A Royally Ridiculous Fantasy

Hey. Can I share a secret with you if you promise not to judge or laugh too harshly? Yes? Okay, here goes...

::deep breath::


I'm sort of geeking out about the Royal Wedding.


I know, I know. I'm one of those people who you want to punch in the face. You're sick of, "William and Kate this" and, "William and Kate that," and I'm giddy at the thought of what the future princess' wedding gown will look like. So what's up with my obsession? It's twofold.


For one, it's a reboot of the royal nuptials that went down back in 1981. I may not have existed when that wedding took place, but I've seen some of the footage, and it's disappointing. I'm sure Diana and Charles had some great qualities, but they weren't exactly the most handsome people on the face of the planet, and Diana's dress was fugly with a capital F. (Sorry, Di, rest in peace, boo.) While Prince William is no Johnny Depp, Kate Middleton is cute enough for the both of them, and girlfriend has good style, so logic dictates that their wedding will pwn Charles and Diana's.


Secondly, I get to vicariously live out my fantasy of becoming a princess through Kate Middleton. I've harbored this fantasy since I was a kid, but my path to the throne is starkly different from Kate's. I fully blame King Ralph. Ever since seeing that movie, I've hoped that secretly I was a long-lost relative of a royal family (country doesn't matter; I'm not picky!) and that by some freak accident they all wind up dead and I become either a princess or a queen. Kids, that's the stuff of which fairy tales are made.


So what would I do if I ever broke into the royal ranks? In all honesty, I'd probably be just a tad self-indulgent at first because I JUST BECAME A FUCKING PRINCESS. I would stare at my tiara for a full two hours first thing in the morning. Just admiring it. Polishing up the diamonds and rubies. Relishing the fact that even though I wasn't popular enough to be voted prom queen or homecoming queen in high school, I was sure as shit more than adequate to be a real-life princess, thus pwning the entire TCHS class of 2002. After the two hours were up, I'd place my tiara on my head and wear it for the rest of the day. It would have its own Facebook page. I would treat it like Flat Stanley except it wouldn't be flat and it would be an honest-to-god tiara. It would RSVP to my high school reunion on my behalf.


I would also throw mad crazy parties in the castle. I would use any excuse to fly out my friends for a few days of revelry: the Oscars, (Insert Name of Country) Idol, just because it was Wednesday. I would have old money at my disposal, so the alcohol would be top-notch: Grey Goose, Cristal, Dom Perignon. If anybody tried to sneak in some shit like Popov, I'd have the royal guards escort their asses out. Seriously, Popov? At a royal party? Are they kidding me?


If I became a princess, that would make Ava a royal dog, which means she'd have her own tricked-out doggy castle. And her own tiara so we could be twins. She would also have a collar made out of diamonds because that's how she would roll.


If I became a princess, I would do the following (in no particular order):


1. Watch The Princess Diaries and laugh at the irony.
2. Re-visit King Ralph and laugh at the irony.
3. Play Risk and laugh at the irony.
4. Develop my own signature perfume.
5. Buy this and play Hansel and Gretel with my friends.


You know, looking back at my list, I'd make a horrible princess. I'd be boorish. Selfish. Probably hated by my staff and subjects. My abuse of power would know no bounds. So I think I'll leave being a respectable princess up to Kate and tune in to watch her say, "I do" instead.

Easter Weekend Randomness

When the driver's side power window of my Found-On-the-Road-Dead Focus crapped out on me after work Wednesday evening, more than a couple of four-letter words flew from my lips. I could feel my blood pressure rising and my frustration mounting. The weekend prior I unexpectedly had to replace two tires. Now, the power window was dead. Based on my own experience with my Saturn, and watching how my sister's Focus met its eventual demise, I knew it was only a matter of time--the seemingly innocuous repairs were the start of an avalanche that would include replacing the entire break system and alternator and end with a total of about $20 million in car repairs and me living out of my POS car because I couldn't afford to make rent. My Focus was almost 5 years old. It had 61,000 miles on it. And already I've had to replace all four tires (two a few years earlier!) and deal with a dead power window. I. Had. To. Jump. Ship.

