Ride On, Josephine

Some woman just drove my car away.

She put the keys in the ignition, cranked the air and drove it right out of my life.

My dad sold Josephine and he didn't tell me until about twenty minutes ago where he showed up with the buyer.

A sharp amputation, a quick and jagged snap -- now you see it, now you don't.

In the words of countless country and blues singers -- my baby just drove outta my life.

Josephine was my car and I loved her. This woman won't love her. She won't know what kind of music Josephine likes (classic rock). She'll crank the air instead of opening the windows and letting the sunshine in. This woman won't be able to differentiate between the noises Josephine makes. Hell, this woman won't even know that Josephine's a she or why she's called Josephine (in honor of George Thorogood's Ride On, Josephine). To this woman, it's nothing more than her new car.

Paps always used to heckle me for how much I loved her. Said it was stupid to personify a vehicle. Joke if I wasn't careful, my car would end up turning into Christine. I told him if she ever did, he'd be the first passenger.

Silly, really. To humanize a vehicle this much. Silly, really. To type a blog post while tears blur my vision. Silly, really to care so much about a car.

But she was mine. My first and your first anything, be it car, kiss, guitar, joint or oyster, forever captures a part of you.

She gave me a sense of freedom I had never known before. She opened up this whole new world for me. She finally illuminated everything Bruce Springsteen was talking about when he talked about pink cadillacs and highways jammed with broken heroes on a last-chance power drive.

She was mine and I loved her and now she's gone. I didn't even get a chance to say goodbye.

One of these things is not like the other

I read this article recently about Rashida and Kidada Jones (daughters of music producer Quincy Jones and actress Peggy Lipton) and their struggle with growing up biracial.

Although I'm not biracial (my parents are both of Indian origin), I found myself relating to the Jones' story.

My mom is fair-skinned with green eyes and often mistaken for Caucasian. On more than one occasion, Indian women have come up to me and commented on "how well my mom speaks for a white woman." Paps, on the other hand, has skin the color of burnt toffee and (much to our amusement and his chagrin), looks an awful lot like Erik Estrada from CHiPS (Call him 'Ponch' and watch his face suffuse with rage -- good times).

Genetics being what they are, my sister and I inherited a combination of our parents' features. I'm tan...but not really dark. My hair is naturally dark, but it's not really that river of black ink associated with most Indians.

Not only do we not 'look Indian', apparently -- we don't 'act Indian.'

It's been this way since we were kids. Growing up in Southall (a predominantly South Asian neighborhood on the outskirts of London known for its role in Bend It Like Beckham), most of our friends wore a school uniform during the week and slipped into salwar kameezes and lehengas during the weekends. Sparky and I, on the other hand, were more comfortable in jeans with Ninja Turtle patches on the knees. Our cousins went to Saturday school at local temples. Sparky and I ate Coco Pops and watched cartoons.

As children, we weren't particularly 'Indian' and as adults, little has changed. The tea I drink isn't hot and spiced with cardamom, but rather cold, diet and bottled by Arizona. When it comes to movies, I can rattle off the most obscure Hollywood trivia, but can't name one Bollywood feature released in the past five years. and unlike most model minority Indians who study medicine or business, I went in a completely different direction and majored in journalism.

I've never really understood how to integrate into the Indian crowd. I gave it a try, but was rebuffed because despite not having an ounce of Caucasian blood, I'm "too white." A coconut, if you will -- brown on the outside, white on the inside.

How does one 'act' Indian, anyway? Watch insufferable plagiarized tripe churned out by Bollywood? Spend hours meditating underneath the statue of some poly-limbed, blue skinned deity? How does one 'act' anything -- white, black, Japanese, Cuban, Greek, Polynesian?

I don't understand why it makes sense to perpetuate the stereotypes of your culture in order to fit in with your culture? Especially when people have worked so tirelessly to abolish aforementioned stereotypes. I mean, there's much more to African-Americans than hip hop and slang. There's much more to the Japanese than video games and anime. There's much more to Cubans than booming sound systems and gold jewelry.

If I bought into these stereotypes, I'd be selling out who I really was.

So -- I'm 'too white' for the Indians (despite not being Caucasian) and I was once called a 'goddamn cockroach' by an insufferable fifteen-year-old with less brain cells than teeth (and that's saying something).

