before the next match.

She needs to have a beer and nachos with us!

We saw Sharapova from the nose bleed section of the main stadium and still managed to hear her shriek.  We randomly wandered by Nadal on a practice court, a beautiful view of perfection.  We finished our day with a men’s doubles match and hit the road.  We had a really fun day and had our fill of what great tennis looks like.  Even better, we also had hours of good people watching and plenty of mock-worthy material to dish on the way home.

What we observed:

Wearing a tennis outfit when you’re not a player nor a ball kid….ummm, no.

Bringing your infant to the outdoor, no shade event, where it’s about 90 degrees…ummm, no.

Wandering the grounds shirtless and you’re not a player in the tournament…ummm, no.

Analyzing Nadal’s forehand really loudly while watching him practice….ummm, no.

Hanging your disgusting, calloused smelly feet over the back of the chair two seats down from me; complete with chipped toenail polish….ummm, no.

Yelling “Let’s go Maria”!  from the nose bleed section of the stadium over and over.  The only person hearing you was me….ummm, no.

Disputing line calls by hissing, like somehow you know more than the line call guy, sitting way closer to the line than you…ummm, no.

ummmm...no!

We did make a fortunate discovery.  All the good tennis players are tall…ummm yes!  Anna was finally with her “people”  She wasn’t the tallest one there.  She walked by 6’9″ Isner and came up to his shoulder…Yea!  She didn’t get one comment from a total stranger asking her how tall she is.  No one asked her if she played basketball.  No one asked her why she was so tall.  She had a day off from weird comments from weird people.   That was worth the price of admission alone.  We’re already making plans to go back next year, mainly so she can walk free amongst her kind, the really tall kind.  She might even wear heels.

Yea, power to the tall leftys! Yes we can!

The Old (Jan) and (Excuse My Christmas)

This is the final post in a weeklong homage to one of the greatest musicians of the modern era.  Please don’t look for any other videos on Youtube, or else you will be met with crippling disappointment for the rest of your life.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know that last one doesn’t work at all.  But I ran out of TFGJTVOAL titles that fit in with the Hemingway theme.  But did that ever stop Jan Terri from making a cohesive music video or finishing a song if the end didn’t make sense?  No! Of course not!  Here are the lyrical lyrics of “Losing You” to remind you:

Remember long walks, sandy beaches, all those swims together?/We were like a merry-go-round going around in circles
You said we’ll always be together/But you weren’t telling the truth
You were telling lies

You see, I don’t need “rules” to making something great.  So, pardon my genius.  Or better yet, let’s be like Jan Terri and ‘Excuse My Christmas’.  Like all great artists before her (Sting, Elton John, Chaka Khan) and all mediocre artists who have attempted to emulate after her (Mariah Carey, Barbara Streisand, Nickelback), you haven’t achieved icon status until you’ve put out a Christmas album.  Or song.  Semantics, really.

‘Excuse My Christmas’ is Jan Terri’s return to greatness, her first single in over ten years.  Obviously, she’s still got it, baby!  This old broad has NOT missed a step in all her time away from the limelight.  But to this song, join me as I say, “Welcome back, oh great one”. (I said join me!!!)

The first thing you notice is how great she looks.  There are plenty of stars who have tried to stem the onslaught of age with cosmetic procedures and a butt-ton of homeopathic medication (Bruce Jenner, I’m looking at you).  However, Jan Terri understands real beauty, and that is her luscious voice.

Secondly, in all her years of shunning fame, Ms. Terri has obviously been studying computers, becuase the graphicalistic effects of this video are mind-shattering.  It’s like she’s actually walking in a winter wonderland!!  And riding a sleigh!! And dancing with those…wait, I don’t even know what’s going on anymore.  Are the shaking maracas?  What the fuck are those things?!?!  Am I going crazy?!?!  IS THIS A SUICIDE CULT VIDEO?!?!  WHAT IS HAPPENING?????

I feel ya, Tyra. I feel ya

I’m sorry, I just can’t do this anymore.  I honestly thought I’d be able to go an entire week professing my love for Jan Terri and the amazingness of her music videos, but this is just too much. I can’t hold it in—I have to tell the truth.

