My Long-Lasting and Very Intimate Relationsith Regina Spektor w

I'm pretty sure we all have one celebrity in particular who we invest some time in drooling over and whose pictures we gawk at for ninety seconds at a time. A celebrity who you rave about to your friends and they'll be just like "Uh...I guess she/he's okay" or "Whoozat?" A celebrity who you've built a shrine to in both your bedroom and in one corner of your pantry which no one ever looks at because that's where your family keeps all of the three-year-old, multi-grain breakfast bars. A celebrity who you dress up as every time you're in the house alone while you pleasure yourself in the bathroom.

Actually, I'm not so sure we all have that kind of celebrity. Yeah. Awkward.

For me, that celebrity is Regina Spektor. Folk-punk-rock-Jewish-Russian-classical-jazz-hip hop musical artist behind Fidelity and Better. Native to Russia but American citizen. Three times the winner of the Best Music Ever Recorded Time Infinity Award and recently declared Empress of the Universe.

But what do these achievements and silly titles mean? Most importantly, Regina Spektor is a pretty face.

Not just one pretty face. More like fifty.

There's her single-mother-half-time-waitress-at-Arby's-and-still-hotter-than-ever face:



There's her just-finished-exercising-even-though-I'm-naturally-fit face:



And then, of course, her frightened-but-still-beautiful-Russian-immigrant face:



Her Soviet-Kitsch face(s):



I love that one. And finally, her hey-look-at-me-I'm-pretending-to-be-a-mouse-I'm-so-adorable-let's-get-married-face:



Yeah, I guess that one's more up for interpretation.

Regina Spektor's song are all masterpieces. Every. Last. One. Of. Them. From Samson to Somedays. From Pavlov's Daughter to Poor Little Rich Boy. From Chemo Limo to Carbon Monoxide. From The Call to The Calculation. From Ode to Divorce to Oedipus.

And yes, I really am just showing off my knowledge of Regina Spektor songs.

Her songs reflect the best aspects of every time of music there is. She has absolutely no fear of trying new styles of music. In fact, she actually seems to have a rational fear of not trying new styles of music. She has music-ADHD.

I think Regina Spektor is a music machine. In her childhood, she was a prodigy, and to this day: she's one of those out-of-this-world, inhuman music goddesses. She's said on more than one occasion that she's constantly thinking up songs, and that she only writes the best ones down. She never even aspired to be a songwriter, her destiny just grabbed hold of her and made her its wife.

Her lyrics, best of all, are pure poetry. When you watch her interviews, (or in my case, gawk at them in a dark bedroom), she doesn't on first impression seem any more intelligent than a blond, Valley Girl who somehow figured out how to read and write music. But well into her interviews, she begin saying some really wise stuff. Furthermore, her songs are positively dripping with wisdom beyond her years.

Whenever I look at a picture of Regina Spektor, all of my problems go away. I want to sponsor a food drive for homeless people. I want to raise thousands of dollars for cancer research and hungry Africans in her name. I want to go into a confession and then hug all of the people I've ever insulted. Whenever I look at her pictures, I also want to make love to her. But I think that's a different sort of feeling.

Regina Spektor and The Beatles are fighting to the death for my favorite band, but she's winning. Because, dude, she's hot. Sometimes I feel the same way about John Lennon, but not to the same extent. Anyway, my fantasy is that this huge scandal is revealed and the media discovers that Paul McCartney is actually Regina Spektor's real father. Then, Regina Spektor and I get married. (I never figured how that would happen, but it doesn't really matter.) That way, I can have both of them in the same fantasy.

If you haven't already heard her songs, here are my first suggestions:

Another Town

Baby Jesus

Cheers,
That Blond Guy

Halloween (Past Tense)

How was everyone's Halloween? Strange that I'm asking you this, though, because I feel like I'm talking to myself. Then again, I asked the same question of my GI Joe action figures and cardboard cut-out of Chuck Norris November 1st as well.

Mine was fine, thanks. Strangely, I went paint-balling on Saturday. I went home with a load of testosterone-driven teenage guys on Friday. The older brother of our host really put a lot of effort into Halloween decorations. It was no less than stunning. Of course, the guys were cracking jokes about the decorations the whole time to mask their intense horror.

They (and I do mean "they" not "me") played this supposedly creepy video game called Dead Space until about 3 in the morning. Even among nerdy guys, who are often the most polite and friendly teenagers that exist, it's amazing how vulgar and foul-mouthed they can be when they're alone. ESPECIALLY when they're playing video games.

