All right. Usually I head into these entries with some idea as to where I'm going, but not today. Today, I've got no pressing issues on my mind, just a not-completely-formed notion or two, floating around in my gray matter like misplaced occasional tables in some sort of post-modern monstrosity of a sitting room perpetrated by Hilde from Trading Spaces. FYI, and this is how bored I am, there is no definite way to spell her name. I couldn't decide if it was Hildi or Hilde, so I looked it up. According to the official site at TLC, it's Hilda. Go figure.
Anyway, the upshot of this is that I'm just going to start firing out little pearls of wisdom as mental synapses dictate. So here we go. Buckle up, children, it's going to be a bumpy read.
I'm listening to the oldies station right now, and I love it! I used to listen to oldies all the time back in high school, after I was disabused of the notion that listening to the "cool" radio station automatically imparted some coolness onto you through some kind of osmosis. I hated the radio, too, because it always happens the same way: you get in and turn on the car just in time to hear the last 10 seconds of your Most Favorite Song Ever. Then you listen to literally five minutes of commercials till they come back and play some assy song your friends all love, so you pretend to love it too when in reality it really gets on your nerves and you wish Crazy Town had never recorded it, because it sucks and what kind of song has lyrics like Come my lady/Come come my lady/you're my butterfly/Sugar, baby in it, anyway? So you suffer through it, and then they play five more minutes of commercials, and just as you're pulling into school they start playing your Most Favorite Song Ever That's Not That First One, but you have to turn off the car and run to class, because you're late, so you don't get to hear it. So, no radio for me.
Except the oldies. LOVE the oldies. I used to drive to school singing The Beatles at the top of my lungs or crooning along with Freda Payne or bopping to Little Eva, and then I would stay up all night calling the local oldies station every hour on the hour to request Creeque Alley by The Mamas and the Papas -- quite possibly the Best Song Ever Written and Recorded -- and having them grudgingly give in every time since no one else was really burning up the phone lines trying to get through. Those were the days.
And I love The Mamas and the Papas to pieces. Who cares if they were high and/or drunk off their asses the whole time they were in their heyday? They rocked! And they made rock music about vocals again, and their best attribute wasn't a throbbing bass synthesizer that threatens to blow out your subwoofers, but brilliant musical arrangements and perfectly blended harmonies. Okay, so they screwed up when they remade My Girl, Dancing in the Street, and Twist and Shout (and seriously, what were they thinking? Oh yeah -- drugs), but their remakes of The In Crowd and I Call Your Name are the shit, and then there's California Dreamin', I Dig Rock and Roll Music, Monday, Monday, Creeque Alley, and dozens of others that make Crazy Town look like a bunch of American Idol rejects.
My favorite M&P lyric? Got a feelin'/That you're stealin'/All the love/I thought I was giving to you. Who doesn't know that feeling? Lucky people who aren't me, that's for damn sure.
How crazy is Dolly? Who the hell knows. That question is akin to asking, "How big is the universe?" It's immeasurable and incomprehensible. She is so. Damn. Crazy. She doesn't seem to grasp the fact that if she sends a document to print, it won't automatically interrupt the stuff I'm printing already, thusly being printed on the special paper I'm using. Trust me, Dolly, when I tell you I've got it covered.
Uh oh. I think Annabelle just got fired. I know I implied she'd been shitcanned when she showed up for work drunk that one time, but evidently I was in error. She gave me chocolate as a New Year's gift (a damn sight better than potpurri, let me tell you), but I just went back to get her for an appointment, and she's not there. I asked Joanie about it, and she said, "Yeah, I'll have to tell you about that before you leave." I reiterate: uh oh.
I don't want to go for my run tonight. Nothing I can do about that, though. If I don't, I'm just going to start getting all out of shape and feeling bad about myself, and I have enough esteem issues without needing to deprive myself of the accomplishment I feel after pushing the limits of my endurance every other night. Hmmm...that sounds like a sexual metaphor, doesn't it? I wish.
And I think that's it. I'm pretty much all thought out, and this phone won't stop ringing. Damn all y'all last minute phone callers!