I don't have kids yet, but I will one day and but I worry about how they will be treated. I want to believe that the world will be a much more tolerant place, but know this is naive. While there are substantially more biracial people in the world now than there were ten years ago, there's still lunatics out there who believe that miscegenation is immoral and depraved. Hell, I'm sure I personally know some.

I've been lucky in life and found amazing people who are completely colorblind and would rather judge me for belting out the worst songs possible at the top of my lungs rather than judging me for the color of my skin or my heritage. Hopefully, my kids will find people like this too. Hopefully, everyone will.

Be it ever so humble...

So, I'm walking through the living room to get to the kitchen when Mom shoots me a dirty look and shouts, "Hey!"

I look at her confused -- I'm not blocking the TV and I'm wearing pants. What grievous infraction have I committed now?

Apparently, I was walking "too loud."

I was barefoot and weight 97 lbs.

Yeah.

Something tells me I'm gonna miss all this real soon...

Balsamic, Bugs and Bodyslams

Yesterday was a good day -- quality time shopping and lunching with my sister. $21 and a handful of change at Forever XXI = two dresses, two pairs of super cute underwear, a skirt and an incredibly cozy sweater. Gotta love the summer sales. For lunch, we headed to Buca di Beppo. The balsamic vinegar there is divine. I should have stolen a bottle so I could bring it home and splash it over some strawberries and basil (if you've never had this, you're missing out. It's delicious!)

Today was a better day -- The Boyfriend became an uncle again and my parents and sister finally got their green card! After fifteen years, they're finally on their way to citizenship. As for me? Uhh...I'll get back to you on that.

In other news, I'm fairly sure that God is sending a plague of creepy crawlies into my life. A couple of days ago, I found a scorpion (!!) in my room and yesterday, Mom found a snake hiding behind the TV. I feel like I'm living in the Bug House exhibit at the Science Museum

Random nonsense aside, there was something I wanted to discuss.

Earlier this week, professional wrestler Chris Benoit, his wife Nancy and their seven-year-old son Daniel were found dead in Benoit's Atlanta home.

I'm not a wrestling fan in the classic sense of the word. I've never been to a live event, I don't own any paraphernalia nor do I subscribe doggedly to the notion that it's really real and that the Undertaker has risen from the dead countless times. But, I've been watching pro-wrestling since its golden era in the 80s and although I don't really watch it anymore and couldn't tell you who hold what title or which two wrestlers are currently embroiled in a bitter rivalry, I like to keep an ear out for backstage rumblings.

The initial news came as a shock and when it was discovered that Benoit had strangled his wife, smothered his son and hanged himself -- I was completely dumbfounded.

Chris Benoit was a workhorse. A quiet man with very little of the bravado, bluster and magnetic flair associated with most pro-wrestlers, Benoit got into the ring, he did his job and then, disappeared backstage. Reticent and boring, yes, but a cold-blooded killer? That's something that I can't wrap my mind around.

I keep trying to figure it out -- what would drive a man to commit such an ungodly act? There are no justifications, no rhyme, no reason. Just conjecture.

'Roid Rage (or steroid withdrawal, for that matter) coupled with the stress of working for the WWE (the near Spartan brutality the wrestlers put their bodies through night after night, the exhausting travel schedule, months away from family), strained family relations and a history of cranial damage (one of Benoit's signature moves was a swan dive -- essentially, a headbutt executed from the top rope of the ring) may have pushed Benoit to his snapping point.

Does any of this excuse the carnage enacted on the Benoit family? No. Of course not, but it may provide a window into Chris Benoit's madness and hopefully, this tragedy will serve as a catalyst for the WWE to look into their absolutely deplorable policy regarding the abuse of anabolic steroids.

Steroid abuse has been a part of the pro-wrestling industry for years. Not only do steroids allow wrestlers to bulk up to Hulk-like proportions, but also give them the edge they need to maintain the company's exhausting tour schedule. In 1994, Vince McMahon (head honcho of the WWE) was put on trial for allegedly distributing steroids to his talent. Although McMahon was exonerated of all charges and swore to put a comprehensive drug-testing plan into effect, steroid abuse runs rampant within the company to this day and the company, horrifically enough, allows it.

Roided-up wrestlers have a bigger, more imposing physique which always plays well in the gladiator games of pro-wrestling. Steroids help them deal with the grind of working house show after house show for 200+ days a year, thus bringing in the ducats for the corporation.

