There is apparently this show

in the U.K. called Over The Rainbow in which Sir (I think he's a sir) Andrew Llyod Weber and the whole of the United Kingdom picks an actress/singer to perform in ALW's new stage rendition of The Wizard of Oz.  The show consists mainly of, and I can say this with complete authority as I have watched no fewer than three whole youtube clips, a gaggle of sub-par but realistic women performing "mashups" of pop songs with weird introductions of classic show tunes, random shots of Graham Norton pretending to play instruments, and Sir Weber as he looks thoroughly disappointed and mouths things at nobody in particular and also looks like a cat.

The show also features the search for a dog to play the part of Toto.  On this the knighted composer had this to say:

A big sticking point for me, this was ... This is what the BBC wanted and I had to point out to them that as a cat man, this was not something that I was very happy about at all. The whole thing fills me with extreme concern. I might insist on having a cat on the programme, because I think the BBC as a public service broadcaster have got to give equal time in my view to cats.

He's my hero and this is my very favorite new thing ever.

A taste (also...um, Glee?):

Some Things A Lot of People Don't Know About Me

Check out Mags and Mrs. Brown for the same topic.

I'm going to do a little list because I can't think of one, overall, THING except maybe weird sexual practices and I feel like I'm not allowed to talk about those.

1. I am hot.  Like, really hot.  Seriously, you don't even know.  You should see me in knee socks and nothing else.  Actually, you shouldn't if you want to live past that moment because you'd melt and die from the sheer hotness.  I mean, Mr. Brown just took a picture of me and I wasn't ready, but I'm not concerned because it's going to come out fantastic because I am so hot.

2. I don't really like mac n cheese.  Just kidding!  I fucking LOVE mac n cheese.  The real number 2 is I am a goddamn laugh a minute.

3. I am terrified of everything.  I don't keep my fears a secret, but they're way more intense than even I make them out to be.  Sometimes I jump up when I'm in bed alone and go turn on the light because, in the light, the scary things can't get me.

4. I believe I am wholly responsible for Princess Diana's death.  This is the first time I've ever said this outside of my head.  Never even written it to myself.  I know, I'm a freak, but I totally believe this. So, here's the story:

I've had phases of being extremely superstitious.  When I was ten I was going through one of those phases.  When I was that age I was also dabbling in other kinds of beliefs and was really interested in witchcraft and sombre poetry and the like.  You know, regular kid stuff.  Anyway, I distinctly remember being in the living room, sitting on the couch, it being very quiet, and I was thinking.  Really hard.

And I wished myself dead.

I wasn't unhappy in the least, and immediately afterward I took it back.  I think I did it because I was interested in what happened after living and that junk.  So I quickly took it back because, obviously, it was going to come true because I'm just that powerful and there was some all-powerful entity just waiting to bow to the every whim of ten-year-old me.  And then, what feels like seconds later in my mind, but could have been days, I learned about Princess Diana dying.  So many people were so upset.  And then I realized that my wish was too powerful to just disintegrate, but it couldn't be used on me because of course, I had overruled it, so whatever force was going to grant my wish HAD to use it on someone, and that someone was her.

I killed the Princess of Wales.  Killed her dead.

And, to this day, I still believe that.  I still wish now that I had been quick and thoughtful enough to take back my wish-o-death and protect everyone, but I wasn't.  I was a dumb kid, playing with a power I couldn't fathom.  And for that, all of England had to suffer. And I've never told anybody except for you, internet.

So, number 4 is really I am totally, bat shit crazy.

Badass Of The Week

This is something I posted on a blog a while back and just felt like reposting today.


The following is an imitation in the style of badassoftheweek.com as that is a legitimate form of writing, I swear.

Colleen Faherty Brown

Those glasses are for your protection.

Interest in bicycling peaks annually some time in mid-summer when all of America tunes in to one of the twelve hundred ESPNs to catch a glimpse of a single-nutted American hero fly past all those beret-wearing, baguette-eating, complete-scrotum-having Frenchies in a blur of yellow and wheels, and they probably should because Lance Armstrong really is sweet like that. But what those couch potatoes watching him on television from the comfort of their sweet little suburban homes fail to realize is that Colleen Brown, who could end Lance Armstrong’s existence with a nonchalant, sideways glance, reducing him and his Trek Madone SL to mere skid marks that Alberto Contador wouldn’t even notice, is actually the most badass cyclist to ever set wheels to the motherfucking pavement.

