Rise of the Machines

I'm afraid I have some shocking news: androids are planning a hostile takeover of Indianapolis. The Crossroads of America is (are?) poised to become the wasteland of the artificially-intelligent. (Currently, said Crossroads are inexplicably overrun with people who like to watch cars drive in circles...that's a different kind of intelligence.)

I was driving under an overpass today--I was underpassing--when I almost wrecked the car. "DROIDS" was scrawled across the cement. I had just seen the same drippy, ominous message on an abandoned building 10 minutes before. And yesterday, while stopped at an intersection, I saw "OBEY DROID" carved into a toppling pile of plastic and metal that I suspect was once a phone booth. Dude. They're coming.

And this is NOT like the time I saw all the people waiting in line in downtown Indy for the Star Wars Convention and warned everyone that we were being taken over by Storm Troopers (before I got in line and went inside to look for Warwick Davis). This is real, man. The only upside will be being able to routinely geek out and say "These aren't the droids we're looking for." Aside from that, this promises to be terrifying.

My body is rebelling from the nose up

Okay, so I'm getting ready for work this morning and make a startling discovery. Still squirming from watching James Carville and Jesse Jackson almost-fight on the Today Show--it's like watching your parents argue--I leaned in to groom the ol' eyebrows. But my pluck turned to "f@#!" when I tweezed (twoze???) a long, silver eyebrow hair. Silver. Nearly white. All bad.

My eyebrows are going silver at 29. Hell, I could have Betty White's hair on my head and I'd never know...I haven't seen my natural hair color since '96. But my EYEBROWS? This is entirely unfair. And this isn't the first sign of aging body rebellion: all the years of making "Ohhhhh, nooooooooooooo!" faces started catching up with me in my early twenties, furrowing my little forehead into crease-a-palooza. That was infuriating enough. Sunscreen and over-priced face creams twice a day for nine years--NINE YEARS--and I have the lower face of a 29-year-old and the brow-area of Sam Waterston? Beauty Myth, indeed.

Okay, so the way I figure it, I have a month until I look like Doc from Back to the Future. Within that same month, Nanette--this brave, cool soul I know--will trek back to Burkina Faso where she's serving in the Peace Corps. This sort of parallel reminds to me to get my priorities in order...but worrying about it is just making my forehead wrinkles worse.

(If some bored, wayward member of a future civilization happens upon this blog, I hope I don't forever sully her image of our people. But I bet I do.)

Bison, Show Choir, Hostages, & Pirates

Who knew that so many (okay, two people...but they're very important people) were so deeply affected by the most famous of all creepy bison-saving-juvenile-delinquent movies: Bless the Beasts and Children. On the heels of my last blog, two brave readers owned up to painful memories of having had to play or sing the love theme to Bless in middle and high school concerts. Now, I did my time in show choir--six years in white character shoes, lightning bolt belts, sequined green dresses, tied-dyed shirts, and poodle skirts (not all at once, but that would've been a solid costume)--and, yet, I was never subjected to this punishment. Having to sing Bless the Beasts and Children? That tops every show choir story I have...a few of which I will share with you now [in the interest of taking up space]:

(1) Singing Proud Mary and doing a soulful choo-choo dance with seven other tone-challenged white Appalachian teenagers.

(2) Learning the Roger Rabbit from my future-optometrist and then-show-choir coach, Mr. French. We did it during our show-stopping Paula Abdul medley ("Co-co-co-cold-hearted! Ooo-Ah-Ah! Co-co-co-cold-hearted...sssssssssssssssssssnake!").

(3) Making a long, loud, death-smelling boa out of garbage bags to swing around during a passable cover of "Hey, Big Spender." (The minute you walked in the joint, I could tell you were thinking "My God, what IS that smell?!?!")

(4) Learning the sign-language for the lyrics to "Let There Be Peace on Earth" and finding out later that we just kept signing "bird, bird, ground, love, eyes, me" over and over again.

But enough of show choir prattle...there are enough other blogs for that. Let's give a little love to Blog Commentator Larry--which is now his official title--or reminding us of two other celluloid gems that HBO showed when they weren't looping Bless the Beasts and Children: Savannah Smiles and The Pirate Movie. When I read Larry's comments...well, the shock of remembrance was like standing up after having your legs crossed for a week straight.

