Why can't boy ghosts make babies?
Because they have hollow-weenies!!!!!
Saturday, October 27, 2007
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Never Grow Up, Not me.
Some of the best conversations you can have in college are the ones about childhood. We all come from different places, have particularly wacko sets of parents, attended twilight-zone elementary schools, and went through various other amazing/traumatic experiences that made us into the eccentric people we are today. I have spent the last two years relaying many of my childhood stories to my friends. A surprising number have been met with a great deal of alarm and/or hysterical/mocking laughter.
I guess some of my childhood experiences were somewhat unique. So, I offer you, The Top 5 Ways My Childhood Was Cooler than Yours.
5) Many of my most vivid memories are associated with the television shows I watched as a child. Many afternoons were spent praying for Stick Stickley to pick ''Are you Afraid of the Dark" instead of "Ahhhh Real Monsters!" I would be lying if I said the television didn't raise me at least a little bit. But this isn't to say my mother was being negligent or lazy. Quite the contrary, she had a very influential role in deciding what I watched. Did you ever watch ''The Sand Fairy"?
Because I did. About 1,000 times, as a conservative estimate. A quick glance at this creature might make you question the term fairy-- perhaps gremlin or goblin would be more appropriate? But nevertheless, he would emerge from a sandy beach and grant wishes to greedy British children with great regularity in the Basham household. I recently found clips of the program online and the memories came flooding back to me.
We were also regular viewers of the equally obscure shows, The Torkelsons and Today's Special. I am pretty sure that there was a cross in the television wires and somehow we were the only people to ever see Today's Special. Either that, or Mommy Dearest was the writer, director and producer and filmed it in the garage when we weren't looking, because no one has ever seen this show. With a quick glance at the YouTube video, it is probably with good reason.
4) The sandbox can be a magical place. You can make castles, moats-- entire worlds that will transport you from that war zone known as kindergarten. My father was kind enough to make a sandbox for my brothers and I to play in, but there was one small oversight.
He did not fill it with sand. He filled it with gravel. And by using the word "gravel," I am being kind. Mostly it was just rocks, which are less expensive than sand but much more painful to sit in. And castles? Forget it. My brothers and I would spend hours dragging buckets of water to the ''sandbox" in order to saturate the gravel enough to make a castle. Sometimes this would work briefly, but the magnificent, rock-bestrewn buildings would eventually crumble. Eventually, Brother James and I stopped kidding ourselves. Consumed with concern for the future (because if we had a gravel sandbox now, life could only get worse), we began burying small amounts of coinage Tic-Tac boxes for ''rainy days." I'll begin paying back my student loans as soon as I can recover those "treasures" we left for ourselves...
3) I had an eye patch. Need I say more? I was freakishly tall, had boyishly short hair, and a flesh-colored adhesive eye patch. To add insult to injury, my extremely sensitive skin did not react well to the adhesive, which resulted in angry irritation spanning from forehead to cheek. As The Girl With the Patch, I wasn't the most popular first grader. People either asked me a lot of questions or tried to ignore my completely.
One day, accepting my situation and looking to make the best out of a bad lot, I adorned my patch with a sticker that my optometrist had given to me. These stickers were mostly of the animal variety, playful and sweet. If I could go back in time, when Dr. Gold handed me those stickers, I would have kicked him in the balls and said ''Bitch, what are you thinking?" Because, really? Even I would have made fun of me. Freak show, twelve o'clock, glittery sheep sticker over her eye patch? Is she a member of the Pirates for Free-Range Agriculture Association (PFRAA)?
2) Celine Dion. Vocal powerhouse. Possibly molested by a man who was more than 20 years her senior. Slash husband. In third grade, I received Celine Dion's ''Falling Into You" cassette tape as a gift. As the gift wrap was feverishly torn away, a lifelong Celine fan was born. Strange, I know. Most girls my aged liked Alanis, Shania, or the Spice Girls. Not me, I clung to the strangely thin Canadian songstress and memorized every word of all of her songs. And as a chubby eight-year-old? Well, I'd be damned if Celine was not singing about my life. Ballads about lost loves? Breathy little ditties laden with overtly sexual come-ons? This was my truth!
This obsession continued and intensified. In 6th grade, I instituted ''Celine Fridays."
It's okay. Are you thinking that you never would have been friends with me? It's okay. A lot of people felt that way. On Fridays, I would wear my Celine Dion shirt. I don't really know what else I did to mark these designated holidays, but I probably spouted more Celine information than usual. Such as her favorite perfume is Chanel No. 5. Or maybe that her shoe size was an 8. Or sometimes an 8 1/2. I may have been the only one celebrating, but I was dead-set on spreading the message.
