The new CW logo may look like crop circles gone horribly wrong, but their Sneak Peek video pimpin' my favorite show? TOTALLY makes up for it! Click it! You'll see. Do it. Do it. Do it... Do it.
link | posted by Cat at 1:51 PM
My youngest daughter, my Alli, she's a firecracker, I tell you what. A lit firecracker, too, not one of those calm and innocent-looking sparklers sitting quietly-- unobtrusively, even-- in a box just waiting for some poor sucker to come along and set her off, oh no, she's on FIRE all the time-- running around, dancing, laughing, gossiping, touching, eating, bouncing, asking, complaining, whining, giggling, performing, singing, and talking, talking, talking-- until she drops into bed from sheer exhaustion at the end of the day. Honestly. She crawls into bed and without fail wails, "Mom! I'm not tired!" Yet before I can tell her to hush and just close her eyes, she's gently snoring, her animated face all at once serene, peaceful at last. When she's awake I find her adorable and loud and high maintenance and frustrating, but when she's asleep? She's truly beautiful.
Now, according to my mother, she's my spitting image.
Speaking of, exactly who is responsible for thinking up such a vile idiom, I wonder? Who felt the compulsion to set that gem of figurative language into linguistic stone, if you will, to be used forevermore, yes, from generation to generation, to express that one's child or friend or brother or dog is so much like another person it is uncanny? Come on! Spitting image?! I mean, when one takes a moment to conjure a literal image in one's mind, the cognitive dissonance alone... Well. Because "spitting image"? As in, she looks like my spit? Or she acts/looks/speaks so much like me it's as if I spit her right out of my mouth? What?! That's just ridiculous! And ew? I assure you, spitting her out of my mouth probably would have been less painful. Then again I suppose we should simply be grateful that the genius behind this quirky figure of speech didn't go with the more literal "she's my vaginal image" or possibly the less graphic "hoo-hah image." But counterintuitive belief persistence aside, my spitting image she is, and I went and said it, so there it is. [/tangent]
I have to agree with my momma on this one. She should know, she is the one who cursed me to "havechildrenjustlike[me]somedaysohelp[her]God!" Now it has been related to me several times throughout my life that my best friend's mother-- her name was (is) Sandy and I loathe that name to this day, I am so not kidding, grrr... HATE-- once told my mother while in my 6- or 7-year-old presence, "Wow. That girl has diarrhea of the mouth. Does she ever shut up?!" I admit I do not remember this. In other news: I have the attention span of a gnat fly. I do, however, vividly remember catching a ride to school with my BFF one day and her mother singing at the top of her lungs "Short People Have No Reason to Live" while looking at me pointedly in her rearview mirror. And yes, I WAS the shortest person in my grade, and no, her meaning was not lost on me. But that is neither here nor there, so I will persevere, despite my Sandy issues. Anyhoo, short story long, as a child I talked a whole bunch. (Yes, TGIM, "as a child"! What?! Stop laughing! SHUT! UP!)
The thing is, I cannot tell you how often I look at my youngest daughter and think to myself, Good lord, will she EVER stop talking? Will she? Because DAMN! I mean, honestly... This nonstop Alli Chatter begs the million dollar question: Hello? If she never stops talking, when the hell will it be my turn?
I know, right?! This parenting gig is hard, yo?
Come on. Seriously. Why do all y'all think I started blogging in the first place?
Word? Edgewise?... Are you there yet?
Firecracker! Firecracker! Boom boom BOOOOOOOOOOM.
Last evening I came to a startling and not altogether happy realization. A realization that rocked me to the core. A realization that struck at the very essence of my young(ish) womanly being. A realization that forced me to question the efficaciousness of my God-given feminine wiles. A realization that sent home the message: "Use it or lose it, baby."
Allow me to elucidate:
Last night TGIM and I made a run for the grocery store, in dire need of potatoes. You know, because baked potatoes are tasty? And as the in-laws are visiting we're thinking, "Huh. We better make some tasty food." Because that is what good hosts do. Even when our guests have commandeered my very own bedroom and are sleeping in my very own bed with my very own super comfy down blanket and I have to sleep on the couch because I can't sleep on the futon in the kids room because, duh, I wake up at 4:16 a.m. (I like evens, okay?!) and how rude to be all, "La la la! I'll just set my alarm for 4:16 a.m. and wake everybody up at that God-forsaken hour just because I am too selfish to go downstairs and sleep on the couch when there is a super comfy futon bed upstairs." Right?
But I digress.
So, we (TGIM and I? Sheesh, keep up!) approached the potatoes and TGIM's all, "Cat, help me find small ones," and I go, "Ooooh! Sweet potatoes!" because I love sweet potatoes and there they were, right next to the Russet potatoes and at that very moment I suddenly craved a baked sweet potato-- with loads of butter... and salt and pepper-- so bad it hurt. Hurt so good. And TGIM's all, "Cat?" so I impatiently waved him over to the already bagged potatoes, as everyone knows they are always WAY smaller than the loose ones, GOSH. So TGIM wanders away and I'm feeling up every darn sweet potato in the bin because that's how you find the tasty ones, and suddenly this cute, young guy approaches me.
Yes. A cute, young guy! Approached me!
So there I am just feeling up those sweet potatoes like nobody's business, when this guy gets right up next to me and starts feeling up the sweet potatoes, too. Feeling up my potatoes!
So I'm thinking to myself, The bastard! He is totally trying to filch all the best sweet potatoes! And being the competitive person I am, I renew my search in earnest because no friggin' way am I letting him pilfer my potatoes. Man. You should have seen me in action. I was a potato-picking maniac, rummaging like the dickens, throwing potatoes hither and thither... I must say I can be extraordinarily thorough when the chips are down... (Get it? Chips? Because... potatoes? Whatever, moving on...)
"Mmm. Sweet potatoes," he says, picking up one I had just discarded (too big).
So I mumble something like, "I know, right?" because I had just found the best little sweet potato ever and I was busy grabbing a bag in which to put it before I accidentally dropped it back into the bin or some such disaster and this guy freaking snaked it.
"I mean, how do you know which ones are good?" he asks me, holding up an extra large sweet potato.
Feeling gracious, as I had already bagged two more perfect specimens and was now finished with my sweet potato shopping, I reveal my secret: "They're fat, smooth, and smallish." I am proud to tell you I even spotted a good one and handed it over to him. This is called sharing.
He drops the mammoth potato he is holding, takes the one I hand him, and begins rummaging the pile again. "Sooooo, short and fat?" he asks, looking up at me, and I finally notice that this guy? Well, he's kind of cute. I shall forevermore call him Cute Guy. Note it.
I am embarrassed to admit that I chose this moment to revert to my twelve-year-old self. Short and thick does the trick! I thought, my inner twelve-year-old giggling like mad. It's not the size of the boat, but the motion of the ocean!
It is a personal testament to my growing maturity that I had the presence of mind to keep this amusing gem of an inner monologue to myself, as my filter doesn't always work, if you know what I'm saying. Unfortunately my face betrayed me, as I blushed deeply and fought a losing battle with the huge grin threatening to make an appearance. And damned if I didn't feel a giggle fit coming on, too. Because It's not the size of the boat, but the motion of the ocean? That's comic gold.
Realizing that if I continued to repress, the modicum of self-control I was employing would likely burst like a dam and all that twelve-year-old hilarity would just tumble out all over this poor guy, who, after all, was just trying to buy a sweet potato. So I look around for TGIM, knowing he'd appreciate my witticisms, but he's nowhere to be found. Then I catch a glimpse of him slinking over to the fruit section, casting furtive glances my way. Of course, I'm like, What is his damage?
