I've always had this thing where I get *really* into a certain artist for a few months and then my love for them is eventually muted by something called "real life" but my feelings of love forever remain somewhere in my heart and/or butt. My most recent obsession has been Weird Al Yankovic. I enjoyed him back in the day when I was a kid and my brother and cousins used to listen to "Amish Paradise" while watching WWE wrestling.
I've always thought he was pretty funny but I never took the time to *really* listen to him. I'm pretty sure his songs aren't just fun and games. For example,
"Fat" - Simply a parody of Michael Jackson's "Bad" or a social commentary on the growing obesity epidemic in America?
"Amish Paradise" - A satirization of Coolio's "Gangster's Paradise" or a cautionary tale on technology inevitably taking over our lives, thereby diminishing the importance of interpersonal relationships?
"Like A Surgeon" - making light of Madonna's "Like a Virgin" or a prelude to a conversation regarding the plethora of issues plaguing America's healthcare system?
This man is the underdog of underdogs. Let's look at the stats:
Name: Alfred Yankovic
Profession: Parodying already existing songs
Attire: Hawaiian shirts, Dad glasses
Follicular disposition: mustache, fro
How many people do we see on a daily basis with some combination of one or more of those traits? Lots. And they're not super stars named Weird Al. They're "weird uncles" and "weird guys who work at Best Buy".
Theory: Weird Al was created in a laboratory at PBS in 1979 in order to bolster the self-esteem of nerds around the world by promoting the idea of "just be you".
Meeting him reminded me of going to a Freak Show. He was on display in front of a bunch of people he'd never met but he was obligated to be there because everyone else who was in the show was signing autographs and meeting people. I almost felt ashamed for being in line to meet him. He looked sad. Like would rather be at home with his wife. I don't doubt that that's exactly where he'd rather have been. It was really warm and he had just finished a two and a half hour show. Dude was tired. And I told him that. Because I'm rude. He said he wasn't and thanks for being concerned. Which was cool.
I had planned on wingin' it when I met him and I was feeling pretty confident but as soon as I was next in line, the guy ushering people was like, "mind if I take the picture instead of your friend?" It threw me off my game so I wound up being a nervous dingus instead of being the normal* person that I am.
Our conversation was the standard "hey, what's your name?"/"how are you?"/"thanks for coming!"/"I know I just met you, and this is crazy, but will you be my best friend forever?"
Things I remember from our encounter: How beyond nice he was and how his hair felt against my forehead. Answer: Wonderful.
I may or may not have blacked out because the photo below shows us having an in-depth conversation about something incredibly interesting/important. It almost looks like we're at a cocktail party and we're connecting with each other by talking about our "craft".
After our obviously epic conversation, I thanked him and probably hugged him and was ushered over to meet Paul F. Tompkins and Paget Brewster. I told Paget Brewster that her coat looked like my dog's fur. I'm terrible at people'ing.
In conclusion, I should never meet someone I admire ever again unless I'm in a coma and they're coming to visit me for my Make-A-Wish. They do that for adults, right?
I hurt my right shoulder at work about a month ago. I was pulling an intubated guy up in bed and he was fighting against me and KABLAMMY my shoulder was DOA. Yeah. Dead on arrival. Arrival to my torso!
I'm on "light duty" which sounds great. But much like light beer, light mayonnaise, and Lean Cuisines, it leaves me disappointed and hungry. I've become what I've always feared: an office jockey. I organize old Nursing Assistant checklists by date for my boss and put labels on things. The worst part is that I actually enjoy doing that stuff. Instead of cleaning something up or putting something away and knowing that someone is just going to eff it up again, I know that these binders of seemingly useless documents will forever be organized and stuck on a shelf somewhere. And I like that. I do something that will stay the same until someone really needs to know whether or not the linen hampers in the patient rooms were emptied in August 2012. I just need to accept the fact that I enjoy doing menial tasks with a minimum requirement of knowing the order of the months. Elementary school done did me right in that department.
I'm doing physical therapy for my shoulder which is sort of exciting. I can tell people, "sorry, can't hang out - I got PT." And I feel cool. Like an athlete. Rather than getting better, my shoulder has actually gotten worse, so they want me to get an MRI to really see what's going on. MRIs. Are. The. Worst. I mean, maybe not the WORST, but they suck pretty hard.
