Monday, October 22, 2007

I chose to listen to that filthy mouth

First of all, thanks a billion times plus a billion to the billionth power to everyone who left me birthday wishes on Friday and over the weekend. Talk about sweetness. I’m never melancholy about my birthday, but I’m usually somewhat reflective and brooding. Or annoyed that it somehow didn’t work out the way it should have according to my master plan (see last year’s hilarious, possibly drug-tainted party with a bunch of people who didn’t even remember my birthday this year- and that was a sigh of relief you just heard from me). So, it was interesting that this year, I was wholly in the moment. There was a lot going on, and a lot of it had nothing to do with festivities, and it wasn’t really until Saturday afternoon that I really had a chance to breathe and stew, if I wanted to.

But as it turns out, I didn’t want to. There isn’t much to look back on now in some ways. And there’s so much ahead, it’s like a tidal wave waiting to crash over me if I don’t keep my eyes focused on it. I have to tell you that it’s strange to be my age and to be experiencing that feeling for the first time.

On to the next order of business though. This week’s song. Truth be told, I was never some frenzied Fiona Apple fan. You have to understand that when she first broke onto the scene, she seemed to be too young for her voice. She also seemed to embody that whole heroin chic, waif thing that Kate Moss has decided to put a lock on. Also, her videos were getting plastered all over MTV, but she was pulling that Avril Lavigne/Pink stance of telling everyone to suck it. Also, she put out a sophomore album that had an absurdly long title. The title seemed like the kind of thing Axl Rose would mutter at the end or beginning of one of his tunes.

In fact, I think Apple was too young for her voice. She was precocious, and partly what put me off so much was that she seemed to be prematurely jaded- the video for Criminal always gave me a hefty dose of the creeps. On the other hand, from her second album, Limp happened to come out at a particular moment in my history when I benefited greatly from her rage-fueled lyrics and piano banging.

So, I’ve revisited her older songs, and I’ve checked out some of her newer songs, and I have to admit that she’s a solid artist. Criminal still gives me the heebie-jeebies, but maybe that’s the whole point. But when she put out Extraordinary Machine, I caught the video for Not About Love and then I really couldn’t frown at Fiona Apple anymore. You should really view it, for Zach's interpretive dance if nothing else.

My love for Zach Galifianakis has been documented previously. He’s an acquired taste and not for everyone. I’ve seen him live three times- he was hilarious twice, and drunk and offensive the third time. But he is naturally funny- especially when music is incorporated. But Galifianakis causes me problems. The most serious problem is that of possible institutionalization for use of the expression: ”That is so Raven.” Now, if you have seen Galifianikis’ act, you will appreciate the need to interject this expression into conversation. But if you have not seen his act (and sadly, most of my friends and colleagues have not), you will think that I watch the Disney channel and have an odd fixation with that jump-the-shark Cosby Kid. Or that I'm just plum out of my mind. That's how I'll know when I've met my soul mate. I'll remark, "That is so Raven." And he will nod his head knowingly (or at least tolerate the comment- my standards have dropped over the years).

And now, with that incoherent bit of rambling, I will return to reeling from my disbelief that the Red Sox actually got their act together and came back from 3-1 to win the ALCS. The Patriots and the Red Sox both winning in one weekend is proof that the global warming crisis is real, in my opinion.

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