1) I don't mean to paint a picture of myself as a socially isolated freak. However, if you feel that way now, this next story might confirm your suspicions. I would like to think of all of these experiences as ''character building exercises." Please have my future biographers refer to them that way.
In 7th grade, for reasons unknown, I made it my life's mission to convince my entire class that I had a pet duck. Yes, you read that correctly. A. Pet. Duck. Of the "quack quack" variety. My mother bought me a plastic lawn ornament (why, mother, why...?). He was a white duck; I named him Clive. I told people about my new pet, and said that I made him a home called Duckingham Palace. I even looked up how to do this on the INTRAWEB, so that no one could find fault with my story.
I had some buyers. I took it a step further. I took pictures of Clive in the yard, by the stream, or resting by the side of a tree. Keep in mind, these were the days before digital cameras. I went to the trouble of buying film and developing it; all for this great charade. A few keen observers noted that Clive was always photographed in very similar positions. Funny, how inanimate plastic objects are so hesitant to BREAK OUT OF THEIR SHELLS. I usually responded indignantly, with a shrill "Well what do you expect him to do?!" and then would pack away my pictures because there is no greater offense than suggesting that my beloved waterfowl was not a living breathing creature.
I guess some of my childhood experiences were somewhat unique. So, I offer you, The Top 5 Ways My Childhood Was Cooler than Yours.
5) Many of my most vivid memories are associated with the television shows I watched as a child. Many afternoons were spent praying for Stick Stickley to pick ''Are you Afraid of the Dark" instead of "Ahhhh Real Monsters!" I would be lying if I said the television didn't raise me at least a little bit. But this isn't to say my mother was being negligent or lazy. Quite the contrary, she had a very influential role in deciding what I watched. Did you ever watch ''The Sand Fairy"?
Because I did. About 1,000 times, as a conservative estimate. A quick glance at this creature might make you question the term fairy-- perhaps gremlin or goblin would be more appropriate? But nevertheless, he would emerge from a sandy beach and grant wishes to greedy British children with great regularity in the Basham household. I recently found clips of the program online and the memories came flooding back to me.
We were also regular viewers of the equally obscure shows, The Torkelsons and Today's Special. I am pretty sure that there was a cross in the television wires and somehow we were the only people to ever see Today's Special. Either that, or Mommy Dearest was the writer, director and producer and filmed it in the garage when we weren't looking, because no one has ever seen this show. With a quick glance at the YouTube video, it is probably with good reason.
4) The sandbox can be a magical place. You can make castles, moats-- entire worlds that will transport you from that war zone known as kindergarten. My father was kind enough to make a sandbox for my brothers and I to play in, but there was one small oversight.
He did not fill it with sand. He filled it with gravel. And by using the word "gravel," I am being kind. Mostly it was just rocks, which are less expensive than sand but much more painful to sit in. And castles? Forget it. My brothers and I would spend hours dragging buckets of water to the ''sandbox" in order to saturate the gravel enough to make a castle. Sometimes this would work briefly, but the magnificent, rock-bestrewn buildings would eventually crumble. Eventually, Brother James and I stopped kidding ourselves. Consumed with concern for the future (because if we had a gravel sandbox now, life could only get worse), we began burying small amounts of coinage Tic-Tac boxes for ''rainy days." I'll begin paying back my student loans as soon as I can recover those "treasures" we left for ourselves...
3) I had an eye patch. Need I say more? I was freakishly tall, had boyishly short hair, and a flesh-colored adhesive eye patch. To add insult to injury, my extremely sensitive skin did not react well to the adhesive, which resulted in angry irritation spanning from forehead to cheek. As The Girl With the Patch, I wasn't the most popular first grader. People either asked me a lot of questions or tried to ignore my completely.
One day, accepting my situation and looking to make the best out of a bad lot, I adorned my patch with a sticker that my optometrist had given to me. These stickers were mostly of the animal variety, playful and sweet. If I could go back in time, when Dr. Gold handed me those stickers, I would have kicked him in the balls and said ''Bitch, what are you thinking?" Because, really? Even I would have made fun of me. Freak show, twelve o'clock, glittery sheep sticker over her eye patch? Is she a member of the Pirates for Free-Range Agriculture Association (PFRAA)?
2) Celine Dion. Vocal powerhouse. Possibly molested by a man who was more than 20 years her senior. Slash husband. In third grade, I received Celine Dion's ''Falling Into You" cassette tape as a gift. As the gift wrap was feverishly torn away, a lifelong Celine fan was born. Strange, I know. Most girls my aged liked Alanis, Shania, or the Spice Girls. Not me, I clung to the strangely thin Canadian songstress and memorized every word of all of her songs. And as a chubby eight-year-old? Well, I'd be damned if Celine was not singing about my life. Ballads about lost loves? Breathy little ditties laden with overtly sexual come-ons? This was my truth!