Problem was, I wasn't planning on buying a car for awhile--I didn't know if I could afford it. My parents graciously bought my Focus for me, and the plan was to transfer the title and deed over to me when they finished paying it off next month. It was my responsibility to get car insurance. I was perfectly fine with that plan until the avalanche started. Then I wondered just how much a used car would actually cost.

When I got to work on Thursday, I pulled up Carmax.com and perused the used cars. I found one that I liked, a 2009 Pontiac G5 coupe, and plugged in the numbers on the car payment estimator. I was pleasantly surprised--the payments were well within my budget. I got excited and called my dad to tell him of my plan to buy the car next month. My dad was on board, but suggested I get the car as soon as I possibly could, since it might not be there next month. And he pointed out that I would only be waiting a few weeks anyway--why not just go ahead and buy it now? He also suggested I get financing through my credit union.

A few phone calls, some signed documents and one test drive later, I was the proud owner of the Pontiac G5. My first solo car-buying experience turned out to be the most random experience of my life. It was exciting and nauseating, but when I look at my little red car, I feel a swell of pride and a sense of relief that I had put off the avalance of car repairs a little longer.

Random Thoughts on Beauty and the Beast and Hawaii

Yesterday, I revisited my childhood and watched Beauty and the Beast. While that movie is still awesome, some things did stick out to me, watching it as an adult.

1. The Beast's servants/furniture/dishware are incredibly durable. They sing, they dance, they hop around, they DEFEAT A MOB WITH A BATTERING RAM and they don't break. I know they're enchanted and all, but just because they're alive doesn't mean that the china of which Mrs. Potts and Chip are made doesn't suddenly become like steel, unless the enchantress who cast the spell in the first place also did a switcheroo on the properties of the materials.

2. Gaston really is a dumb-ass. His objective is to marry Belle. Does he get her flowers or chocolates, help out her father, buy her books, or cook her a nice dinner like any other normal human male would do in trying to win over a woman? NO! He opts to ambush her with a surprise wedding and throw her pops into a mental asylum. Not winning, Gaston.

3. While watching this movie, I thought the strangest, most random thing I've ever voluntarily thought of in a long time. I thought about my dog, and what if she used to be this really bitchy, self-absorbed princess who got turned into a dog? And she had until her 21st birthday (in human terms, natch) to find a guy to love her or else she'd be a dog forever? That would mean she would have until November (3rd dog birthday/21st human birthday) and I have been cock-blocking her this whole time. It would also mean that the cute moments we've shared (her curling up on my lap, or lying on my chest for a few minutes when we first go to bed) are now hella awkward.

4. Random subject change...This has nothing to do with Beauty and the Beast, but lately I've had the urge to go to Hawaii for a few days, by myself. It's definitely because I've got a romanticized view in my head that a trip to Hawaii by myself would be this life-changing quest in which I "find myself" and other such hippy nonsense. I don't even know what I would be trying to find, or if I even needed to find anything; I just want to go to Hawaii.

Aaaaannnndddd...scene.

Open Letter to Play 98.7

Dear Play 98.7,



You bother me. Don't get me wrong, I still listen to you because you do play some good songs, but still--you bother me. I hear your commercials, the ones that call out Mix 100.7 for being old and outdated while positioning you as the newer, hipper, younger model. Ordinarily, this would not bother me, but lately you've been playing songs that just don't jive with the image you've been trying to convey. Like Anna Nalick's "Breathe (2a.m.)." Does that really fall under the heading of, "today's hits?" It's a good song and all, but it came out in, what, 2006? Or "Scar Tissue" by the Red Hot Chili Peppers. I think that came out back in 2004! How can you boast that you play only, "today's hits without the rap" when your playlists include five- and seven-year-old songs? More importantly, how does this make you any different that Mix, a station that plays those same exact songs every single day?