Born in the Appalachian Ohio wilderness amongst man-eating mountain lions and equally-human-consuming bears, Colleen’s ability to kick wildlife ass and reach speeds exceeding eighty miles an hour were ingrained from the moment she popped out of the womb, which, by the way, she did all on her own. With a whopping seventeen brothers and nineteen sisters, the necessity for Colleen to fend for herself was, needless to say, intense; however, she managed to care for them all while still developing her own badassitude to the highest levels. She went on to mother two daughters of their own notable badassery, and grandmother a pirate. That’s right, I said a freaking pirate. The American government has even recognized her skills as she’s been employed by the state to kick the asses of jerk offs who are less than responsible caretakers of their elders. Also, she’s earned a black belt in tae kwon do. Three fucking times.

Thinking about who's getting the smackdown next.

But our story does not deal with the adolescence nor general sweetness of one Mrs. Colleen Brown despite how earth-shatteringly awesome the tales of her life are and how mindfucked you would be at hearing them. Oh no. The events that prove her to be the badass of the week took place on the balmy morning of Monday, August 9th, 2004.

Whilst riding along the quiet and often uninhabited bike trails of Nelsonville, Ohio with her husband and partner in badassery, David Brown, there occurred a moment that will live forever in badass history. You see, Colleen is not like the aforementioned sofa spuds who tune in and turn off when televised sports blow up. Colleen blows up. In the metaphorical, becoming active sense, of course, but she could literally not-so-spontaneously combust too, if she wanted, as she is a ninja and learned that skill during her tutelage under some white-bearded Korean martial arts master whose name I won’t repeat to you unless you actually want to be hunted down in your sleep and have your life stripped away three days after the fact from the kwon su ping which loosely translates to “palm fist of death by diarrhea.” And Colleen would take you all down with her if she chose to do so while blowing up, but she will allow you to go on living your measly little existence for now because she’s gracious like that. So, Colleen bikes. Not wussy, go for a ride every week or so bikes; Colleen hardcore, spandex shorts, thousand dollar bicycle, millions of miles every day bikes. And she doesn’t break a sweat. Or get tired. It’s just what she does.

On the aforementioned date, Colleen was minding her own business, riding down the trail and just generally being awesome when some motherfucking, batshit crazy, envy induced calygreyhound ran out of the brush and attacked her. That’s right, the mythical medieval beast you only heard of just now. Turns out it’s real, and you didn’t even know it fake existed, did you? Well, it does, real exist that is. The calygreyhound is one fucked up amalgamation of some of the craziest animals on earth with a wildcat’s head with throat-ripping fangs, a stag’s body for speed and antlers for bowel shredding, both eagle claws and ox hooves, and a lion’s tail just for good measure.

Artist rendition of the calygreyhound as this ass is too much of a puss to be caught on film.

This thing went fucking nuts on Colleen because, while most people don’t know anything about the calygreyhound, even less know that it has an insatiable thirst for awesomeness. Residing solely in the sparse forests of Oxford, England and feasting on the snaggletoothed crumpet-guzzlers the British Isles are forced to pass off as “awesome” but really only qualify as “sub-par okay,” this calygreyhound, later found to be named Pete, was drawn to Ameri-fucking-ca and the one and only Colleen Brown when it caught a whiff of awesomeness in its purest form.

Now, while bikes are wonderful modes of transport, when a thirteen hundred pound legendary monster powerhouses into the side of one going upwards of one hundred and fifty two miles an hour as Colleen usually does, it’s bad news. Colleen was thrown from what became a rolling mass of spikes and titanium into the pavement. Her hip was immediately shattered, shoulder separated, a joint was popped out of place in her spine, and she suffered the expected bumps and bruises that come along with assault by fabled beast. But that wasn’t stopping her. Colleen stood on her broken hip, thrust her shoulder back into its socket without even a grimace of pain and spat out a tooth like some cinematic action heroine. On crack. That calygreyhound messed with the wrong badass and it was time for some calygreyhound ball-crushing carnage.

In a flash, Colleen had ripped the now tangled spikes from her bicycle and fashioned a modern cyclist’s dream weapon of crazy pointy metal, delivering what can only be described as a cock-punch to the neck of the calygreyhound, slitting his throat open and showering the surrounding area in blood and bile. Pete didn’t even get a word in edgewise, not that “I’m lamer than a three-legged, blind kitten and a total douche bag to boot” would have subdued the skull-crushing rage Colleen mustered up at the sight of her destroyed two-wheeler. She was like a Tarantino version of Beowulf on acid or some shit, only sweeter because she’s a woman and has spiky hair. Innards were all over the trail and hanging from tree limbs SyFy Channel, overblown, B-list movie style, only it was real because, as everybody who knows knows, when the calygreyhound is decapitated, his insides spew from the newly made wound in a last, feeble attempt at revenge which Colleen stood against, a mangled mess herself, like it was a gentle spring shower and not a fucking torrent of legendary guts and gore.

Comforting this small child after choking out that croc with her bare hands.

