My cousins first shared their love of Mitch Hedberg with me during Thanksgiving in 2005. I had absolutely no clue who this guy was and thought his voice was kind of weird. But I cracked up as my cousins quoted his lines, and the jokes were so funny that I downloaded some of his stand up acts (which I managed to misplace when I finally got a new computer last year).
When I went back to school after the holiday, I found out one of my roommates was already a Hedberg fan. We’d quote some of his acts together, citing lines about Smokey the Bear, Smackey the Frog and preventing forest fires. We’d finish eachother’s sentences when we recounted his hilarious take on waiting lists at restaurants (seriously, click on that link. There’s even a cute animation). Four years later, it’s not uncommon for one of us to randomly sign an e-mail “Love, Smackey.”
What I find most appealing about his sense of humor is how he plays on words, definitions and observations. It’s pretty basic, universal stuff but his twist — and drawn out delivery — really make it hilarious.
His comedy doesn’t ignore his drug use (if you watch any videos of him, it’s pretty apparent too) and I assumed his demographic was college kids. Imagine the kick I got from this e-mail my mom sent me:
Subject: quote
i think this is funny
“I like an escalator because an escalator can never break, it can only become stairs. There would never be an escalator temporarily out of order sign, only an escalator temporarily stairs. Sorry for the convenience.”
- Mitch Hedberg
I was dying after I read this. My mom likes Mitch Hedberg. One of those “OMG!” moments (for those of us who admit to using “OMG”)
And because I want to make sure you laugh enough today, here are some other quotes:
• I like to play blackjack. I’m not addicted to gambling. I’m addicted to sitting in a semi-circle.
• I would imagine that if you could understand Morse code, a tap dancer would drive you crazy.
• I saw a human pyramid once. It was very unnecessary.
• I haven’t slept for ten days, because that would be too long.
• I wear a necklace, cause I wanna know when I’m upside down.
• My fake plants died because I did not pretend to water them.
• The depressing thing about tennis is that no matter how good I get, I’ll never be as good as a wall.
I really could go on and on. But I have to stop at some point.
Wait, one more.
• I was at this casino minding my own business, and this guy came up to me and said, “You’re gonna have to move, you’re blocking a fire exit.” As though if there was a fire, I wasn’t gonna run. If you’re flammable and have legs, you are never blocking a fire exit.
I haven’t paid much attention to Whitney Houston since the days of “The Bodyguard” and “Waiting to Exhale.” I think there were some drugs charges and marital issues, and her life was generally rough.
So I was, obviously, not aware that she had a new album and would be receiving a Lifetime Achievement Award at last night’s American Music Awards.
Her performance was powerful (love watching her around the 3:45 mark because she’s visibly moved and touched and taking everything in. If I had to guess, it looks like she’s feeling blessed). Also, she’s having a great hair day. I love great hair days.
And the song! I almost forgot. I enjoyed it so much that I came home and downloaded it. When you pay attention to the lyrics, you can understand how it’s so personal to Ms. Whitney: “I wasn’t built to break. I got to know my own strength.”
“it is important to say the names of who we are, the names of places we have lived, and to write the details of our lives. we have lived; our moments are important. this is what it is to be a writer: to be the carrier of details that make up history. a writer must say yes to life, to all of life. our task is to say a holy yes to the real things of our life as they exist — the real truth of who we are. we must become writers who accept things as they are, come to love the details, and step forward with a yes on our lips so there can be no more noes in the world, noes that invalidate life and stop these details from continuing.” —natalie goldberg
I love So You Think You Can Dance for the dancing (obviously). But an unexpected side effect has been the number of songs I fall in love with too. Before I started paying attention, I would (unsuccessfully) attempt to remember lyrics after the show was over. Then I realized the website listed all the show’s pairings, dances and songs. Brilliant! And if I actually pay attention to the TV screen, I can see that they tell you the song at the beginning of the dance. Who knew?!
My song obsession from last night (the Top 14) is “Whatcha Say” by Jason Derulo (you may, as I did, find something quite familiar about it…her name is Imogen Heap).
Who doesn’t love a good Britney Spears throwback to dancing in school hallways. I found Mr. Derulo’s Michael Jackson moonwalking in empty stairwells and razor-sharp facial hair shape to be the high points of the video.
Sometimes I forget Matt Nathanson exists until I hear him playing in a Gap store, which is strange because he was a big part of the background noise of my freshman year of college. That and John Mayer’s “Comfortable,” which my roommate Dori and I agreed could only be listened to when the other one was around because the song made us sad. What can I say. We liked to torture ourselves.
And, just because I want to make you feel a little uncomfortable, or at least confused, here is some Sinead O’Connor.
One of my best friends in college enjoyed posing questions of the day — in person, on the phone or through text messages. If she asked the question in person or on the phone, it became more of a discussion than just a response. Stories would unfold from a simple answer. No matter what, we’d end up laughing and with a new inside joke. That’s just how we roll.