Jan, I’m sorry, this is the worst. Even after ingesting that mountain of drugs and watching “Excuse My Christmas” on loop for 36 hours straight, I still don’t get it. It’s impossible to get. I doubt you get it. If you do, all I can say is that your greatness has shed its mortal coil and has transcended understanding by us mere mortals. If that is the case, then goodbye forever, Jan.  Goodbye…

A Farewell To (My Little Brother)

This is the fourth in a weeklong homage to one of the greatest musicians of the modern era.  Please don’t look for any other videos other than the ones I’ve posted, or else it will ruin the surprise.

Remember the classic song “Frere Jacques”?  Well, Jan Terri took a giant shit on that classic, put it in a witches’ cauldron, did some voodoo, put it into a Magic Bullet, made some delicious margaritas, then went and and crafted a better version that will forever replace that silly tune with a sublime piece of artistry.  That’s right, prepare to get your mind blown by “My Little Brother”.

As fourth on the list of TFGJTVOAL, you may think this isn’t as good as the other 3.  WRONG!  This ranking was merely a ruse because they are all the number one best, and I just had to break them down so your mind didn’t get blown from so much amazingness at one time.

This video holds a special place in my heart for an innumberable number of reasons.  First, Jan sings in French.  I don’t know about you, but she sounds so authentic, Marion Cotillard will probably win another Oscar for lipsyncing to her songs in a lavishly detailed biopic.  Second, this song has so much pep, and I fucking love pep.  Third, denim upon denim upon denim!!  Fourth, I can always get behind a good shopping montage.  Fifth, far and away the best line in the song is “Don’t you wanna take a cruise trip?” Let’s break this line down, shall we?

Jan is urging her brother to get out of bed and get going, why?  She wants to convince him to go on a cruise trip.  This line comes out of nowhere, like a Great White Shark lurking in the deep of the ocean.  The song is akin to swimming in the ocean (or maybe paddleboarding if you’re a douche), minding your own business, everything calm and tranquil, and then getting your lower extremities torn asunder from your body.  It comes out of nowhere, and it makes no sense.  And yet, for some reason you’re not too angry, because it’s only natural that sharks eat humans, as it is only natural that Jan wants to go on a cruise trip with her brother.  In Chicago.  In the middle of winter.

Also, I would like to call your attention to how Jan futher emphasizes said “cruise trip” by standing next to the water and violently jerking her thumb behind her to indicate said “cruise trip” vessel.  Subtle.

This is one of those rare songs that have moments that make no sense, yet at the same time make perfect sense.  Kind of like Shaggy’s “It Wasn’t Me”.  No, EXACTLY like Shaggy’s “It Wasn’t Me”!

So on that note, have fun with this song.  It makes no sense, but since when does lack of sense preclude having a good time?  That’s right: never.

Ok, I just realized that “wanna take a cruise trip” might be a euphemism for something.  I’m leaning towards “incest”, but I’m just spitballing here.

Tomorrow marks the last day of our Top 5 Greatest Jan Terri Videos Of All Time.  But never fear, for Jan Terri shall forever live on in our hearts, in our minds, and in our nightmares dreams

I Heart Florence

I’ve become obsessed with Florence + the Machine.  Not really the Machine, just Florence. Florence Welch.  For those of you dear readers who may not know her, she’s the redhead from England with the most AMAZING voice.   She pretty much had me at the hello of the song “Heavy in Your Arms”.   I have all of her music on my ipod and for the past couple of months, that’s all I listen to.  I mean, how can you not think that someone who comes up with lyrics that include “my love’s an iron ball, wrapped around your ankles, over the waterfall”  worthy of adoration?

All Hail, Queen Florence!

I’ve gone through obsessive periods like this in the past, where I’m intensely into one album for an extended period of time (yes, they used to be called albums in the medieval times of the 1970’s).  The Doobie Brothers, Earth Wind and Fire, The Isley Brothers.  Then it was the classical years of piano and cello:  Glenn Gould and his Bach, anything by Beethoven, lots of Brahms, Elgar’s Nimrod, Jacqueline du Pre. Talk about music worms…at least they were of pretty high quality.