I didn't think I was claustrophobic but I should have thought back to that time when I got an MRI on my head because I was having headaches and they strapped me in so I couldn't move and told me the scan would take at least 45 minutes and I panicked and made them take me out and they got annoyed with me and then I got a prescription for Valium and went back and did it again and I don't remember anything after that. For some reason, I didn't remember any of that. I thought the scan would be like an x-ray or a CT scan - in and out and on with my day. I also forgot that they have headphones for you and they ask what you're favorite radio station is. I panicked and said KTWIN because that's what I usually listen to in the car because I don't have a CD player, a tape player, or a input thingy for my iPod. But I forgot how hit and miss KTWIN can be. When you know you'll be trapped and completely unable to move for a certain amount of time, your brain (my brain) starts focusing on stupid things:
"Do I have to pee? I just peed before getting in here... but what if I have to pee AGAIN?! Gah. Oh man, my lips are chapped. How can I drink so much water and have to pee so much but my lips still get chapped? Ah fart. My nose itches. Wait... is that John Mellencamp?! NOOOOOOOOOOO!!!"
So the Doc gave me a prescription for Valium and told me to give it another shot. I'll keep you updated. It'll probably be something like this:
***BREAKINGNEWS***CAROLYN BLOMBERG'S SHOULDER IS FINE***PLEASE STAY TUNED FOR MORE INFORMATION REGARDING CAROLYN'S STUPID SHOULDER***BEEPBEEPBEEP***OVER***
I've really been slacking in the Blomblog department, guys. I've spent this time off immersing myself in other cultures by watching entire series of TV shows on Netflix. Here are just a few of the things I've learned:
- how to solve a murder through visions and dreams while eating pie and drinking damn good coffee (Twin Peaks)
- how to survive as a middle class, bisexual white chick in a women's minimum security prison (Orange is the New Black)
- how to make the jump from being a nice science teacher/car wash cashier with a child on the way to a selfish, pseudo-sociopathic meth cook with lung cancer at first and then without lung cancer after 2 seasons (Breaking Bad)
- how to be a beautiful lesbian who can get any chick to have sex with you no matter their sexual orientation while doing my best to work with a terribly written script (the L Word)
- how to deal with ghosts, be murdered by a ghost, have sex with a ghost, murder a living person who then becomes a ghost, give birth to the antichrist and then become a ghost myself (American Horror Story: Murder House)
- how to be a lesbian living in the 1960s, have my wife abducted by aliens, be involuntarily committed to a messed up Catholic insane asylum, be a mean nun, be a nice nun, be a possessed nun, deal with a Nazi doctor/be a Nazi doctor, deal with a murderer with mommy issues/be a murderer with mommy issues, be impregnated by aliens, go insane by being accused of being insane, live happily ever after? (American Horror Story: Asylum)
- how to save money to the EXTREME (Extreme Cheapskates)
Along with keeping abreast on world news through reputable news sources like the Huffington Post and People.com, I've been supporting my friends on Facebook by liking their posts. It's been a busy few months of engagements, marriages, pregnancies, graduations, cross country relocations, new jobs, big opportunities in whatever field they excel in, kids doing photo status-worthy things, and general personal growth for my friends. I'm gonna be honest, it's fairly exhausting and time consuming to constantly be supportive of these people I wasn't really even friends with and haven't seen or spoken to in person since high school. It's even more trying to be a good Facebook friend to the people I met at a party once and we had a really great connection that night and then we never wound up hanging out which really bummed me out at first but there was always that glimmer of hope that maybe we'd cross paths again and get coffee but it never happened and when I see a Facebook status from them, I pause and remember that funny joke about clams they told at that party that I laughed at and we connected because I was the only one in the conversation circle who laughed and our eyes met and we just "got" each other, y'know? But I do it anyway. And all they see is a notification saying "Carolyn Blomberg liked your status" which might give them a little endorphin rush and I like that they get that endorphin rush because of me. I believe we can achieve world peace by liking or retweeting our friends junk on social media. All of it. Grandma died? Like. Lost dog? Like. Lost all of your belongings in a housefire? Like! It makes people happy in a sick and twisted and narcissistic way but happiness creates, yo. I'm just a good person, I guess.
