Two shots from the sky over Ohio during my last visit home:
The moonrise was over the trees in my great-aunt’s front yard, and the rainbow was in the backyard of my best friend, Tracey‘s parents’ house on the crazy-windiest day ever.
You don’t see these things in Brooklyn.
I really love the idea of dogs. I usually find something cute about even the mangiest of them, and the thought of having this constant companion who cares about everything you say, wants to go wherever you want to go, appreciates your cooking so much he jumps onto the table to get it, and makes strangers baby-talk to him out of nowhere is pretty attractive to me.
When I’m actually around dogs, though, I’m reminded that they poop with abandon without ever offering to help clean up, force their pointy little heads into every available just-washed palm for petting, are so difficult to bathe that their owners rarely do it, and have no concept of the difference between Thanksgiving turkey and bird crap.
So watching this bit of face-licking go down through the lens of my camera on Christmas at my parents’ house gave me palpitations:
My sister’s beagle. My stepbrother’s baby. Endless nightmares.
Isn’t it funny when you’re so close to something that other people’s lack of knowledge about it seems preposterous?
Like when your co-worker comes up to your desk in the year 2010 and asks, “Have you heard of this band Radiohead?”
Or when you overhear a guy dining at the finest restaurant in the city ask the waiter if the oysters can be left off of their signature dish.
Or when you read a blog post in which a woman goes to see the movie version of Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, one of your favourite books of all time, and writes:
I was tearing like a silly woman at some point whereas my hubby was holding up his chin and trying hard to keep himself awake with the pop corn. The story about a boy who lost his father in 911 is sentimental but rather slow moving. I think it’s probably not a movie for men who usually enjoy comedies and action.
Have you ever seen someone so entirely miss the point?
Yes, I have a superiority complex.
On a Papa John’s napkin and everything.
Can you blame me? Look at these things:
Did anyone else see this singer on “The Voice” and feel really, really betrayed by the judges?
They claim that this is a completely new sound, but if you heard (and were annoyed by) Macy Gray in 1999, Erin Martin’s voice shouldn’t seem the least bit exciting to you. And they, the music professionals, should recognize that. Instead, they pressed their buttons in awe, they stood up in their seats, they said things like, “THAT is cool!” She has foot-high hair, a foot-long skirt, and a headband on her forehead. Not. Impressed.
Now, I actually like “different” voices. I love being able to recognize a vocalist. Jack White, Chris Cornell, Andrew Bird, Thom Yorke, Rufus Wainwright, Neil Young, Beck, David Bowie, and of course Adam Levine—these are voices you know in an instant no matter what they’re singing, and I love them all.
Last season on “The Voice”, Dia Frampton was a huge hit with her whispery vocals, and I thought she should’ve won:
The difference is that Dia’s voice sounds genuine. I get really tired of voices that sound “put on”. Like, I can sound exactly like Macy Gray and Erin Martin if I try. By forcing myself to sing with a baby voice while purposely mispronouncing letters.
It’s the same thing with Duffy, Eddie Vedder (although I think I like Pearl Jam because they got to me at an age when I was still an innocent non-hater), and basically every single person who auditioned for “American Idol” this year after of the success of vocal-weirdos Haley Reinhart and Megan Joy Corkrey.
I know different people have different tastes and that Erin Martin will probably do well on “The Voice”, but I wish the judges would just call a baby-voiced spade a spade.
Secret-wish-to-be-a-rockstar-fueled rant complete.
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