"%$%#! What the $%#@! Get that #$%&#@$ alien $%#@# outta there! Blast his %$#$@#@ %$#@#% to %$#@, %$#$@#!"

And that was just my friend's mother when she walked in on our game.

Saturday I had my second-ever paint-balling experience. It was pretty fun too. Seven or eight of the people at our party showed up in full costume. There was an Ironman and one kid in a gilly suit. I think one kid also went naked but I can't be sure--I was pretty tired from the night before.

Fortunately, Halloween Day I just got to relax. I went to Church in the morning and finished homework after that. Halloween Night, I just helped hand out candy in my Obama mask. I answered every door with a jolly outburst of "Ho ho ho! Take some candy! Happy Halloween! Help me--I don't feel mentally secure! Bye!" Unfortunately, we only got three groups of trick-or-treaters. Disappointing. Anyway, my brother and I were inside watching The Happening and stuffing our faces with half-decent candy from a last-minute run to Bed Bath and Beyond. (You heard right--you'd be surprised how much stuff they keep in the back. Way more than magic remotes and Christopher Walken.) The Happening isn't really a horror movie, but exceptionally eerie. You NEED to see it if you haven't.

Most importantly, I got a chance on Monday to write a love letter to Danielle. Here it is:

Dear Danielle,

I think ur pretty

also i think you have nice hair. and i like your backpack

do you want to be my girlfriend?
if you do, call my mom and she'll tell me. here is her number: 305-691-0338

Most sincerely,

Christopher

Trick or Treat Give Me Something Good to Eat or Just Leave the Bowl on the Front Porch with a Sign on the Front Door That Says "Quiet--Baby Sleeping"

For some impossibly juvenile and foolish reason, some people despise Halloween. I cannot even begin to imagine their reasoning for hating such a fun and unique holiday, but they do. Maybe you're diabetic. Maybe your parents were dentists. Maybe you're easily frightened because you lived an overprotective childhood. Maybe you're Dr. R. L. Hymers, Jr. and you're reading this post because of the maliciously-worded e-mail I sent you regarding your sermons in which I descirbed you as a "rabid, indoctrinating, blithering, Bible-thumping baboon."

Or maybe you somehow find it strange that on this holiday, originally the eve to a day honoring saints, citizens of First World countries across the world who call themselves civilized are dressing up in the middle of the night and banging on their neighbors' doors asking for candy.

But, to all of you Halloween grinches and Scrooges, I have only two words:

"FUP YOU!"

You heard me right. Fup you.

I absolutely love Halloween. First of all, I really like horror movies. Now, they have to be good horror movies: The Ring, The Shining, Psycho, Halloween, etc. I don't like gore either. I hate gore. Ruins a good horror movie. The best horror movies are the ones that creep under your skin--the ones that mess with your mind. Not the ones that make you feel squeamish and disgusted. Those horror movies are like rude cartoon strips compared to Renaissance masterpieces. I'm talking about psycological thrillers.

Another reason I love Halloween? I like the role-playing--I mean dressing up. Not role-playing. That'd just be weird...and gross...and kinky...and hot....

I love seeing when people get creative with their costume: juice boxes, Nazis, and dragon-hippo hybrids just to name a few of my favorites. I also loves babies in costume.



But most importantly: TEENAGE GIRLS IN COSTUME.

I don't care how corny. I don't care how cheap the costume is. To a certain point, I don't even care if you're good-looking or not. As long as you're scantily clad, shameless, and wearing cat ears. You tell me you want to be a sexy nurse pirate gypsy, I'll buy it--I swear. Just make sure you remember the stockings. Why would a sexy nurse pirate gypsy need stockings? you may ask playfully. Just wear them, b****, I would respond flirtatiously.

(The sexiest words in the English language are not, as our friend Foxworthy says, "Hey, y'all, I'm drunk!" Instead, it is often in response to the question what one is going to be for Halloween. It is "OMG I have the best slutty cheerleader costume in the neighborhood!"

So for reasons like these--role-playing teenage girls, adorable babies, horror movies, tons of packaged candy and the occasional roasted apple--Halloween is the best secular holiday there is. That is, of course, aside from Christmas.

You all remember the following: don't bully kids for their candy. Instead, trick-or-treat with them. When the police show up because one of the parents called them in, you just say "Hey, nice costumes, guys! I could almost buy it!" They'll feel so sorry for you, they'll leave you alone and go chase after some maniac running around in an Oompa-Loompa costume pelting small children with milk duds.