But at what point does the health of an individual become more important than profit margins? In the past decade, dozens of pro-wrestlers have died due to steroid-related cardiac problems -- Eddie Guerrero, British Bulldog Davie Boy Smith, Miss Elizabeth and Mr. Perfect Curt Henning to name a few -- what does it take and how many more have to die before the WWE realizes what a heavy toll this lifestyle is taking on its employees, both physically and psychologically?

Will this tragedy bring about a change? Sadly, I doubt it will, but here's to hoping I'm wrong.

Happy Father's Day

This is my dad (the one on the right. Not the one rocking the idiotic sunglasses. That would be me).

I've never called him 'Dad', though. He's always been Papa. I think that suits him better.

He's funny, but thinks he's funnier than he actually is. He comes up with absolutely crap idea for movies. He embellishes the most ridiculous details. He's a complete smart-ass and because he's married to my mom, has the war wounds to prove it. He's infuriatingly stubborn and equally infuriatingly endearing. He'll never ask for directions, he hurls abuses at the television while watching sports and his sense of spontaneity and adventure are parallel only to his sense of humor.

All in all, he's a good man. The kind of guy you could count on in a pinch. The kind of guy you could knock back a couple of beers with. The kind of guy who will engage you in a passionate debate and not once cross that line into 'pompous jackass' territory. The kind of guy who believes in you like you want to believe in yourself.

The kind of guy who was born to be a dad...or in this case, a papa.

So, to Paps on Father's Day -- thanks for being a good guy and setting the bar so high. I'm lucky to know you and luckier still to be your daughter...but Walthamstow is still a completely crap idea. Really.

Why I love hip hop

Tupac Shakur's When We Ride On Our Enemies features the lyric:

I murder you then I run a train on Mobb Deep!

The very next line is:

Don't fuck with me/Nigga, you barely livin'/Don't you got sickle cell?

Now, the bit about running a train doesn't affect me in the least, but that line about sickle cell? It's like, "Tupac, come on. Was that really necessary? That was kinda harsh, dude."

I couldn't find a streaming version of When We Ride On Our Enemies, so the musical selection of the day is my sister's "jam" -- Changes.

Enjoy!

What? No fuckin' catharsis?!

It's not TV. It's HBO a complete mindfuck.

I've been "miffled" for a while now. Don't get me wrong, I appreciated the first half of the season and actually really enjoyed the Vito storyline. Homosexuality in the mafia is something that hasn't really been explored by the media and it was interesting to see a realistic portrayal as well as Chase's take on it. But the second half of the season with the bizarre Vegas episode (and I'm usually a fan of the more surreal episodes of the show) and Chris' completely anticlimactic death were staggering disappointments. Christopher Moltisanti -- the man who committed the first murder on the show, the man who signed the death warrant for his own fiancee, the man who was going to hell for Tony Soprano -- deserved a warrior's death. Not a cold, merciful snuffing out.

In Sopranoland, people die in a hailstorm of bullets. They are suffocated, garroted and beaten to death. But, Sopranoland exists in the realm of reality and in reality -- car crashes claim lives as well. Sometimes, the Reaper appears down the barrel of a nine, but more often than not -- he pulls alongside you at 70 mph. I should have seen Chris' death as foreshadowing for the finale. Death can be violent and gloriously cinematic but it can also be understated and entirely realistic.

I gasped alongside the millions last night when the screen cut to black and immediately blamed a technological error. When I saw the credits roll, I stared at the screen incredulously -- "That's it? Six fucking years and that's it?!"

But, given a little time to ruminate, I've actually come to the conclusion that the finale was perfect. Did I want to see a blaze of bullets and bloodshed? Sure -- I take the same macabre glee in it as the rest of the country does, but if Chase gave in to our blood lust, it just wouldn't be the same.

The Sopranos has never belonged to the collective conscience. It's always been David Chase's show. He doesn't care what the audience wants. He does what he does and if you like it, great. If not, fuck you (New Jersey to the very core).

The last five minutes of the show gave the audience the most crystalline peek into Tony Soprano's life to date. The man is wrought with constant paranoia. The Members-Only Jacket guy headed into the bathroom -- is he going to come out brandishing a gun like Michael Corleone in The Godfather? What about those two black guys who just walked in? Are they coming for me? Meadow outside trying in vain to parallel park -- is someone going to come up to the window and slam a bullet in her brain because she's my kid?

