If you hate reading meta-journals as much as I do, skip down to the next horizontal rule.

My page, formerly "wide asleep," is now entitled "panty rondering."

It's simple, really.

Since the meltdown of my little laptop, I haven't had a home computer and, as this meltdown has coincided with an unexpected upswing of work at the office, I have not been able to update to the extent that I've wished. For some reason, this obstacle in blogging liberty made me realize the extreme polarity of my updates. It's either me, ranting like a looney about dumb shit, or me, pondering shit in some froofy way. There's very little combination of or transition between the two. Because I'm fucking moody, and because that's what people do in blogs.

And, I was never fully comfortable with "wide asleep." It always felt like the title of a poem that belonged in Teen Magazine, like "Shit, girl, don't try so hard," like "I write the koans that make the one-handed clappers clap, I write the koans, I write the koans," like SHUT UP! A little.

I mean, look:

You know. One of those poems fraught with unintentional innuendo, that the author proudly reads after announcing, "I totally wrote this in, like, 5 minutes, so ..."

(Lord, that was fun. And I totally wrote it in, like, 5 minutes.)

So, I've got ranting, and I've got pondering.

HOWEVER! "Rant" and "Ponder," as well as derivatives thereof, are two of the most overused words in personal writing, to the point where they often toe the line between pretentious and vapid. I was originally thinking of running with that, and retitling my page something like, "The Random Ponderous Ranting Musings of a Random Ranter Who Ponders and Muses a Lot! Introspective! OMFG! Goth! BFF!", but that seemed a little mean.

And I'm not smart enough for full anagrams, so I copped out of that option, switched the first letters of the two most annoying words I could think of, and came up with the delightful "panty rondering." I like it. It sounds not just plain dirty, but dirty in a way that is somehow really fun and playful. I suspect that would fucking love to have my panties rondered.

Then again, it does sound like something Scooby Doo would do with a fistful of underpants and a tub of soap suds. Perhaps I should rethink this.

Simply, I was helping to write and create a show that I would also be performing in, was really excited about it because the concept fucking rocked and I had never had the chance to have so much creative control over a piece, and last week, we found out that we're getting kicked out of our theatre. So, the show is cancelled.

I'll get over the disappointment, but having an exciting project fall through does nothing to assuage this horrid feeling I have that I'm just biding my time here until I make some enormous life change. I hate that feeling.

I am by no means Type A and could definitely stand to be more driven and productive overall, but my being laid-back and disorganized in no way eclipses the fact that I think settling for a life of dissatisfied complacency is unacceptable.

And now, since I have nothing big to work on while I apply for schools think about "long-term" blablablah and all that bullshit, I'm considering taking up needlepoint. No shit.

Random Musings: Karaoke!

Karaoke is the most fun when no one gives a shit, and the overall talent level is no higher than a 6.5 on a scale from 1-10. I've been to karaoke bars that are surrounded by conservatories, and people just take themselves way too seriously. They arrive all coiffed and warmed up, for god's sake, and quite abley belt fully choreographed versions of heartfelt songs like "What a Feelin'," which they have so obviously been coached on by their voice teachers.

I've been to swanky karaoke bars where people get all glammed up and shimmy around, singing sultry songs that all sound the same after a while, and just aren't fun to listen to unless they're being sung by hopelessly unattractive fishwives or truck-drivers with surprisingly kick-ass voices.

To hell with all them Olympic Karaokids. I don't mean that one should not try to sing well, if they can, when performing karaoke. I'm just saying that if you try too frickin' hard to impress people, you're not going to have as much fun and everyone will make fun of you. Sorry.

And so, I'd like to say hi to a few people who I saw at that incredibly fun crack-dive karaoke bar I went to on Sunday, with my good (but perpetually tardy) friends Shawn and Amanda. All of the following people attributed to the great time I had. I am NOT being sarcastic, except when I am.

To the generically attractive, drunk and clingy couple who looked like you emerged from pods in the Abercrombie & Fitch warehouse: Oh, thank you for your spectacularly inebriated homage to Meatloaf. You knew you were awful, we knew you were awful, and this agreement created a sort of accord in the dissonance. You plummeted "Paradise by the Dashboard Light" to a new low in my opinion, which is pretty miraculous. Congratulations on achieving the impossible, you awesome people.

To the big beefy guy with the sports jersey and the backwards baseball cap: Man, where did you perfect that dead-on impression of Frank Sinatra? Seriously, that was great. All stiff and nervous, you look like a refrigerator, but rest assured, sweetheart, you sing like Old Blue Eyes. Thanks.

To the guy with the heavy metal t-shirt, goatee, & the ass-long black hair: You sucked. You will never be in AC/DC. Sorry. Don't get me wrong, I completely loved you, but probably not for the reasons you were hoping. In fact, I bet you were hoping no one would love you at all, but retreat from you in awe and fear. Sir, it's Crackhouse Karaoke. You don't need to prove yourself by busting on to the dancefloor to headbang and doing that "RAWK!" hand-gesture whenever anyone sings something even remotely hard-rock. You're metal. We get it. You are so METAL.

To Shawn & Amanda: Ha. We rule. Amanda, you do a kickass Gwen Stefani, and don't you dare let yourself think otherwise. Hee, with you standing there with your hands on your hips, wearing your cute favorite dress. It's so funny to remember how shy you can be in front of crowds, because generally, you're so ... not shy. Shawn, for some reason I forget what song you sang, and I feel like an asshole for that. Since you broke out the harmonica in the middle, I want to say it was Bob Dylan, but I know that's wrong. Well, whatever. Harmonica's kind of amaze me, these little hand-held jailhouse seranadors, so you could have been singing fuckin' Aida and I may not have paid attention to much other than the harmonica.

And, since every time I see her Amanda freaks out and makes me swear not to mention anything embarrassing about her in my diary, I'll just say one thing. It turns out that being a recovering bulimic, and unfazed by vomit, makes me the ideal candidate for comforting drunk friends as they puke in the grass. Hair-holder-backers, unite! (Sorry.)

To the skinny, hopelessly dorky guy in the socks, sandals, racer-striped athletic shorts, big round glasses, and t-shirt: You so obviously go to Crackhouse Karoake every week, and I love you for that. You were totally sweet to me when we first came in, whereas someone else might have been all weird and territorial over the sign-up lists and "rules." I noticed that you knew every word to every song that everyone sang; did you compile the list? You are hard-core, man. And I'm sure Ozzy would've dug the mean air guitar accompaniment you provided for your rendition of "No More Tears."

Seriously, man, I'm not making fun of you. You were so fucking endearing that if you had asked me to, I may have let you take me home and ronder my panties. Nerdy cutiepie.

To all: Great crowd, folks. Great crowd. You waved your arms, sang along, provided back-up, you put up with the fact that I am in NO WAY comparable to Aretha Franklin, and, my Crackhouse companions, you made me feel, you made me feel, you made me feel like a natural woman. (Woman.)

Awoo.

Good night. Go find some panties to ronder.

Okay, that's really annoying me. It has to go.

Sorry, guys. Really, I got nothin'.

~ Last Five Entries ~

Moths, and Relative Nonsense - 08.18.05

I Finally Have Internet Access in my Bedroom. But, No Ashtray. - 08.09.05

Here I Am - 08.02.05

One-Armed Paper Hanger Earns her Wings - 07.29.05

Sugar & Lemon - 07.28.05

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BUY DEAN'S BOOK, TOO! YOU KNOW YOU WANNA! SERIOUSLY.

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