You know how sometimes you think, "Wow, even if Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes tried, they just could not get any creepier?" Well, as usual, you are utterly and completely wrong and worthless. *I love making you agree with things just to vehemently denounce them seconds later--it's so empowering!* The Holmes-o-sexuals totally just got weirder. Apparently, Scientology has this thing called silent birth, which, just like their intergalactic alien ruler Xenu, is exactly what it sounds like. You can't talk, play music, or scream during birth, and newborns cannot be poked or prodded for medical tests or be spoken to for the first seven days of their lives. The idea is that the baby goes through so much trauma in, y'know, being born, that it shouldn't have to experience any sort of sensory experience that could further harm it. Okay. Let's discuss. An infant's job, basically, is to wiggle down the biological equivalent of a water slide. Granted, if said water slide belongs to Katie Holmes, I could understand how the infant could be horribly tramautized, but I really don't think it's the infant we need to be concerned about. I'm almost certain I've never given birth, but from what I've heard, it's the sort of experience that requires a lot of screaming. A LOT. And maybe some light Trent Reznor. Also, I suspect the no medical test thing is just something Tom Cruise threw in there to ensure there won't be a paternity test, because this child was clearly conceived with L. Ron Hubbard's frozen sperm. I should know, because I'm a doctor in the field of L. Ron Hubbard's frozen sperm. It's my Div III.
So, last week, starting with the Day of Thurs: I worked all day and then went to the QCA, where we were watching Fire, this Indian lesbian film that was, just like my existence and DVD collection, banned in India. It was basically an excuse to get Indian food delivered, but it was actually pretty good, though the QCA is always disorientingly warm and the film was kind of weird and we all ended up feeling like we might have all just take an Indian food-induced trip together. After Fire Kel and I went to go visit Kate at Pub Safety, where she works as a switchboard operator, which is apparently the equivalent of working as a rock. We were there for an hour and she got exactly one call and spent the rest of her time contemplating on whether to get ants or termites tattooed on her shoulder. If I were to get a tattoo, I somehow doubt the choice would be between ants and termites, mostly because if I had ants tattooed on my shoulder I'd wake up every morning and go, "OH SHIT!" and scrape off my skin with my Bowie knife before realizing it was a tattoo, which would get annoying after awhile. My choices would be between like, getting "AWESOME" tattooed across my forehead or having Bob Saget's face, life-size, on my back, which is way not as weird as bugs on your shoulder.
Friday we decided to go into Amherst for dinner, and for some reason decided to split a quesadilla as an "appetizer" at Bueno Y Sano then go to Fatzo's for our "main course" of foot-long hot dogs and fries. It was some high society shit, for sure. Everything is Illuminated finally came to the Academy of Music, and I decided I had to go see it immediately, so Kel dropped me off in Noho and I killed time in Haymarket with a sweet, sweet Swamp Thing smoothie until the movie. The Academy of Music is officially one of the coolest movie theaters ever--even USA Today says so, and if USA Today says it, it must be true, because their little graphs make everything seem so official. It's this old-time theatre that was converted into a cinema, but they basically just added a screen and left all the interior decoration and chairs and whatnot intact, so they still have private boxes and balconies and a Member's Lounge and library and all that jazz. Plus tickets and popcorn are both very cheap, which is sweet. I've been waiting for Everything is Illuminated pretty much forever, and it was so crazily good. Depressing, at times, but awesome. However, I'm totally baffled as to how people are attracted to Elijah Wood, because to me, he looks like a weird mix between a twelve-year-old boy and a ferret. Plus, ever since Sin City and Lord of the Rings, he's kind of scared the shit out of me. That guy is one crazy hobbit. After the movie I found out that Amy and Kel had decided our "dessert" course would be at the Route 9 diner, which is open 24 hours and which I frequently seem to show up to at 3 am in fishnets and inappropriate make-up. We played "Stacey's Mom" and Patsy Cline on the jukebox, which I'm certain made us popular with the regulars. Our waitress was kind of cracked out, and when I asked for my banana split without nuts, she just stared at me silently for about three minutes, so I asked, "Are the nuts...like...already in it?" even though I could not fathom any way in which that would be possible. On the way home, we listened to Amy's mix CD and discussed how Amy, Kate, and Kel all have various geeky and shameful things that they're into, like Xena and Buffy and Rasputina, but I'm the one whose into every single one of those geeky and shameful things. I'm like the glue of geeky shame. It's beautiful.