Cute Guy smiles and says something else to me, but I don't really hear him as I am too busy trying to figure out why TGIM is suddenly playing Dr. Watson to my Sherlock in the produce section of the supermarket. I flash a grin at Cute Guy before I take off after TGIM. This is called manners.
"Why did you ditch me?" I ask after finally chasing TGIM down in the melon section. I don't know why I remember that we were amongst melons, I just do. I'm weird that way. Work with me.
TGIM just looks at me with his trademark huge, fabulously cheesy grin. "That guy was totally flirting with you!" Shrug. "I wanted to see how it played out."
"He was NOT flirting with me."
"Oh, yes he was."
"No, he wasn't. See, he wanted to know how to pick a good sweet potato and I'm like-- seriously, TGIM, this is super funny, listen--"
"Cat, the dude didn't care about the potatoes. He was flirting with you."
"Wait, what? He was?" I think about it for a minute. "Naaaaaah... really? You think?"
I have to admit, at this moment I'm feeling a little puffed up in my own esteem. Cute Guy was flirting with me. The only people who ever (used to) flirt with me were the 17- and 18-year-old high school senior boys I used to teach, and that was always awkward and completely one-sided. Not to mention squicky to the tenth, yo? (And to squelch the subsequent jokes let me clarify that this flirting was always awkward for me and completely one-sided on their part. I can't help it that I look deceptively young! And I didn't even know what MILF meant at the time! Hand to God! Which is a good thing or I may have been held liable for kicking some perverted teenaged ass.)
Then it hits me. "O!M!G! Do you know what this means?" Off his I Never Know What The Hell You're Talking About EVER So Please Just Tell Me look, I do just that. "It means my radar is broken! Or at least badly damaged... Dude I'm, like, radar-challenged!... Whoa. What if guys have been flirting with me for years and I haven't even NOTICED?"
We laughed. And then I shared the conversation I had with Cute Guy and my subsequent descent into bad, dirty thoughts. Because I'm a bad, dirty girl. Just bad all around. And dirty. Seriously, my mind is in the gutter, I tell you what. And then we laughed even harder. Because TGIM gets me.
But later I came to the unpleasant realization that as a result of my rusty radar, I had been missing out on my God-given right as a young(ish) woman to exercise my feminine wiles in a flirting situation. What if guys have been flirting with me for years and I just didn't know it? I know, right?! I mean, how am I supposed to accurately assess my self-worth if I don't even know that Cute Guys of the world are flirting with me? Oh! Woe! The opportunities missed!
Then again, if Kelly is to be believed, I don't suppose I've missed out on much. I guess I will just have to let it go. But I am currently boning up on flirtatious witticisms that are appropriate to share with members of the opposite sex who may or may not be flirting, so I will be prepared next time. Smart, right? Eh?
Heh. I said "boning."
Sorry, still too traumatized by the sight of David Hasselhoff crying tears of joy at Taylor's coronation to form coherent thoughts. My eyes! They burn. And this is not even to mention the fact that Toni Braxton officially scares the bejeebies out of me! She scares the hell out of Taylor, too, if I'm not mistaken, and I'm pretty sure I'm not because did you SEE his face when they were singing (or, rather, he was singing and she was doing... whatever) and she grabbed his hand and was all, "Touch me here, bitch!" Good lord. Un-Freak My Heart.
In other news: Mandy Moore thinks Taylor's the shiznit. Mandy freaking Moore!
Even though they do it every year, when Ryan does the whole I'm Just Standing in the Dark La La La-Psyche!-We're in the Kodak Theater, Baby! reveal I'm all, "Oooooh! Aaaaah..." Every single time. Because of the bright lights? And the three tiers of balconies? And the thousands of adoring fans? Some of them celebrities? Honestly. How geeky am I?
Oooh, looky! It's Mandy Moore! Hey, Mandy! Loved you in Saved! Hilary Faye rocked it when she threw that Bible at Mary and was all, "I am FILLED with Christ's love! You are just jealous of my success in the Lord." Remember that? And then she was like, "I told you! How great is Jesus?" Remember? Heh. That was awesome.
Oh my LORD. Is that... could it be... no... is that... could that be Constantine? Over by Bucky? And Kellie (with those stank-ass hair extensions removed so she actually looks way cute)? It IS?! Um, okay, I officially request to no longer be considered his fan, guys. Get out of my living room, stinky man, and go take a shower! Wash that hair! And for the love of God, get some sleep. Then we'll talk.
Now, without further ado...
Black Horse and the Cherry Tree: Nicely done. Kickass drummers. But just not as sexy as last time. Where were the hot and dirty blues? So sad.
Over the Rainbow: Damn. I repeat, damn. (*fans self*) And how cute was her giddiness about starting the song on key despite a mysterious earpiece malfunction? So, SO cute, that's how cute!
My Destiny: Good GOD. Bring back Inside your Heavenly Hoo-Hah, yo? AI totally sandbagged my girl with that original song, and by original I mean "so sucky no one else will sing it so we shall force one of the AI finalists to perform it in front of millions of people because she can't say 'No effing way!'" Come on. It was not even remotely suited to her voice and was obviously written by some cliche-addicted songwriter who-- apparently lost in the 90's-- said to herself, "I know what this song needs... gospel singers!" You know, instead of playful, heartfelt lyrics and a melody in at least the same zip code as the singer's range?
Making her sing that song was like handing her a beat-up old Schwinn and telling her to race the Tour de France with it. And she totally knew it, didn't she? I mean, she couldn't even pretend to like the song. You could see her just give it up halfway through.
That being said, Kat? Pleats + Bow + Finale Dress = Oh, HELL No. My advice? Get a new stylist. STAT.
Poor Kitty Kat.
Living for the City: Shut UP, Taylor's jacket. I'm trying to listen. Oooh! I'm so happy he brought back the funky Life in the City circular dance move of joy! I've been practicing that one, y'all. I had to rewind so I could dance it with him. I HAD to. Woo! Definitely his best performance of the night.
Oh, and Paula? Maybe your top did exactly match with Taylor's crushed velvet jacket (good LORD), but I can't say for sure because after I hit the floor, having been rudely shoved out of TGIM'S line of vision amid his excited yells of "Look! Her left boob! That's sucker's about to pop right out of her top!", I think I may have lost consciousness for a moment. Floor's hard. I'm thinking we should install carpeting. So put the girls away, you maniac.
Levon: Eh. Not bad, but not his best, either. And I absolutely adore this song, too, so color me disappointed.
Do I Make You Proud: Oh, yes, honey, you do. Good on you, Tay. Good on you. Just keeping it real, dawgs [/Randy's voice], Taylor was off during the first part of the song, but once he dropped the dreck and unleashed the woo! and the Soul Patrol! ticks, he found his groove (and his key) and did it Taylor-style. Which is-- to me, anyway-- a GOOD thing. Dude's soul is in his voice. And he makes me smile. I think that's worth something.
Oh my goodnes, how much must the AI producers hate Chris? Because showing Chris' murderous WHO IN THE WHAT NOW?! face in the video during Daniel Powter's Bad Day performance was all sorts of cruel. I was like, "Guys! He's sitting right there!" Cruel, I tell you. Yet, still funny. No matter how may times I see it. He's just so PISSED, you know? Hee hee.
Sooooo... although I think both performers did well tonight-- Kat finally using her head voice and whatnot, and Taylor just being Taylor-- I have to say I (woo!) think Taylor (soulpatrolsoulpatrolsoulpatrol!hahahaha!soulpatrol!woo!) has the AI title signed, sealed, and delivered. Of course, we'll have to sit through two excruciating hours of filler, guest performances, sappy videos from home, and painful Top 10 group sings (Chicken Little! GAH!) before we hear the news officially, but hey, I'm willing to power through. For posterity's sake, naturally.
