Who is this guy? Who is he?
I first heard a cut of the song on the FX commercial (a channel I try to avoid*, but happened to be passing through while channel surfing) and was instantly transfixed by the guy’s voice. Then came the Note to Self: FIND THIS GUY. What seemed like 8 years later (most of my Self Notes are immediately forgotten, owing to whole not-sleeping-no-short-term-memory problem), I finally just did some research and found him.
James Morrison is his name. The song is “You Give me Something.” I cannot describe it any further.
*I avoid it because, other than showings of “Independence Day,” there is nothing remotely entertaining on this channel, in my opinion.
Why do some of your co-workers enter conversations that entirely do not involve them?
Which Target stores sell the awesome clothes and fashions featured on their cool commercials? (I’ve been to several Targets. Still looking.)
Seriously – do I find those clothes at Gap? Because they’re awesome. And they’re not at Target!
Why do the producers of the Academy Awards still insist, after 80 long years, on having fake, animated characters presenting awards? What does anyone get out of it? Who keeps greenlighting this stuff? And then they have the audacity to cut off the actors that are droning on and on with that orchestra music? If they cut out the talking bee, maybe Mr. or Mrs. Actress can have time to thank their 8th grade drama teacher. It’s very simple, is it not?
Who really is the muffin man? Does he know which Target sells the awesome clothes?
I have a sinking feeling that Frederick is soon to bid adieu to this world. His leaves are brown and dry, his roots seem agitated. I see some green, a bit of green, but it doesn’t look good. Sigh. Am I surprised? I didn’t even water him last week, due to weird laziness (I really do hate getting up from my chair), and well, even more laziness. This might be proof that I should probably never get a pet. That poor dog or cat would have to fend for itself in every which way. Terrible. Nevertheless, I just unloaded significant amounts of water on old Fred, so let’s hope that something works. It would be sad to see him go.
I have a quote calendar at work, and this was the following quote for today: Some people find fault like there is a reward for it. Isn’t that the truth? Personally, I think I go on fault-finding scavenger hunts. I’m a big fan of event analysis; going over every inch and nuance in this big head, reliving the events and the ones involved, and doing whatever I can to finally reach the end in sight: whose fault it really is. There’s never a payoff. Never a reward, as the quote highlights. It’s a complete waste of time. It’s not like I’m going to approach the person in question and bring it to their attention. Why? Because it’s highly likely that through their analysis, I’m the one at fault. Again, complete waste of time. Good quote, filled with much accuracy.
This week come the sweet sounds of The Jets, a cheesy brother/sister singing group from the late 80s. I was obsessed with them, especially the major ballad of my life at the time, “You’ve Got it All Over Him.” I still know every word. And so, as any eyes will see in the upper right hand corner, I’ve provided links to some of their best jams. Enjoy, whoever you are.
I don’t want to say too much, but I have a project in mind. It’s really brewing. I have ideas and direction and all the good, pretty things one needs for a project. I don’t want to give too much away, however. Throughout the years, I’ve learned that talking about future things makes me too excited. Once the excitement has reached its boiling point and that future project has been hyped beond measure, everything completely collapses. Implosion, disaster, running for the hills, hiding the women and children, that sort of thing. To avoid that grim possibility, mum’s the word.
Nevertheless, yes, something has come into the brain, and it looks like this thing may see the light of day. Too early to woo hoo, though.
Ok. Woo hoo. A little. A little!
I don’t like a particular feeling that tends to consume me every now and then. I feel strange, confused, frustrated, edgy. I call it restlessness, for the purposes of giving it a name, and because I believe that the feeling is akin to being restless. Itching for something, unable to sit still or calm down, just being all over the place, uneasy. It happens from time to time. I don’t understand it, nor do I know what it will take to settle myself down. Crazy.
The weekend was the weekend. Much too fast, much too quick.
My penchant for falling asleep at the most inopportune times was recently acknowledged by a co-worker of mine. To my everlasting horror, of course. There I was, taking my leftover diet sodas and drinks to the breakroom. He waves me over. With a smile on his face (likely because he assumes I will deny it and call it a mistake), he comments that he could have “sworn” that I fell asleep during the meeting from the day before. I too smile (like the cat that swallowed the canary) and mutter that I “closed my eyes for a bit.” Later on, in the breakroom, I commence with talking to myself. I’ve been discovered! Who else saw this? I’m fired! I’m in trouble! So on and so forth. Time to fall in love with Red Bull.
The writer’s strike is ovah. Huzzah! Admittedly, I liked not having to turn on the old TV in the late evening to catch up with the plethora of shows the DVR recorded for that day. It was nice to have options between nothing and not that much to watch. I liked it. On the flip side (cliche warning! cliche warning!) variety is the spice of life. Reruns can be annoying. (But, hey, I can’t complain. I’m never home to watch the old television. See the reference to DVR. I’m strictly a late-night catcher-upper through and through). The good thing is that it’ll be a while before new episodes return, so I can still enjoy nothing and not that much to watch.
In other news, I need to turn up the juice on my creative writing. The journaling is excellent because it has catalyzed that desire to come up with stories and a few poems and so on–now, I need to take advantage of that desire and get to work.
Frederick Von Plant still lives. I am happy to announce this. His pluck and will to live is really quite inspiring. (But why am I constantly shocked that he still lives? Do I need to prove something to myself by his withering away? That I’m still the reigning queen of killing inanimate things? Have I become the femme fatale of the plant world?)
In temptation news, IHOP is giving away free pancakes today. I’ll be very careful. Although the images of me wedged in a booth with a bib and a syrup-soaked fork are quite intriguing and delectable, I must resist the dark side of the force. National Pancake Day, I rebuke you.
GirleyGirl out. (For now.)
The above is a line from A Raisin in the Sun, which I had the pleasure of watching again this weekend. A beautiful movie; just rich with meaning and message and Sidney Poitier. Sidney Poitier! I just adore him.
The following poem is by Langston Hughes, entitled Harlem. Lorraine Hansberry, the author of A Raisin in the Sun, obtained the title of her powerful play from the first line of this equally powerful poem. (On a side note, Girley wrote a short story based on said poem, as well. The end results were pretty interesting, I would say. Memories).
What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?
I’ve always been fascinated by that poem–what happens when a dream simultaneously grows larger and larger, but moves further and further away from the dreamer. Very, very interesting stuff.