Savannah freaking Smiles?!?!? I can't remember a slumber party between the years of 1983 and 1987 when we didn't watch that movie. And when you break it down to its core plot points, it strikes me as a kind of creepy choice for kiddie viewing. If you've never seen the movie, here's the long & short: a poor-little-rich-girl is kidnapped for ransom. Her captors appear to have been sidelined on their way to join the law enforcement community in Hazzard County and their bumbling ways immediately endear them to their bratty little hostage. We eventually learn that she's better off with and better loved by Smokey and the Bandit or whoever they are. So it's, basically, Stockholm Syndrome for the second-grade set.

As for The Pirate Movie, I don't recall being force fed it at slumber parties. I do, however, remember being dazzled by the daily airings of the swashbuckling love story. I also recall Pirate star Kristy MacNicol lending her sweet pipes to a song about drowning deep-sea divers. Or it might have been a love song. I guess I was never clear on that.

I've lost my sense of direction as to where, exactly, this blog was headed. I think it might be best to end it here. But I don't know how. Wow. [Rocking on heels, hands in pocket] This is awkward. [Whistling Off-Key] Sooooooo...time to end the blog... [Slowly backing out of the room and then turning and breaking into a mad dash]

We're gonna score-ore-ore tonight...

You know what movie really stands the test of time? Grease 2. Even though I backed out of the front door and double-checked the house number upon coming home last night and finding my husband watching it , I still sat down to watch it and had a blast. Mind you, what technically sucked about it 20+ years ago still sucks, if not more. And, yeah, that means most of the movie. In its defense, though, its incoherence and sex ed advocacy (those of who of a certain age will remember the song "Reeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeproduction") were cutting edge. And I like seeing the parade of B-listers (Adrian Zmed, anybody? Those eerie twins from "Double Trouble?") strut around Michelle Pfeiffer like she, the no-name, had no business stealing their thunder. You can almost see the sneering thought bubble over Adrian Zmed's head : "'T.J. Hooker.' Ever heard of it, BITCH?!"

Again, I fall into the lame and obscure trap: Adrian Zmed references aren't going to win me any blog fans. Unless Ma Zmed happens to be reading. And she might. It's not like her son's doing anything ELSE these days that she can watch. Ooooooooooooooo! BURN, Zmed. Burn.

Anyway, Grease 2 is one of only six movies HBO ran when I was growing up. Just seeing it last night made me want to spray myself in the eye trying to open my Capri Sun while waiting with baited breath for the fifth showing of Bustin' Loose or Six Pack or some movie about an unlikely father figure with a bunch of kids on a bus/in an RV/and so on. If SuperFuzz was on? Forget about it. I was glued. (BLOGGER'S NOTE: you don't know you remember SuperFuzz, but you do...he was a superhero whose only weakness was the color red.)

There are only two movies that were in serious '80's HBO rotation that still make my blood run cold: Dot the Kangaroo (there was a cartoon monster named the Bunyip...eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! don't even get me started...just by typing 'Bunyip,' I've denied myself sleep for a month) and Bless the Beasts and Children. My memory is seriously fuzzy on the latter, but according to IMDB it's a 1971 drama in which "a group of adolescent boys, placed in a summer camp by their otherwise too busy parents, find themselves unable to fit in...after their counselor exposes them to what they perceive as a cruel slaughter of corralled bison, these misfits are soon drawn to a common purpose to break free of their camp and free the bison." (Thank you, Patrick, for summing it up just so...just so I'll never be free of this freakin' movie.)

Now, this movie--let's pretend we're incredibly busy and important and call it Bless for short-- came out six years before I was even born. I remember about three minutes in all. But, I promise you, I see it when I close my eyes. Seventies hair, a little ringleader who--in my brain--looks like Tattoo from "Fantasy Island," and dead kids. Oh, and buffalo. Oh, and a maudlin little ditty that I'm fairly certain would be listed on the singer's resume as "Love Theme from that Creepy Buffalo Movie."

*sigh* Okay, now I'm all freaked out. I'm going to go watch Grease 2 to get the taste out of my brain. I suggest you do the same.

A Banner Moment for Grown-Up Molly

It's been a rough week, indulgence-wise. I've found myself in a variety of ill-advised scenarios: a college town bar crawl for someone's 30th birthday (yes, 30th...we almost had to crawl, because we're too freaking old for this), somehow equating the amount of beer consumed with Butler's chances of making it past the NCAA Men's Sweet Sixteen, etc. At long last, my week of bad ideas and blurry evenings culminated in last night's smoky, bleary concert at the Vogue.

