If you know me outside virtual life, and you have NOT received e-mail from me in the past hour or two, please let me know, and I’ll send the pics your way.
Just flipped over to tonight’s SNL repeat and caught Prince’s first song.
Through all the flaky personality trips, name changes and lapses into lazy R&B/hip-hop cliches, the guy can freaking play. Wow. Great showman, too.
I’m glad I’m not the only one who has a problem with the whole postmodernist notion that music consumers should have infinite control over how they listen to music. Sure, I’m not giving up my Launch player (a vastly underrated Web tool), my iPod or my satellite radio.
And that’s why I like Jason’s deconstruction of the new Barenaked Ladies release, which has reduced the process of buying and listening to music to a game of chance.
– The little glances John Krasinski gives the camera — and the way they made fun of it
– “Could Oscar and Angela be having a gay affair?”
– The subtle storytelling on the Jim-Pam storyline
– The way all the secondary cast can wring so much humor out of a 5-second confessional or a quick facial reaction
– The way Jenna Fischer can be so silly and then elicit so much sympathy when she goes through one of the horrendous moments that are constantly popping up around her
This is the best freaking show on television.
At this time of year in NoVa, the crickets get aggressive in their desire to share your space, hopping through any open door at any time, hot on your heels.
Ours are surprisingly brazen. They don’t just hang out in the shadows. We’re not swarmed with them or anything, but a couple of times a week, one decides to announce his presence.
So tonight, as I was prepping to head to the basement, I turned around and saw one between me and the stairs. I swear it was staring at me, like an Old West gunslinger. Or possibly the Road Runner.
I put my hands in my shoes for controlled swatting, then creeped closer. I lifted my hand and made my move.
Hop … hop … “is that all you got?” the cricket seemed to be asking. He had chosen his escape route well, landing just under the sofa. He stayed there, as if to taunt me further, like John Cleese’s Frenchman in Holy Grail.
But the cricket didn’t know the room very well. He certainly didn’t know that the sofa has felt under each leg, and that means it slides smoothly on hardwood. I got my hand-shoe ready, crouched, and put my head against the arm of the sofa. One slow and steady push, then a quick smack.
Of course, I made quick work out of tossing the hubris victim out the door. Didn’t want any more to come in.
From Wikipedia’s entry on Coldplay’s Fix You:
Some sources claim that this song was written for Gwyneth Paltrow by her husband Chris Martin due to the depression she suffered after the death of her father Bruce Paltrow. Other sources say that the song was written about the time Chris‘ dog had to go to the vet.
Didn’t realize “fix” would be so literal.
“Tears stream down your face when you lose something you cannot replace,” indeed.