Saturday, June 26, 2010

NEWS FLASH! It's OK To Be Yourself

I'm taking a physical education class this summer... I figure it's better to take an eight-week course than the full sixteen (and they always said I was an idiot... that's THEM told off, then!); I mean, it's not anything major, it's just a fitness walking class (AKA, you need the PE credit to get your degree, but you're an out-of-shape numpty, so here's an easy one, 'cause it's hard enough to pass algebra, so there you go). Anyway, I walk five or six days a week on my mother's treadmill, and, to be pretty honest, it's dead dull. Reading doesn't really work (nowhere to put my book, you know), so I resort to watching inane television. Most of the time, I can watch Headline News, but they stop playing actual news at four o'clock in the afternoon (they think that Showbiz Tonight is more interesting than real news, like Lucy's grandfather being discovered? Yeah, wasn't covered in the thirty minute tape loop that day, or any day afterward. Go figure.)
So the story went today... I watched Headline News until the weekend edition of their mindless evening shows came on (and, by the way, weekend Headline News is also a laughing matter... they just covered the anniversary of Michael Jackson's death, and the tornado in Montana last Sunday). I had to resort to something called Tacky House. Have you heard of this abomination? Please, click the link, see what they're all about. I'll wait.


In case it isn't on their homepage, here's a video of the specific episode I saw...


Did you see it?
Are you disturbed?
I sure was.
Certainly not by the woman, or her house, but that someone out there funds and executes this idea. To me, it's a reflection of one of the biggest, most detrimental flaws of human character: not accepting fellow humans for what they are.
That lady liked her house; she was the only one living there, she was comfortable with it, and, most importantly, with herself. What was it any of the designer's, or, more importantly, the "informant's", AKA, her old friend, business if it wasn't exactly normal? It didn't harm anyone, and it made her happy. It's not like she kicks puppies into the street when the sweeper is driving down the road; she's not lacing the kiddie's Halloween candy with D-Con... she just likes leprechauns.
To be honest, I love leprechauns, too. I'm very proud of my mostly Irish heritage, and I like to have my little nick-knacks sitting about, too. Combine 'em, and whatta ya got?
This.
Photobucket

Here's a solute to my own lack of taste...



I know there are other shows highlighting people's "lack of taste"...
I've always had a sneaking suspicion that my
sister or brother-in-law would sign me up for
What Not To Wear
(when I go out in public, it's always dark blue or black skinny jeans,
and Beatles t-shirts for me.
I know my lack of make-up and hairstyle bugs the hell out of everybody but my mother, too...
the way I figure it, though, is if Linda McCartney got Paul by just being herself, there's something to it),
and I've always had similar issues with that show...
but I think Tacky House just takes it to a whole new level of intolerance.
What Not To Wear doesn't tell you what kind of knickers to wear,
and that's just as personal as telling someone that their decorating sense isn't "updated", "hip",
or whatever the hell brainwashing they've decided to call it these days.
Maybe it's a big deal to me because I always have to explain myself to folks that don't
understand exactly who I am
(which is pretty much everybody).
I know they don't get the vintage dresses, the t-shirts,
how I love to plaster my walls with whatever my "thing" is that day,
or, the biggest one of my entire life, why I rarely cut my hair.
I have a very Linda McCartney attitude toward other people
(i.e., if you don't like it, it's your problem, not mine),
but I have observed that most other people have
genuine problems opening themselves up to exploring who they really are.
It's a personal, spiritual journey that takes a very long time to get used to...
and shows like the two I've mentioned don't help make it any easier.
It's like saying, "You suck, change."
And the participants say "Oh, alright, if I can fit in this way, I'll do it."
It's three shades of screwed up, and it's very hard to watch... like a car accident, you know?
You'll slow down to look at the cars involved,
and the folks on their cell phones,
or screaming at each other,
morbidly intrigued by the debacle unfolding in front of you.
It's that, but crushing your personality instead of your fender and tail light.

I try to avoid this topic on the blog.
As you can see, it's a big issue with me,
and if you ever get the chance to talk with me in depth,
you'll find out that I ramble, as is also evident with this post.
You know, this post came at a good time for me, though.
I was just thinking this morning
(because I think about the blog quite a lot)
that I post too much Beatles/Paul stuff,
that perhaps I should cut back on it.
After all, I like to think I have a small readership,
and, if I want to keep that, maybe I should add a little variety.
Where was my Linda attitude this morning?
If you read this drivel, you can sift through the Paulieness!
It's me, and I like it, so tough titty.

Although, if you don't like sifting through the Paul stuff, it's your lucky day!
Beatles-A-Rama
(which, by the way, are turning to a subscription only station, the bastards)
played a song I haven't heard in at least ten years, if not more.
I had actually forgotten how much I loved this song when I was little...
I used to sing it to myself at the school playground
('cause I actually did go to public school for about three years, believe it or not),
and the other kids would tell me to sing real songs.
Impertinent little tits.
So, a blast from my past, here's The Who...

Is It A Subscription Box, Or Something More Sinister? (It's A Subscription Box. Maybe.)