This obsession continued and intensified. In 6th grade, I instituted ''Celine Fridays."
It's okay. Are you thinking that you never would have been friends with me? It's okay. A lot of people felt that way. On Fridays, I would wear my Celine Dion shirt. I don't really know what else I did to mark these designated holidays, but I probably spouted more Celine information than usual. Such as her favorite perfume is Chanel No. 5. Or maybe that her shoe size was an 8. Or sometimes an 8 1/2. I may have been the only one celebrating, but I was dead-set on spreading the message.
1) I don't mean to paint a picture of myself as a socially isolated freak. However, if you feel that way now, this next story might confirm your suspicions. I would like to think of all of these experiences as ''character building exercises." Please have my future biographers refer to them that way.
In 7th grade, for reasons unknown, I made it my life's mission to convince my entire class that I had a pet duck. Yes, you read that correctly. A. Pet. Duck. Of the "quack quack" variety. My mother bought me a plastic lawn ornament (why, mother, why...?). He was a white duck; I named him Clive. I told people about my new pet, and said that I made him a home called Duckingham Palace. I even looked up how to do this on the INTRAWEB, so that no one could find fault with my story.
I had some buyers. I took it a step further. I took pictures of Clive in the yard, by the stream, or resting by the side of a tree. Keep in mind, these were the days before digital cameras. I went to the trouble of buying film and developing it; all for this great charade. A few keen observers noted that Clive was always photographed in very similar positions. Funny, how inanimate plastic objects are so hesitant to BREAK OUT OF THEIR SHELLS. I usually responded indignantly, with a shrill "Well what do you expect him to do?!" and then would pack away my pictures because there is no greater offense than suggesting that my beloved waterfowl was not a living breathing creature.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
I stretch because I feel sad
A stranger wraps her hands around my hips and pulls them up toward the ceiling. Then, she moves a hand to the small of my back and puts another one around my rib cage. She pushes, twisting my torso outward.
It's 9:30 a.m., and I feel intensely uncomfortable. I have never spoken to this girl in my life and she is freely groping in third-date territory. Welcome to yoga!
After frustrating schedules in past years, I finally had the time to take a fitness class at SU this semester. For reasons that presently escape me, I decided to take yoga. I figured it would force me to stop being a maniac, who worries incessantly about things like hegemony and cultural genocide, and ''center" myself for a couple hours a week. Despite being about as flexible about as Britney Spears is reasonable, I came to enjoy and look forward to the class.
But in the past weeks, it has somehow devolved into a touchy-feely, earthy crunchy feelings fest. Our Hippy Instructor Extraordinaire, Annie, recently ended class early and instructed everyone to gather in a circle. We were told to state why we were taking yoga and what we hoped to get out of it.
Cue eyeroll. I mentally check out at this point and begin wondering whether there is enough change in my bag for coffee at People's Place.
The sharing begins. Mary takes yoga because her grandmother is 84 and is as bendy as the day she was born, and by God, Mary wants to be like that too! (Have you ever tried to bend a baby? LIKE RUBBER BANDS, THEY FLEX!)
Julie is a senior and is having trouble facing the stressful reality that, in nine short months, she will have to be a Big Girl. Yoga, she is sure, will fix this and postpone the onset of reality. I picture Julie pulling out tufts of hair at a cubicle, breathing deeply and whipping out a Warrior III yoga pose, just as her boss rounds the corner to ask about those cover sheets for the TPS reports.
Instructor Annie looks on sympathetically, eyebrows furrowed, listening closely to her pupils' tales of woe. She tells us her story-- she moved to San Francisco to be a dancer (flapper?), but it didn't work out. The room is heavy, wondering what catastrophe befell Annie. What could keep Annie from the stage?! My nagging questions go unanswered, and Annie tell us she happily teaches dance and yoga now and lives a comfortable life with husband and dog. By piecing together the chronology of her tale, she is at least 10 years older than I thought. Note to Lindsay Lohan: Maybe you should do yoga because you have aged 20 years in the last three.
But this interruption to class, while annoying, is not entirely maddening. But fast forward to the next class. Annie stops us again with 30 minutes left, instructs us to count off by ones and twos, with each group going to an opposite side of the studio. Walk backwards, she says. Then, CRASH INTO SOMEONE AND TALK TO THEM. We are not allowed to ask regular questions like majors, years, and all of that. We are to ask deep, soul-probing questions and report back to the class about the girl that we met.
Cindy: This is Emily, her dog just died and she feels constipated today.
