flashingreds...
run on for a long time
(2004-07-09, 2:17 p.m.)
At the parents' house last Sunday, we had VH1's "I Love the 80s" on in the background, when we were all sitting around watching my wee nephew hit everything in sight with a toy hammer. Then it happened. In a discussion of the Care Bears, Henry Rollins said something to the effect that Care Bears blew, because they were always toted around by fat girls called Hxxxxxx, who wanted him to sign them after shows.

So I'm already pretty pissed off at Henry Rollins, in spite of the fact that I'm too young to know his music (cheap shot, and not really even true), not to mention I never had a Care Bear. And I'm not fat, just healthy and curvy and trying hard to shed 20 pounds, in spite of medical misadventures, okay? But he has no right to use my name that way.

Yeah. And now I learn he's an accomplice to the crime (yes, I'm judging before listening--aren't you?) that is William Shatner's new album. And so is Ben Folds, but after that pathetic "Rockin' the Suburbs" crap, let's just say we knew this was coming.

And Nick Hornby? Oy. I'll just write it off as something he probably did when writing How to Be Good (watch out, the film version may eventually hit the theaters), another grievous error in judgment best dumped at the Goodwill and never thought of again.

Take that.

Speaking of music, Miss P. just returned from NYC with a copy of the 2003 Oxford American music issue, which was completely unprocurable in central Ill last summer, in spite of our diligent attempts. I'm obsessively listening to the CD and keep getting stuck on 2 songs--"1952 Vincent Black Lightning" by the Del McCoury Band and "Evelyn Is Not Real" by My Morning Jacket. But it's full of gems, many of which seem like they'll be perfect for the soundtrack of my summer.

Tuesday evening will definitely be a highlight of the movie version of the summer. Mustang and I finished weightlifting and parted ways midway through the big thunderstorm; JB saw me driving home and reminded me I was supposed to be at the mother ship for dinner, so I rushed home to wipe some of the stink off.

I wasn't paying much attention to the storm, because it's summer in the Midwest, till the hail set in. So I closed windows and went on with preparations. Oh hail. Eventually the downpour abated; I gave up on making the odd curls in my hair straight, gathered up the umbrella and stepped out on the porch.

While the worst bits of thunderstorm were over, I couldn't get to the car. Or rather, if I crawled in the passenger side from the high curb, I could get in, but the street was completely filled with rushing water, so I couldn't have gone anywhere. Bewildered drivers were avoiding our street altogether.

After watching the neighbor step off the curb into the street and seeing the water rise within a few inches of his knees, I decided to walk. He quickly decided it wasn't safe playing for his 2-yr-old and took her indoors. I set off heading north, but though I needed to head east, the only passable spots had me heading west. At every other house, bemused inhabitants were outside surveying the scene. Several older folk reported they'd never seen flooding so bad in that neighborhood.

Eventually I took off my shoes, rolled up my pants and began hopping over the deepest parts of the old brick streets, yellow Van Gogh umbrella in one hand, sandals and red purse in the other. A coworker later reported seeing me, but he couldn't get down the street to offer a ride.

And so I eventually made it downtown, surprisingly dry, and all was well. But in the moment, it was lovely to break from the usual rules of permanent residents vs. renters and acceptable adult behavior vs. childish (is it? it's always fun) playing in puddles.

The sultry summer weather's back; perhaps I'll spend the sweaty weekend searching for the perfect song for that scene. You know, in the movie of my life. It will have nothing to do with Henry Rollins.