On Saturday, it rained. And rained. And--oh, oh, wait for it, wait for it--RAINED some more. It did not let up ONCE--and that's not just doing my usual minor exagerations, like when I say there were 3,000 supermodels at my house last night and really there were only negative two. I waited for it to stop all damn day so I could go do laundry--I know, I know, this sounds like a lie, but it's the truth--and it did. NOT. STOP. Not even, for like, .3 seconds. Kel and I were pretty convinced it's the Great Flood, and she was freaking about because a guy named Noah just moved out of her mod and she thought it was a sign. I went over to Ellen's mod to watch A League of Their Own *shut up, I'm cool* and walking home was terrifying--I just kept singing Madonna and holding my umbrella really tightly in the hope that would somehow repel the rain. My umbrella actually flipped inside out several times, which I'm not sure I was totally aware it could do. When I got back, I was like, "I have so much laundry. My room smells like cabbage. And this rain will never stop. Something's got to give." So I decided to do my laundry in the midst of the rainstorm, which had just added high winds to its reportoire, at 1:30 am. I also decided to launder the dirty, wet shirt I was currently wearing, but I'm not going to tell you how I accomplished that, because I think it's probably illegal in several counties. On Sunday Kel, Sosin, and I spent pretty much all day at the Thirsty Mind, which is this coffee/wine bar near Mt. Holyoke that seems to be one of the only places on Earth I can successfully get a substantial amount of work done. It must be something about its precise positioning in the cosmos--or possibly its Mango Madness smoothies. Whatever it is, it's awesome, so we've taken to going there as much as possible, what with our workloads suddenly and inexplicably expanding to the size of a giant squid. I also called my parents and Mary, my sister, who just took the new and freaky SATs, which include an essay. Now, Mary can write, and not just like, her name and the word "cat" or anything. Most of the time, excepting her constant abuse of the word "incredulous," she's pretty eloquent, but apparently the SAT essay completely defeated her. The question was something pointless and ridiculous, like, "Is success earned through hard work, luck, or sexual favors? Use examples." Apparently, Mary's essay was eight lines long and used Dolly Parton as her primary example. Dolly...Parton. Otherwise known as Tits McGhee, or the founder of Dollywood and Dolly's Splash Country, Knoxville's major amusement parks. Also, the conclusion of the essay was somewhere along the lines of, "Scientists have to work hard to do stuff. So sucess is earned. Byeeee." Sadly, what with Tennessee's education system, it'll probably be in like, the top 15% of essays out there, sheerly on the basis of being recognizable as English. The best part of this whole story is she was telling her friend Katie about it, and Katie was like, "Oh, no, there's no way your essay could be worse than mine. I wrote about Dolly Parton," which I think pretty much proves that all of us Knoxvillians learned about life, we learned from Dollywood.