Emily: This is Cindy, she loves Hello Kitty and wants to operate hot air balloons for a living.
Do you feel my pain? I love engaging strangers in conversation, don't get me wrong. But not in yoga, which seems to be happening with increasing frequency. Last week, when I was feeling particularly in the zone, Annie stopped class because our ''energy" was too heavy.
Dear Professor,
I will not be handing in my research paper. It makes my energy too heavy. Please let me know if there is a sexual favor I could perform in exchange for credit.
Thanks,
Catherine
Today, when we partnered up with people to do the aforementioned adjusting of each other's postures, I could not have wanted to do anything less. Maybe I am being overly self-conscious or narrow-minded, but am I asking too much if I want to do downward dog by myself, without the probing finger tips of strange girls all over my body?
Just saying.
It's 9:30 a.m., and I feel intensely uncomfortable. I have never spoken to this girl in my life and she is freely groping in third-date territory. Welcome to yoga!
After frustrating schedules in past years, I finally had the time to take a fitness class at SU this semester. For reasons that presently escape me, I decided to take yoga. I figured it would force me to stop being a maniac, who worries incessantly about things like hegemony and cultural genocide, and ''center" myself for a couple hours a week. Despite being about as flexible about as Britney Spears is reasonable, I came to enjoy and look forward to the class.
But in the past weeks, it has somehow devolved into a touchy-feely, earthy crunchy feelings fest. Our Hippy Instructor Extraordinaire, Annie, recently ended class early and instructed everyone to gather in a circle. We were told to state why we were taking yoga and what we hoped to get out of it.
Cue eyeroll. I mentally check out at this point and begin wondering whether there is enough change in my bag for coffee at People's Place.
The sharing begins. Mary takes yoga because her grandmother is 84 and is as bendy as the day she was born, and by God, Mary wants to be like that too! (Have you ever tried to bend a baby? LIKE RUBBER BANDS, THEY FLEX!)
Julie is a senior and is having trouble facing the stressful reality that, in nine short months, she will have to be a Big Girl. Yoga, she is sure, will fix this and postpone the onset of reality. I picture Julie pulling out tufts of hair at a cubicle, breathing deeply and whipping out a Warrior III yoga pose, just as her boss rounds the corner to ask about those cover sheets for the TPS reports.
Instructor Annie looks on sympathetically, eyebrows furrowed, listening closely to her pupils' tales of woe. She tells us her story-- she moved to San Francisco to be a dancer (flapper?), but it didn't work out. The room is heavy, wondering what catastrophe befell Annie. What could keep Annie from the stage?! My nagging questions go unanswered, and Annie tell us she happily teaches dance and yoga now and lives a comfortable life with husband and dog. By piecing together the chronology of her tale, she is at least 10 years older than I thought. Note to Lindsay Lohan: Maybe you should do yoga because you have aged 20 years in the last three.
But this interruption to class, while annoying, is not entirely maddening. But fast forward to the next class. Annie stops us again with 30 minutes left, instructs us to count off by ones and twos, with each group going to an opposite side of the studio. Walk backwards, she says. Then, CRASH INTO SOMEONE AND TALK TO THEM. We are not allowed to ask regular questions like majors, years, and all of that. We are to ask deep, soul-probing questions and report back to the class about the girl that we met.
Cindy: This is Emily, her dog just died and she feels constipated today.
Emily: This is Cindy, she loves Hello Kitty and wants to operate hot air balloons for a living.
Do you feel my pain? I love engaging strangers in conversation, don't get me wrong. But not in yoga, which seems to be happening with increasing frequency. Last week, when I was feeling particularly in the zone, Annie stopped class because our ''energy" was too heavy.
Dear Professor,
I will not be handing in my research paper. It makes my energy too heavy. Please let me know if there is a sexual favor I could perform in exchange for credit.
Thanks,
Catherine
Today, when we partnered up with people to do the aforementioned adjusting of each other's postures, I could not have wanted to do anything less. Maybe I am being overly self-conscious or narrow-minded, but am I asking too much if I want to do downward dog by myself, without the probing finger tips of strange girls all over my body?
Just saying.
Friday, October 12, 2007
Is this my life?
My love for Tyra Banks comes from a very confusing place deep inside my soul. It is an impure love, tinged with dislike and mockery, peppered with genuine admiration and appreciation. It is a love that most cannot begin to fathom.
What's that? Get a grip? Okay, but in the words of one of my traveling companions, Ms. Paige, let's be real. I am a Tyra fan, but not a true Tyra fan. I came to love her out of mocking her, and that is also how I came to arrive at her show. Ashley and I realized that we could apply for Tyra tickets on her Web site. As a joke, thinking we would never actually go, we applied.