Happy Halloween and a Happy New Year! (slurred the drunken grandmother to the preteen trick-or-treaters before taking a swig of Vodka out of a skull-shaped children's mug from Party City.)

Cheers,
That Blond Guy

To Quote from...Jason Mulgrew

Excerpt from Jason Mulgrew's book Everything is Wrong with Me, after the author mentions that he hired a therapist and the therapist has been blaming all of his problems on his parents' divorce:

"Week Four:

Therapist: How are you?
Me: Okay, I guess. Oh, but last week, I tried to rip my penis off. I almost got it, too, but I gave up because I got tired.
Therapist: Hm...Why don't you tell me how you felt when you and your mom moved out of the house?

Week Seven:

Therapist: How are you?
Me: Not great. I learned recently that I get aroused when I watch shows like Cold Case Files and at funerals. I'm pretty weirded out about it, but part of me loves it.
Therapist: Do you think it might have something to do with your parents' relationship?

Week Eleven:

Therapist: How are you?
Me: I took a handful of pills on Sunday and beat up a traffic cop, two dogs, and a fence. To be fair, she was a really big and strong traffic cop and she started it. Although I did accidentally rob her house and her car. The dogs and fence were just innocent bystanders.
Therapist: What was your mom's biggest problem with your dad?

Week Sixteen:

Therapist: How are you?
Me: I burned down some churches and threw a hooker off a bridge. Then I got all coked up and ate most of a couch. Also, I'm not coming here anymore.
Therapist: Do you think your relationships with women have been affected by your parents' relationship troubles? And please keep coming. I'm putting a library in my house and I'm making a killing off you. It's cedar."

A Superb Trio of Totally Unrelated Phenomenon

1) 'Twas my birthday last Saturday. I'm severely disappointed in all of you for not wishing me a Happy Birthday, (shakes bony finger disappointedly with a mischevious twinkle in his eye). Still, it was an exceptional day. On Friday, I had seven or eight friends over for a few hours--then we went to see Red. Bruce Willis, Morgan Freeman, Hellen Mirren, and...(drumroll please)...LENNIE! Tell-me-about-the-rabbits Lennie! You know--Lennie? AKA John Malkovich? Nevermind--you guys aren't worth it.

But it was a great movie. After we left the theater it was pretty late and there were a bunch of shady people outside. We saw one woman digging through ash trays for cigarette butts, for example. Also, there was a long line of hip-looking people waiting to enter a really b******* nightclub with prostitutes and rap stars and five-year-old brothers and sisters. Yeah, about that last part, it turned out to be a steak house. (Sigh.) Scratch the part about prostitutes and rap stars.

For my birthday I got a slinky and my first cell phone. I'm mostly really excited about the slinky. The cell phone I've opened up once or twice since I got it on Saturday. The slinky I've been playing with five hours every day after I get home from school. The slinky is all I really need in life anymore. If I was Tom Hanks in Cast Away, the slinky would be my Wilson. If I was Danny Torrence in The Shining, the slinky would be my index finger. I love that thing.

I guess the phone is pretty cool too. I've named all of my contacts so far in French, which has been the most fun. Overall, it was a pretty awesome birthday.

2) I'm reading a book called Everything is Wrong With Me, based on the author's infamous blog, Everything is Wrong With Me: 30, Bipolar, and Hungry. I've fallen in love with the book. Literally--and that is a difficult thing to sort out legally. There's this one dialogue in the book that left me breadless with laughter. I won't post it TODAY, because the post is already too long, but I'll definitely include it in the next post.

3) Finally, I want you to check out this video by a two-person band called Matt and Kim. (Make sure you watch the whole thing.) It's utterly random, superbly arousing, and totally genius. The ending is the best part, in my professional opinion. Here it is.

I read in a book about computer software that can UN-DO censorship pixelization. That is what I want for my next birthday. Show us all or nothing, government morons. Preferably all. Yeah, definitely don't show us nothing. Kim's body is angelic despite her pixelated privates. And, um, Matt has nice legs.

Was the ending not an exceptional stroke of spontaneous brilliance?

Cheers,
That Blond Guy

Issues: Keep Them to Yourself

I apologize in advance if this post sounds insensitive. If it does, that is only because I am a very insensitive person--one who never learned how to laugh as a child.

I think people are becoming too showy about all of the problems they have. Teenagers, mostly, are gradually getting to the point where we are proud of all of our problems. We show off our problems like a new blouse--a pretty, deep purple one that has frills at the cuffs.