Now that it's the New Year (2014). My resolutions include things like:
- drink more coffee
- drive more dangerously aka more awesomely
- do more YOLO'ing
- do more yodeling
- tweet more
- give up deodorant to get in touch with my true self
- slowly morph into a panda
- budget my finances in a responsible way so as to pay off my student loans in a reasonable amount of time and save money for emergency situations and future endeavors like traveling or buying a house
IT'S GONNA BE A GREAT YEAR!
We all have Facebook. We've all been annoyed by the minor, utterly non-life alerting things they've changed over the years. One of the most frustrating things they've done is make us all have cover photos. It was hard enough to choose a regular profile picture, now we have to find a rectangular picture that allows for that little square in the bottom, left hand corner where our profile picture goes?!?! Andy Rooney, where are you when I need you?!?!
I had some "rare" free time the other day and I Googled cover photos. What I found... will shock you. And make you laugh. And cry. Because society is going down the pooper.
You can tell a lot about a person from their cover photo. I've sorted and unapologetically stereotyped a few of them for you below. I divided the most common ones into groups. They are as follows:
Don't Judge Me!! /I'm CRAZY!!!!
Usually spelled "CrAzY" or alternatively, "cRaZy." These photos cover all the types of crazy from harmlessly annoying to "I've already dialed 9 and 1... what's this dude gonna do next...?" These are the people you might see on Maury or, more likely, at Walmart. If you don't want to go to Walmart (totally understandable), you can see them at People of Walmart. A lot of people frequent that site for a good LOL every now and then but it makes me sad and gives me a stomach ache. I feel bad for these people. I shouldn't. They're fine. They're at Walmart, buying their weekly groceries and flip flops. They're probably pretty happy people. But if these Facebook cover photos belong to any of them (which I'm assuming they do), maybe.... just maybe... they're not that happy.
I'm cRaZy but in a Cute and Individual Way!!! I'm Original!! LIKE ME!!!
These pertain to those chicks you see walking around Uptown or the U campus wearing fake glasses with big, black rims and probably a t-shirt from a band who's music they don't recognize (ie; Guns N Roses, Van Halen, Nirvana). They bitch about drones and Syria without really knowing what they're talking about. They smoke American Spirit cigarettes and own a lot of things with fringe.
I'm Lonely. PAY ATTENTION TO ME.
Chances are Dashboard Confessional, My Chemical Romance, or Fall Out Boy are on their iPods at any given time. (Mom, those are "emo" bands. "Emo" is short for "emotional"). They're SAD. But they won't tell us what's wrong, they just want compliments. They want to suck all your energy away from you by complaining and being a giant bummer all the time. Nothing makes them happier than an asymmetrical haircut and crying.
In all honesty, we should probably keep an eye on these people. Granted, they're mostly angsty teenagers but hey, that doesn't mean it can't be a real problem, right? (F'real).
I'm So In LOVE!!!!!!! ♥♥♥!!!!!!!!!!
Co-dependence is a big problem these days with stupid movies like A Walk to Remember, the Notebook, and Love Actually telling girls that life means nothing without a hot dude to make you laugh and buy you things and pick you up and spin you around without dropping you. It's totally unrealistic. Have you ever tried picking someone up and spinning in a circle without falling over? It's hard. I do it to my dog all the time. I have a 30% drop rate.
LOVE ME OR I'LL KILL YOU!!!!!!!!! ♥♥♥!!!!! >:)
The chicks who have the cover photos from above can easily cross into the crazy zone if they haven't already. These are ladies who depend entirely on their boyfriend for happiness, fulfillment, and validation. It's actually a legitimate problem and most definitely a mental illness - girls aren't the only ones who have it but I guess Google thinks so. I'm not really sure how to make this funny. It's straight up scary. Look:
We Broke Up, It's All I Think About and it's Driven Me Insane but I don't Realize it Which Makes it Even More Concerning to Those Around Me.