According to Insider TV here are the song choices for the contestants (all predicitons subject to change at the whim of AI Gods):
Taylor Hicks: Levon by Elton John and Living for the City by Stevie Wonder. The new single he'll be performing is Do I Make You Proud, written by Tracy Ackerman, Andrew John Watkins and Paul David Wilson.
Katharine McPhee: Over the Rainbow (old standard) and Black Horse and the Cherry Tree by KT Tunstall. The new single she'll perform is called My Destiny, written by Hanne Sorvaag.
It's a toss-up, y'all. Tonight you will either join the Soul-Patrol...
or catch the McPheever.
Just remember. You cannot be Switzerland tonight. If you vote for both, you cancel yourself out. Come on. Just pick a side already.
But if (*sigh*) Kat does that sexy, bouncy, on the floor dancing thing again while singing Black Horse and the Cherry Tree, well, then (Woo!) Taylor better (Woo!... Woo!) sing the HELL out of Levon (Soul Patrol!) or I can't be held responsible for where my vote will be heading, that's all I'm saying.
It is my firm belief that there are evil, Faustian forces at work on the set of all the most popular soap operas on television. No, really. I wll explain, but first a little background:
I admit to being a Days of Our Lives fan back in the halcyon days of my youth, thanks to an open high school campus and a standing lunch date at my BFF's house. After we ate, we would wander down to the basement where her mother would be glued in front of the television set, shushing us and recapping at the same time.
"I can't believe Jennifer is falling in love with Jack after what he did to Kayla..."
"Marlena just found out that Roman isn't really her husband, but actually a man named John Smith who was brainwashed by Stefano DiMera to think he's Roman Brady, and now her real husband, the real Roman Brady, is back in town..."
"Victor Kiriakis had an affair with Caroline Brady and he's Bo's real father, not Shawn..."
I even dabbled in The Young and the Restless for a few summers-- you know, due to the slammin' theme music?-- but even Nadia's Theme (and special appearances by rocker Michael Damian) couldn't keep me interested. I was strictly a one-soap-opera gal. I still like the song, though. I play it often on my piano. Because it's pretty, yo?
And I must own up to being the driving force behind my mother's Days obsession. It wasn't my fault, really. It's not like I forced her to watch the recorded episodes with me every day after school during those three weeks she stayed with me caring for my six-week-old baby boy when I had to go back to work. That's all on her. Sorry, Mom. I'm just sayin'.
Honestly, though. Who could resist? Well, I could, actually, once they introduced the whole Marlena Is Possessed By The Devil storyline. One glimpse of Marlena floating in the air with red, devilish eyes, shouting and spitting in the most embarrassingly cheesy devil-voice imaginable, and that was it for me. The end of my rope. I stopped cold turkey, and I have never looked back.
Unfortunately for my mom, it took several more years of ridiculous supernatural storylines, rapidly aging babies (from two-years-old to sixteen! In one summer!), and retconning galore before she saw the proverbial light and switched off the madness.
But what does all this have to do with evil, Faustian forces at work on the set of all the most popular soap operas on television? It's simple really.
Every day during lunch at my workplace, a surprisingly large crowd of employees (of both sexes) park their butts at the tables in the lounge, break out their lunches, and tune in to The Young and the Restless. And these people? Well, let's just say they are active participants in the show.
"Oh, no, she did not just say that!"
"Girl, you better watch him..."
"She better slap his face for that... OH! That had to hurt!"
"Mm mm mm... Those Abbotts are no good."
And sometimes I-- while waiting for a free microwave, naturally-- may wander in and catch a glimpse or two of what is going down in Genoa City, and lately it has occurred to me that there MUST be this pact that I have described. Because seriously, guys? These actors? Over the past 18 years or so? They have not aged. Not one little bit.
[cue Twilight Zone theme music here]
I know, right?!
Thus the evil, Faustian forces at work, as the cast members have obviously entered into some sort of pact with the devil to retain their youthful beauty. I half-expect that if one were to search the back closets or rarely-used prop rooms on set, that hidden away behind a great curtain one would find portraits of all the cast members, portraits that are aged and bear the actors sins while their own outward appearances on screen remain beautiful and unchanged.
Hey, I'm just saying that if someone finds the bloated body of an ugly old woman with a knife in her heart, lying next to a portrait of, say, Nikki Newman or Ashley Abbott, as beautiful as she was eighteen years ago, I wouldn't be surprised.
And yes, I do have far too much time on my hands at work.
WHAT?! An HOUR for an American Idol results show? REALLY? Good lord.
So, I finally got a chance to watch the elimination show and oh my goodness I just about choked I was laughing so hard! While eating chips! And super spicy hot salsa! Which... ouch?! Anyhoos, other than a few minor hiccoughs (Hello? Clive Davis? This is not the Academy Awards! Someone cue the music! Please! SOMEONE CUE THE MUSIC!), this was a pretty solid piece of fluffy AI goodness. And if I busted a tear or two when Elliott was eliminated it was only because I was probably still choking on one of those stupid tortilla chips and I can't help it if I get way emotional when I am totally PMS-ing and in desperate need of anything in the chocolate family so SHUT! UP!
Taylor dancing with Kat and Elliott during his song. Very cute. They all honestly seem to like each other.
Paula Abdul crying with Elliott. It was like her face was melting, guys! For serious! FREAKY.
Kat singing "Think" which is one of my very favoritest Aretha Franklin tunes, like, ever. How hot was that?! So, so hot, that's how much! With the shoelessness? And the amazing voice? And the table dancing? And the sassy leaning over to sing to Randy? And the coyly talking to Simon during the song? And doing that cute little hop in a circle thing while singing? HOT!
Oh, and Kat Snaked at her old high school. She SNAKED! Did you see?! Did you?! Kat knows how to Snake. Wicked cool.
Simon picking at his lip and totally ignoring Clive Davis during Clive's excruciatingly boring two-hour-long speech.
The Elliott fan down in Richmond, VA, who I shall forever remember fondly as Crazy Dancing Camera Lady, who could not freaking hold it together long enough to take a damn picture. Boy is she gonna be PISSED when she realizes she didn't get the shot. Oh, and that AI showed her wig the hell out and fall apart on national TV in front of millions of viewers... Heh. Heh heh. BWAH! hahahaha! hahahaha! hohoho! hahahaha! Hoo! OH MY LORD, y'all. I had to keep rewinding because Tanner and I couldn't stop rolling around on the bed laughing hysterically, holding our stomachs, with tears rolling down our faces... And then we had to reenact her crazy jig of hysterical joy for each other and laugh again and watch it some more, and then we called Hannah and showed her (twice) and then we reenacted it for her and she reenacted it for us and we all laughed until we almost puked. Ahh. Seriously. These are the moments, guys. That's what family is ABOUT. See? AI's bringing people together and whatnot! SEE WHAT YOU'RE MISSING, KRISTINE?!
I can't wait until TGIM gets home. There will be a mad rush to the door to see who can get to him first with the reenactment of Crazy Dancing Camera Lady's jig of hysterical joy. It's gonna be crazy because my kids may look all sweet and innocent, but they can SHOVE like the dickens and will probably trample me in their effort to reach TGIM first. Whatever. Like I couldn't dropkick the lot of them. But I won't! Because that would be WRONG.
I'm off to cue up the TiFaux in readiness for TGIM.
Okay, today it is officially official. Veronica Mars is back for a full season of 22 episodes. Huzzah!