Today I had no classes due to Anti-Columbus Day, so I did work and made a broccoli and cheese omelet without setting anyone on fire, which is apparently key to the whole cooking thing. Kel also made me a pasta dinner and ice cream sundae because she's amazing and competent, and we were going to watch Arrested Development but could not because Fox bumped it in favor of baseball--and not just baseball, but the YANKEES. This is clear, clear evidence of an evil force at work in my life. Not only are my Sox dead, the Yankees killed my Monday night. CURSE YOU YANKEES--CURSE YOU. So instead of watching Arrested Development with Kate and Amy on speakerphone, we made posters for the QCA's Coming Out Dinner on Wednesday, which I had the fabulous idea of billing as a "Sexy Spaghetti Soiree." I have to get up early to poster tomorrow, so one might think I would get to sleep early tonight, but one would be wrong. For some reason, I've had the urge to watch Boondock Saints and Velvet Goldmine on a loop lately, so I'm currently watching clips of those between writing papers, which is really a bad idea, since last year I actually spent an entire paper written at 5 am referring to a critic named Rhys-Jones as Rhys-Meyers based entirely on Jonathan Rhys-Meyers' rock god hotness.
Apparently this winter is going to be even worse than the last, which was hellish, leading me to decide that I am officially okay with cannibalism. If we should get caught in a blizzard and I run out of chocolate pudding and other assorted foodstuffs, I will not hesitate to feast upon my modmates, and, to be totally democractic, I will simply change our chore wheel into a cannibalism wheel. Speaking of cannibalism, which I feel I do way too much lately--in t.a.T.u's new video, they totally shoot a guy in the head. *Hold on, the cannibalism part is coming, calm down.* It's ridiculous. I feel like if I had a pop band of any sort, my only goal would be to be as ridiculous as possible. I'd be like, "We're all pansexual cannibalistic *see?* Lithuanian bank accountants. OR ARE WE? ROCK OUT!" t.a.T.u's videos are, I've decided, exactly like what the O.C. should be/would be if it were cooler and more gay. Like, Marissa shot a guy in the O.C. season finale *which I totally do not know because I acted it out with my sisters five times or anything* but she wasn't gay or Russian by that point, so it was lame. t.a.T.u. videos are like super-short teen melodramas with no comic relief geeky Jewish guy--oh man, a comic relief geeky Jewish guy would totally make their video better, especially if all he did was come in after they shot the guy and make some smart ass comment and then go listen to some the Killers *Get it? Get it? The Killers? Man, I could totally be a comic relief geeky Jewish guy.* The other thing about t.a.T.u. is that you really feel like they could probably kill you/have you killed. I'm sensing some definite Russian mob connections there, and it's kind of hot. Oh, speaking of the O.C., if you have not yet seen The Bu, you need to. Like, pretty much immediately. But don't watch it at work, because it's got plenty of cursing and also you will not be acting as a productive member of society. But I guess if you're reading this blog that idea's pretty much shot anyway.
I'm creeped out by how all my weird interests end up being connected. For example: I went to go see Everything is Illuminated. This connects to Hampshire by way of the writer and director (Liev Schreiber) and to DeVotchKa, who I discovered because they did the music for the Everything is Illuminated trailer. Yesterday, I found out that DeVotchKa is not only coming to Noho in November, but they're touring with the Dresden Dolls, my second-favorite band of all time. Last year, I discovered that the Dresden Dolls are one of the all-time favorite bands of my all-time favorite author, Neil Gaiman, who is also into the Gorillaz, one of my other all-time favorite bands. Tina Weymouth does occasional bass and back-up vocals for the Gorillaz, and Tina Weymouth is the former bassist for the Talking Heads, my first-favorite band of all time. Plus, Tina Weymouth's kid is now a first-year at Hampshire, and a Hampshire grad did the animation for my favorite film in the universe, Hedwig and the Angry Inch. JESUS. What happened to the days when a girl could have an interest that was genuinely obscure? I'll decide that my new favorite band is like, those guys in Amherst who play "Easy Like Sunday Morning" on the synethesizer, and next week they'll be touring with David Byrne and doing the music for Joss Whedon's new film. This is not helping my street cred.
Okay, I have to go to work, class, and Noam Chomsky tomorrow, as well as write about 7,000 papers, so I'll catch you guys on the flip side. Stay cool and don't take any radioactive nickels, for reasons that should really be readily apparent.
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