Yes, dear bloggers, I have returned...
The ego is such a funny thing. One day (or maybe more like 45) you find yourself at home, relaxing, content to never blog again and living a life of pure frivolity -- mostly skipping and playing super-tense games of solitary Jenga -- and then you find a shout-out on a friends blog and your world changes.
Because of Ali (and of course the strange power that Stefanie wields over me), I will update the blog this week with a terrifying and terribly important new story. It will thrill, chill and fulfill all who dare read it. I call it:
The terribly important story of why I was chased by a miniature horse on an almost deserted Alaskan Island.
I do apologize for my absense, and hope you've all learned something about me from this experience: I'll do anything for public praise -- even further degrade myself by detailing the sad misadventures of my youth for your shared enjoyment.
Stay tuned...
PS -- I rhyme now. Oh yes...
Monday, November 5, 2007
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
The terribly important stoy of... Why in the third grade I was sent from class to class to sing...wait for it...the Rainbow Connection
The masses have spoken (all 4 of you), and the winner this week is The Rainbow Connection story -- hands down. It is another tale of tragic nerdiness that reinforces the chilling power of music to change lives and timeless impact of one, Kermit the Frog.
Picture it.
An anxious blond boy on the road to chubby breaths heavily in the boys bathroom of Springbrook Elementary. He is alone, leaning over the sink, clutching the smooth, cold porcelin in his blood-drained fingers, and staring at himself, sweaty and white, in the tattered mirror. Outside, he hears the masses of first graders stamping their feet, an external anticipating heartbeat thumping almost as loudly as his own. He breaths deeply. "You can do this," he assures himself, "just one last time."
The heavy, wooden door to the boys room creaks open behind him and Ms. Fegan, the first-grade teacher, enters slowly.
"They're calling your name," she says softly, aware of his nerves and in awe of the talent encapsulated in the small, but ever expanding body.
"I can't," he stutters, doubt overtaking him, "Dammit, I can't do it."
She eyes him for a moment, unsure of herself, and then says, "I've seen something remarkable this last week. I've seen these delinquent, inner-city first graders who no one expected anything from but trouble, turn their lives around because of the power of music, the power of your gift." She steps toward him cautiously, putting her hand on his shoulder. "Because of you," she whispers, "these kids may just have a chance at life. Don't take that away."
"I don't know if I can go out there," he heaves, haunted by the taunts of his fellow third graders who have recently started calling him Kermit the Fag.
"Dammit, Brett, you're a performer," she exclaims, "As natural as I've ever seen. Now, get out there and fulfill your purpose. Perform to save these kids. Perform...to save yourself."
Finally he looks at her, her eyes ablaze with passion and hope, and feels somewhat comforted. He nods.
As he enters the class full of rowdy first-graders, a hush falls over the room. Small faces full of marvel and wonder gaze up at the boy they've heard so much about. He looks entirely unremarkable -- pushing chubby and wearing a slightly clingy grey track suit and small wire glasses -- but his reputation has become large amongst these kids, and they both respect and fear his influence.
The lights dim, and the guitar begins; softly...slowly...a light shines on a young boy, his back turned to the silent crowd.
"Why are there so many songs about rainbows, and what's on the other side..."
His voice is like honey, sweet and gentle, but containing a power unknown to anyone, both beautiful and dangerous.
"Rainbows are vision, and only illusions; Rainbows have nothing to hide..."
He turns slowly, the light bouncing off his thin glasses as though radiating directly from him. There are gasps.
"So we've been told and some chose to believe it; I know their wrong, wait and see...Someday, we'll find it -- the Rainbow Connection -- the lovers, the dreamers and me."
The tremulous strumming of the guitar slows and the lights dim as darkness momentarily settles over the room. Then, suddenly, with the explosive energy of a nuclear bomb, the band kicks in, loud and vibrant. Colored lights burst into the room, moving like fireflies across the sea of faces, and the tempo builds, a la Proud Mary by Tina Turner, to a bouyant, racing speed. Brett, now wearing a sequin headband, dances energetically to the beat, his feet thumping, his eyes closed, his hands gripping the microphone as though connected somehow. Then, a voice erupts completely unlike the first, powerful and imposing.