I know all of this comes from my absolutely impossible fantasy of being a lead singer in a band.  I know it will never come true, due to the fact that I am completely tone deaf.  I have the worst singing voice ever.  Honestly, Jan Terri could probably take me in a sing-off.   A fantasy can’t recover from the looks of disgust on the faces of your four young children trapped in the car with you while you belt out Journey’s “Open Arms” along with the radio.  When your three year old shouts “Mommy, please stop!  Please make it stop now”! when you sing, it’s time for a new dream.

OMG! Will she just STFU?!?!

The band fantasy is on life support and the message to stop singing in public has been received.  Now, I do all of my singing in secret, in the dark, stealthily.  I take Florence along and sing in full voice on my nightly walks in the neighborhood.  She gets me up the hill and around the blocks.  I always end the walk with her song “Spectrum”  and include some interpretive dancing to add to my workout.  I come home with a bit of a glow, still in my “pretend I’m Florence” mode for a few minutes.  It lasts until someone tells me we’re out of milk and I forgot to send in the field trip permission slip.  Sigh…

(Side note: This is how every X Factor episode should go.  Florence kicking ass and taking names.  And maybe some of Paula’s drugged up seat-dance/clapping.  Oh wait, she was fired…)

My family is quite aware of this obsession and surprised me with tickets to a Florence + the Machine concert next month.  The entire family is going and I’m really excited about it!   I’ve only been to orchestra concerts and I don’t quite know what to expect.  I’ve got my Mom jeans, sensible shoes, sweater set, fanny pack and helmet hair/mall bangs ready to go.  I plan to pre-function with a couple of glasses of a good chardonnay and I’m hoping to get into something the youngsters call a “mosh pit” and see what that’s all about.   The kids have already told me that they won’t stand anywhere near me because they know I’m going to sing along, loudly.  Why wouldn’t I?  I know all the lyrics!

I can go from the grocery store to the concert, so versatile!

Florence, ready or not, here I come!

For Whom the (Baby Blues) Tolls

This is the third in a weeklong homage to one of the greatest musicians of the modern era.  Please don’t look for any other videos other than the ones I’ve posted, or else it will ruin the surprise.

So, to recap, you’ve witnessed the wonder Jan Terri has birthed unto the world in “Losing You” and “Get Down Goblin”.  I hate to keep adding to songs I’m probably making you buy on iTunes because they’re so freaking catchy, but what do I care?  Genius knows no price….

Speaking of genius, I’m sure you’ve noticed by now that the titles of these posts are loosely connected to another great artist of the 20th century.  I always feel that genius attracts genius, so one way to underscore the impact Jan Terri has had on popular music today is to tie her in with the artist that had such an impact on stories about…stuff: Ernest Hemingway.  While he died (something Jan, fortunately, hasn’t done yet), his work has remained timeless, just as Jan’s work will.

And that provides a nice transition into the third spot on the TFGJTVOAL list: ‘Baby Blues’.  This is Jan Terri’s Country/Bar period, kind of like Hemingway’s Drinking/Communism period.  The wonderful atmosphere of the bar and the existence of her friends shows that Jan, deep down, is just a person.  Who likes to have fun.  And sing. With just the cutest speech impediment!

This video shows of two things Jan really loves: the color blue, and mustaches.  Between shots of her wooing a sexy cowboy with her contagious smirk and seagulls floating on the ocean (so poetic), you get the sensation that in fact YOU are falling in love with the cowboy!  Such is the power of Jan Terri.

I also would like to take this moment to rant against the sexified music videos of this era.  All this humping and grinding in music videos (especially with floor-like objects) is just too much.  Bring me the days chaste hand-holding, chaste dancing, and chaste eye-fucking, and I’ll be a happy man.

Now, excuse me while I go get my eyes surgically altered in a misguided attempt to woo Jan Terri.  In a meantime, enjoy these ‘Baby Blues’

Join me tomorrow as I explore the depths of the human soul drifting along an interconnected network of relationships while trying to maintain some semblance of morality and integrity.

Just kidding.  It’s gonna be more Jan Terri.  And it’s gonna be wonderful.