LaurieWrites

I'm So Moving On

And I'm so posting this, although it's a little goofy. It's ao appropriate! Bring on 2006!!!!!!!!!! : )

Your 2005 Song Is

Since You've Been Gone by Kelly Clarkson "But since you've been gone I can breathe for the first time I'm so moving on" In 2005, you moved on.

What Hit Song of 2005 Are You?

"But you know that I would give you...

just this once, twice, forever...Cause baby, you could drag me to hell and back just as long as we're together...And you doooooooooo.........."

Let's hope it doesn't turn out that way, but George Michael is getting married. He's getting hitched to his boyfriend of ten years, Kenny Goss. I'm glad for them that Britain is letting those who want to marry someone of their own gender have that opportunity. Same goes for Elton and David Furnish, too, because they're adorable. George sounds a little less touched by the whole thing, however:

"I'm not very romantic about it to be honest," he said. "I think Kenny probably would be if I let him, but it's just not me. We want to do it, just in case. You never know, I could get hit by a bus and the poor man could have nothing."

You know, I'm just all for happiness. It's totally underrated, and it has nothing to do with laws or religion, that's for sure. (Although maybe these happy couples are grinning a little bigger because they have a billion dollars. Just a guess.) Can you imagine these wedding registries?

I was just listening to "Freedom" though, a Wham song from when they were first hugely popular, and that got me thinking about all of this. I guess that was my sophomore year in high school, TWENTY YEARS AGO. Gah! And I was remembering how my friend Barbara was TOTALLY IN LOVE with George Michael at the time, and wrote "Mrs. Barbara Michael" and "Barbie Michael" and "Mrs. Michael" and "Barbara hearts George" in bubble letters all over her binder. Of course I had no pride either, as at the time I was holding my kilt closed with Duran Duran buttons and wearing a fedora hat all the time and submitting my first short stories in creative writing class about mine and John Taylor's HONEYMOON on Ibiza, and I didn't even know where in the hell Ibiza WAS. I just knew they filmed videos there, and that was just dandy fine with me.  These were the worst stories EVER. They were so terrible. They are in a box somewhere and the next time I find them I'm burning them sacrificially.

But whereas this lovely bass god turned out to be straight as an arrow (and ain't Gela Taylor lucky...damn. He gets better with age, I swear. It's disgusting,) George eventually shared his preference for men with the world. This was not, of course, until 1998, way after he got busy with that woman in that "I Want Your Sex" video.  I was no longer in touch with Barbara by then, but I did think about her and wonder if she was a teeny bit disappointed. ; )

Personally, I thought "Hell, yeah. Whatever. Preach it, Father Figure. But you so did dig that girl in that video."  And now I give England much credit for allowing people who live in partnership to acknowledge it if they want - to provide for each other financially, to be able to speak up for each other if they get sick - to bring it on home, so to speak. It's really as simple as that - no matter what our government is stuck on. Whatever it is, it isn't exactly freedom.

Talk to the hand...puppet

Please note first of all that strange encounters proliferate in my odd little universe. This is how it has always gone down, so maybe I'm just used to it.

The woman who works in the photo equipment room at school has taken to talking to me via her stuffed cat hand puppet. The puppet is wearing a Santa hat. She debuted him on Tuesday night, post-Thanksgiving vacation. At first I thought she only wanted to address us once via hand puppet, and then would set about the business of getting equipment, in her own voice. Once I realized she really intended to channel the whole transaction, I was only a little freaked out. It's a testament to my own threshold for insanity that this only strikes me as vaguely strange, except for the fact that she can't complete a sentence without dissolving into hysterical laughter. If she wants to parlay this small-time schtick into a gig on the ventriloquist circuit (wherever THAT crazy train's depot may be) she's going to have to learn how to play straight woman a little better. Puppets can only carry so much of the show.

To be truthful, I thought it was a dog, but I'm hopelessly oriented to all things canine. Instead, it just turned out to be a very fat, sort of misshapen cat, which I discovered when I referred to...er, him...as a dog today, and she said, "He's a CAT! Get it straight!" *Please also note that this lady reads her Bible when she's not doling out negative carriers and contact printers. This puppetry is fully endorsed by the Holy Trinity - heaven help us.

But hey, I need my enlarging equipment. If I have to talk to a puppet to get this accomplished, it's cool, and good things happen, such as her forking over the goods even when I forget my little blue equipment rental card. "I can go there with you," I told her today. "You have no idea," as she flapped her cat puppet in my direction, giggling. Her reaction indicated that perhaps most people are not as receptive to this method of communicating, so she seemed grateful, and meowed a couple more times. Then she showed me pictures of her real cat on her digital camera, and clouds, because she likes to take pictures of clouds. "See, I like to see what I can see in 'em," she said. (The clouds, that is.) It is, as they say, all good.