Last Sunday really took the cake, and turned my minor annoyance with you into full-fledged, "Holy shitballs, if I hear ONE MORE commercial that makes fun of Mix, I am going to send everybody at Play 98.7 anthrax-laced envelopes." Wanna know what it was? "FAST CAR" BY TRACY CHAPMAN. Just so we're crystal clear, it's this song:





NOT this younger, hipper, fits-more-in-with-your-image song by the same name:



Really?


Really? REALLY, PLAY 98.7?! FAST CAR?! THAT SONG CAME OUT IN 1988!!!!!!!! COME ON!! Honestly, Play 98.7, you've gotten me so worked up, I've used italics, capital letters, exclamation points and question marks in conjunction with each other.



Seriously. Get your shit together and stop playing old songs. Otherwise, get a new advertising campaign.



Sincerely,



Sarah "HonestlyLikesFastCarButHatesToHearItOnPlay98.7" Van Blaricum

Let's See How Many I Times I Can Cram the Words, "Richard Lewis" Into This Post

Judging by my dreams, I'm convinced that when I go to sleep, my brain sees it as a free pass to to go hog-wild and do all kinds of crazy shit. Apparently last night, it wanted to hang out with Richard Lewis (1!), and so I was treated to the following:

Richard Lewis (2!), my friend Ali and I were all getting ready to go somewhere, and Richard Lewis (3!) and I were dating. My friend Ali was in this very New York-looking outfit: black slacks, black turtleneck shirt, and a long black coat, and she was wondering what to accessorize with it.

Being a smartass, I tell her, "If you added a scarf, you'd look just like Richard Lewis (4!)!" Richard Lewis (5!) then shoots me a look, clearly not amused, and it hits me: I just made fun of Richard Lewis (6!) in front of Richard Lewis (7!) Trying to rectify the situation, I go over to him, playfully tug on his scarf and say, "But you look good." (Sidenote: He, too, is wearing black pants, a black turtleneck, a black coat, and a black scarf.) He's not quite appeased, but he lets it go. Ali disappears then comes back wearing the same outfit except she ditched the coat and put on a Native American poncho instead.

Then, I woke up.

Don't ask. I do not know what Richard Lewis (8!) was doing in my subconscious. Like I said: apparently my brain wanted to hang out with him while I was asleep. It's like a high school kid who has the house to himself the whole weekend sans parental units and decides to GET FUCKIN' CRAZY.

Richard Lewis (9!) wasn't harmed in the making of this dream.

Total Richard Lewis Count: 9 (10 if you include the title, 11 if you include this line)

Who I'm Listening To: Paul Simon

Paul Simon, both as a solo artist, and as one-half of Simon and Garfunkel, is my favorite musician in the whole entire universe, including Harmonia. That says a lot. For an earthly musician to beat out whatever Harmonia has to offer, which I guarantee you is a combination of whimsy, fantasy, and holy shit, must mean he's special. Now, I know what you're thinking, and the answer is yes. I love Paul Simon more than Journey and Steve Perry.

"Bullshit!" you might say. "If you love Paul Simon so much, why don't you create a blog about him? Oh, that's right. You didn't. You created one for Steve Perry. Hmph."

My reply to that is, as soon as Paul Simon starts sportin' him some glorious man-hair and shockingly tight pants, then he'll get his own blog too. But he won't, because he looks like this:

It's okay, though. If Paul Simon were flashy, it would take away from his songs, and that would be a crying shame. He's a brilliant lyricist, and, so far, the only one who can make me choke up. His songs are beautiful and haunting, tortured and inspirational. One of my favorites is from "Slip Slidin' Away:"

God only knows

God makes his plan
The information's unavailable
To the mortal man

Every time I hear a Paul Simon tune, I get the same feeling I do when I go to visit my parents: a sense of comfort, of familiarity. I flashback to when I was twelve and listening to Negotiations and Love Songs on my Walkman knock-off in the backseat of my parents' Mazda Protégé, going home after attending a Christmas celebration in downtown Perry, warm, cozy, happy. Whenever I hear a Paul Simon tune, I feel that everything will be alright in the world, that no matter what my worries or concerns are, somehow everything will turn out okay. A musician who can elicit that kind of emotional response is truly one-of-a-kind, one of the greats. He's the kind of artist who can give those frou-frou, lute-playing bastards on Harmonia a run for their money.