A few weeks later, my boy Mike from Tyra called to tell us we had tickets. And so it began, a weeks-long planning extravaganza. We were going to Tyra-- Paige, Katie, Ashley and Me, and oh! it would be glorious. I told everyone I knew, and even the occasional stranger. Weeks in advance, Ibegan wracking my brain for an outfit that was Tyra-worthy. (The Tyra show has a strict dress code that makes one wonder how anyone gets in. Some people who attended our taping clearly did not read the guidelines. Most were subsequently placed in the back rows, where the outfits deemed inappropriate or garish by the Tyra staff, could not be seen by the discriminating eyes of the camera... or Tyra).
After several hours of traveling patiently with my lady friends, we arrived at Tyra's studio in Chelsea. Tyra's studio is immediately next to Martha Stewart's. What a unique pairing those two would make. My mind wandered, imagining the limitless possibilities of a Tyra/Martha friendship.... or showdown? I hope Martha invites Tyra on her show. And I hope she interviews her with the same gumption that she did with Lindsay Lohan, here.
After we stood on a ramp for about an hour, we were shuffled into a waiting room where Tyra propaganda spewed from several 13-inch televisions. But I found it hard to focus on the screens because of all the incredible opportunities to people watch. What an extraordinary cross-section of people that Tyra attracts. There were a multitude of Jersey girls who ranged greatly in their allegiance to traditional Jersey stereotypes. Middle-aged women wander aimlessly and look confused about where they are and how they got there. There is the occasional male companion, who you just know got dragged along by a particularly unrelenting mate. There was a girl dressed all in white who pestered a Tyra staff member for at least fifteen minutes about where she would be seated and whether the staff was concerned that she would detract attention from Tyra (bitch, please).
Fast forward to the good stuff. We are shuffled to the studio in a gargantuan freight elevator, which we learned was used to transport an elephant to Howard Stern six years earlier. Note to Tyra: Invite more Circus animals.
We were seated in prime Tyra-viewing territory. The pink and purple lights cascade over the audience. Smoke from dry ice is flowing out onto the aisle next to us. The audience was instructed to get on their feet, clap like they're bringing back every dead fairy non-believers ever killed, and to scream like wild banshees. So that is exactly what we did.
Tyra emerged, an even more breathtaking spectacle in person. Okay, I said it, a breathtaking spectacle. Ashley was not fully on board with my use of the word ''breathaking" but I am not ashamed that I was quite swept up the appearance Ms. Banks.
The show continued, with Tyra spending much of it perched on the stair immediately in front of our row. We stared in awe and excitement as Tyra employed expert Dr. Braverman to assess the lifestyles of various women on stage and pinpoint the exact age of their death.
Sound morbid? A little farfetched? It is, but show topic was ''When will I die?" and really, you can't expect too much from the Tyra Show. After being presented with a few key facts, the audience would cold-heartedly scream out the name of whichever woman they thought would die first. It felt odd and wrong to predict death dates for relatively healthy, vibrant people, but with Tyra looking on approvingly, any shame I felt quickly evaporated. I was so overcome by the spell of the Tyra Show, there is no telling what else I would have done. Equally spellbound, Ashley even got up and answer a question about why she thought one woman was doomed to a particularly early demise. I certainly hope this makes it into the final cut, however disgruntled that may make her. It'll be a story for the grandkids (which we seem to be accumulating at an ever more rapid pace).
For the last couple of segments, two 100+-year-old were wheeled out to reveal the secrets to a long and healthy life. Both of the old women seemed quite taken by Tyra, one stroking her hair and looking with earnest wonder at the cameras and lights, saying ''I have been all over the world and have never seen anything like this."
Even a woman that has survived two world wars and the holocaust can still be awestruck by the Tyra spectacle. Imagine the wonder that would take place if she took me up on the circus suggestion.
The other woman made her an afghan blanket, which made Tyra tear up, as it was made using same stitch that Grandma Tyra had taught her many moons ago. Ms. Banks proceeded to drape this blanket over her lap, where it remained for the rest of the show. I expect that Tyra will keep this blanket in a special place and wax poetic about it on a ''best of" clips show in the future.
Though we left without so much as a wave or a thank you from Tyra, or even a free goodie under our seats, I couldn't have felt more satisfied. The experience at The Tyra Show was a truly unique one, and made even better by the fact that I got to share it with three other girls who find Tyra as simulatenously wonderful, hilarious and ridiculous as I do.