"WHO SAID THAT EVERY WISH-AH, WOULD BE HEARD AND ANSWERED -- OH YEAH -- WHEN WISHED ON THAT MORNING STAR..."
There are squeals of delight from the crowd, now a kinetic heap of bobbing heads, rocking out to pure musical inspiration. As he sings, Brett punches his hands wildly in the air, the sequin headband emitting a flashing halo of light around his flailing head, his legs jogging freely like something out of flashdance. Somewhere in the thick air of genius filling the room, Brett loses his shirt and is now the epitome of rock in track pants and reeboks, first graders flying everywhere in what has become a mosh pit of inspiration.
"SOMEDAY WE'LL FIND IT -- THE RAINBOW CONNECTION -- THE LOVERS, YEAH, THE DREAMERS, YEAH AND MEEEEEEE!!!!"
The last note swells into a shriek that would make Robert Plant himself proud and jealous. Strobes bouce through the classroom, freezing the sight of delinquint first graders coloring over their schoolyard gang symbols with chalk and finger paints, expelling their previously troubled existences for a new life devoted to inspirational rock. At the center of the commotion, Brett, in his shining sequin headband and elastic ankled track pants, smiles widely.
The lights come up and the crowd erupts. Ms. Fegan runs to the stage and pulls Brett into a tight embrace. Her face is streaked with cheap mascara as she yells to him over the roar of first-graders, "I BELIEVE!" she cries, "I BELIEVE IN THE POWER OF RAINBOWS!!"
The rest of the day fades into Rock History, and Brett, knowing he has succeeded never performs again.
And that is the terribly important story of why, in the third grade, I was sent from class to class to sing a rocking version of the Rainbow Connection.
For full lyrics from the Rainbow Connection (to see how truly nerdy I was) visit:
http://www.lyricsdownload.com/kermit-the-frog-the-rainbow-connection-lyrics.html
Picture it.
An anxious blond boy on the road to chubby breaths heavily in the boys bathroom of Springbrook Elementary. He is alone, leaning over the sink, clutching the smooth, cold porcelin in his blood-drained fingers, and staring at himself, sweaty and white, in the tattered mirror. Outside, he hears the masses of first graders stamping their feet, an external anticipating heartbeat thumping almost as loudly as his own. He breaths deeply. "You can do this," he assures himself, "just one last time."
The heavy, wooden door to the boys room creaks open behind him and Ms. Fegan, the first-grade teacher, enters slowly.
"They're calling your name," she says softly, aware of his nerves and in awe of the talent encapsulated in the small, but ever expanding body.
"I can't," he stutters, doubt overtaking him, "Dammit, I can't do it."
She eyes him for a moment, unsure of herself, and then says, "I've seen something remarkable this last week. I've seen these delinquent, inner-city first graders who no one expected anything from but trouble, turn their lives around because of the power of music, the power of your gift." She steps toward him cautiously, putting her hand on his shoulder. "Because of you," she whispers, "these kids may just have a chance at life. Don't take that away."
"I don't know if I can go out there," he heaves, haunted by the taunts of his fellow third graders who have recently started calling him Kermit the Fag.
"Dammit, Brett, you're a performer," she exclaims, "As natural as I've ever seen. Now, get out there and fulfill your purpose. Perform to save these kids. Perform...to save yourself."
Finally he looks at her, her eyes ablaze with passion and hope, and feels somewhat comforted. He nods.
As he enters the class full of rowdy first-graders, a hush falls over the room. Small faces full of marvel and wonder gaze up at the boy they've heard so much about. He looks entirely unremarkable -- pushing chubby and wearing a slightly clingy grey track suit and small wire glasses -- but his reputation has become large amongst these kids, and they both respect and fear his influence.
The lights dim, and the guitar begins; softly...slowly...a light shines on a young boy, his back turned to the silent crowd.
"Why are there so many songs about rainbows, and what's on the other side..."
His voice is like honey, sweet and gentle, but containing a power unknown to anyone, both beautiful and dangerous.
"Rainbows are vision, and only illusions; Rainbows have nothing to hide..."
He turns slowly, the light bouncing off his thin glasses as though radiating directly from him. There are gasps.