It's a good thing the CW picked up my show, I tell you what, or I would have had to go all Veronica Mars on their asses.
Oy! Veronica Mars! Congratulations on your graduation...
...to your new network.
Thank you, Rob...
... for creating riveting, complex characters who captured my heart.
... for creating television that is witty, hip, pretty, and seriously well-dressed.
... for story continuity and having a PLAN for the season.
... for listening to your fans (but not too much) and admitting mistakes.
... for blue flashbacks, cynical voice-overs, new-age noir, and old-style detective work.
... for working tirelessly to create a show worthy of the insane over-analysis it inspires.
... for hiring some of the best up-and-coming actors in the biz (and reviving some of the out-going)
... for the best damn father-daughter dynamic on television.
... for Veronica Mars.
P.S. Rob? Logan needs to take his shirt of more often, mm'kay?
Preferably in the presence of Veronica. Who may or may not be topless. Your call, big guy. Thanks!
(Because it was shorter than Bovine Spongiform Encephalopathy... duh.)
And that, my friends, is what we Convertible Drivers (that would include me! I'm a convertible driver! me! me!) call Whooped Up Crazy Ass Car Hair.
Yep. It's just one of the many indignities we Convertible Drivers (ooh! ooh! me! me!) suffer for looking way cute in our fuel-efficient totally not family-friendly vehicles. Another indignity would be the whole ratio of bugs to teeth increasing significantly thing... but whatever! Because cute!
Well, excepting the Whooped Up Crazy Ass Car Hair, that is.
Well apparently the judges and my wee Ryan are all about bringing back the UN!COMFORTABLE! But I have to give the judges their props, yo? They successfully picked the absolute perfect songs to showcase the singers' individual talents tonight. Very astute. I'm impressed. On the other hand, Clive Davis? On crack. Every year he picks the most ridiculous songs for the contestant. Hello? I Believe I Can Fly? Are you freaking kidding me, Clive?! Geesh.
My Completely Biased, Personally Opinionated Recap (proceed at your own risk.)
Open Arms: Why you gotta be like that, dawg? Picking one of Journey's bestest songs ever to freaking bleat out? And don't think I didn't notice that you COMPLETELY EFFED UP THE LYRICS. Good LORD, man. I can't even look at you right now. Effed up the lyrics! To Open Arms! I can't believe they let that obvious transposition pass. Wait, yes I can. The freakers. (But seriously, good save...) Honestly. Just don't be messing with Journey, dude. Step away from Journey. Speaking of, RANDY was in Journey? What the?! Who now?!
(Ryan and I both interrupted Paula at the exact same moment during her rainbow, puppies, fluffy clouds and flowers speech with, "But WHY did you pick the song?!" Heh. Me and Ry-Ry would so be BFF's.) (Call me.)
Some boring song I don't know: Meh. I'm sorry! I want to feel more than meh towards you, dude! You're all wee and Mr. Tumnusy, but COME. ON. Solid vocal, but boring. I'm sorry!
Another snoozer I totally don't know, GOSH: Not so much vibra-a-a-a-a-a-to. A little more personality, I suppose. Overall, tonight for you? Big bag o' suckage, man. I am so, so sorry.
I Believe I Can Fly: Wow. So, SO pretty! Not the song, I hated the song (because it is ridiculously stupid to believe you can fly and R. Kelly is a total perv, so there you go). I'm talking about you, girl. Good GOD, you look fabulous in that icy blue dress! And the shoes! My goodness, the shoes! That being said, when Randy of all people starts with "You look beautiful tonight...", the rest ain't gonna be pretty and that's God's honest truth. Stupid Clive and his stupid-ass songs.
("It's about song choice..." "Well, I didn't pick it!" Give 'em hell, Kat.)
Somewhere over the Rainbow: Ruby slippers! Ruby slippers! Did you see? Did you?! Awesome. Gah. About three-fourths of the way through the performance I turned to TGIM and said, "Dude, I think I just had an orgasm." 'Nuff said.
(How cute was Ryan telling Kat "that was beautiful..." all genuine and stuff? So, so cute! Even Ryan loves Kat! And he's... not gay!)
Ain't Got Nothing But the Blues: It pains me to admit this, but Simon was kinda, sorta... okay, totally right. You picked a cheesy musical theater type of song to end with (no offense intended Miz Ella. I'm just sayin'). Duh. But you can sing and you were having fun with it, and that? Totally counts for something.
Dancing in the Dark: This was the only song Clive got right. The more I hear, the more I love. The voice is husky, soulful (Woo! Soul Patrol! Hahaha! Wooooooo!), and completely recognizable as Taylor Hicks. And you went there. (He went there, y'all!) You pulled a BossMan Courtney Cox MTV move with Paula! You so did. Then you totally left her hanging, but hey, she worked it out. Straight up! Man. I miss Friends. The early years, naturally.
You are So Beautiful: Yeah, I hate this song, and all I hear is Alfalfa from the Little Rascals movie singing to Darla, "Yew awre so buh-yew-tiful..." but even Joe Cocker was all "daaayum!" when you hit that falsetto. Awesome. Besides looking extraordinarily constipated-- no, seriously, eat more bran-- I could literally see you feeling the song. Really feeling it. In your soul. So amazing. It brought out all of the best parts of you as a vocalist and a performer. "SoulpatrolsoulpatrolsoulpatrolsoulpatrolwooooosoulpatrolwooooosoulpatrolsoulpatrolWOO!" (Um, is he broken, guys? No? Phew!) For reals, dude, know when to cut. it. out.
Try a Little Tenderness: When you said you were going to sing this song, I was like, "YES!" (*fist pump*) and then I was all, "WOO! Soul Patrol!" We have established I am a complete dork, right? Everyone clear? Okay. I mean, ever since I saw Ducky "The Duckman" Dale lip synch and get down with his bad self to this song in the John Hughes classic "Pretty in Pink," I have loved it. LOVED it! And Taylor? You SO nailed it. And yes, that ending was ridiculous. (*hugs Taylor*) Signed, sealed, and delivered to the finale, my friend. Absofreakinglutely.
Okay. Here's the thing. The clear choice for the finale, in my humble opinion, would be Kat and Taylor.
Elliott is a great guy, he really is, but he doesn't have IT. He wants IT. I'm sure he'd buy IT if he could. He thinks a little IT would be oh-so nice. But really, he just doesn't have IT. And in all honesty, the American Idol should have IT, right?
Kat. She is having a hard time emotionally in this competition, not so much with her singing, but during the elimination phase. When those eliminations come around? Barf-O-Rama. How do you think she's lost so much weight? Huh? Just sayin'. Aaaaaand that, my friends, is how rumors get started. Let that be a lesson to us all. Anyhoos, what a fantastic, versatile, gifted vocalist. She is defintely the most technically proficient singer in the competition. She admittedly hits a spot in her upper register that comes off as slightly shrill, but I don't find it unappealing, and it does make her sound distinctive. And hot DAMN she's purty, and she can put on a show like nobody's bidness. I'd pay money to see her on Broadway. But I don't think she is American Idol material. And I mean that in the GOOD way.
But Taylor. Taylor, Taylor, Taylor. You either adore him or you loathe him, and I happen to adore him. I know he's spazzy and constipated and a freak of nature, but dude's got PRESENCE, which is what Elliott is lacking, and what Kat is just figuring out. I absolutely love when he gets all spazzy, I'm all, "Help! He's seizing! He's seizing! He's-- Oh, my bad. He's just gettin' jiggy." And then he's belting it out and even if I turn away, I still enjoy the song just as much as if I were watching it because he is just that charismatic. I'd pay to see him in concert. I'd buy his CD's, too. For reals. I don't care! I would! He has a distinct, soulful, husky sound that appeals to me. I can't deny it.