Riding home in sleepy satisfaction, we people-watched some more on the train. The main attraction: a May-December couple playing vigorous tonsil hockey next to two disbelieving high school girls. In the car we played frustrating games of 20 questions, our brains too swollen with left-over adrenaline from Tyra to come up with simple answers. We arrived home at 12:40am, exhausted but in the best way possible. The 5am wake up call was entirely worth it as we snuggled into our beds. Any day filled to the brim with good friends, Tyra Banks and the many joys of train travel (Katie), can't be much less than perfect.
What's that? Get a grip? Okay, but in the words of one of my traveling companions, Ms. Paige, let's be real. I am a Tyra fan, but not a true Tyra fan. I came to love her out of mocking her, and that is also how I came to arrive at her show. Ashley and I realized that we could apply for Tyra tickets on her Web site. As a joke, thinking we would never actually go, we applied.
A few weeks later, my boy Mike from Tyra called to tell us we had tickets. And so it began, a weeks-long planning extravaganza. We were going to Tyra-- Paige, Katie, Ashley and Me, and oh! it would be glorious. I told everyone I knew, and even the occasional stranger. Weeks in advance, Ibegan wracking my brain for an outfit that was Tyra-worthy. (The Tyra show has a strict dress code that makes one wonder how anyone gets in. Some people who attended our taping clearly did not read the guidelines. Most were subsequently placed in the back rows, where the outfits deemed inappropriate or garish by the Tyra staff, could not be seen by the discriminating eyes of the camera... or Tyra).
After several hours of traveling patiently with my lady friends, we arrived at Tyra's studio in Chelsea. Tyra's studio is immediately next to Martha Stewart's. What a unique pairing those two would make. My mind wandered, imagining the limitless possibilities of a Tyra/Martha friendship.... or showdown? I hope Martha invites Tyra on her show. And I hope she interviews her with the same gumption that she did with Lindsay Lohan, here.
After we stood on a ramp for about an hour, we were shuffled into a waiting room where Tyra propaganda spewed from several 13-inch televisions. But I found it hard to focus on the screens because of all the incredible opportunities to people watch. What an extraordinary cross-section of people that Tyra attracts. There were a multitude of Jersey girls who ranged greatly in their allegiance to traditional Jersey stereotypes. Middle-aged women wander aimlessly and look confused about where they are and how they got there. There is the occasional male companion, who you just know got dragged along by a particularly unrelenting mate. There was a girl dressed all in white who pestered a Tyra staff member for at least fifteen minutes about where she would be seated and whether the staff was concerned that she would detract attention from Tyra (bitch, please).
Fast forward to the good stuff. We are shuffled to the studio in a gargantuan freight elevator, which we learned was used to transport an elephant to Howard Stern six years earlier. Note to Tyra: Invite more Circus animals.
We were seated in prime Tyra-viewing territory. The pink and purple lights cascade over the audience. Smoke from dry ice is flowing out onto the aisle next to us. The audience was instructed to get on their feet, clap like they're bringing back every dead fairy non-believers ever killed, and to scream like wild banshees. So that is exactly what we did.
Tyra emerged, an even more breathtaking spectacle in person. Okay, I said it, a breathtaking spectacle. Ashley was not fully on board with my use of the word ''breathaking" but I am not ashamed that I was quite swept up the appearance Ms. Banks.
The show continued, with Tyra spending much of it perched on the stair immediately in front of our row. We stared in awe and excitement as Tyra employed expert Dr. Braverman to assess the lifestyles of various women on stage and pinpoint the exact age of their death.
Sound morbid? A little farfetched? It is, but show topic was ''When will I die?" and really, you can't expect too much from the Tyra Show. After being presented with a few key facts, the audience would cold-heartedly scream out the name of whichever woman they thought would die first. It felt odd and wrong to predict death dates for relatively healthy, vibrant people, but with Tyra looking on approvingly, any shame I felt quickly evaporated. I was so overcome by the spell of the Tyra Show, there is no telling what else I would have done. Equally spellbound, Ashley even got up and answer a question about why she thought one woman was doomed to a particularly early demise. I certainly hope this makes it into the final cut, however disgruntled that may make her. It'll be a story for the grandkids (which we seem to be accumulating at an ever more rapid pace).
For the last couple of segments, two 100+-year-old were wheeled out to reveal the secrets to a long and healthy life. Both of the old women seemed quite taken by Tyra, one stroking her hair and looking with earnest wonder at the cameras and lights, saying ''I have been all over the world and have never seen anything like this."
Even a woman that has survived two world wars and the holocaust can still be awestruck by the Tyra spectacle. Imagine the wonder that would take place if she took me up on the circus suggestion.
The other woman made her an afghan blanket, which made Tyra tear up, as it was made using same stitch that Grandma Tyra had taught her many moons ago. Ms. Banks proceeded to drape this blanket over her lap, where it remained for the rest of the show. I expect that Tyra will keep this blanket in a special place and wax poetic about it on a ''best of" clips show in the future.