So the relationship didn't work out for the people above. Bummer. They're devastated but also really angry and they have no idea how to handle these conflicting emotions. Now they think they can get their ex back by posting a creepy cover photo, shaming or threatening them into missing them. In reality, these pictures inevitably result in a wicked one-two punch of unfriending and blocking which is immediately obvious to the broken hearted via their FB Spidey sense. It also results in a whole lot of unnoticed unfollowings by friends and family who hadn't already done so after the whole, "Behind every girl's smile there is a boy who put it there" garbage.
Most of my friends have pictures of nature or their families and friends or cats as their cover photos. Mine tend to be from improv shows and Full House. Right now I have the "I Never Feel Alone Bcoz Loneliness is Always With Me" one. Mostly because I find it hilarious but also bcoz I'm rly lonely.
I get shit for my musical tastes on a fairly regular basis. Like, at least once a week. The truth is, I sort of deserve it. I like a fair amount of bands that people my age typically think of as "weird" or "mediocre at best." As they say, opinions are like assholes - everyone with an opinion is an asshole.
The first band I can remember being crazy obsessed with was the Beatles. I didn't know anything about modern music until junior high. I grew up with the Mamas and the Papas, ABBA, Jerry Lee Lewis, the Moody Blues, and some weird zydeco music once in a while. I tried really hard to like the Spice Girls in elementary school like all the other girls but I was too far gone in nerd territory for that to even count. So I stuck to kissing my poster of Ringo at night and playing "She's So Heavy" until my mom yelled at me saying, "do you KNOW what that means??" I still don't know what that means.
That being said, here are some of the bands in my iTunes I've had to defend over the years:
The Monkees/Michael Nesmith:
Yeah, I know, going from the Beatles to the Monkees - lolwut? There's really no comparison, though. Call me, I'll get into it.
Most 27 yr olds don't care about the Monkees and if they do, they spell it "Monkeys." To them I say, "you're wrong, it's spelled Monkees." In response to that, they generally roll their eyes and continue bagging my groceries (burn!).
I got into the Monkees in high school when I saw them on TV after school. I was not a stoner in high school. I just had a well-developed sense of humor for all things pot-related. The Monkees TV show was pretty much all pot-related. Then again, everything was pot-related in the 60s.
I'll be honest, the main reason I watched it was because of that dreamboat, Michael Nesmith. I've mentioned him before so I won't go into great detail about why I like him so much. I'll just say this: sideburns. Also: Southern accent. And: slide guitar. Okay, I'm done. Oh, one more: firm handshake. And: soft hands.
I heard "Smells Like Teen Spirit" for the first time when I was 12. It was badass. Then I heard "Man on the Moon" in the car with my best friend and she was all, "this song sucks!" and I was all "nuh uh!" So I got super into them sort of to spite her but also because Michael Stipe used to be pretty hot.
Remember AOL? Yeah, that was big when I was 13. Like any pre-teen with unsupervised internet access, I went on AOL chatrooms. In one of those chatrooms, I met a girl named Taylor. She was also 13 and loved R.E.M. as much or more than I did. She lived in Minneapolis, too. Miraculously, she was not a creepy middle-aged dude trolling AOL chatrooms for teenage girls who dig R.E.M.
I was so dedicated to R.E.M. that I would only listen to them or bands somehow related to them. While everyone else was into the Smashing Pumpkins or Moby, I would say "Psh, I'm not into bands with whiny, bald frontmen... I like R.E.M. *sneer*" Uh huh... I adore the Smashing Pumpkins now ...because you need life experiences to love the Pumpkins, man.
Taylor and I met Mike Mills, the bassist of R.E.M., last year. We ate Skittles and listened to the Monkees. My life is 2/3 complete. Now to have an in-depth conversation with Billy Corgan about Andy Kaufman and how he effected pro-wrestling as we see it today...
I got into Michael Jackson way after it was cool to like Michael Jackson. Like, way after. He had already gone through two child molestation cases, hung his kid over a hotel balcony, and was looking like Jack White before Jack White looked like Jack White.
