Lovesong

I love music.  I really do.  I love to hear about new artists and find old favorites again.

When I was just a young and impressionable freshman, my friend, Carrie Simpson, helped me fall in love with several non-Clarendon-types of music like The Pixies, The Smiths, Live, and everything U2 had ever done.  Our friendship started with a deep and boundless love for Duke basketball and Christian Laettner.

But then there was also this -- Robert Smith and The Cure.

I don't know what to say except that teenage girls make zero sense most of the time.

I had a long conversation a few weeks ago on social media about cover songs.  Taking something old and familiar and changing it to make it your own.  I think it's so interesting to hear the different ways others find their voice with a piece that inspired them.

The original:

Anyway, as I was cleaning out my music library, I realized that I have FOUR versions of this song.  I think sometimes my obsessions might be unhealthy.  I have several songs in multiple forms in my collection, but I think this is one of my favorites. 

I loved this one from the "50 First Dates" soundtrack.  Makes me want to sip drinks with umbrellas on a beach and fall in hopelessly melodramatic teenage love.

Several people recommended this one to me.  I don't think it will make the cut.  Anberlin's cover makes me feel a little hectic.  Love songs shouldn't be hectic.  They should ooze a little angst.  Or a lot.  Yes.  Maybe lots of angst.

Death Cab for Cutie reminds me most of the original, but there's a tone in there that is displeasing to my non-musically trained ear, like the organ from The Doors.  But much more noticeable.  The unpleasantness fades after a few listens... until the original pops up.

I was fully prepared to call this one my favorite until Adele introduces it by announcing that her mum was mortified when she told her about it.  "You know  how when a young person does an old person's song and they think she's ruined it."  

I'm coming to England soon, Adele.  Watch your back, young 'un.

Why I'm the Dumbest Person I Know

I loves me some Diet Coke.

Loves.

Really, a Diet Coke from QT, with some crushed ice is basically my A.M. lifeblood. And P.M. Let's be real. It's an all-day love affair.

So one might wonder, considering my loyal dedication to this nectar of the Gods, why I've decided to try to give it up. Because I'm stupid. That's why.

It started on Saturday with me being frugal. Wait. Strike that. Lazy. Yes, that's the word I'm looking for. I was so tired/lazy on Saturday morning, I couldn't go to the store. I couldn't get out of my pajamas or brush my hair. Not that theses are deterrents for anyone looking to visit my local Wal-Martz.

So I thought to myself, "Hey, Self. You don't need no stinkin' Diet Coke! Have some tasty tap water instead!"

This is the moment I needed someone to intervene. But I live alone, and I'm pretty convincing, so I talk myself into some stupid shit all the time.

I lived off the tap water for a couple of hours before the first twinges of caffeine withdrawal settled in. I popped some ibuprofen and brewed some tea. I staved off the shakes for another couple of hours, and thus decided, "This isn't so hard! I could totally give up Diet Coke! Think of the money I'll save!"

Again. I live alone. And I'm fairly stupid at times. And stubborn.

By Sunday afternoon, I believe I was in full-blown Diet Coke de-tox. But I was determined. Because I'm absurdly competitive, even with only myself. Even when I literally could not peel myself off the couch for a while because my head and body ached so badly.

I think the Betty should open a wing just for recovering Diet Coke-heads.

I did manage to get up this morning although I cracked and had one normal-sized Diet Coke. I did not, however, strangle a child or co-worker as I was afraid I would.

But tomorrow's a new day.

Reconciling Wrigley for the Rangers

I have always loved baseball. 

Maybe it's the combination of the smells of freshly mown grass and the leather of a glove. Maybe it's the laid-back feel of a warm afternoon game. Maybe it's that the season starts in the spring, a notorious symbol of re-birth and hope. I do love a good notorious symbol, you know. Or maybe it's just the child-like simplicity of having a catch and swinging the bat. Whatever the reason, I loved it.

As a child, my earliest memories are of going to see my mom's league softball team play. I think she played 2nd base and maybe a little shortstop. My dad was their coach. I barely ever paid attention (I couldn't have been more than 5 or 6), but I will never forget the clang of the ball on the bat, the moths hovering around the stadium lights or the taste of a purple sno-cone on my tongue.

As I got older, I would bring home my softball league form and stare at it obsessively until my mom filled out the form. Then she, or my dad, or my brother, and I would go out to the yard to start warming up my arm. Games out on our dusty old field. My coach, Ricci, with a cigarette tucked behind her ear and good ol' Martha Harris strutting up to the plate to knock me in. And Lord, could that girl ever swing the bat.

And when I couldn't play ball, I was watching it on TV. When I was young, my hick-town television got four channels:  ABC, NBC, CBS... and WGN. The Chicago station. Because that makes perfect sense for Clarendon, America. Every summer day, I'd catch a Cubs game and watch Andre Dawson and Shawon Dunston and Greg Maddux and Mark Grace and Ryne Sandberg... oh, Ryne Sandberg, how I loved you. I learned everything I know about 2nd basemen from you.  Turning a double play without getting taken out by the runner. Taking care of your shortstop.  Applying the tag on a steal. I probably should have mentioned you in my 1988 little league MVP speech. Well, if I'd had one. Or if I'd been the MVP. 