I definitely think Taylor is the frontrunner, the one to beat. I do. Note it.
But whatever, because up until last week I thought Chris was The Chosen One, and we all know how that turned out, so really, what do I know? America is a fickle lover.
Random Thought #1: It's official! BOOYAH! Now start watching the show already, people! Geesh. Best. Show. EVER.
Random Thought #2: My 8-year-old daughter came into the room as I was re-watching the finale of Veronica Mars, specifically the showdown between Veronica and the season 2 Big Bad. (I won't give it away in case all y'all are planning on watching the repeats starting this Tuesday. At 9/8 central. On UPN.) She proceeded to snuggle up and watch the show with me, which 1) aaaaaw! CUTE, and 2) is no surprise. She adores Buffy, too, but of course I haven't let her watch beyond Season 1. Because what kind of mother would I BE allowing her to watch later seasons?! Huh? With all the Vampire (s)Laying?
Damn it. What was I talking about?
Aw, just messin'! Anyhoos, she didn't really have much to say about the scene at the time (other than it kicked ass! but not in those exact words, of course, because what kind of mother would I BE if I let my 8-year-old say things like "kicked ass"?! Huh?!) but it was obviously preying on her mind because a few days later she blurted out this non-sequitur during dinner: "Bad guys on TV are stupid. They talk so long that the people they are trying to kill get away. I mean, they should just shoot 'em already."
I don't know whether to be proud of her for so quickly discerning the tragic exposition flaw most TV shows succumb to when their hero is in a tight spot (often called "The Scooby-Dooism") or to be absolutely horrified by her utter callousness... Okay, I'm going with the former. Because as the VM season 2 Big Bad would say, "Well, if this is what you need to do to feel better about yourself..."
Random Thought #3: I would like to preface this confession with some strong words about the outrageous price of gas these days and how we should all be driving smaller, fuel-efficient vehicles, even if they are not at all practical when one has a biggish family... because one needs more than two seats to fit said biggish family and why buy a second car if it only has two seats when one has five people who need to crowd into it, even if one does already have a fuel-efficient mid-sized family car perfect for traveling and tooling around the city? Because gas is freakishly EXPENSIVE, that's why!
That being said, TGIM bought me the cutest little convertible Mazda Miata!
It hugs the curves and has killer acceleration. I am so going to get a ticket soon, but I don't even care. It can GO. And it has four on the floor (although technically that should be five, but I couldn't think of a rhyme for five-- jive? chive?-- so go with me here), which means I. HAVE. THE. POWER. Standard transmission, baby! (*pumps fist*) I know that most people these days prefer to go automatic, but I'll take the stick any day. Okay, that came out sounding a lot more pervy than I meant it to. Then again, there was that time that me and a bunch of friends crowded into my sister's automatic transmission (wuss!) and I-- used to my own stick shift, mind you-- went to change gears and violently grabbed and clenched the crotch of my very surprised best guy friend. Good times. But I digress.
Seriously, my dad taught me to drive in a junky old Ford pickup truck on the back roads of Prescott, Arizona, and let me tell you, by the time I was ready for my license, I had that stick shift thing down COLD. Where others-- meaning people like my sister, Jenny, good LORD she was a wreck when she drove-- yes, others would be all freaking out at being stopped at the light at the top of the big hill on Gurley Street because what if the car rolled backward and hit the truck that was so stupidly right up on the back bumper? But not I! Oh no! I would tread that fine line between holding the gas and letting out the clutch, and I would not roll an inch when that line turned green. Power, I tell you. POWER. And the car gets awesome gas mileage, too, so it's win-win!
Plus, I look super cute in it.
Okay, there I was yesterday, a click away from erasing the unwatched AI results show from my TiFaux (yes, I totally skipped it last week... what?!) when I had a wild hair and thought to myself, Self? What the hey? So I pressed PLAY, and-- boy howdy!-- am I ever glad I did!
Honestly. Not only did my wee Ryan rock the house in his black-on-black ensemble (mini-rawr!), but for the first time this season, America managed to make the show interesting for me. No, seriously. I don't usually rewatch the results show-- honestly, lately I haven't watched at all, I've just fast-forwarded straight to the results-- but I rewatched this one. Twice. Then made TGIM watch it. Once. (What? There are limits to my abilities, y'all.) And to think I almost erased it unseen. Phew!
First of all, "Go, Kat! GO!" Good golly, Miss Molly... how hell-a-sexy was THAT?! One for the money, indeed. Nice moves, girl. NICE. Yep. I've been practicing that one all weekend, I tell you what. I'm gonna break it out one of these days, totally knock TGIM's socks off, you know.
Matter of fact, that whole Elvis medley seriously rocked. And why didn't Kat sing Are You Lonesome Tonight in the actual competition because PRETTY? They all looked like they were cutting loose, just having fun, and darned if I didn't enjoy watching it. And I am pretty sure I caught a glimpse of Simon clapping, guys, which just goes to show, right? I mean, Chris even smiled during Love Me Tender. Smiled! I know, right?! And he didn't even do that annoying foot-stampy thing too terribly much! And I especially liked it when they got to Burning Love because next to Suspicious Minds that's my absolute fave and did you see Kat and Taylor getting all crazy dancing together? I frickin' loved that. TGIM was all "Wow, Kat's got an ass on her" and I was like "You just noticed? Now sshhhhhh!" and he was like, "Well, I didn't say that was a bad thing" and I was all, "SSHHH!" And then I had to rewind and watch that part again. Yep. Good times.
Because second? Best. Result Show. EVER.
Among Ryan's cold-blooded segue into the elimination, the awesome Elvis medley group sing, Taylor's Jailhouse Rock redux, the surprisingly cute Kermit commercial, and Chris' barely-contained fury at being eliminated, that was the most fun I've had all season! I'm not even kidding. When Taylor started his encore Jailhouse Rock by breaking down his funky rhythm with Elliott's momma, I giggled, and didn't stop giggling until the drummer quit messing with him and ended the song so Taylor could revive from that seizure he was having on the stage. Dude just makes me laugh, what can I say? Good thing that was a fast song, though, because I've never heard some of those lyrics he was singing up there. But, hey... bonus points for creativity.
Seriously, when all hell breaks loose on live television, that's reality TV at its finest. I mean, the look on Simon's face alone made this results show worth the precious minutes of my day spent NOT obsessing about whether or not Veronica Mars will be renewed.
But I did notice that not so much talking went on after Ryan heartlessly crumpled Chris' dreams and spat upon them and drop-kicked them to the curb. Was it shock? Joy? Relief? Nausea? What? SO uncharacteristic of AI. I mean, Paula didn't even give her "Oh, Chris... you moved me..." speech. The hell?
To rectify this anomaly I have documented my own interpretation of what really happened that evening. It went down a little something like this:
Chris: What in the which where? WHO IN THE WHAT NOW?!
Kat: Nuh-freaking-uh! SHUT! UP!... okay, have I looked sad long enough? Can I Snoopy Dance now? Can I shake my boo-tay?
Taylor and Chris: YES! (*elbow pump*)
Randy: Dawg... I don't know... You laid it down, man... America?... Dude...
Paula: (*totally puking under the judges' table.*)
Simon: Well that's just PERFECT. America? You got it completely and utterly wrong... Good lord, we are effing screwed.
