Order another round of… the update post.
Warning: Nostalgia Ahead
Back in the late nineties, my college roommate Anastasia and I were convinced that we had struck television gold when we stumbled upon two sock puppets hosting what can only be described as a psychedelic drug-fueled variety show on MTV. I'm struggling to recall the thought process that led me to type "that sock puppet show on MTV" into Google about a week ago, but there it was, The Sifl and Olly Show*, complete with its own Wikipedia entry.
The hosts, Sifl and Olly, along with their socially misfit sidekick Chester (who, in my medical expert opinion, displays signs of Asperger's Syndrome) entertained Annie and I with witty, if not pointless dialog (what other kind is there?), excessive use of the word "dude," songs that rallied against "the man," phone calls from the sock puppet public, and a constant stream of guests, from family members to their landlord to the appearance of a multi-colored, talking mushroom. (Come on... that one was a little obvious, don’t you think?)
Despite its short-lived run on MTV, Sifl and Olly continue to have legions of fans thanks to the InterWeb. Regardless, explaining the show to those who missed out the first time around is considerably difficult. In addition to the obvious speculation pertaining to substance use and abuse that may or may not help to explain/contribute to the hilarity of show, my "status" as a soon-to-be 28-year-old woman has come into question (What are you... a 15-year-old boy? Yes, yes I am... wanna see?) as well as my intelligence (something about IQ score and potatoes). I suppose it's fair to say that some people do not appreciate this show's simple genius.
I can't imagine why...
*It was my intention to post a video with this blog, but for whatever reason, I am (again!) having serious issues with YouTube's "Post a Video on Your Blog" feature that never seems to work. If I figure it out... you know.
A Final Word on Socks
If you check out the Sifl and Olly Myspace page, scroll down to the music section and listen to the song "Dude's House."
I drove @ nuts last week by singing the chorus to this song, which goes "I guess this means we won't be partying at Dude's House," for several days in a row. Finally on Friday, when I asked @ if she would like to hear a song, she responded with, "Not if it has the word, 'dude' in it." I, ever so cleverly, commenced to singing and replaced the word "Dude" with the word "AT."
So, I guess this means we won't be partying at @'s house.
My 'A' Game
I told @ on Friday that I would accompany her to a friend's house as well as to the Lincoln Square Mayfest that night, but I could not drink and I had to be home by 9pm in order to ensure that I was bringing my 'A' game to Saturday morning's six-mile run. Never one to follow the "rules" -- even (HA! Especially...) my own -- I had three glasses of wine and rolled in just shy of 10pm.
Still, I felt good that I had been responsible enough to get myself home at a reasonable hour. At 11pm, I went to bed. I figured a solid seven hours of sleep should ensure the bringing of the 'A' game the next morning.
It didn't happen. Midnight turned into 1am, 1am to 2am. With each passing hour, I did the math, ever aware that my alarm would begin screaming at me to GET THE FUCK UP at 5:45am. At a quarter to one, I reminded myself that if I "fell asleep now" I would still get five hours of sleep, an hour later… four hours, an hour later... finally, sometime before 3am, I nodded off and sure enough, at 5:45am, my alarm...
Somehow I managed. My run was solid despite the lack of sleep and the heat, which was just a glimpse – a salty taste if you will – of what is in store for us weather-wise as the summer wears on towards August and the Distance Classic.
Bottle Half Empty
During my mild flirtation with insomnia Friday night/Saturday morning, I got to thinking about Lindsay Lohan because… well frankly, what the hell else is one to do when sleep won't come, but one is not coherent enough to actually use this time for anything constructive… Contributing I'm sure, is the fact that I had watched The Soup before heading to bed and, even if you refuse to touch the gossip rags with a ten foot bottle of tequila, there's a decent chance you know that 1) LiLo checked herself into rehab this week (again… total Britney wannabe) and/or 2) Paris Hilton's social calendar is b-o-o-k-e-d solid for the month of June as she serves her 20 some odd day sentence for violating probation from her drunk driving arrest. So there I was in the wee hours of Saturday, lying in bed wide awake, thinking about LiLo and Paris as well as Nicole Richie (can we start calling her "NiRi?")… the whole lot of those young, wealthy, starving self-destructors. It occurred to me then, in all my sober, well-feed wisdom, that they would save themselves a lot of time, trouble, and bad press, if they just stopped driving.
Truly, these celebutantes can freebase gasoline for all I care. But, what possesses them to get behind the wheel? Even beyond the obvious "safety" issues involved, why on earth do they want to drive? That's the last thing I generally want to do… ever. And seriously, are there no cabs in LA? Or, better still, why don't they hire themselves a driver? They certainly can afford it.
Oh to be young, rich, skinny, drunk, high and chauffeured around... that's like... my dream.
But I don't wanna!
Check out this link: www.getafirstlife.com