Here are a few other songs I love that Playlist.com didn't have in its database or I forgot to add:

I'm Seeing Red (Riding Hood, That is)!

WARNING: If you want to see this movie, please don't read this review. It contains spoilers that will ruin the viewing experience for you, sending you either into crushing disappointment or blinding rage that will undoubtedly prove detrimental to your relationships with others, leaving you alone and abandoned and causing you to question your life's choices. Also, I don't want to be bombarded with comments that say, "Wahhh wahhh wahhh, you just ruined this movie for me! I haven't slept for two weeks because I can't think about anything else except seeing Red Riding Hood! Oh, cruel world, what will I write about in my diary now?!" Don't say I didn't warn you.

Okay, now that that's out of the way, I will commence in my review of Red Riding Hood. First of all, lemme just say that there are slim pickins if you want to see a movie in the theaters right now (barring The King's Speech, but I've already seen that). Your choices are pretty much limited to Liam Neeson, Matthew McConaughey, Hall Pass, Red Riding Hood, or whatever is the "it" children's-computer-animated-3D-holy-shit cartoon movie. But my friend Kathy and I really wanted to go to CineBistro since it's the holy grail of movie theaters (full liquor bar, y'all!), and the only two movies that looked remotely interesting were Hall Pass and Red Riding Hood. We went with Red Riding Hood.

If you recall, the red riding hood fairytale goes a little something like this: Girl takes food to sick grandmother. On the way, girl encounters wolf and tells it that she is going to her grandmother's house. Wolf beats her there, swallows grandmother, and then swallows girl when girl arrives. Hunter then comes, rescues girl and grandmother. They fill wolf's stomach with stones and wolf drowns. The movie, on the other hand, is more like a dookie pie in a crust of festering sores and scabs and topped with the tears of children and the haunted cries of anguished animals, the only resemblance to the fairytale being that it involves Red Riding Hood (also known as Valerie), a wolf and a grandmother.

After an unnecessary and slightly unsettling opening scene involving young Valerie (literally, Little Red Riding hood! Get it?!) and her boy friend (but not boyfriend--yet) about to kill a rabbit they catch in the woods, we come to the village of Daggerhorn, where a werewolf has just killed Valerie's half-sister.

"OMG!"

The men of the village, after two generations of being terrorized by the werewolf, finally decide they ain't having none o' that, get sloppy drunk, and decide to go kill it. Among the search party is the man Valerie wants to marry (who is also the boy who helps her kill Thumper in the opening scene):

"I love you! I will avenge your half-sister's death!"

and the man Valerie has to marry:

"Even though you'd rather be sacrificed to the wolf than marry me, I'm still going to risk my life for you because I'm desperate and have no self-esteem...too soon for the wolf reference? I'm sorry...it's things like that, isn't it?"

Meanwhile, the ineffective village priest decides to call in another priest and pawn the werewolf problem off on him. The visiting priest's town used to be terrorized by a werewolf until the priest killed it and found out it was his wife. This one prior experience apparently makes him an expert.

"I showed that bitch!"

When the men of the village return with the head of a wolf who they think is the one that has been terrorizing them, the visiting priest pretty much says, "That ain't it" and then proceeds to divulge his own experience as well as some tips he picked up about werewolves along the way. It's a pretty harrowing speech, and after his final warning of, "Trust me, that ain't it," the villagers choose to ignore him and celebrate anyway.

"Eff you! You don't know!"