The funny thing is, I was terrified of Michael Jackson at his prime. Thriller scared the piss out of me as a kid. Creepy adult Michael Jackson? No problem. You decide what that says about me. I would get legitimately offended when people would make Michael Jackson jokes. "Hey, why'd Michael Jackson go to Walmart?! He heard little boys' pants were half off lololol!" Looking back, that joke is actually pretty funny.
There are so many other bands in my iTunes that I've gotten flack for. Someone once said to me, "Just because you think a band is awesome doesn't mean they're good." Yeah, true. I guess. I mean, it's all subjective, right? Plenty of people hate the Beatles, but they're morons who wouldn't appreciate a good harmony if it bit them in the opinion.
(GET IT? I BROUGHT THE JOKE BACK.)
I can't remember if I ever wanted to have kids. I probably did. I played with dolls and pretended to give birth as a kindergartener. Pretending to have a baby as a 6 year old involves putting a doll up your shirt and then letting it drop on the floor. I would've been a great addition to Toddler Mom. That's next, right? Like Teen Mom but even more horrifying and voyeuristic.
Now that I'm of childbearing age, I don't really think I want kids. Then again, I'm in no position to have children, anyway. I live with my parents, I'm hella single and I ain't got no moneyyy! HOLLA!! Wait... don't holla. Keep your hollas to yourselves. While living with my parents might be a plus for having a child out of wedlock (built in babysitters!) I don't think they'd appreciate it very much. They have more of a social life than I do, it'd just be a burden keeping them from partying it up with all their friends who are way cooler than me.
Kids are a big time suck anyway, right? I mean, I spend a LOT of time sleeping. Like... a lot. Like... almost too much. I blame it on working nights but in reality, I just really love sleeping. It's the best. Babies don't allow you to sleep. Ever. Even when you're pregnant and you think you have 9 months of buffer time to get your shit together, that kid is plotting how they're going to ruin your life. At least I'm pretty sure that's what they're doing. What else is there to do when you're floating around in womb goo, growing eyeballs and fingernails?
Don't get me wrong, babies are cute. Correction, *some* babies are cute. Some babies are just... ugh. My grandpa used to say, "That's... a baby!" when he saw an ugly kid and didn't know how else to react. Classic.
Most babies are cute and easy to deal with. But then they get older and weirder. It's not really fair. Babies can suck on their feet and poop themselves but when a teenager does it it's "gross" and "grounds for psychiatric assistance." Double standards, people. They also get strange looking. I was a pretty cute kid and I'm an alright looking adult but those middle years... man. They were rough.
I'm not so afraid of having a baby who can't communicate or ambulate on their own. I'm afraid of the later years when they learn how to walk and talk. That just means they can willfully be lazy and talk back to you when you tell them to do something. Kids are cute until they get independent and all "I can do it myself!" Fine then, jerk! Do it yourself! See if I care! Oh, you broke everything in the kitchen because you tried to get your own cereal? That's too bad. And now you need me to clean it up for you? What happened to doing things by yourself? See, I'd be a terrible mother.
Also, nothing is yours ever again. It's theirs and they'll destroy it. I know this because I ate and/or ruined everything my parents worked hard for. The car, the new garage, the computer, the carpet, mom's new anything. All delicious leftover food from a restaurant was automatically mine regardless of there being a name clearly written on it with a Sharpie. I laughed in the face of permanent markers. I still do. I'm such a jerk, guys.
All in all, I really like my free time and my semi-disposable income. I also like having marbles and other small items that children could choke on out in the open and frayed electrical wires sticking out of various sockets in my room. It's who I am, I don't want to have to change for a baby who contributes nothing to society.
Don't get me wrong. I'm happy for my friends who have kids. Good for you guys - procreate and be merry! I just don't foresee myself doing that in the near future. I can't imagine having a kid and also fulfilling everything I've been wanting to do when it comes to comedy and sleeping. Maybe I'm just not mature enough to have a child right now.
Blarg! After having close to nothing to write about in the last two months, I finally have quite a few things to share. I've gotten my hair trimmed a few times and I finally got a mouth guard for grinding my teeth at night because I'm so "stressed out". But, I haven't had the motivation to make haircuts and mouth guards interesting or funny. Bruxism is a seriously problem, people. It's like Marxism but with less communism and more... teeth. But just as destructive!