"So we've been told and some chose to believe it; I know their wrong, wait and see...Someday, we'll find it -- the Rainbow Connection -- the lovers, the dreamers and me."
The tremulous strumming of the guitar slows and the lights dim as darkness momentarily settles over the room. Then, suddenly, with the explosive energy of a nuclear bomb, the band kicks in, loud and vibrant. Colored lights burst into the room, moving like fireflies across the sea of faces, and the tempo builds, a la Proud Mary by Tina Turner, to a bouyant, racing speed. Brett, now wearing a sequin headband, dances energetically to the beat, his feet thumping, his eyes closed, his hands gripping the microphone as though connected somehow. Then, a voice erupts completely unlike the first, powerful and imposing.
"WHO SAID THAT EVERY WISH-AH, WOULD BE HEARD AND ANSWERED -- OH YEAH -- WHEN WISHED ON THAT MORNING STAR..."
There are squeals of delight from the crowd, now a kinetic heap of bobbing heads, rocking out to pure musical inspiration. As he sings, Brett punches his hands wildly in the air, the sequin headband emitting a flashing halo of light around his flailing head, his legs jogging freely like something out of flashdance. Somewhere in the thick air of genius filling the room, Brett loses his shirt and is now the epitome of rock in track pants and reeboks, first graders flying everywhere in what has become a mosh pit of inspiration.
"SOMEDAY WE'LL FIND IT -- THE RAINBOW CONNECTION -- THE LOVERS, YEAH, THE DREAMERS, YEAH AND MEEEEEEE!!!!"
The last note swells into a shriek that would make Robert Plant himself proud and jealous. Strobes bouce through the classroom, freezing the sight of delinquint first graders coloring over their schoolyard gang symbols with chalk and finger paints, expelling their previously troubled existences for a new life devoted to inspirational rock. At the center of the commotion, Brett, in his shining sequin headband and elastic ankled track pants, smiles widely.
The lights come up and the crowd erupts. Ms. Fegan runs to the stage and pulls Brett into a tight embrace. Her face is streaked with cheap mascara as she yells to him over the roar of first-graders, "I BELIEVE!" she cries, "I BELIEVE IN THE POWER OF RAINBOWS!!"
The rest of the day fades into Rock History, and Brett, knowing he has succeeded never performs again.
And that is the terribly important story of why, in the third grade, I was sent from class to class to sing a rocking version of the Rainbow Connection.
For full lyrics from the Rainbow Connection (to see how truly nerdy I was) visit:
http://www.lyricsdownload.com/kermit-the-frog-the-rainbow-connection-lyrics.html
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
A Vote
As always bloggers, I put it to you. What should I blog about next?
The terribly important story of...
a) Why I was chased by a miniature horse on an almost deserted Alaskan Island.
b) Why I have an unnatural fear of deer.
c) Why, in the third grade, I was sent from class to class to sing, wait for it...the Rainbow Connection.
or
d) Why I'll never get married until Oprah does.
Think hard. I await your decision.
The terribly important story of...
a) Why I was chased by a miniature horse on an almost deserted Alaskan Island.
b) Why I have an unnatural fear of deer.
c) Why, in the third grade, I was sent from class to class to sing, wait for it...the Rainbow Connection.
or
d) Why I'll never get married until Oprah does.
Think hard. I await your decision.
Sunday, September 9, 2007
The terribly important stoy of... Why I wore track pants until I was 13
Well, none of you voted, and I heard you loud and clear. Track pants wins hands down -- why? Because I'm not yet ready to reveal my unnatural love of Oprah, that's why, and since I am the author of this exercise in self-importance I call a blog, I have decided to carry the secret of my Oprah-love to the grave.
Fair warning: what you're about to read is a tragic tale that is absolutely, positively and at least a little bit true. Keep in mind that I've turned out awesome, so don't cry for me, bloggers (although if you don't at least get choked up...you're heartless and probably kill puppies). And now...
Picture it.