No wonder the guy needed therapy.

No resolution, no catharsis and no heart-stopping climax. In the words of the immortal Steve Perry:

Some will win, some will lose
Some were born to sing the blues
Oh, the movie never ends
It goes on and on and on and on.

It goes on and on, but unfortunately -- we don't get to peer into the fishbowl anymore.

P.S. -- My theory on the finale? Chase was just gonna snow globe the whole thing -- Tony Soprano would be nothing more than a figment from the imagination of a comatose Kevin Finnerty. Thank God I don't write for the show.

These rocks don't lose their shape/Oh, diamonds are a girl's best friend

That is a Tiffany's Lucida engagement ring. It's platinum with a one carat diamond and costs more than my life is worth (possessions and all).

And about four hours ago, Dan's mom and I were oohing-and-ahhing over just how pretty it sat on my left hand.

Oh, that's not good. That's not good at all.

The Dating Pool Needs a Little Chlorine

I've seen this posted all over the internet -- the infamous list of "50 Things Girls Wish Guys Knew."

It makes me want to punch people. In the larynx.

Some of the things I agree with (17. Three words -- honesty. Honesty. Honesty.) but they're pretty obvious and I very much doubt that any man's in the dark about them.

Dating is one of those things that's supposed to be relatively easy but we tend to overcomplicate. You meet someone, you get to know each other and you click or you don't. Don't square-peg-round-hole it. If it works, it works. If not, better luck in the next round.

The "Game" has always annoyed me. In addition to the rules (the wait-two-days before calling rule, for example. It's so stupid! It's not like eating and swimming. You dig someone? Give 'em a call!), there's a litany of unspoken codes and edicts and maxims and guidelines and secret handshakes which all invariably lead to dating becoming a completely unnecessary and torturous social obstacle course.

But what I hate even more is nonsense like this list which perpetuate this crap even further. There are 21 groups on Facebook dedicated to this meme which means that's there's probably a legion of women out there who read this and actually adhere to the idiotic principles therein.

Why? It makes no sense! Why acquiesce to all these arbitrations? Mikey didn't and he ended up being the big winner here tonight.

So, here's a much more realistic look (albeit abbreviated) look at the "50 Things Girls Wish Guys Knew."


1. Don't tell us when you think other girls are hot. I have no problem when my boyfriend proclaims his ardor for Evangeline Lily (which, by the way, I've heard ad nauseum since the last episode of Lost). She's hot. I know it. He knows it. Saying Evangelline Lily is hot is akin to saying fire is hot or water is wet. It's a simple fact and nothing more. I'm almost 99.98% certain that by merely stating a girl is hot, aforementioned girl will not magically show up and proceed to fellate the guy who made the statement. However, if by some twist of fate, Evangelline Lily showed up on Dan's doorstep? He gets a pass (because let's face it, that's pretty damn cool). As for Miss Lily? I'd make a necklace out of her teeth.

3. If you don't act like soap-opera guys, don't expect us to dress like Victoria's Secret models. If there's one thing I do not want in my life, it's for my boyfriend to act like a 'soap opera guy.' This would mean that he would cheat on me (quite possibly with a blood relative), impregnate said relative, develop amnesia and have soft-focus conjugal relations with me to the strains of cheesy jazz music. He'd also wear his hair in the douchebaggiest of all styles -- the blowout. As appealing as all of that sounds, I'm gonna pass. And as for the Victoria's Secret Model thing? My boyfriend doesn't expect me to dress like a VS model. He actually likes me in jeans and a tee. But, if I looked like her, I wouldn't wear clothes if my life depended on it.

6. We think about you all the time. I'll admit I think about Dan a lot, but I also think about the quickest way to procure pizza (girl's gotta eat), why Ann Coulter/Rush Limbaugh/Michael Savage aren't held to the same standards as Don Imus was, whether Axl Rose will ever regain his former glory, how the Dolphins will do next season, if that pink polka dot dress I liked is still on sale, how the Jim/Pam/Karen triangle will resolve itself on The Office and how I'm going to rig the cable at Mom's so I can get free HBO and Showtime this summer. This doesn't mean I love my boyfriend any less. It just means I'm a busy girl.