I'm not here to talk about my night anger, though. I'm here to talk about my random "celebrity" sighting in Chicago this weekend!
Friday night I went to a concert. I saw Mike Nesmith. Most people know him from the Monkees but he has a lot more to offer than some "Daydream Believer" crap. He "invented" MTV which is either a wonderful blessing to us all or a terrible Pandora's Box of voyeuristic garbage he opened up in the early 80's.
I get a fair amount of flack for loving Mike Nesmith so much. People don't give him enough credit, though. He was by FAR the coolest Monkee. He wins the sideburn contest hands down. He also has a great Facebook page where he posts the most charming statuses about his dog, Dale. Talent-wise, the dude has some serious songwriting abilities. If you're into storytelling, (you're reading a blog, of course you are) you'll love him. Check out his First National Band stuff. Slide guitars and Moog synthesizers? Chyeah!
I saw him at the Fitzgerald on Friday night. He doesn't quite look the same as he used to...
He also doesn't play quite the same as he used to either. Everything was way slowed down. Then again, he's 70 years old. What do I expect? He's not gonna rock like he used to... while in the Monkees... Either way, it was a decent concert. Not super memorable but I'm glad I went. I've loved the Nez since high school. I even drew a few pictures of him as "Nez dispensers" and sent them to him. I never got a response.
CUT TO CHICAGO!
So we get there on Saturday, mid-afternoon and I'm all excited because Chicago is THE place to be for improv. The Second City, ImprovOlympic, Annoyance Theater - these are all theaters and programs people like Chris Farley, Tina Fey, and Mike Myers went through. The city is saturated in comedy history. I kept thinking to myself, "John Belushi may have vomited right where I'm standing!" You never know.
As we're walking around, I see this older guy walking in our direction. He looks vaguely familiar. Kind of like... Mike Nesmith. But I thought to myself, "nowai, that couldn't be... could it?" But it WAS. Before I knew it, I was all school girly with an "OMG, Michael Nesmith?!" He smiled all coy-like and nodded and I told him I saw his show in Minneapolis the night before and that it was great and it's so cool to meet him. I really don't remember that much about the encounter. It was a blur. I'm glad I didn't ask for an autograph or a photo. I feel like that would've been weird for him. His daughter was with him, she was very nice. I shook his hand. Firm grip, soft palm. Best part? He was wearing a wool hat. BOOM. Mike Nesmith.
How many 27 year old hot (debatable) chicks swarm him on the street these days? At least one so far this year. Me. You're welcome, Mr. Nesmith. But seriously, what are the chances of me seeing him on the street in Chicago the day after seeing him in Minneapolis? Chicago's ginormous, not to mention 400 miles away from the Twin Cities. I still haven't washed my hand or my eyeballs. Ah, memories.
This is the first of a series of blogs about our trip to Chicago. I also have one in the works about meeting Pauly Shore. Stay tuned!
Blomentine's Day? This is not the time of year to shove my name into things. I need it to be Septemberg or Blomorial Day or Arberg Day or Laberg Day. It doesn't work if I say it's Blomuary. March is even worse. Blarch? I guess that works.
So it's Valentine's Day time and I have no Valentine which is perfectly ok with me. We shouldn't be celebrating today, anyway. Lot's of terrible things happened on Valentine's Day throughout the years.
The real James Bond died in 1989. He was an ornithologist so he knew a lot about orns which means "birds" in science. He specifically studied birds of the Caribbean which means he probably knew Tucan Sam personally. I'm just guessing. Anyway, he was an expert with flamingos and cockatiels and these things:
Turns out, the real James Bond was just as awesome as the fake James bond. Minus the explosions and hot ladies and weapons. When asked how he felt about Ian Fleming using his name in his books, James Bond, ornothologist, replied, "I'm fine with it. A bit shaken. But not stirred." What a cool guy. (He didn't really say that.)