Though we left without so much as a wave or a thank you from Tyra, or even a free goodie under our seats, I couldn't have felt more satisfied. The experience at The Tyra Show was a truly unique one, and made even better by the fact that I got to share it with three other girls who find Tyra as simulatenously wonderful, hilarious and ridiculous as I do.
Riding home in sleepy satisfaction, we people-watched some more on the train. The main attraction: a May-December couple playing vigorous tonsil hockey next to two disbelieving high school girls. In the car we played frustrating games of 20 questions, our brains too swollen with left-over adrenaline from Tyra to come up with simple answers. We arrived home at 12:40am, exhausted but in the best way possible. The 5am wake up call was entirely worth it as we snuggled into our beds. Any day filled to the brim with good friends, Tyra Banks and the many joys of train travel (Katie), can't be much less than perfect.
Friday, June 29, 2007
Postponed until further notice
Let me offer you a piece of advice. If I ever invite you to a concert, say no. I have this awful luck which causes half the acts I have tickets to see suddenly cancel or postpone. It makes me think I shouldn't dare to see anybody who may have health problems because my ticket purchase could immediately make their conditions worse.
For example, I won't go see Melissa Etheridge. I might make her breast cancer come back. And as God as my witness, Tony Bennett is an absolute no-no because I would hate to be the reason that old man dropped dead. He has such a lovely spirit.
It all began in seventh grade. A group of my friends and one of their mom's all piled in a minivan to go see Christina Aguilera and Destiny's Child at the Tweeter Center in Mansfield, MA. Okay, forgive me, I was twelve and rather proud to know all the words to "Bugaboo."
We got there, settled down on the lawn seats, eagerly anticipating the horrendous cacophony of pop music that was about to fill our ears. "Sorry, but I don't think so," said an announcement over the loudspeakers. Ms. Aguilera had laryngitis, or some other condition that she clearly knew about much before that moment. We packed up our things, sang that horrible Nelly song, "Ride with Me," much to the horror of my friend's mother, and headed to Wal-Mart, because that was the only thing we could think to do. Oh, suburban childhood.
Fast forward a couple of years. Freshman year, Casey and I were set to go see Elton John and Billy Joel in their outrageously popular Face to Face Tour. And boy, were we excited. I had been listening non-stop to Elton John for months, and Billy too. Yes, it was somewhat unusual taste for our particular age group, but we both adored Elton and Billy. On the Saturday of the concert, at around two o'clock in the afternoon, I was showering in preparation for the event. You know, I wanted to impress the respectively gay and creepy 60-something-year-old men. Or at least, prevent them from smelling me from the third balcony.
"I don't think so," said a radio announcer on WBOS. Billy Joel was sick with something like laryngitis or some other illness that he CLEARLY could have been reported more than 5 hours before the concert. I called Casey. She thought I was kidding. Devastation and bitter anger set in. I sat outside in the rain for several hours until my mother returned home and I whined endlessly to her. In fact, I think during my sulking in the rain, I cried. So bitter was my disappointment. The good news is we did get to see Elton and Billy, but not after yet another postponement. We were originially supposed to see them in February. Not until September 20 did they get around to gracing us with their presence in the Fleet Center.
Now, this summer, my roommate Calyn and I were set to see the one and only Kelly Clarkson in Albany. The Kelly that we love. The Kelly that sings with a deep-seeded anger and bitterness that only the best of pop stars can muster. The Kelly that we drunkenly sang and screamed along with more times than I am readily willing to admit. Well guess what? Apparently Calyn and I were the only ones that bought tickets to Kelly's summer tour. Ticket sales were abysmal, and Kelly's record company didn't like the CD. TOUR CANCELLED. Kelly Clarkson, please don't take this personally, but WHAT THE HECK? But we can't really be mad at Kelly. It isn't her fault. I think Calyn said it best. "If I ever saw Kelly, you know, I think I would slap her and then say I'm sorry and give her a big hug." I feel the same. It's us and Kelly against the world.
Now, today, I was supposed to go see Hootie and the Blowfish in Hampton Beach, New Hampshire. I know what you're thinking. Who the hell goes to see Hootie and the Blowfish? Well, me and Miss Cassidy Morgan do. We make a point of going to random events and places just because it's funny or strange. We were all geared up for the event. We planned a beach day, a breakfast at Ihop; the day couldn't be more lovely.
Last night, Cassidy IMed me. "I have some bad news," she said. Oh dear God. Darius Rucker, better known as Hootie, has a staph infection. He has been dealing with it for a long time now, undergoing three recent surgeries to rid himself of the infection. YET AGAIN, something the band probably knew would be an issue much before the night of the concert. Good Lord. Do I need to define the word "forethought" for these people.