But questions of the day weren’t all fun and games. She swears I never responded to the “Favorite Phil Collins song” text, even though I know I replied with “Su-su-suuuuudio-ooohhh-oooooh.” Things were tense between us for awhile as I tried to convince her of my participation. Despite my efforts, she never believed me and we eventually dropped the subject (or got distracted by something else). If I brought up Phil Collins to her now, there’s a good chance she’d remind me of the time I ignored her poll question. I never knew Phil Collins meant so much to her.
I adopted her question of the day antics and started including them in my own e-mails. Sometimes they’d turned into a random thought of the day, or a fact of the day or a quote of the day. Whatever it was, I liked adding another layer to my correspondence, often completely unrelated to the rest of my e-mail.
When I stumbled upon the Dial-A-Stranger podcast last weekend, it brought back memories of Tasha’s question of the day. Listeners can submit a questions and their phone numbers on the website. The podcast then takes those questions and calls the people who volunteered their phone numbers. The co-hosts start out with general chit-chat and natural questions evolve from those answers. Then they get to the question of the day, which is actually just one of many questions, but it’s the only one that’s planned.
Basically it’s consensual eavesdropping and it’s great. Just by prodding and asking follow up questions, the hosts elicit so many more details of a story. One woman was a yoga instructor, but the question led her to talk about when she was a maid for a lawyer. She only worked five hours, five days a week and the house was so clean that all she did was scrub the shower once a week and read all the books in the man’s library.
I’m considering submitting my phone number. Though with my track record of missing calls, I don’t think I’d ever make it on — even if I saved Dial-A-Stranger’s number in my phone. BUT it would make me really happy if a responsible, phone-answering friend handed over their number so I could hear someone familiar one podcast.
Who’s sacrificing themselves for my listening pleasure?
Last year was the first time I watched the New York City marathon, an event that overtakes the entire city the first Sunday in November. Traffic is blocked from streets and bridges. Bus routes are rescheduled (one ride led me through Yankee Stadium in the Bronx before going into Manhattan). Thousands of volunteers set up and distribute water, direct traffic and assist injured runners. It’s the world’s largest marathon (Italy and France were really representing this year). It is magical.
I was a few weeks into my running class last year when our coaches suggested we cheer on the runners. My friend Adrienne joined me. We were in awe of the athletes. The experience was so wonderful — we both left talking about how we wanted to run the marathon — that we watched it together this year too.
We camped out on some steps near Marcus Garvey Park in Harlem, arriving early enough to see some of the elite runners near the end of the race and staying long enough to see the average-paced runners too.
One of the entertaining perks of this location is a “wild” group of nuns from a church along the route. They’re so pumped up that they come out screaming with cowbells. And they keep it up for hours. Praise Jesus, these women know how to cheer. Some runners even stopped to take pictures of them (which says to a lot to sacrifice your time for some photos).
(Left: Runners turning onto Fifth Avenue. Right: Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders should watch out — these nuns have natural talent.)
I have mixed feelings about the fans this year, though. The people who were watching earlier in the race were so obnoxious that I had to move because they were pissing me off so much. One man taunted a runner who took a short walking break (I’d like to see him run 26.2 miles). His young daughter even started repeating the taunts, even though she obviously had no clue what they meant. A woman with a stroller casually walked through a wave of runners, in no rush to get out of their way. Countless others didn’t even wait til the runners thinned out before walking — not even sprinting — across the street. I understand that the marathon can be inconvenient for those who don’t care about it, but it’s incredibly disrespectful to the runners to not even try to get out of their way. I was on the verge of locating a megaphone and appointing myself crowd control since the volunteers and police officers didn’t seem to care.
But if you stick around long enough, the fair-weather fans leave (some of their encouragement sounded more like insults anyway). And you’re left with some very kind souls. Some carried signs or came alone or simply yelled out the name of every person who had it written on their clothes. I remember one man who was dressed like a construction worker, with steel-toed shoes. He was by himself and offering the sincerest encouragement to runners, who at this point looked like they could use all the support they could get. This is what I love about the marathon. How it can bring people, the city and the entire world together. Whether or not you run or know someone in the marathon isn’t important. Because there are universal emotions we can relate to. Determination. Perseverance. Dedication. All from putting one foot in front of other. Over and over.
