Fun Film Facts!

Catherine Keener has played a character named 'Adele' in two separate movies. Name them.

Or, you know, don't. It's not like there's a prize or anything. I just thought it was cool. *shrug*

How To Win Friends And Analyze Myself To Death

Disclaimer: I am possibly the most socially awkward person on the planet.

It's like reverse stage fright — put me under a spotlight in front of hundreds of people and I'll sing, dance, strip or tell jokes without shedding a drop of sweat. Sit me down across the table from a co-worker at lunch or let me loose at a party without a wingperson, however, and I suddenly become Rain Man. I flounder when it's one-on-one. It's embarrassing and crippling to practically every aspect of my existence, from my career prospects to my love life. I mean, first dates are hard enough to get through without a Greek chorus of hyper-critical mental patients screaming at you from inside your own head and rendering you essentially immobile, you know?

Luckily for you, loyal readers, I come off much more charming and witty in writing than I do in real life.

Um...right?

Anyway, I can basically boil it all down to one simple diagnosis: I don't know how to talk to people. Unless the occasion calls for an Eddie Izzard quote, I have no idea how to start conversations. Even simple ones. For example, the girl standing next to me on the subway is wearing the same shade of blue nail polish as me, and I can't even bring myself to say, "Hey, nice nail polish!" I rationalize this to myself by noting that she's listening to an iPod, and something so trivial is surely not worth interrupting her musical interlude. Then I think, well, I could still do the mime version (point to her nails/point to mine/thumbs-up), but I still don't because...uh...well, I have no idea, really. See?

Of course, there was the time I actually worked up the nerve to say something to that guy on the train with the saxophone case. What I said was: "Hey, is that a saxophone?"

"Why, yes it is," he says and smiles.

"Oh. Cool."

*facepalm*

So tonight on the way home from work, I notice that the boy with the Elvis Costello glasses sitting next to me is reading a book by Gregory Maguire, and it trips this train of thought: "Hey, Gregory Maguire — isn't that the guy who wrote Wicked? I wonder if this guy's read Wicked. Or seen the play. I liked the play. The book was too weird for me. I didn't even finish it, which is also weird for me. Maybe I would have liked it better if I hadn't seen the show first..." And suddenly it occurs to me, hey — this could be a conversation! And he's not wearing an iPod! Here's my opening! But wait — what if he's reading because he doesn't want to be disturbed?

I agonize over this conundrum all the way from Bleecker to DeKalb, at which point my potential bookworm friend exits the train and I cease agonizing and commence kicking myself for not taking advantage of the opportunity instead. Thus, the vicious cycle.

So, what I'm asking for, loyal readers, is your help. What am I doing wrong here? How do normal people talk to each other? Where is that fine line between "friendly stranger" and "annoying and/or creepy stranger" located? The future health of my social life, never mind the possibility of me ever getting laid again, may depend on your assistance. Please, find it in your heart to contribute to the cause. Thank you for your time.

Hello, Goth Kids!

Dave Navarro and Sasha Grey at the AVN Awards, or, as I like to call it, "What I Wish My Prom Had Really Been Like":

[Click the pic for full-size awesomeness]

Welcome to my nightmare... *evil grin*

Soap Opera

So, today was laundry day. It simply came time to face the fact that I have been wearing the same pair of jeans for the last three days, using dish towels to wash my face, and substituting the bottom halves of my bikinis for underwear, and that I could afford to put it off no longer. So I load up my wheelie-cart until it's practically overflowing, arm myself with liquid detergent and quarters, and embark on the arduous journey.

Let it be known that there is a perfectly fine laundry room in the basement of my apartment building that I never use because A: my mother put the fear of God into me when I first moved in by relating horror stories about unaccompanied young women being brutally attacked in desolate basement laundry rooms and offering the advice to only go down there in the daytime and to carry pepper spray, and B: I have an irrational fear that my clothes would emerge smelling like a basement itself, coming out worse than when they went in. Luckily, there is a bright and modern laundromat only 2 buildings down from mine, so I frequent it often.

...Ok, fine, maybe not often enough.

Anyway...

Let it also be known that I live in a predominantly black neighborhood. "Predominantly" meaning there are often stretches during which my reflection in store windows is the only white person I see on the street for days. I have no problem with this, but having lived most of my life on Long Island, aka Wonder Bread Manor, it's definitely a new perspective.

So imagine my surprise when I stroll into the laundromat this afternoon and come face-to-face with a white boy sitting by one of the machines. A cute white boy. Writing in a journal, even! Be still my heart!

And of course, I realize upon this revelation, I'm wearing pajama pants and no makeup, my hair's completely disheveled, and I have to steer past him with an unwieldly heap of dirty underwear on wheels. I can really think of no better condition under which to start a flirtation than this.

Coward that I am, I avoid eye contact as I pass, sneak a sidelong look at him while shoveling my clothes into the machines, and leave the place by a completely circuitous route so I don't have to risk passing by him again. But I have a plan.

See, I'm going out later to see a friend bellydance, and I had planned to get ready after going back and picking up my clothes, but now I decide to doll myself up before heading back to the 'mat; this way when I run into Pretty Hipster Boy again, I'll be fully prepared. I want to look appropriately bellydance-ish, or at least as much as one can while garbed in skinny jeans and thigh-high boots, so I load on the bangles and the gauzy scarves and the exotic eye makeup and I'm off to retrieve my precious.

Unfortunately, by the time I get back, my boy toy is done and gone, so I now just look like a freakshow who's way too overdressed for the laundromat.

God damn it.

If anyone asks I'm telling them this is the only clean outfit I had left.

The Two Greatest Things You Will Ever See In Your Life

Just doing my part to improve the disposition of the planet. You can thank me later.

Separate Ways: Literal Video Version

Total Eclipse Of The Heart: Literal Video Version

Foreign Affairs [Abridged]

Text message exchange with my brother:

Bruzza: "Australian gov't tells Japan to stop whaling or face legal action. Japanese gov't completely ignores them."
Songbird: "Japanese gov't obviously dickheads."

Super-Urgent Crucial Information

Today, I lost my left contact.

Because I don't have my glasses with me, I am now wearing my giant bug-eye, face-eating prescription sunglasses around the office in order to see.

I also don't have my contact case with me, so my now-removed right contact is currently sitting on a Post-It on my desk.

Discovery: A contact lens left exposed to the elements will shrivel up and stiffen like a Shrinky-Dink.

Pretty neat.