What ever happened to the image of the misunderstood problem child with a horrible past who keeps all of his problems to himself until he learns to love and finally reveals his troubling history in a dramatic scene at the end of the movie set to a somehow tragic alternative-rock version of The Old Rugged Cross.

And I have to say this too, because it's entirely relevant. I love The Breakfast Club--I love ANYTHING John Hughes--but The Breakfast Club is one of my favorites. But still, did it strike anyone else as almost comical how obvious all of the characters were about their problems? Ally Sheedy even dumps the contents of her purse on a desk for everyone to see so that they all know about her problems. How many times does Judd Nelson complain about his daddy problems? They've only known each other for two hours, yet they're pouring their hearts out to each other about all of their problems. Then, of course, they take cocaine and dance wildly to Karla DeVito's We Are Not Alone.

Problems are the first things teenagers talk to each other about after meeting for the first time. Soon it gets to the point where it's like this:

"Hey, my name is McKenzie. My mother beats me and I cut myself."

"Hi, McKenzie, my name is Luke. My father sets impossible standards and I'm constantly questioning my sexual orientation!"

It's just absurd. Whatever happened to what we did in the 50's, when everyone wanted to pretend they were perfect and kept their problems to themselves because they were ashamed of them? Why aren't we more ashamed of our problems?

And that one I mentioned earlier is the one that really kills me. Cutting yourself. I'm not even going to joke anymore about that, because that just drives me senseless with sympathy and unfounded guilt. Anorexia and self-mutilation. Often found in a package. Anorexia is almost as frustrating to me, because they just get into this impossibly brainwashed mindset where they're never happy with themselves.

(I wouldn't mind anorexia so much if they knew when to stop. Maybe if they saw the supermodels on TV, became unhappy with their appearance, fasted and exercised until they were well-toned and sexy, and THEN stopped. I don't mind girls with injured self-esteems obsessed with being perfect as long as they have the right body shape, which doesn't include skeletal or unconscious. You can still deprive yourself of food, girls, just make sure you stop before your form disappears completely!)

But back to the thing about issues, why are we always so quick to offer up our secrets and problems like they're a big, juicy steak that the listener will feast on delightedly? What's the point? They're not going to help you deal with it. They're going to feel uncomfortable, maybe offer you some awkwardly-delivered words of comfort, and then avoid you until they think you have it dealt with.

The moral of the story? Keep things to yourself. Don't tell anyone about your aunts' psychological disorder or your friend's homophobic parents except your psychiatrist and your cat. Don't breathe a word to any of your peers about your dyslexia or your cousin's involvement in gangs. We don't want to hear it. Humans are self-absorbed and get bored with other people's problems. Let's not pretend otherwise.

Cheers,
That Blond Guy

Academic Team is Technically a Sport

Last Saturday was my very first Academic Team tournament! I was awoken at the crack of dawn to the sound of roosters calling and pegasi neighing, and I had to leave my house by 6 AM to make the bus. The bus ride to the tournament was about an hour long, but very entertaining, because one kid brought a lampshade that he insisted on wearing on his head the entire trip.

Nerds from all over Georgia were congregated at this one public school in a suburb of Atlanta. All types of nerds. There were inner city nerds with hoodies and sagging jeans. There were urban, private school nerds like us with their own Academic Team uniforms and naive expressions on their faces. Finally, there were rural nerds who looked like any other redneck teen from Georgia but somehow knew the dates of Revolutionary War battles and the authors of classic literature.

There was this one team in which every single member, (I still don't know if they were joking or not), showed up in suspenders, button-up shirts, and glasses. I walked up to one guy and said, "Keen suspenders." He nodded appreciatively like we both knew that those suspenders were the Cat's meow.

We did all right too. Our A Team almost made it to the Semifinalists. Our B Team did decently. Overall, it was just a really good experience. I loved the whole day.

Also found out on that day that Academic Team technically counts as a sport in terms of college credit and everything. Give me a break. (No, really. Give me a break. Maybe just like five minutes to wolf down a turkey sandwich and run to the bathroom. Thanks so much.)

Okay, if Academic Team is a sport, what's next? Debate? Chess? Cheerleading? Ultimate Frisbee? Girls' sports in general? Ha! Never!

Totally random side note! A kid walked into my Social Studies class today during his free period to say hello to my teacher, who basically told him to get out and go study. The kid, who was a little disgruntled, left the room and muttered, "I'm going to go pleasure myself in the bathroom."

The teacher was cool with it, though. This was the same Social Studies teacher who described Suleiman I's turban as "really b*******."


Cheers,

That Blond Guy