So, Chris was pissed-- like, seriously, he looked like he wanted to reach through the television and kill me dead-- but I can't say that I will miss the scary shouting man much. Buh-bye, Chosen One. I will miss the laser light shows and smoke machine pimpage. And if nothing else, at least you learned the new technique of singing with your diaphragm. Which I suggest you really try implementing before you give yourself an aneurism, by the way. Good LORD with the screaming. In all honesty, my love for Chris peaked and waned the night he rocked Bon Jovi's Wanted Dead or Alive. He should have eventually stepped up his game a bit, dropped the rocker shtick and showed a little versatility, because One Trick Ponies have a notoriously short shelf-life on AI. I'm just saying.
Eh. He lasted longer than Constantine. But whatever. No worries. Some shouty band like Fuel will snap him right up (if they haven't already), so it's all good.
All that being said, I have no freaking clue who will to win this thing now. I honestly though it would be Chris, what with all the pimping and superfluous praise. Things are getting interesting 'round here, y'all.
My friend Paige, with the skinny on mate selection in second marriages:
"So, going into your first marriage you look at the man you've chosen to share your life with and you think to yourself, 'Dude. My boy is FINE. Wow. Just look at him. HOTNESS.' The second time around you look at the new man in your life and you think to yourself, 'Dude. This guy looks like he'd take out the trash without even being asked. He'd probably let me control the remote, too. HOTNESS.'"
I have to say, I'd settle for a husband who remembers to put down the toilet seat after he pees so when his dear wife stumbles to the bathroom in the middle of the night and considerately refrains from flipping on the bathroom light out of common courtesy to said husband (and because when you turn on the light in the middle of the night it totally wakes you up and messes with your body clock so it's all, "Time to wake up!" but it's not and then you can't get back to sleep again for hours and hours), she doesn't end up "falling in," or more specifically, momentarily losing her bearings when the toilet seat does not meet her bum at the expected time, causing a split second of sheer, unadulterated terror, leading to involuntary screeching and frantic air-scrabbling, followed by a jolt, a gasp, and a the shock of cold toilet water hitting her terrorized bum, totally waking her up more than if she would have just flipped on the frickin' light in the first place.
Okay, I may simply be a bit punchy from lack of sleep due to extreme overexcitement caused by last night's season finale of Veronica Mars, but DUDE. Honestly. All you have to do is change my last post to past tense, and you have my recap of last night's American Idol. NOT. KIDDING. Do it! You'll see! With the exception of my prediciton that Simon would absolutely hate both of Taylor's performances (I am pleasantly surprised that he acknowledged the beauty of Taylor's soulful rendition of In the Ghetto), I pretty much nailed the show. No, seriously. Talor, a spaz attack and then soulful? Check. Elliott? Ba-a-a-a-a-hing like a wee lamb, minus the cute and fluffy part? Check. Chris, shreiking at me and glaring? CHECK! and Kat, sassy and cuttin' loose? Check! Judges manipulating the America Idol voting public? You bet! (I may not have mentioned that yesterday, but it was everywhere implied, for reals.) So... hammer? Nail? Square hit? You know the rest.
Don't get me wrong, yo? I'm not bragging. All I'm saying is that if I can predict the show before it even airs, tell me... what is the point of actually watching? Huh? Why should I? Why?! Give me a reason, y'all, because Kat is SO gone tonight and Simon hates Taylor, so really, what's the friggin' point?
[PSA] And seriously. If you haven't been watching Veronica Mars, you're in luck. (Kelly, you are in even MORE luck! The Veronica Mars Season 1 DVD's are on the way! Woo!) Last night Veronica graduated from high school, helped her dad catch a child molester, and solved all this season's mysteries (who killed the busload of kids, who killed Curly Moran) plus one from the first season (who really raped her), so she will be starting fresh and mystery-free at college in the fall (if the CW renews, please God, please, oh, please?!). Of course, the mystery-free part will last-- at most--about five minutes into the Season 3 premiere (please God, please, if there's a Season 3, I will be good! and floss more often!), but still! Good times. It's dark. It's humor. It's dark humor! And I certainly didn't predict what was going to happen last night, that's all I'm saying. It BLEW. MY. MIND. (All I want is for the CW to pick it up, God! Is that too much to ask?! Huh? Oh, and world peace. Amen.)[/PSA]
(DISCLAIMER: I'm just writing this so I can stop obsessing-- for a small while, anyway-- about the Veronica Mars season finale which is on in... let's see... 8 more hours. 8! More hours! GAAAH! So excited! Dudes, I must chill... Also, all songs are subject to change. What? I don't know everything, gosh!)
Elvis Presley night, huh? Yep. The King is in the great hereafter (or Vegas, whatev) all, "Oh, hell no."
Here's the rundown, y'all:
Dude's going to take on Jailhouse Rock and In the Ghetto. Methinks Taylor will do exactly what he did last week, and I mean that in the good way. Because he's gonna DANCE, y'all. He'll be all "Let's rock! Everybody let's ROCK!" while pelvic thrusting and hip swiveling and crazy-ass gyrating all over the place and quite possibly doing some sort of impromptu making out with the microphone action while running through the audience, and then he'll be like, "Dudes... a poor little baby child is born... in the ghetto," and he will be all soulful and mellow. And his momma will cry... in the audience.
And it goes without saying (but I'll say it anyway), Simon will absolutely hate both performances.
(Squeeeee! Veronica Mars is on tonight!)
Girlfriend's chosen to tackle an All Shook Up/Hound Dog medley and Can't Help Falling in Love. Wise choices both. We can only hope she steps out of the box a little and just cuts loose on the medley-- you know, get all playful and sassy and whatnot? (a la Black Horse and Cherry Tree)-- and by DAMN there will be some hip swiveling or heads will ROLL. And here's hoping she chooses an uptempo UB40-ish version of Can't Help Falling In Love or it will... it will be... so... oh, so... zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz...
(We're gonna find out who blew up the bus on Veronica Mars! Tonight! This very evening!)
Well, well, well... looky what we have here. Chris singing A Little Less Conversation and Suspicious Minds. Iiiiinteresting... Okay, I've tried to envision Chris doing A Little Less Conversation, but it just can't be done. I hate to admit this, but JPL will go down in AI history as The Really Sucky And Annoying Singer Who For Some Inexplicable Reason Kicked Major Ass Performing That Song. Good lord, people. And you just know that Chris will SO try to punk up Suspicious Minds, and Elvis will be like, "Bitch, please." I wonder what band he will draw "inspiration" from? And yes, those are my sarcastic quotes. We shall see.
(And seriously, how in the world did Veronica get chlamydia?! Did someone else find her passed out at Shelly Pomeroy's party? Is it possible she was raped last season, not just with Duncan, after all? Did Dick find her alone and... oh ew. Just... NO.)
Trouble and If I Can Dream? Hmmm...
Question: Does Elliott have the personality, charisma, and vocals for Trouble? Does he have the soul to pull it off?
Answer: Oh, absolutely not. No, indeed. Next question.
Question: Okay, well what about If I Can--
Answer: NO! Gosh.
(OMG! Logan's dad, Aaron Echolls, is SOOOO gonna whoop up on Logan and will totally be going after Veronica! I just know it! He totally wants her dead! Because she knows the truth, yo? GAAAH!)
Mere words cannot express how disappointed I am that no one will be singing one of my personal Elvis faves, Burning Love. For serious, guys. I feel my temperature rising just thinking about it! Higher... higher... It's burning through my soul.
And now we dance.
(Logan Echolls from Veronica Mars is) just a hunk, a hunk of burning love,
Just a hunk, a hunk of burning love,
Just a hunk, a hunk of burning love...