If you're my one regular reader, you know that I've been gearing up to see The Feeling live (again: The Feeling is a kicky little Brit-pop-rock band, not a Christian rock opera) and last night was THE night. And this morning was THE pits. So I did something this morning that I haven't done since I was 22 (we call that The Lost Year: the seven months three of my closest friends and I lived in our hometown and incessantly pre-partied for the first peer group wedding). I woke up, took one gander in the mirror, and put new make-up over the spots on my face where I had slept, danced, or boozed yesterday's make-up off. I busted the second coat. Class-AY. And it wasn't as if this was Working Girl make-up...this was working girl make-up (IF you catch my drift). Nothing screams professionalism like the smoky eye--unless you work at Hot Topic--and Febreze-d hair.

Now, I'm detoxing with green tea, reflecting on my wild week, and considering a 9:00pm bedtime. But I won't lie: I'd do it all again, Febreze and all.

BLOGGER'S NOTE: Febrezing your hair was just one of many genius ideas introduced during The Lost Year. My friend was in her first grown-up job (as a controller...an unassailably amusing title, no matter how you cut it) and routinely had to decide between tardiness and not sporting happy hour sights and smells to work. Tardiness is no laughing matter and as the woman in question is now a well-adjusted, high-powered financial type, I think we can all agree she made the right choice.

Old-Timey Wiggles

On my way to drop off a friend at her place we passed some happy neighbors walking a pair of dachshund. Naturally, my response was measured and safe: I squealed and swerved, nearly missing a sign for SteelCankers Seashore Mill or whichever development it is. Now, a pair of wiener dogs--*giggle* the first three times I typed that it came out "wiener gods"--is enough to stop me in my tracks, but this was so much more. One of the puppies looked just like my wiener dog, Wiggles--same spots, same disoriented swagger, same curly ears--except without her rusty, golden brown coloring. This doppelwiener was black and white. It was the old timey version of my wiener dog.

I envisioned my puppy's low-riding ancestor trotting back to a house in that exaggerated Steamboat Willy-way leaping through saloon-style dog doors. In Old Timey Wiggles' house, a player piano runs non-stop and men in fedoras roll barrels of liquor past scarlet women. Somehow, in my brain, the doppelwiener lives in a bizarre hybrid of Capone's Chicago and the Old West. I see her as the kid in the news cap who pushes pencils during the day and keeps watch for illegal craps rings at night. I'm just grateful that my own Technicolor Wiggles never took the road to perdition that her ancestors did.

BLOGGER'S NOTE: Many of you (okay, one) have called me on my spelling of wiener, preferring the more attractive "weiner." I looked it up, though, and mine is the original spelling...your (okay, her) spelling is the lazy man's answer. It's similar to people getting so sick of people refusing to use the proper, awkward-sounding past tenses like hanged or sneaked...now "hung" and "snuck" are acceptable. Where does it stop, people?!?!

F@#$ing Blogtastic

The whole idea of this blog was to write every day (well, at least every week day). I thought that by simply forcing myself to crank out a paragraph or two each day, I'd suddenly be swimming in ideas AND discipline.

Guess what hasn't been the plan it was cracked up to be?

This is exactly why I was never good at journaling: that feel-good lynchpin of educated, artsy womanhood. I sit down with some cutesy blank book (with a pressed flower glued to the front cover or reproduced Lichtenstein print or something) and I it sounds awkward, contrived, and self-conscious. Now, I sit down to blog and it sounds awkward, contrived, and self-conscious...but I can't throw it out or bury it in my bottom drawer under this afghan my grandmother made me, affectionately known as the "Black Power Blanket" (red, yellow, green, and black yarn; I think she was trying to make a statement about the apartheid...it was the '80's after all). Now the world can read it. Well, two people can read it. Fine. My brother-in-law can read it. And my husband and sister when I whine enough...or refuse to hang up the phone, leave the room, or stop poking him/her in the spine until he/she does.

All week I've had this little thought bubble hovering over my head, "I really should blog." But then I decide I've nothing to say and the thought bubble turns to floating cartoon question mark. Then I silently chastise myself and get fed up with myself for doing so...just who in the Hell do I think I am? And the question mark is replaced by a little swirling funnel cloud.

I repeat: *sigh*

Then I remember everything going on in the world and feel stupid for having blog fatigue. There's famine, sexism, Darfur, exploding meth labs, Sanjaya on Idol, and stupid amendments about defining marriage as between a man and a woman (one of these failed this morning in the Indiana Assembly...a much more pleasant surprise than the fact that it was 78 degrees yesterday and is currently snowing). Mind you, the fact that I'm worried about the proverbial bigger fish doesn't mean I feel any better about being a blog failure. But I don't want to write about anything important, I guess...I want to come up with some more self-involved crap.

So, I'm going to go brainstorm some and get back to you.