9. We like you to be a little jealous . . . but overly possessive is not necessary. No -- overly-possessive is a restraining order.

13. We're allowed to be late . . . you are not. If you're going to start up with completely mad double standards like this, it will come back and bite you in the ass. I.E. -- "I'm allowed full control of the remote control...you are not." "I'm allowed to forget my wallet every time we go out...you are not." "I'm allowed to sleep with whoever I please...you are not."

16. Laugh at our jokes. What the hell happened to honesty³? Sometimes, a joke will fall flat on its face. Accept that and move on.

19. We never have to wonder if your orgasm was real. I'm pretty sure guys already know this and those that don't? They need to pick up a copy of this now.

21. Would you like it if a guy treated your sister that way? We didn't think so. If you did the things you did with me to your sister -- we need to break up and y'all need to move to Alabama....quickly.

26. We love surprises! As in, "Surprise! The condom broke!"? I don't think so.

32. When we use our teeth it means that you suck at going down on us, so we are just returning the favor. Because attacking your boyfriend's penis with a pitbull-like ferocity is so much better than talking about things in a reasonable manner.

34. Hit it and quit it, because later I'll be with you're best friend and he lasts for hours. Firstly, it's your and secondly, any girl who'd sleep with your best friend and has precognitive knowledge about his stamina is probably a girl who shouldn't have slept with in the first place. Might wanna head to the free clinic and get that itch investigated.

36. Sometimes “NO!” really means “NO!” Actually, you passive-aggressive bint -- no always means no.

43. “Fat Chicks” have feelings too. Yeah...and they smother them with cheese and eat them. And if you thought I was being serious, you're a bigger moron than the putz who wrote the original list.

Urge to kill... rising...

Two posts in one day? Just call me Blogging Molly. However, this was too big to ignore.

The tracklist for the Simpsons movie soundtrack was just announced and dear God, it's a Stampy-sized bowel movement.

1. "Can't Shine Like Me" - Lil' Romeo
2. "If You Let Me Go" - Jay-Z featuring Omarion
3. "So Emotional" - 1 Chance
4. "High Away from You" - Lifehouse
5. "I Don't Wanna Understand" - Jennifer Lopez featuring Three 6 Mafia
6. "I Believe You" - Lyfe Jennings
7. "The Way You Roll With Me" - T.I.
8. "Dancing Machine" - Maroon 5 featuring Lil' Flip
9. "Simpson" - Beanie Sigel featuring Jazze Pha
10. "Since You Get Off The Computer" - Fall Out Boy
11. "Back Again" - Kai featuring Akon
12. "I Will Kill You" - Panic! at the Disco
13. "You Gave My Heart" - Keyshia Cole featuring Ludacris
14. "The World Is Yours" - N.W.A.
15. "In the Rain" - Young Jeezy featuring Lil' Wayne
16. "Lockdown" - Joe Budden featuring The Game and Mike Jones
17. "Roll Tide" - Ja Rule featuring Lloyd and Nelly
18. "I'm Your Mama" - Chris Brown featuring Nas
19. "Go to Bed" - David Banner
20. "I Don't Wanna Your Stupid Of Me" - Ben Folds
21. "And Get Off The Porch" - Obie Trice featuring 50 Cent and Eminem

Walter Tango Foxtrot -- what the hell is going on here? I expected so much more from a show that has featured musical acts such as U2, Johnny Cash, The Red Hot Chili Peppers, The Ramones , The Who, Mick Jagger, Keith Richards and the last three living Beatles.

The musical guestlist for The Simpsons is like backstage at the Rock 'N Roll Hall of Fame, so why is the soundtrack chock-full of flash-in-the-pan crap?

Lil' Romeo? Jennifer Lopez? Fucking Fall Out Boy?! I know their name is a Simpsons reference, but their music sucks and Pete Wentz is a toolbag. Isn't there a Dane Cook soundtrack these third-rate pop-punkers could appear on instead?

Sweet merciful crap, even The Simpsons Sing The Blues is better than this festering turd of a record. If the movie is anything like the soundtrack -- I'm just going to lose faith in the franchise all together.

To co-opt the words of the incomparable Jeff Albertson -- Worst. Soundtrack. Ever.

Happy 30th Anniversary of Star Wars!

We ran into R2D2, Darth Vader and a couple of Stormtroopers this morning at the post office.