David Brown stood there, amazed, knowing she didn’t need any help all along. He too suffered the shower of calygreyhound intestine and related juices but was mostly unharmed, the sheer greatness of Colleen’s dick-devastating action enough to bolster anyone’s spirits, even when covered in what is essentially monster corpse. He later made her the sweetest cookies that had ever been produced from any oven that you or I could ever imagine thanks to his comfort with his own masculinity and crazy ability to rock your fucking face off.

Now with two titanium rods in her back causing slightly limited mobility and occasional bouts of chills, the result and proof of her run in with Pete, Colleen lives and kicks asses in quiet, rural Ohio on the edge of the woods with her family, knowing she is all that stands between them and the carnivorous beasts of the wild. However, she’s not bothered, cautioning any creature that dares make its way up her porch steps with their own tailored version of a calygreyhound smack down be they wolf, gryphon, fire-breathing unicorn, or, the greatest predator of them all, raptor. You thought I was going to say “man” didn’t you? Well, no–raptor’s are fucking nuts and there’s no two ways about that. But just below them is certainly not “man”; that spot is reserved for Colleen Faherty Brown, total fucking badass.

I present to you

my childhood home:

Le sigh.

That's My Favorite Man, Hands Down

Did you know it’s almost Halloween?  That’s my favorite holiday, hands down.  But that also means it’s almost November which means it’s almost Harry Potter.  That’s my favorite series, hands down.  But that means it’s almost The Boyfriend's and my anniversary.  What?

Yeah!

The Boyfriend is so fun that it feels like we just started dating, but I’m so comfortable with him that it feels like we’ve always been together, so some kind of actual marker is just…weird.  With that in mind I guess it’s appropriate that neither of us know when we officially started dating.  There’s no date, just a time frame of late November/early December.

In light of a milestone for The Boyfriend and me, I put together two tiny, true-to-life comics.  I know three would have rounded it out and made more sense, but I am a busy woman, okay?  I mean, it is Wedding Sunday on WE.  Jeez.

How I See Things v How The Boyfriend Sees Things

Dear Neighbor Across The Hall With The Pipe,

Hey!  How are you?  That’s good!  I’m great.

That, Neighbor Across The Hall With The Pipe, is how all of our conversations should go.  If you or I are feeling a bit creative then deviation from the script is acceptable, but too much adlibbing is distracting, hinders moving on to the next scene, and just downright pisses me off which is, by the way, one of the many things Patrick Swayze and I have in common.  Yet, Neighbor Across The Hall With The Pipe, you still insist on being my John Leguizamo in To Wong Foo.  How can we rectify this?

You see, Neighbor Across The Hall With The Pipe, I don’t dislike you.  In fact, I enjoy your presence as my neighbor—you are quiet, soft spoken, and oldish, so you’re neither an annoyance nor a threat.  Please know that this is not a letter of chastisement.  What I am trying to say is I like you, Neighbor Across The Hall With The Pipe, and I’d like to keep it that way, so the only way that is going to be possible is if you modify your behavior.

Since you have told me on numerous occasions that you are an alcoholic, I will break down this behavior modification that I am suggesting into three, easy-to-follow rules.

Rule number one: Do not embark upon long conversations with me when I am clearly carrying heavy objects or if I have to prop my door open to have them.  I appreciate, Neighbor Across The Hall With The Pipe, that you want to introduce The Boyfriend and me to other people in the building.  This is one of the reasons that I like you.  However, when both The Boyfriend and I are laden with bags of groceries, a box fan, and a vacuum cleaner it should be clear to you that stopping us in the parking lot in the middle of the hottest August day to introduce us to another tenant is not acceptable.  Neighbor Across The Hall With The Pipe, Other Neighbor Who Happens To Also Have A Cat was clearly on his own mission from which he did not want to be deterred either!  I suppose I cannot be too upset, Neighbor Across The Hall With The Pipe, because you were as unaware of Other Neighbor Who Happens To Also Have A Cat’s desire to be on his own way, so you did not intend to personally irritate us, but, to be clear, the fact that Other Neighbor Who Happens To Also Have A Cat cohabitates with a feline like The Boyfriend and I do does not make it okay to watch as we sweat and juggle awkward boxes.

I have to apologize here, Neighbor Across The Hall With The Pipe, because rule number one has two parts, which I know is not fair, especially at this early juncture in rule explanation, but I must insist that you not embark upon long conversations with me when I have to prop my door open to have them either.  Last night is a good example of why.  To be frank, my cats are kind of assholes.  Because of this serious affliction, they tend to want to run out into the hallway which you, Neighbor Across The Hall With The Pipe, are across.  This would not be such a big deal if it were not for our other neighbors who sometimes prop the shared doors to the outside open because they are not as concerned as you or I with being murdered, which is, I must say, another reason why I find you favorable as a neighbor.