An overweight seventh grader with rosey cheeks and a strong optometrical prescription sits alone at school doodling suns with smiles in his dollar-store notebook and humming "Make your own kind of Music" by the great Mama Cass quietly to himself. He is a kind boy -- unassuming -- with a winning smile and a fantastic underhand volleyball serve, and yet, somehow, he is not the image of elementary school popularity. He is quiet, he is awkward, and everyday he wears a different matching top and bottom track suit (those are sweats for you Americans, and not in an Ashton Kutcher "Dude, where's my Car?" kind of way, but in an elastic-waist-and-ankle-with-some-neon-design-emblazoned-on-the-top kind of way). This wouldn't, of course, be a big deal at one time -- every kid in his class had once worn a track suit to school, after all -- the problem was that most kids had stopped wearing this attire when they were 9, and Brett, our overweight hero, was pushing 13.
The kids at school had not let Brett's clothes go unnoticed; in fact, they took every opportunity to tease him. They even went so far as to declare "Trackpants Thursday" -- the day that all the cool boys wore track pants as a sort of tease-the-nerd prepubescent insult orgy -- a weekly reminder that no one liked him and he was different. Brett pretended not to understand their teasing; to assume that they all wore track pants that day for the same reasons he did -- comfort and a sheer inability to conquer buttons -- but secretly, he understood their jabs, and cried in his bed at night under his Ultimate Warrior bedspread wearing his zip-up one-sy, wondering why.
'Why must they tease me so," he thought, 'Why can't they just accept that I love the feel of compressed cotton and elastic ankles. Is that so wrong? Is that so...different?'
Then one night he had a dream. He was in K-Mart, his favorite store, surrounded by racks and racks of the highest quality track suits money could buy. Excitedly, he grabbed one of the suits and tried it on. He felt the warmth of the cotton on his skin and sighed...'this is luxury,' he thought. Suddenly and rather unexpectedly, he felt hot and realized he was in the most searing pain. He looked down at his clothes, horrified, to see the elastic bands squeezing so tightly around his waist and ankles that he was turning purple. "Get it off," he yelled desperately, but to no avail; he was alone. He struggled with the suit, blood starting to trickle out over the viscious grip of the elastic. "No," he screamed, "Someone help me!" He tore at the suit with all his strength, wrestling violently with the mesh of devilish cotton, but the suit would not let go. "I don't want to wear track suits anymore," he cried, " I DON'T WANT TO DIE!" He felt the elastic squeeze tightly, crushing his insides with one lurching tug, and then --
-- He awoke alone. His zip-up one-sy was drenched in sweat or pee, he couldn't tell. Frantically, he turned on the lamp beside his bed. The cold, cheap walls of K-Mart had faded, and he was back in his room. He erupted from his bed and flung open the closet door revealing several neatly organized shelves full of folded track suits. Terror filled him, and he began to scream.
A few rooms away, Brett's mother startled awake, a piercing sound coming from her son's room. She jumped from her bed, threw on her robe and bolted down the hall. She burst into Brett's room and gasped. She was not prepared for what she saw. Her son lay on the floor surrounded by torn bits of bloody cotton, muttering something quietly to himself. He had a crazed look on his face, and fear gripped her as she realized what he had done. All the track suits were out of the closest and had been ripped, by hand she realized, into a million pieces covering the room. Her heart raced, and terror-stricken, she heard the words her son was muttering over and over again: kill the track suits. She fell to her knees and screamed, terrified, into the night.
The next day, Brett wore his first pair of jeans, and for the rest of his life since that night, has been utterly petrified of anything with elastic ankles.
And that, dear bloggers, is the terribly important story of why I wore track pants until I was 13.
Fair warning: what you're about to read is a tragic tale that is absolutely, positively and at least a little bit true. Keep in mind that I've turned out awesome, so don't cry for me, bloggers (although if you don't at least get choked up...you're heartless and probably kill puppies). And now...
Picture it.
An overweight seventh grader with rosey cheeks and a strong optometrical prescription sits alone at school doodling suns with smiles in his dollar-store notebook and humming "Make your own kind of Music" by the great Mama Cass quietly to himself. He is a kind boy -- unassuming -- with a winning smile and a fantastic underhand volleyball serve, and yet, somehow, he is not the image of elementary school popularity. He is quiet, he is awkward, and everyday he wears a different matching top and bottom track suit (those are sweats for you Americans, and not in an Ashton Kutcher "Dude, where's my Car?" kind of way, but in an elastic-waist-and-ankle-with-some-neon-design-emblazoned-on-the-top kind of way). This wouldn't, of course, be a big deal at one time -- every kid in his class had once worn a track suit to school, after all -- the problem was that most kids had stopped wearing this attire when they were 9, and Brett, our overweight hero, was pushing 13.
The kids at school had not let Brett's clothes go unnoticed; in fact, they took every opportunity to tease him. They even went so far as to declare "Trackpants Thursday" -- the day that all the cool boys wore track pants as a sort of tease-the-nerd prepubescent insult orgy -- a weekly reminder that no one liked him and he was different. Brett pretended not to understand their teasing; to assume that they all wore track pants that day for the same reasons he did -- comfort and a sheer inability to conquer buttons -- but secretly, he understood their jabs, and cried in his bed at night under his Ultimate Warrior bedspread wearing his zip-up one-sy, wondering why.
'Why must they tease me so," he thought, 'Why can't they just accept that I love the feel of compressed cotton and elastic ankles. Is that so wrong? Is that so...different?'
Then one night he had a dream. He was in K-Mart, his favorite store, surrounded by racks and racks of the highest quality track suits money could buy. Excitedly, he grabbed one of the suits and tried it on. He felt the warmth of the cotton on his skin and sighed...'this is luxury,' he thought. Suddenly and rather unexpectedly, he felt hot and realized he was in the most searing pain. He looked down at his clothes, horrified, to see the elastic bands squeezing so tightly around his waist and ankles that he was turning purple. "Get it off," he yelled desperately, but to no avail; he was alone. He struggled with the suit, blood starting to trickle out over the viscious grip of the elastic. "No," he screamed, "Someone help me!" He tore at the suit with all his strength, wrestling violently with the mesh of devilish cotton, but the suit would not let go. "I don't want to wear track suits anymore," he cried, " I DON'T WANT TO DIE!" He felt the elastic squeeze tightly, crushing his insides with one lurching tug, and then --
-- He awoke alone. His zip-up one-sy was drenched in sweat or pee, he couldn't tell. Frantically, he turned on the lamp beside his bed. The cold, cheap walls of K-Mart had faded, and he was back in his room. He erupted from his bed and flung open the closet door revealing several neatly organized shelves full of folded track suits. Terror filled him, and he began to scream.
A few rooms away, Brett's mother startled awake, a piercing sound coming from her son's room. She jumped from her bed, threw on her robe and bolted down the hall. She burst into Brett's room and gasped. She was not prepared for what she saw. Her son lay on the floor surrounded by torn bits of bloody cotton, muttering something quietly to himself. He had a crazed look on his face, and fear gripped her as she realized what he had done. All the track suits were out of the closest and had been ripped, by hand she realized, into a million pieces covering the room. Her heart raced, and terror-stricken, she heard the words her son was muttering over and over again: kill the track suits. She fell to her knees and screamed, terrified, into the night.
The next day, Brett wore his first pair of jeans, and for the rest of his life since that night, has been utterly petrified of anything with elastic ankles.
And that, dear bloggers, is the terribly important story of why I wore track pants until I was 13.
Friday, September 7, 2007
Always a blogger, never a blog....
Wow. My first (and, who are we kidding, possibly last) post. Stefanie Farnsworth told me I should do this, and as I do whatever Stefanie says (you would too if you knew her), here I am -- mostly because I did this Celebrity Look-alike thing and couldn't figure out how to post it on HER blog. But who knows, maybe I'll be good at this...I have been told I write a killer email, after all. I intend to keep this blog enormously self-absorbed. I'm fantastically interesting, and have always assumed people wanted to know more about me -- well, lucky readers -- here's your chance!!
I'll begin with the celebrity look-alike thing. I think it picked mostly people who wear glasses, like I do, because I don't really look like any of these people. Except Josh Duhamel -- people are always asking me if we're brothers...so annoying...
Tune in tomorrow for my explanation of either a) why I have an unnatural love for Oprah, or b) why I wore track pant (those are sweats) until I was 13 years old.
Feel free to vote.
BRETT
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