During the course of the celebration, Valerie seeks out the man she wants to marry (also known as Peter) and they decide to go off and have sex in a barn or somewhere, but are interrupted by hellions or something. When Valerie returns to the celebration, we see her full-fledged whoreness when one of her friends asks her where she's been and she pretty much tells her she's been off having sex in a barn or somewhere with Peter instead of what actually happened. Girlfriend should know that's not classy and just makes her look like a ho.

"Guess who just got some?!"

It is at this point that the werewolf appears and decides to do some more terrorizin'. It corners Valerie, and instead of killing her, decides to carry on a conversation. Hey, no judgement here. Conversation is a lost art, so if the werewolf wants to bone up on his skillz, who are we to stop him?

"Told you!"

After the bloodbath, the visiting priest just starts grasping at straws and accuses anyone who looks at him sideways of being the werewolf, proving that he's just as ineffective as the village priest, and kind of an asshole. He is not above trying to place blame on the village's mentally-challenged citizen, Claude, citing that Claude's child-like wonder and amusement with card tricks is a perfectly good reason for him to be a werewolf.

"Trust me, card tricks are not something normal people fuck around with."

Would have been more effective.

Even though the priest was way off the mark in accusing Claude, I personally like the idea of accusing magicians and wannabes of being werewolves and subsequently trying to kill them. There would be less people in the world asking me to pick a card, and less people trying to pawn off their crappy illusions on an unwitting audience. Also, there would be no Criss Angel: Mind Freak. Everybody wins!

"You're next, Criss Angel."

Anyway, it comes to light that Valerie was chit-chatting with the wolf, and she is immediately accused of being a witch and offered up as human sacrifice. Peter ends up freeing her, and after an underwhelming action sequence and reappearance of the werewolf, town efforts are re-doubled in hunting down the furry bastard. Valerie has a nightmare about her grandmother, which is the writers' last-ditch effort to relate this atrocity to the actual fairytale, but, just like the rest of the movie, fails miserably.

"Grandmother! What big eyes you have!"

"The better to see you with, my dear."

Valerie, believing that her grandmother is in trouble, goes to check on her, and finds out that the actual werewolf is...drum roll, please...

Kidding. He's not the werewolf. In this movie, anyway. The werewolf in this movie turns out to be Valerie's dad, who gives a piss-poor, Charlie Sheen-esque explanation as to how he became a werewolf and why he's terrorizing the village peeps that basically boils down to, "I have wolf's blood and your mother cheated on me." So not winning.

Now that's winning.

He then follows that gem with an even weaker argument designed to persuade Valerie to let him turn her into a wolf, like it's some sort of father-daughter bonding thing.

"Come on, it'll be fun!"

"Um...no."

Peter, who apparently put two-and-two together at some point and figured out the werewolf's true identity, barges in the grandmother's house and battles Valerie's dad. Valerie decides to pitch in, and they end up killing him, but not before he has a chance to bite Peter, dooming Peter to be a werewolf for the rest of his life. Valerie and Peter sew up a whole bunch of crap in her dad's chest like some sort of twisted time capsule, and Peter goes off to learn how to be a wolf that doesn't terrorize people.

"We'll open it when we're 40."

"I gotta go, bye bye."

The ending is just a pathetic attempt to wrap everything up: the village goes back to how it used to be, the people being afraid of the werewolf even though they're no longer being attacked, Valerie living by herself in her grandmother's house. The final scene of the movie shows that Peter (as the wolf) has come back, but I think Valerie ends up running off with him. To be honest, I'm not quite sure, as it was ambiguous and I didn't care. As long as I'm being honest, I should disclose that I left out a whole bunch of details, but, trust me, they don't really add anything to the movie. It still sucks.

If you've read up until now and still don't know how I feel about this movie, allow me to spell it out for you: I'd rather watch an hour and a half of Ben Stein trying to teach advanced physics than this piece of cinematic crapola. It's not suspenseful, it doesn't make sense, and just winds up being an unintentional hilarious joke.