For me, it's just another shrimp on the lunatic barbie, mate, and a humorous psychotic break in my otherwise lately sort of ponderous day. As Jimmy Buffett once presciently wrote, "If we weren't all crazy we'd all go insane."

The Real Me

today...at least a little bit of her. (apologies...going into rant mode. I'm okay, really, but my head needs emptying and this is perhaps a big reason why Typepad gets my monthly rental fee.) I've been on a Motley Crue kick, bitches...and I think I'm going to see Kix next week. Nothing like a little metal for the holiday season... I cannot find earphones that fit in my ear right... If I could mainline coffee, I would. It's getting ridiculous... Love Outkast... On very little sleep, I am a terrible person...I'm tired of not sleeping... I would quit tomorrow if I could. And move. I would... The thought of Christmas is exhausting me... I've been feeling like I talk too much...but I don't really care... Meeting the guys from Barenaked Ladies was hilarious.... Nashville... I'm in love with Al Green again... If you have any interest in movies with incredibly complicated dialogue, that are on the one hand completely ridiculous and on the other a riot, see Woody Allen's Love and Death. Holy guacamole. I love Diane Keaton. She is a powerhouse. I feel like taking a tour to see all of the beautiful women who are my friends who are scattered across North America... I need a house by a lake or something... I need a studio...and a huge couch, and a backyard, and a porch, and an open door...the greatest houses are gathering places... I have no idea what to do next... I hate bureaucracy. I don't understand it... My professor told me this week that I could be a professional photographer. "I don't say this kind of thing unless there's a reason," he said. "Because I don't have to." It felt really good... I still don't know if it's the right next thing. I've been throwing pasta at the wall for a few years now, and so far, nothing's stuck. I hate it... I feel like the project I'm working on will never be done. I feel like it's a terrible, awful hole of hell that I've fallen down into, and I've done it all wrong, and it will never be right, and people will think I'm completely incompetent...Worse, I will think I'm completely incompetent.... I love when I feel all well-adjusted... I could die happy in a bookstore cafe... How have I missed Greenday all this time? I'm regressing and it's amusing me to no end. I love stupid winter hats... Why do people ask me when I'm going to have kids like it's been a conscious choice not to? If I were Angelina Jolie with a private plane and Brad Pitt to carry the bottle in his hothottiehot back jean pocket, I'd be in Cambodia tomorrow. SHUT UP... Regardless, if physical affection of a certain quality doesn't return to my life soon, I'm going to question the reason why I'm here even MORE than I usually do...Remind self that this is not, however, a reason to make ridiculous choices... I'll be 35 in three weeks. That's sort of unreal, but it's not really bothering me. Someone said "No way! You are NOT!" in reference to my age, today, and that's kind of how I feel about it. This is a very strange time for me. I am oddly isolated in my own mind, alone a good bit of the time, and I'm totally intellectually aware of and okay with this - not emotionally stirred up at all. I just wish it didn't make me so anxious. If I wasn't always going down the list of things I think I SHOULD be doing, I'd be cool. I don't want to read any more Iyanla Van Zant. I don't want to work through any more issues. I don't want to go to therapy. I just want to live. I hate thinking. I think all night long in my sleep. I dream about things in a more cohesive and visually specific manner than I ever have. I don't necessarily like this, because then I'm forced to think about the people I dream about, and sometimes they're people I don't want to think about at all. Sometimes they're people I have little or NO contact with in my daily life, or people who mean very little to me in any way whatsoever, and it disturbs me that I'm dreaming about them. I don't understand why my subconscious is holding onto them, enough to dredge them up when I'm asleep. Dreaming is weird. It freaks me out. I don't like it. I think all day long when I'm at work. I think in the car. I think in the shower. And I don't even know what I'm thinking about or why, most of the time. I mean, I know WHAT I'm thinking about, but it's like a Western omelet - all kinds of crap thrown in there, guaranteed to give you indigestion. My thoughts are all manner of bacon and green peppers and onions and cheese and whatever the hell else they put in those heart attacks on a plate, all held together in a cranium of...eggs and butter? My head is a Western omelet. That's genius. I've lost my fucking mind. (The real me is also very profane, which I tend to censor on these pages, but I'm not sure why. If you know me in person, you know I swear like a sailor with my friends, although I hold it in nicely when I have to be all professional and whatnot. Swearing at work = not so good.) I think that about does it for now.