I rest my case. I have been to a few concerts. But nearly half of them have been cancelled or postponted. It is likely that I will be unable to see Hootie, because the rescheduled dates will probably fall after I return to Syracuse on August 20. And all ever I really wanted was to scream the lyrics to ''Hold my Hand" and hit on a bunch of 30-something men trying to relive their days as frat brothers in the mid-90s.
So, you know. If there is anyone you want dead or sick, let me know. I'll buy tickets for their next gig.
For example, I won't go see Melissa Etheridge. I might make her breast cancer come back. And as God as my witness, Tony Bennett is an absolute no-no because I would hate to be the reason that old man dropped dead. He has such a lovely spirit.
It all began in seventh grade. A group of my friends and one of their mom's all piled in a minivan to go see Christina Aguilera and Destiny's Child at the Tweeter Center in Mansfield, MA. Okay, forgive me, I was twelve and rather proud to know all the words to "Bugaboo."
We got there, settled down on the lawn seats, eagerly anticipating the horrendous cacophony of pop music that was about to fill our ears. "Sorry, but I don't think so," said an announcement over the loudspeakers. Ms. Aguilera had laryngitis, or some other condition that she clearly knew about much before that moment. We packed up our things, sang that horrible Nelly song, "Ride with Me," much to the horror of my friend's mother, and headed to Wal-Mart, because that was the only thing we could think to do. Oh, suburban childhood.
Fast forward a couple of years. Freshman year, Casey and I were set to go see Elton John and Billy Joel in their outrageously popular Face to Face Tour. And boy, were we excited. I had been listening non-stop to Elton John for months, and Billy too. Yes, it was somewhat unusual taste for our particular age group, but we both adored Elton and Billy. On the Saturday of the concert, at around two o'clock in the afternoon, I was showering in preparation for the event. You know, I wanted to impress the respectively gay and creepy 60-something-year-old men. Or at least, prevent them from smelling me from the third balcony.
"I don't think so," said a radio announcer on WBOS. Billy Joel was sick with something like laryngitis or some other illness that he CLEARLY could have been reported more than 5 hours before the concert. I called Casey. She thought I was kidding. Devastation and bitter anger set in. I sat outside in the rain for several hours until my mother returned home and I whined endlessly to her. In fact, I think during my sulking in the rain, I cried. So bitter was my disappointment. The good news is we did get to see Elton and Billy, but not after yet another postponement. We were originially supposed to see them in February. Not until September 20 did they get around to gracing us with their presence in the Fleet Center.
Now, this summer, my roommate Calyn and I were set to see the one and only Kelly Clarkson in Albany. The Kelly that we love. The Kelly that sings with a deep-seeded anger and bitterness that only the best of pop stars can muster. The Kelly that we drunkenly sang and screamed along with more times than I am readily willing to admit. Well guess what? Apparently Calyn and I were the only ones that bought tickets to Kelly's summer tour. Ticket sales were abysmal, and Kelly's record company didn't like the CD. TOUR CANCELLED. Kelly Clarkson, please don't take this personally, but WHAT THE HECK? But we can't really be mad at Kelly. It isn't her fault. I think Calyn said it best. "If I ever saw Kelly, you know, I think I would slap her and then say I'm sorry and give her a big hug." I feel the same. It's us and Kelly against the world.
Now, today, I was supposed to go see Hootie and the Blowfish in Hampton Beach, New Hampshire. I know what you're thinking. Who the hell goes to see Hootie and the Blowfish? Well, me and Miss Cassidy Morgan do. We make a point of going to random events and places just because it's funny or strange. We were all geared up for the event. We planned a beach day, a breakfast at Ihop; the day couldn't be more lovely.
Last night, Cassidy IMed me. "I have some bad news," she said. Oh dear God. Darius Rucker, better known as Hootie, has a staph infection. He has been dealing with it for a long time now, undergoing three recent surgeries to rid himself of the infection. YET AGAIN, something the band probably knew would be an issue much before the night of the concert. Good Lord. Do I need to define the word "forethought" for these people.
I rest my case. I have been to a few concerts. But nearly half of them have been cancelled or postponted. It is likely that I will be unable to see Hootie, because the rescheduled dates will probably fall after I return to Syracuse on August 20. And all ever I really wanted was to scream the lyrics to ''Hold my Hand" and hit on a bunch of 30-something men trying to relive their days as frat brothers in the mid-90s.
So, you know. If there is anyone you want dead or sick, let me know. I'll buy tickets for their next gig.
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