I love how The Best Friend and I just fall into stuff like this.

P.S. -- Who would have thought that Dunkin Donuts would have great in-store music? Boston by Augustana and The Power of Love by Huey Lewis and the News had me seriously rocking out, iced coffee and munchkins in hand.

Through The Looking Glass -- The Lost Season 3 Finale

To use an SAT analogy:

My addiction to Lost :: Jack's addiction to Hillbilly Heroin.

The season finale blew my mind. Jaw-dropping, heart-wrenching fist-pumping entertainment and quite possibly, the best two hours of television this year. Questions, comments and general observations follow:

(Courtesy of Lost Easter Eggs and Screencaps)

Rest in peace, Charlie Pace. I've liked this character since the beginning. Maybe it was the musician thing. Maybe it was solidarity for a fellow Brit or maybe it was the fact that at heart, Charlie was a good guy just looking to get the monkey off his back. His death was noble right down to the very last details -- making the sign of the cross and warning Desmond that Naomi's boat had no affiliation with Penny before closing his eyes and accepting his fate. Well done, Charlie. Well done.

Was Sawyer calling Hurley a hero a nod to Heroes? "Stay in the car, hero" -- 'Cause that best-show-on-television throne? Occupado. It's a bit of a stretch and rather cheeky to boot, but indulge me, will you?

Who was the mysterious lady that Jack saved? Did they mention her name in the episode?

Was the corpse of Dr. Christian Shepard ever found on the island?

How the fuck did Mikhail not die? I mean, the man took a harpoon to the chest! Was this another example of the Island's magical rapid healing or is the Russian just impervious to weaponry? Did the grenade finally did him in or will he pop up again later on?

Ben told Richard to round up the Others and take them to the temple. Where is this temple and who does it venerate? Jacob?

The funeral Jack attended was in a fairly dodgy part of town. In fact, when I saw Jack pull up, my first assumption was, "Is he going to score drugs?" That being the case -- who could possibly be in the casket? When asked by the home attendant if he was family or friend, Jack responded, "Neither." So, this leaves us a couple of options:

1. Sawyer -- The relationship between Jack and Sawyer has been fraught with tension and I very much doubt Jack would ever refer to him as a friend. Also -- Jack questioned Kate's absence at the funeral. Among the Losties, Jack and Kate have the most reason to attend funeral services for James 'Sawyer' Ford.
   
2. Juliet -- Although, had it been Juliet -- I'm sure her sister would have attended (if her sister is still alive).
3. Locke -- He has no family (Mom's a lunatic, Daddy was garroted by Sawyer) and his actions on the Island as of late have been far from friendly.
4. Michael -- No family, no friends (he sold out the Losties to Ben in exchange for Walt and in the "real world" -- he's considered dead for all intents and purposes) and Hoffs/Drawler (an anagram of 'Flash Forward' -- pretty sneaky, sis) seemed to be an African-American funeral home.

Dr. Christian Shepard is dead, right? Despite numerous references made to him being alive in Jack's flash-forward, Shepard the Elder must be deceased. Living in his father's shadow continues to crush Jack.

Sayid snapping the neck of the Other was Bauer-esque. Has there ever been a sympathetic Iraqi portrayed on an American television series? I think Sayid Jarrah may very well be the first.

For a man that has an inability to kill, Locke was pretty quick to send that knife zooming into Naomi's back. Speaking of our favorite parachutist...

Why did Naomi have a picture of Des and Penny? Courtesy of Mr. Widmore? Captains of industry are far more nefarious than any smoke monster (Enron, anyone?)

Although he shot Mr. Friendly in a fairly brutal way, Sawyer had his reasons and explained them before he pulled the trigger -- "This is for taking the kid off the raft." Vengeance is mine sayeth the Lord and Sawyer certainly repaid. Cold-blooded killer? I'm not so sure about that characterization. At least not yet.

Far and away, Hurley is my favorite character on the show. To those so-called fans who didn't appreciate the VW Van/Shambala episode earlier this season -- eat crow. And sidenote -- how cool is Sawyer for whupping ass and then, cracking open a Dharma Initiative brewski? Work hard, play hard.

Live Together, Die Alone. It's been a major component of the show since the beginning. By getting off the island, the Losties won't be living together anymore and therefore, are destined to die alone. After living on the Island, you can't just go back and live in the real world anymore.