Now, I understand; I was vacuuming at eight o’clock at night on a Saturday which can really be an annoyance.  It’s much like your pipe which constantly lingers in the air, now that I think of it.  So I can see why you knocked on my door to ask what that sound was, noting that, as an alcoholic, sometimes there are sounds which only occur in your head.  You needed clarification, and I was glad to give it.  I, embarrassed, told you I would gladly stop for the night as it was late, and that should have been where our conversation ended, Neighbor Across The Hall With The Pipe; however, it did not.

This is when I noticed you were drunk.  You were kind enough, though, to also tell me in case I could not tell.  It was, I admit, an impressive kind of drunk in which you were largely functional, but drunk nonetheless.  In this state, Neighbor Across The Hall With The Pipe, you tend to be repetitive and again unaware that I desire to be inside and not having a conversation.  I understand now that you do not pick up on the subtlety of “have a nice night” as a way to end a conversation, and for that I thank you as I will be sure to be more forceful if ever I find myself in a similar situation with you again, but the fact that both of my cats, at separate times, ran out and how annoyed I was at this should have also clued you in.

You should have also realized our conversation was going downhill when I had to remind you of my name more than once which brings me to rule number two: do not forget my name.  I know your name, Neighbor Across The Hall With The Pipe.  I may not be utilizing it here, but I know your full name.  It is objectively insulting to forget someone’s name you have spoken with on more than one occasion.  You cannot know that this is a problem I have dealt with my entire life, that my forgetability is incredibly high, but I am largely becoming intolerant of this fact.  My name is not “Amy.”  I admire your valiant efforts, plentiful as they are, at making my name Amy, even more than once in the same conversation, but no matter how many times you point at me, Neighbor Across The Hall With The Pipe, cock your head like a slightly retarded dog, and say, “Amy, right?” I am never going to give you a double thumbs up and answer, “Right!”  I don’t even do double thumbs ups, Neighbor Across The Hall With The Pipe, so please, do not expect one.  It would be better for both of us if you simply pretend you know my name and just not use any personal designation when addressing me.  This is a problem which pains me slightly more than those in rule number one because I know you know The Boyfriend’s name seeing as you used it in our conversation last night which brings me to the third and final rule: above all, do not be creepy.

This is imperative, Neighbor Across The Hall With The Pipe.  Creepiness will not be tolerated.  Do not ask me if The Boyfriend is home when I answer the door at night.  Your intentions are largely unknown to me, though I have cited that I enjoy you as a neighbor because I find you unthreatening, but please be aware that there are various ninja weapons hidden around the apartment a la Dwight Shrute.  I think this rule needs no further explanation.

So, in summation, no long conversations, no guessing my name, no creepiness.  These are the rules you must follow in order to continue being considered an acceptable neighbor to me.  I think those are simple enough, Neighbor Across The Hall With The Pipe, but if you need clarification please do hesitate to contact me.  If you find you have problems modifying your behavior in accordance with what I have set up here, limit all contact with me to a wave and a nod when we are forced to see one another and you will have successfully followed them without worry.

Thank you so much for your time,

Not Amy

The Best Thing

There probably isn't much that's better than hearing 20 plus Belgian girls sing "fucking" in perfect harmony.



Except maybe when they say "Wha te-hell-em I doeeg here?"

I don't really care what you think about Facebook, but that Social Network movie is NOT ABOUT FACEBOOK.  Not that a movie about Facebook wouldn't be effing awesome.  With the right director, actors and, most importantly, writers, a film about the torment a group of teenagers do to themselves and one another via the internet could be fucking epic and speak to this generation like Insert-Title-Of-Film-About-Awkward-Teenagers-In-The-Late-90s did for my generation.

But I digress from my digression.  Social Network looks sweet and that's coming from someone who dislikes Justin Timberlake.  And I don't think it's just the trailer.  It appears to be a film that's actually about the superficiality of some friendships (which is pretty appropriate for the makers of Facebook which is super superficial) and about legal stuff. And that looks good.

And back to the main point: This choir is magical.  It reminds me of my first experience in a choir in elementary school.  Not that we were any kind of good, but a group of voices together always sounds good.  We wore gold cummerbunds and I have a picture of this that I will share with you someday.

And it all reminds me of that feeling that wells up inside of you when the music that you're totally immersed in is coming to a crescendo and it feels like the whole world is voluntarily on pause, holding its breath, waiting the perfect amount of time, that weird amount of time that you can't possibly count, it's not in beat with the rest of the music, it's completely subjective and based solely on intuition, the fermata, but you know when it's supposed to end, you feel it, and everybody feels it and everyone comes together at once during it.

I wish I could draw that.

Except that now that sounds like a really sexual thing and all I can think about is hentai now.

Great--I'm a creep.