Sigh.

Every fall, however, I'd be disappointed. But a Cub fan wears her disappointment like a badge of honor, so I never gave up hope. It's the thing that everyone who is not a Cubs fan detests about Cubs fans. Someday, my team would be in that World Series. Someday.

Even when I moved to a city where there's an actual major league team, I couldn't let the good ol' days go. Sure, I took my first trip to a major league game at the Ballpark, and I even got to see my Cubs up close and personal during inter-league play once. It was wonderful but not nearly so incredible as it was to be 10 years old, cross-legged and too close to the t.v. with my fingers crossed and a prayer for a win upon my lips. And no seventh inning stretch touches a Harry Caray rendition of "Take Me Out to the Ballgame". I loved Harry Caray. There was a hopefulness in the start of each broadcast that you just couldn't shake.

"Ah-ONE.  Ah-TWO.  AH-THREE!"

Somewhere along the way, I lost that love for the sport. I didn't hate it necessarily. I went to games. I tuned in when I had time. The postseason just always seemed to take a backseat to my need to finish a 7th grade volleyball season with my spirit intact. Also, the thought of squeezing my eyes shut and whispering a prayer for 9 innings, all the way to Chicago (as an adult because I totally did it as a kid) just felt a little silly. Then, in the summer of 2010, the Rangers started picking up steam and stirring up trouble. And just like that, I fell back in love with baseball.  Lord, I fell hard. It wasn't just that they were winning, and it wasn't simply that they were making such dear friends of mine so incredibly happy. It was that they made it fun again. Every time they made Bullwinkle-style antler hands or put up the claw or hugged each other in the dug-out, it felt real. And genuine. And hopeful.

My Lord, it felt hopeful.  And I do love hopeful.

I tried not to fall for them because I'm supposed to be a Cubs fan.  It felt like cheating. Was I cheating? Or worse? Was I on the... bandwagon?  *shudder*

Every game I went to or run that I cheered, I wondered if ol' Harry was up in Heaven, shaking his great big, beer-soaked noggin at me and wondering how it is that I couldn't name a single Cubs player on the roster but I could name every Ranger. The disapproval staring me down from behind those big black frames was almost too much to bear. I couldn't help it though. They got to me. They lured me in with their enthusiasm, as boundless as their bats and baserunning, and their work ethic. I can't help but wonder how much Harry Caray would love these guys. I think he'd love them quite a bit.

For the past few months, I've been keeping a close eye on the boys. And as the season's intensified, so has my angst. Not just in the last remaining guilt that I hold on to, but also... how do I handle the fact that the team I'm supporting is not only in the World Series but is leading the Series' standing?  I've never been on the winning side of a baseball series in late October. Yet as the games go by, and I catch myself changing, mid-game, into my "lucky shirt" from the hamper, screaming obscenities at Tony LaRussa and Albert Pujols (who cannot hear me in St. Louis, but no matter), whispering a prayer with each at-bat, and running the bases with Elvis and Ian and Wash, I find that I'm closer to that 10 year-old Cubs fan than I've been in a long, long time. She just happens to be in a (possibly dirty) Rangers shirt. And it feels good. And genuine. And right. 

So, now I'm a Rangers fan who still really loves the Cubs. And Ryne Sandberg. Guilt-free.

But that's okay with me because A) They are a team who seems to genuinely like one another and have a hell of a good time playing baseball together.  I adore that.  2) I take comfort in the idea of not only rooting for the Rangers but also against the Cards (a longtime Cubbie rival).  Finally) On Sunday night, Derek Holland even introduced the ghost of Harry Caray to a whole new generation.  I'm sure that Harry did shake his big ol' noggin at that one just before he started laughing.   Then he cracked open a Budweiser.

And this... tell me there's not just a little resemblance.

Or is it just me?  I'm taking it as a blessing.

Go Rangers.

My Ball Gown is at the Cleaners

I just watched the Golden Globes with my fingers crossed, cutting deals with God for my favorite stars to win. I even made sure to take a shower and made sure I had on clean pajamas before the show began. Because it's fancy. And, yes, I kept score.

The Globes are my favorite awards show for a couple of reasons. A) They include tv. The sound of a tv on is the soundtrack of my childhood. And 2) The stars get to drink. As the night goes on, the guests - and early evening losers - get more and more hammered. Sometimes, as the commercial break ends, you can catch them stumbling back to their seats from the bathroom. Awesome. Lastly) they ignore all the dumbass sound effect/costume/set design categories. I know they're important in film making, but let's be honest. Lame.

Sadly, I missed most of my new movie viewing time (Christmas break), so I'm very behind in my Oscar research. I may have to be the weirdo flying solo for a couple of Saturday film festivals in order to catch up. That's right... me, a vat of buttery popcorn, a gallon jug of Diet Coke, and the bite-size Snickers I smuggled in inside my purse.

I think I have a problem.