If that's not sad enough, listen to this. Remember Dolly the cloned sheep? She died 10 years ago today and not one person said a damn thing about it. Instead, everyone was all, "I love you, let me kiss you, let me hold your hand and meet your parents blablala." Dolly deserved more than that, damnit! She didn't have parents and she was named after Dolly Parton's bazongas. Come on. Seriously. Her original cell was taken from the boob of another sheep and the scientists, who were clearly dudes, said "Dolly is derived from a mammary gland cell and we couldn't think of a more impressive pair of glands than Dolly Parton's." They then proceeded to fart, scratch their balls, and gawk at sheep tits. They are from Scotland, after all.
Not only did Dolly and James Bond die, some really obnoxious people were born.
Florence Henderson, for example. Yeah, a lot of dudes have weird Mrs. Brady fetishes because she seems so wholesome and sweet. WRONG. She cheated on her husband of 29 years with the mayor of New York, John Lindsay, and told everyone that he gave her pubic lice. A.) What kind of mega-star screws around with another super well-known public figure? Oh right. All of them. And B.) Who publicly announces that they got public lice? Regardless of who it came from, that's some wicked TMI. Especially coming from Carol Brady. Gross.
In an effort to prove to you that I'm not bitter about being single on Valentine's Day, I'll give you at least one good thing that happened in history on February 14. Rob Thomas, lead singer of Matchbox 20 (twenty), was born in 1971. As some of you may know, I have a thing for the 90s. I don't really know what it is but the 90s to me are the like 60s to people who were in their 20s in the 90s. I just wish I had been there as an adult instead of as a pre-teen. Rob Thomas and Matchbox 20 were a fairly big part of the 90s, the mid-90s anyway. You can't tell me you don't remember songs like "3 A.M.", "Back 2 Good" (yes, it's a 2 instead of "to" - no one is perfect, ok?) and especially "If You're Gone". I would wake up to these songs on ZONE 105 in junior high and it would totally make my day. That says a lot. Junior high sucked which is an entire blog on it's own. I'll save that for next time. Anyway, I've always thought Rob Thomas was a major dreamboat. He was so brooding and depressed in his music videos. He's one of those guys who's way hotter when he's scowling than when he's smiling. Proof:
Actually, if you think about it, he looks a lot like Dave Coulier. Also, he's a big fat pothead. Which is cool, I guess.
There you have it. Just some of the terrible things that have happened on Valentine's Days past and one awesome thing. Tune in next Valentine's Day when we'll be discussing the the Saint Valentine's Day Massacre of 1929 where 7 people died, the Stardust Disaster which killed 48 people in Dublin, Ireland in 1981, and Indian Airlines flight 605 where 92 people perished in a fiery plane crash in 1990.
Until then, Happy Valentine's day from me, Rob Thomas, and Rob Thomas of Matchbox 20's giant doob.
A local comic who goes by the name of Kate Urquhart is fighting cancer right now. Her condition is unstable, to say the least. Usually my blog are full of hilarity but this one is quite serious. Cancer sucks. That's an understatement. I think we all know at least someone who's had cancer and either passed away due to it or, thankfully, overcome it and is in remission. I don't know Kate or her partner Barb well at all, I've only met them a handful of times but each time has been a memorable and warm experience. Despite the fact that I'm not close with her, I feel it necessary to spread the word about her experience. She's becoming somewhat of a celebrity right now with articles in the Pioneer Press and quite a few benefit shows in her honor, one of which will have Maria Bamford as the headliner. It really sucks that Kate won't be able to see the show, unless of course a miracle happens. And it very well could. Maria Bamford is one of her idols. I can't blame her. Maria is awesome.
The reason I'm writing this blog is because the comedy community in the Twin Cities is a tight one and as close to a family as some may get. Kate and her partner Barb need all the support and love this community can give right now. They're blessed to have friends like Jenn Schaal, Wendy Maybury, Maggie Farris, Tiffany Norton, Margret Blaylock and so many others who's names would take up pages if I wrote them all out. Despite the fact that they have all of this wonderful support, they could still use more. I know times are tough for just about everyone, financially speaking, but if you have an extra buck or two to spare I know they would appreciate it. Barb has been by Kate's side throughout this entire process. Work has been missed and medical bills have stacked up, as they tend to do in these cases.