“i write because there are stories that people have forgotten to tell, because i am a woman trying to stand up in my life. i write because to form a word with your lips and tongue or think a thing and then dare to write it down so you can never take it back is the most powerful thing i know. i am trying to come alive, to find the distances in my own recesses and bring them forward and give them color and form. i write out of total incomprehension that even love isn’t enough and that finally writing might be all i have and that isn’t enough. i can never get it all down, and there are times when i have to step away from the notebook to turn to face my own life. then there are times when it’s only coming to the notebook that i truly do face my own life. and i write out of hurt and how to make the hurt ok; how to make myself strong and come home, and it may be the only real home i’ll ever have.” —natalie goldberg
In elementary school, I took great pride in how much I could write. My work wasn’t necessarily good (in fact, I bet it was horrible) but I could probably out-write everyone in my grade, because I just liked to do it. One assignment in second grade was to write about what makes someone a good citizen. I don’t know why schools pose these kinds of questions to kids, especially at that young of an age. It’s like asking parents to do their children’s homework.
Each grade level had a competition; the winners would read their essays at an all-school assembly. I can’t remember it, but I bet that was one boring assembly, each grade-level winner talking about being nice and following the golden rule and playing fair with your sister and turning in your homework on time and helping your mom set the table.
Who really cares about that?
I didn’t. I just wanted to win. And my plan to achieve this was to write as much as I could (obviously taking the quantity-over-quality approach).
One of my most vivid memories from elementary school is taking my stack of gray paper (you know the kind, with red and blue lines) out into the hallway so I could line my pages in a row. I’d run out of room on my desk, and let’s be honest, was probably being dramatic, so I created a paper trail of my essay that ended with blank sheets in front of me as I laid on my stomach, continuing to write about citizenship. I can’t remember why I was out there alone, if it was regularly scheduled writing time or during recess or after school, but there I was, taking over the second grade hallway with my words. My teacher told me I’d written enough, but I was not content to be done. I would tell her when I was finished, thankyouverymuch.
As much as I loved writing, it physically pained me. I held my pencil tight. Too tight, really. My wrist would ache. Even after getting pencil pillows (what kind of ridiculous name is that? I probably found it “cute” at the time), I always had a bump on my ring finger from the friction. Almost like a callous on your foot, rough from overuse. But on my hand. It disgusted me. My sister made fun of me (then I’d quickly make fun of her for having man hands and the argument was a draw).
It wasn’t until college when handwritten assignments became obsolete that my writing bump deflated and softened. Depending on how I hold my hand, you don’t really notice the bump anymore. As much as I’d rather not have it, I’ve accepted that it will never go away.
But I didn’t realize that other people had writing bumps too until I heard this podcast about fonts and handwriting from To the Best of Our Knowledge. Though it’s amusing that the podcast mentions only people over 40 know what a writing bump is (because handwritten correspondence was plentiful before computers).
Even though I’ve always loved writing, I didn’t realize back then that the physical evidence would forever be on my finger. Part of me wonders how much that second grade citizenship essay contributed to my writer’s bump, and how much the bump contributed to feeling like a writer.
(For those of you who have been holding your breath, I was the second grade winner, which meant I read my essay aloud at the most boring all-school assembly ever.)
Despite having some serious doubts about whether “Grey’s Anatomy” was worth my time any more, I’ve continued to watch it. I have continued to eagerly await the Grey’s Writers blog post the following morning after a new episode, even if I haven’t particularly enjoyed the episode. A large part of my happiness with the show is how it’s written. Regardless of what happens, I fell for “Grey’s” because of the monologues and the urge to find the nearest writing utensil to jot down a good quote. And it’s been quite awhile since I’ve written anything down.
But at last, my waiting has paid off and the show is finally redeeming itself this season.
“There is always a way. To do the impossible. To survive the unsurvivable. We’re inspired. In the face of the impossible, we’re inspired. Today if you become frightened, instead become inspired.” —Give Peace a Chance
I keep going back to it… “Today if you become frightened, instead become inspired.” Can you imagine what the world would be like if we channeled our emotions that way?
I am obsessed with this song. Like listen to it five times back-to-back on my way to jury duty obsessed. I’m sure you have songs that you feel the same way about. If not, you’re suffering a musical depression and should seek help immediately.
Part of it is the excitement I get when I hear places I’m familiar with. I also like the beat (especially a certain piano part that is reminiscent of an earlier Jay-Z song).
But I have some issues with Alicia Keyes. First of all. What is she wearing? Why is her hair crazy? And would someone please give her a bench so she can sit down and stop dancing at the piano. I feel uncomfortable for her. You’re obviously not actually playing the piano, so why even pretend if that is the result.
Would it really hurt Jay-Z to make eye contact with the camera? I don’t think there’s an eclipse in the camera lens, so no bodily harm would come to him if he simply looked straight ahead.
My other problem is the lack of annunciation. Granted, I’m known to have some crazy interpretations of song lyrics, but I could swear that they’re saying “I’m thinking this is where wet dreams are made of…” Which, I mean, it is New York, and I’m sure is applicable to some people. But in reality the lyrics are actually “Concrete jungle where dreams are made of…” Yeah, I know, I should get my ears checked.
Fact of the day: Jay-Z and I share the same last name. Holler, Mr. Carter!