I write this sitting in the living room window seat. That is, the low, deep window ledge I have enclosed by pulling forward the window's sheer white curtains and slipping behind them, settling into my own little sanctuary padded with throw pillows from the couch and and our fluffy green chair pads, which I am now noticing could use a good wash. It's a tad cramped so I can't say I'm truly comfortable, and there are two teenaged boys in wifebeaters and lowrider pants staring at me through the window from where they stand smoking on the corner, but as there are a couple yards of material hanging between me and the family clamor within the house, my hideout is (semi) private and I can type (mostly) uninterrupted. I have found that sitting in a place that is different from where you normally sit to think or write can be inspiring-- I once wrote the only poetry that I have ever considered better than my usual in a small clearing amongst the ponderosas in the Prescott National Forest. Of course, as "better than my usual" is only a slight step above "unerringly dismal" where my attempts at poetry are concerned (I'm not kidding, it should be illegal for me to wax poetic), I guess I really shouldn't read too much into that. Honestly. This is why I stick to haiku and the occasional limerick.
Faint voices echo from far away, children fighting, yelling, laughing. Deep, rumbly snores drifts across the room, but even Aaron's powernap can't penetrate my hideaway. Strange. The sheer curtain shouldn't hold out noise-- they don't really-- but it all seems so far away, nevertheless. The view from my second story perch is exceedingly unremarkable. Beyond the window lies a sidewalk running alongside a newly repaved parking lot, and beyond the parking lot is a grove of trees, elms I think, newly green with spring leaves gently swaying beneath a sky of lightest blue. But the colors seem dull. Lifeless, even. I crack the window so I can hear the leaves whisper to each other on the breeze, but all I hear is a passing jetliner roaring by. I tell myself that we won't be in this little townhouse forever, and in another year or two I will be sitting at a different window staring out as my children ride bikes up and down the road, or chase each other around and bounce on a trampoline in our yard, no tar-stinky repaved parking lots obstructing my view or smoking boys on the corner watching me. I try to imagine it, but the more my mind's eye tries to picture the lush green lawn and the happy, shouty children and the bicycles and the busy trampoline and perhaps a small dog (okay, probably not a dog, small or otherwise, as I enjoy life so much better without the pesky allergy anaphylaxis), the more washed out, grey, desolately drained of color my view of the road and the leaves and the sky seems.
The smokers have wandered away.
I close the window (the leaves won't talk to me and the pungent, odoriferous smell of the tar makes my eyes sting), and try to look away from the trees, but they draw me back-- boughs swaying, dancing, beckoning-- and as the sun wanders out from behind a cloud and a sudden shaft of sunlight shoots through the branches, I can't help but watch and sigh, and dream about split-level homes, wraparound porches, and tree-lined streets, and wish...
... But Hannah has discovered me and wonders why in the Sam Hill I am sitting in the window hiding behind a curtain and couldn't I please, please, please get her the birthday wrapping paper out of the attic so she can wrap Alli's presents, oh please, please, pretty please?
I take one last look outside, but it's useless. The curtains are thrown aside now and everyone sees me... the thrill of hiding away is gone. And as the clamor of my family grows increasingly louder and more chaotic with every second that passes since Hannah first discovered me, I feel a gentle wind-- a zephyr, a cleansing breeze-- blow across my face and I realize that the air around me is appreciably fresher with the curtains open-- crisp, even-- and I can breathe easier. Dreams of big homes and green lawns fade, but as I laugh at Hannah who is pulling at my arm-- Mom! Please! The wrapping paper! Momma!-- I realize, one, it is extraordinarily difficult to type one-handed, and two, the colors outside seem brighter now. Oh, and three, my butt has apparently fallen asleep, which... uncomfortable? Dreams of lovely homes and soft green lawns fall by the wayside as I unfold my legs and climb out of my hideout, but I don't despair. Because there is a chain of truth that spirals and dwells within every cell of my body. A pleasantness hidden beneath the unpleasantness of lawnless townhomes, and crowded bedrooms, and stinking, repaved parking lots, and teenage wastelanders smoking on the corner.
I am rich. And unfortuntely for Hannah, I'm pretty sure I'm out of birthday wrapping paper.
link | posted by Cat at 11:12 AM
Okay, when you instigate an uprising of obsessive Veronica Mars fans on TWoP who are desperate to see Veronica Mars make the transition to the new CW network from UPN for a third season, you know you've officially crossed over from Casual Viewer to Crazy Lady With No Social Life Whatsoever Whose Computer Her Husband Keeps Threatening To Take So She Will Come Downstairs And Eat Dinner.
Nevertheless, I feel so, SO proud. I sounded the alarm and set the ball rolling, and a few SUPER organized, FREAKISHLY aggressive fans took control of our baby, and we nurtured it, and loved it, and squeezed it, and called it "George," and just look what it has turned into... just LOOK!:
TWoP VM FANS Press Release
A large, dedicated group of Veronica Mars fans is pulling out all the stops to support the show's move to the new CW network.
Their efforts include:
* Raising over $4000 - in just 4 days - from fans on the Television Without Pity and other various fan website.
* Using a portion of these funds to purchase DVDs of Veronica Mars' first season to be donated to libraries in major TV markets across the country.
* Encouraging fans who want to help to donate DVDs to their hometown libraries (so far 30 sets have been donated and received).
* Sending Veronica Mars-inspired t-shirts, care packages, and floral bouquets to decision makers at the CW, its parent companies, and influential people in the media.
But the group's biggest effort is ensuring that on Tuesday, May 9, the day of the Veronica Mars Season 2 Finale, "CW" will stand for something entirely different: Cloud Watchers.
* During the morning and afternoon rush hours, an airplane will fly the skies between the UPN offices in Los Angeles and the future site of the CW headquarters, showing network officials the way to their new home in Burbank. And on that day, should those in charge of the fictional private eye's future look to the skies for guidance, the message from her fans will be clear: "RENEW VERONICA MARS! CW 2006!
Yeah. We're scary.
Originally I suggested we have a cluster of skydivers parachute in a "VM" formation right into the grounds of the future CW network site while wearing "Veronica Mars Is Smarter Than Me" t-shirts and singing the Veronica Mars theme song We Used to Be Friends at the top of their lungs, but come on... that's just showing off. Plus, have you ever tried to sing while parachuting? Trust me. It can't be done.
But I guess the fly-by is almost as cool, so whatev.
Anyhoos, the plane dragging our banner will fly for two hours in the morning (8-10am) and two hours in the afternoon (4-6pm) on Tuesday, May 9th, the date of the Veronica Mars finale. The flight will run from the UPN offices in Los Angeles, up Highway 405 to the new CW offices in Burbank (and loop back). SWEET.
Plus, we're totally going all Full Metal Jacket on the people we feel are in a position to save Veronica Mars: the entertainment media and the network decision makers. In tonight's mail (for delivery tomorrow), we are sending 35 key people care packages that contain a letter of recommendation from Veronica's guidance counselor; Hearst College t-shirts, hats, and pom-poms; information about the plane's flight plan and binoculars... you know, all the better to Look to the Skies on Tuesday? Eh? Eh?! Are we good or what?!
So, yeah. As you must now realize, I've completely lost my grip on reality. But don't worry, I'm not going to fill my pockets with rocks and jump off the nearest cliff or anything crazy like that if Veronica Mars is not renewed for a third season. I'll just cry like a big old bawl baby and lose all faith in the entertainment industry. And probably feel the need to consume large quantities of assorted pastries. I mean, honestly. American Idol is trying my patience as it is. Straw? Camel's back? You know the rest.
... You're mocking me, aren't you?
Di kept me on the phone for almost three hours! Di kept me on the phone for almost three hours! It's HER fault this is late! Blame DIIIIIII! (Hey, Di! 'Sup? Hugs!)