Here is a link to the Give Forward page Jenn Schaal has put together to raise funds for Barb and Kate. Again, anything helps. Below are the details on the two benefit shows being put together. Something tells me more shows will be coming, which is great. All proceeds from both shows will go directly to Barb and Kate.
Friday, January 18
Where: The Comedy Corner Underground
1) Andy Brynildson
2) Chris Maddock
3) Wendy Maybury
4) James King
5) Maggie Farris
6) Andrew Cahak
More comics to be announced...
Get your tickets HERE
Tuesday, January 22
Where: House of Comedy at the Mall of America
1) MC Maggie Faris
2) Samelia T Quioh
3) Raghav Mehta
4) Phoebe Bottoms
5) Dan Mogol
6) Mike Linden
7) Corey Adam
8) Greg Berman
9) John Russell
10) Mike Brody
11) Pat Susmilch
12) Wendy Maybury
13) Jenn Schaal
14) John Conroy
15) HEADLINER Maria Bamford
Get your tickets HERE
(there will also be a raffle/auction held with all proceeds benefitting Kate and Barb)
If you can give a dollar or two or attend one of these shows, I'm sure Barb would really appreciate it and I know Kate would flip her shit if she knew Maria Bamford was performing in her honor.
Cancer can suck it.
Sports have never been my thing. When the SuperBowl comes around every Summer, I'm like, "Man, I don't know anything about basketball." Competition terrifies me. It's always been anxiety-inducing. See, I used to be a fat kid. My mom calls it, "prepubescent fat." I call it "too many afternoons watching the Montel Williams Show, eating fried lunch meat and RingDings."
I come from a decidedly non-sports family. We're not necessarily anti-sports but we don't go out of our way to watch them or participate in them. We're more of a politics and religion family than anything. We get excited about things like caucuses and primaries and Democratic National Conventions which are like the playoffs of politics. My parents attempted to get my brothers and I into sports when we were kids by signing us up for t-ball but I was usually the kid who ran the wrong way around the bases if I even hit the ball in the first place.
As if t-ball wasn't enough physical activity, we had our daily gym classes, aka "phy ed." I don't know if they still do the Presidential Fitness Test but it was alive and well when I was in elementary school. They should've called it the Presidential Fartness Test since every activity inevitably made you fart in your partner's face. Especially the sit-ups.
I think my sit-and-reach score was a negative number. I've never been flexible. Crunchy, yes. Flexible, no.
Then there were the gym teachers. Most of them were fairly nice but a lot of them were downright cruel. Not to me so much. I was adorable and I think they felt bad for me. No 8-year-old should have acne. Some of the other kids, though. Man. There was a kid named Marcus in my class who was pushing at least 200 lbs as a fifth grader. He's probably a linebacker for the Twins or something now but back then, he got a lot of shit from our gym teacher, Mr. Haynes. One time, Marcus sat on one of those square skateboard things that always pinched your fingers and it broke underneath him. Of course, Mr. Haynes pointed it out to the entire class and everyone laughed and laughed. I'd like to say I didn't laugh with them but, as a fat kid who wasn't being picked on for once, I may have been pretty elated. I hope Marcus looks at his Stanley Cup every night, thinking about that day in gym class and smiles to himself, knowing that he's really made it. And that Mr. Haynes is dead now.
For fear of being made fun of Marcus-style, I would usually daydream and make rock puzzles at recess and then go to the nurse's office for the lost and found sweatpants I would inevitably need because I peed my pants a lot. I am living proof that just because you were the antithesis of "cool" in elementary school, that doesn't mean you can't be super awesome in real life as an adult. Subjectively speaking. I do not wear sweatpants anymore ever. Too traumatic.
Having said all of that, I do love baseball. I have memories of watching games with my dad and listening to them in the car. I don't necessarily follow it but I enjoy watching it. Playing it, however, is a different story. I played softball in junior high and I actually really enjoyed it and I wasn't half bad at it. My team went to states or semi-states or city regionals or something. I almost tried out for the softball team in high school but I thought, "nahhh, competition scares me." So I got into theater instead... because theater is the least competitive thing in the history of everything ever...
Here's some Twitter for your Tweeting Pleasure: