In Which I Quits The Idol

I just can't summon up the energy to care about American Idol anymore. I know. You're asking yourself, how can this be? Even Simon irritates me. Adam may be the most overrated contestant since Danny Gokey since David Archuleta.
This is one of those times when only the word blurgh will do.
My prediction: Adam will win in the biggest yawnfest since Taylor and Katherine. Who should win? Probably Allison. I do still love Matt, and I do like Kris, but I can't sit through the rest of the insufferable performances, critiques, discussions and faux fighting between Simon and Paula just to get to one good performance.
Oh, how I long for the days of David Cook, Daughtry, anyone, really, but the jokers we are now being subject to. Something tells me I'm not the only one who has given up, is giving up, will give up.
Suck it, Idol!

HB, R!

Believe it or not, today Son is 8. Eight! I swear I just gave birth to that boy, carried his 10 pound body around inside my body, felt him turn and twist my guts.
He still twists my guts, but in different ways. He's adorable and smart. He's argumentative and a pain in the ass (where does he get that from?). He reads like crazy now (again, wherefore?), and he's getting so tall, he reaches my shoulder. I can still pick him up, but barely.
I love that he loves to watch "American Idol" with me, and we even voted last night. Why not? He loves The Beatles and REM, he got his first stitches last year (something tells me, not his last), he loves The Hardy Boys and Captain Underpants, he's an artist and a writer and a thinker.
I'm worried about going to London for 3 weeks, leaving him and Middlebrow. Oh, I know they'll be fine, but what about me? When I see a painting in the Tate, I'll think, "Son would love this." I hope I get to go back with both of them someday.
For now, I'll cherish the tiny moments, like last night, watching AI, when he pulled my arm around him, or when we speed-decorated 24 cookies for his birthday during the commercial breaks.
Happy Birthday, Son! Now please stop growing up. I can't take it.

Another American Idol poem

Well. This one was better in theory. But here it is. It's here. Right now.

Michael Johns: We Hardly Knew Ye

I read the news today, oh boy
my first thought was: is America crazy?
Really? You want to get rid of him? The hot
one with the Australian accent?
I have some fantasies that involve conversations
with famous people, in which I act casual and cool,
and so with Michael, I say, hey, I liked your
interpretation of “Bohemian Rhapsody,”
like didn’t mean to make you cry
very, um, heterosexual.
But, don’t be silly, I know I’ll never
get to see him or Jake Gyllenhaal,
or French kiss Willem Dafoe (the 80s one),
or even touch the thumb of Kevin Bacon,
thinking the whole time how many degrees
separate us, like the mere inches between
Dolly Parton and Michael Johns the week
he sang I like your look, I love your smile
and I was thinking, get over here! Me too!
But I’ll never be that close to him, close
enough to say, Hey Michael, will you
call my name as you walk on by?
He’d reply, sure. No problem.
But outside my dream life he sings,
dream on, dream until your dreams come true…
The closest I’ll get to him, or anyone, might be
the distance between the stage and the audience,
or, translated, the distance between celebrity
and real life. Here I am on the couch and there
they are on the screen. Except for Michael.
Oh Michael. Where are you?

41 Days and Counting

I was surfing ye olde internets this p.m. and found this wonderful image of a Zaha Hadid building in Dubai. It's scheduled to be done in 2010. It's actually three buildings constructed with a hole in the center.
What does this tell us about post-modern skepticism of authority?
Well, hopefully it illustrates something about narrative, because it's going in the talk!
A little less anxious, as I have written maybe three pages. And I got some books from the library!
But I'm still counting down the days. But that doesn't mean I'm not also watching "American Idol." Thank god it's not two hours anymore. That's excessive.
Son thinks David Archuleta is going to win. I told him that I would buy him an ice cream sundae if he did! He probably will. Aside from him, all the boys were a little blah tonight.

Feeling a Little Nostalgic

Tonight I posted at TWIT about Idol. But I was feeling a little nostalgic for Chris. So watch this: Daughtry covers U2.
I hadn't seen it. And they're touring. Heads up, Erin Alice. They're coming your way!!

Am I Wrong?

Am I wrong to want to walk into class tomorrow and write on the board in big black letters: I DON'T CARE WHAT YOU THINK!?
Now first, is this true? The answer has to be yes. Having just read their discussion posts which were supposed to be rhetorical analyses but finding instead knee jerk diatribes about the content of the essay (which was about Hispanic-Americans and assimilation), I would have to say, yes, that I don't really want to hear their opinions about the essay so much as what the essay actually said. Not what they think it said, or what their personal experiences with the subject matter of the essay have led them to believe, but what the essay actually said.
Luckily tomorrow we will be talking about a selection from Everything Bad is Good For You, and not the essay about assimilation. I hope I never have to teach that essay again, because I will yell at them. I will. Yell.

Another diatribe in my head that I thought about blogging about was
You know you're not exercising if:
While walking on the treadmill you are talking on your cell phone. Please!! Save me from these people!
You can bench press 300 pounds but you can't see your knees because of your belly (yes, chubby guy with huge arms, I'm talking to you!)
After interacting with the exercise machine, you are not sweating.
After five minutes on the stationary bike, you stop to eat a granola bar and read a magazine.

See? At heart I am really a very mean person. Maybe it is because today is Tuesday, but it feels like Monday. Or maybe it's because I had to read a bunch of student posts. One was so nonsensical that I just stopped reading it. I had to. For my own sanity.
And then I had to watch "American Idol" to remember that the world is really full of idiots. And also that life is funny, just not always intentionally.

Word Whore

As I was telling someone last night, I'm just a word whore. I don't care if it's good, I'm just getting it down. I am taking to heart Anne Lamott's advice about Shitty First Drafts. It's shitty alright!
Yesterday started rough. I wrote 900 or so words and then Middlebrow (aka The Devil) said we should go out for lunch. We went to Lone Star (best fish tacos ever!!) and then to Target (we bought a lamp) and then to DSW (I got nothing; MB got thongs). Needless to say I despaired of ever meeting my word count.
But, on Mondays, Son goes over to a friend's house after school and gets home around 5. Somehow, in spite of leaping up every five minutes to quiet the dog, I managed to write 3,000 words.
Today was much the same. I ran, then stretched, then found various things to eat in the kitchen, etc. I wrote about 1,000 words, then ate some soup.
But, again, as the time for Son to return home neared, I managed to exceed my word count. I think I need the pressure of limited time.

Stats
Today's word count: 3,585
Summer word count: 20,736

(in other news, I think Jordin will win American Idol. I'll be watching!)

Camping Trip update: Not bad. I almost had a nervous breakdown trying to pack, but once there it was okay. I was happy to see someone else brought box wine, there were smores for everyone, and lots of good food. It was fun to socialize with the parents in a relaxing environment, even if there were four trains a night to wake us up. Oh well, it couldn't be absolutely perfect, could it?

Day Two: The Devil and Dr. Write

Day Two was less of a success. We took Son and Friend to get comic books. We stopped for coffee. Then we did go to the lovely library to "work" (word count: 927). We went out to lunch. We browsed at the bookstore (and ran into Signifying Nothing).
The Devil (aka Middlebrow) decided to buy wine. I will admit that I was the one who insisted on watching "American Idol." (It was Barry Gibb night. Come on!). But then the whole evening was a downhill slide into debauchery and media stimulation.
On the up side, we finished season five of "The Sopranos," so we are out from under that addiction, if only temporarily.
We also watched "Children of Men," which was intriguing and disappointing at the same time. And depressing. If that's the future, then we are going to start planning for our Quietus packs right now. Plus what film so under uses Julianne Moore? I mean really.
But now it's day three. Time to play catch up.

Addictions

I'm addicted to the following things, in no particular order:

• Potato chips (specifically: salt & vinegar, thai spice)
• Chips and Salsa
• Avocados
• Thai Food
• American Idol (we will now celebrate the departure of Sanjaya. Yeah!!)
• Chocolate (dark)
• Red Wine
• Crossword puzzles/sudoku (alternately)
• Listening to music late at night on my iPod when I should be sleeping
• Procrastination
• Girl Scout Thin Mint Cookies (in season)
• Rice
• Smoothies
• TV Shows that are in danger of being cancelled or that networks just stop showing (Love Monkey, Studio 60, Men in Trees)
• All of your blogs (you know who you are!!)
• Gossip (my new fave: Jake & Reese!)
• Imagining myself in really sexy outfits when I'm wearing khakis and tennis shoes (my uniform)
• Counter-transference
• Talking about stuff I really don't know about (Judith Butler?)
• Talking about all the stuff I'm working on when I'm really not doing anything
• Rewarding myself when I feel bad by eating bad stuff (see Potato Chips)
• End of the semester pep talks from self and MB ("It's all good! It's almost over!! Good job!!")
• Imagining dancing while listening to Shakira
• Protein
• Cookies
• Hugs from Son
• Sunshine
• Days with no school
• Saying I will do things that I'm not sure I can actually do (more on this after the 27th)
• Lists

On "American Idol"

Like most people, I am addicted to “American Idol.” And, like most people, I like to think I’m smarter than the rest of those idiots who watch “American Idol.” Unlike them, I have not watched every season of "American Idol," I do not vote on "American Idol," and, I am not obsessed with being on "American Idol." It’s because I can’t sing. I don’t even sing in the shower. Sometimes, when I’m alone in my 2001 Saturn SL, I crank up the factory installed FM radio and sing along with Rick Springfield doing “Jesse’s Girl.” I also like to sing along to the Talking Heads and Death Cab for Cutie, but in no way do I think this qualifies me to even stand in line to try out for "American Idol." I am not one of those non-singers who thinks that just because I agree with Simon, somehow I can sing. Nor am I one of those non-singers who tries out just so I can be on the humiliating worst-of outtakes and then claim, to anyone who will listen, “I was on ‘American Idol.’”
I would like to say that my ability to recognize my lack of talent in the singing department somehow makes me above it all, that unlike other Americans I don’t think I will somehow have my 15 seconds of fame, but it’s not true. My 15 seconds will come, eventually, when I receive a long-deserved literary prize for the novel I’m currently not-writing. Then all those people who didn’t get my artistic vision, who didn’t like the rhyming poems about penguins that I wrote in grade school, or the people who didn't get me in graduate school, who said things like "I don't like the main character. Why is she so angry?", all those people will be sorry, and will claim to have known me when, and when I’m walking around town in a long black evening gown and tiara, carrying my prize in my arms as if it were a newborn baby, I will snub them by turning away when they wave. Or perhaps I will condescend to give them a little smile that conveys, “Not now, little people, I’m busy.”
I know. I can’t claim to be smarter, or that I’m not prey to the little movie we all have in our heads, you know the one, the one where you look so amazing even you are a little in love with you, and the confetti falls from the rafters and everyone is clapping, and you see yourself with that “Who? Me?” look on your face, like you just can’t believe it, it’s finally happened, finally, everyone sees what a genius, what an amazing person you were all along, and finally you’re going to get an oversized check for a million dollars. The truth is, we all have that little movie in our heads. Maybe it’s part of human evolution. Where cave men would draw paintings of themselves killing a giant mammoth, we make movies in our heads where we finally get what we think we deserve. It keeps us alive. Maybe these narracisstic little movies help us get up in the morning, even if we never change out of our pajamas.
Maybe that’s why 52 million of us love American Idol. Because while we’re watching 24 singers compete for one title, we believe that our little success fantasies could come true. It’s the American Dream, small town nobody becomes big time superstar and starts dating Justin Timberlake and/or Brittney Spears. It could happen. Or at least we need to believe it can. And isn’t that why TV is so popular? We need to believe that someone’s life is better than ours. Or we need to believe that we are better, more talented, smarter than someone else. I know I am. I'm better than all those other idiots out there who are thinking the exact same thing.