One song from the Billboard Charts? One song from the year of their birth? Oh, lordy, here we go...
Elliott: Since all I could hear was TGIM yelling from the next room, "Ack! GAH! Who is THAT?! And what is up with the goat b-a-a-a-a-a-a- thing he's got going on?" I cannot in good conscience comment on this song selection. But I'm pretty sure it didn't do a thing for me. And Home? Second verse, same as the first!...
Okay, here's the thing, Elliott. I want to like you. Really, I do. And yes, I recognize that you have a fairly decent singing voice (minus the grating vi-braaaaaa-to, of course), and your teeth are way better now and you're kind of endearing in your Mr. Tumnusy way. But honestly. I just don't like your music choices, dawg. The songs you choose? They suck. And I'm not just saying that because I never know any of them. Fine. It's because I never know any of them. But even if I did know them, I'd probably still think they sucked. I'm just saying. Suckiness unto you. Why do you make it so hard for me to like you, Elliott? Why you gotta be like that? Huh? Why? Whatever. Nice suit!
OMG. Is that Kelly singing a frickin' Ford commercial? Hey! Guys! It's Kelly! Hi, Kelly! *waves* I [heart] Kelly. Even if she IS a sell-out. (I mean, FORD?!)
Paris: Kiss? Oh, no, no, no you D'INT. Um, Princess P.? If there is one thing I do know with every fiber of my being, it is this... nobody-- and by nobody I mean NOBODY-- can sing Prince like Prince. Or, should I say like The Artist Formerly Known As Prince Who Is Now Prince Again? Okay, SO not important right now, so moving on... And to add insult to egregious injury, you didn't even do the kissies! "I just want your extra time, and your-- mwah-mwah-mwah-mwah-MWAH-- kiss." Come on! That's like sacrilege, GOSH. The song is called Kiss for a reason, yo? And you... didn't! Kiss, that is. I mean, honestly. That? Was a disaster. However, the shoes were fabulous! [/Paula's voice] But one word of advice: gauchos are not made for the short and squatty. Those funky silver gauchos did you absolutely no favors, that's all I'm sayin. Note it. Please.
Wait. What? There was a second song? Huh. I must have missed it because I can't even look at you right now, Paris. I mean, KISS?! What were you thinking?! (And stop saying "Thank yeeew!" after the judges insult you! It's just WEIRD.)
Tayor: Oh, Taylor, I knew you were going to cut loose tonight. Because me? I'm in the know! I know that you are sick and tired of being oppressed by The Man! The AI Machine has been squashing the spaz and the WOO! (Soul Patrol!), the dirty bastards, and they keep fiddling with your song choices at the last minute. You've been a mere shell of your former Soul Patrol (Woo!) self, but no more! You PLAYED that funky music, White Boy! That was the first time I enjoyed your performance in WEEKS. Sure, you tend to begin all your moves from the fetal position, but it works for you, so who am I to judge? I could teach you to Snake, though. Change things up a bit. I'm just saying. Anyhoos, when you collapsed to the floor, I was all, "Taylor is BACK, baby!" And then I giggled and went, "Woo!" Because I'm a nerd?
Oh, and the Beatles song was nice, too. Seriously. Well-done. (Woo! Soul Patrol! SOUL PATROL!)
Kat: Oh, Katharine, you dirty, dirty girl. Now, Scott Savol completely ruined Against All Odds for me-- which is too bad as I used to really love it-- so I have repressed your first performance and will therefore not be discussing it because it totally never happened, so let's just talk about that second performance, shall we? I admit I didn't know that song at all (Black Horse and a Cherry Tree?)... but I LIKED IT! Snap, girlfriend, that rocked the hizzouse! That was by far one of the best songs you have put down to date, and there were no distracting wardrobe malfunctions to color my judgment, either!... Hmm... Oh, what? Yes, focusing! It was sexy without being completely trampy, and the bouncing and interacting with the drummers was a perfect touch, albeit a little strange and, um, suggestive. It just worked. You know, because of The Bouncy? Pickler may be gone, but she left her knee-dancing legacy to you. Bear it well, my pretty, pretty, sexy friend. Bear it well.
CHRIS!: HEEEEEEEEYYY CHRIIIIIIIIIIIIIS! STOOOOOP YEEEELLLLLLLLIIIIIINGGG
AAAT MEEEEEEEE! AIGIGIHGHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAIGH! That being shouted, Renegade was all right. Darn good, even. Same old boring rocker shtick, and your voice sometimes sounds like mine does when I sing into an oscillating fan (What? Like you guys never do that?!), but good nonetheless. But the second song? You know, the loud, angry, screamy one? Left me cold, dawg. Possibly because I couldn't understand a word, but more specifically because I was in constant dread of one of those bulging purple veins in your neck totally erupting all Scanners-like (am I dating myself?) and spewing blood and gore all over the judges and audience. Because... ew? Randy would be all, "DAWG!" and Paula would be like, "Chris! You touched me... right here... no, seriously, there's blood right here. Wardrobe? WARDROBE?!" And Simon would be like, "Well, this is simply ghastly. Thank GOD I'm wearing a black shirt." And Ryan would be all, "No, YOU'RE gay!" So, really, that's all I have to say about the second song. Sorry. I'll try to do better next time, pinky promise. Now smile, damn it. SMILE.
So, I'm thinking Paris will be the bootee tonight. But what do I know? America votes CRAZY-LIKE, y'all. CRAZY.
You know what's crazier than a child hopped up on a sugary, caffeinated beverage? A child who THINKS she's hopped up on a sugary, caffeinated beverage. Allow me to illustrate... it looks a little something like this:
Alli: (running in circles) Aaaahhhhh! Oooooooh! I'm CRAZY!
Cat: Oh LORD, did you give her Mountain Dew again?
Alli: (bouncing up and down) Woooo! Wheeeeeeeee! Yyayayayayaya!
TGIM: I swear, I only gave her a tiny sip--
Alli: (executing near perfect swan dive onto living room couch): Hummana hummana! Ha! Ha ha ha ha ha! HOO! Didja see that, momma! Lookit! I'll do it again! Wheeeeeeeeeeee!
TGIM: (shouting to be heard over Wheeeee!-ing) Allison, you cannot be that hyper from just one sip of Mountain Dew! It isn't possible!
Alli: (stopping in tracks) Really?
Hannah: DUH!... Wait, you can't?
Allison shrugs and walks calmly out of the room.
What my favorite Neptunitans might say to new CW network head honcho Dawn Ostroff if they knew just how precarious is their rightful position on the CW fall schedule:
Veronica: So, do me a favor? (head tilt) I need you to get me on the CW fall schedule... preferably Tuesdays at 9?...
Keith: Do it! The CW, baby! Then tonight, we celebrate like the CW frontrunner to which we aspire. That's right... who's your daddy?!
Wallace: You know? If you've already put us on the CW fall schedule, you've really been holding out on a brother.
Logan: Wait. You mean we're not on the CW fall schedule yet? What? Is it national What the Hell Were We Thinking Day? Because I didn't get the memo. I would have worn my K-Fed manpris and a trucker hat.
Weevil: Hey, D... No show cancelling goes on around here without my say-so, you got that? Huh?
Backup: Grrrrrrrrrrr... WOOF!
Whoa. Guess who did the choreography for Reefer Madness?! Just GUESS!... Ellen Degeneres? What? No! Come on! You're not even trying! Fine. Give up? Do you?! The choreography (which was pretty fabulous, actually) was created by none other than Paula Abdul. PAULA "You mooooooved me" ABDUL. Hoo! How delicious is that?!
Because, honestly. Is anyone really surprised?