Death Count: 15 including miscellaneous others. I predicted Charlie, Tom, Rose, Bernard and an Other-To-Be-Named Later. Lesson learned? I'm certainly no Desmond.

An Open Letter To Carlton Cuse and Damon Lindelof:

Dear Mr. Cuse and Mr. Lindelof:

Pardon my French, but you glorious bastards! You may have just created the greatest show in the history of televised entertainment.

People are constantly griping about the lack of intelligent entertainment on American television and for the part, they have a point. I mean, with pablum like Dancing With The Stars, Are You Smarter Than A Fifth Grader? and Ghost Whisperer polluting the airwaves, you can't really blame them.

But Lost is a creature all its own. Not only is it compelling, but it exposes the audience to ideas and concepts most never would have discovered organically - Enlightenment philosophy, time paradoxes, Eastern philosophy, Judeo-Christian allegories and not to mention a slew of other philosophical and scientific theories as well as numerous pop culture references.

I am continually amazed by just how much you manage to pour into each episode of the show. And the best part? The human emotion really bleeds through. It would be easy to drown the show in pretentious intellectualism, but instead you reiterate time after time that above all, this is show about people.

February 2008 can't come soon enough.

Love:

Jaime xx

For a megadose of Lost, check out Whitney Matheson's Pop Candy blog for USA Today. You might wanna bring a sandwich, though. It's pretty long.

LOST

The last text message I received from The Boyfriend:

LOngeST day ever.

Cutest. Boyfriend. Ever. Seriously. I love this man.

Season finale tonight and I can't wait.

My predictions for the finale:

• Charlie, Tom (also known as 'Zeke' and 'Mr. Friendly'), Rose, Bernard and an Other to be named later are going to get off the Island...permanently.
• Rousseau and Alex will finally reunite after sixteen long years.
• Desmond's prediction will be inaccurate in the sense that no rescue helicopter will save Claire and Aaron.
  
• Naomi is a liar -- Flight 815 was never recovered in the 'real' world.
  
• Boone flashback! (That's just wishful thinking on my part and based on nothing more than a libidinous jones for Ian Somerhalder).
  

ONE MORE HOUR! Expect a post tomorrow.

It's a date

The best part about this isn't the fact that we've all waited so long for see Jim and Pam finally get together -- it's that as soon as it happened, I called my sister and she was just as excited (if not more so) as I was.

Sonic Love Byte: Wild Horses/Patience -- Guns 'N Roses

I've got this bum ticker, see. If I drink a lot of coffee or get real upset or spend too much time in a hot-tub or sauna -- my heart starts racing. I get a little dizzy and I can't really remember how to breathe too well (in through the nose, right?). My chest feels like it's made of paper and John Bonham soloing right in the middle of it.

It's pretty intense.

Watching this clip and hearing those guitars, my heart felt like I'd be pounding double espressos all night long. Hell, I'm still a little dizzy...and I wouldn't trade that feeling for the world.

I've been waiting for a good day I've been holding back long enough

Today was a good day for the following reasons:

Dresses -- I picked up a new one today. It's rust-colored with a deep V-neck and it makes me feel pretty. I have decided that I am definitely going to introduce more frocks to my wardrobe.

Mindy Kaling -- While it's slightly worrisome just how much I relate to the character of Kelly Kapoor, I lovelovelove Miss Kaling. My sister (who is awesome in her own right) introduced me to her blog and now, I like Kaling even more. She's funny, she likes to eat, she's got pretty good taste, she swears casually and she has an enviable disposable income. What's not to like?



Bread and champagne for dinner -- I decided to be French today. Usually this would entail public urination and cruelty to geese, but in my case -- it meant having bread and champagne for lunch. Not the healthiest option, but definitely one exploring. The bread's even better when it's heart-shaped.

















The Merita Bread Factory -- The only redeeming part of driving on I-4 is the smell of freshly baked bread. It actually makes traffic bearable.

Betsey Johnson perfume -- According to Betsey Johnson, the scent is, 'fruity floriental' but I prefer to think of it as 'yummy.' It's light, sweet without being cloying and perfect for summertime.

Demeter Gin and Tonic cologne -- If fruity and whimsical isn't really your bag, check out Demeter. My favorite scents are Gin and Tonic (because smelling like a WASP is always a good thing) and Between The Sheets, but they also have scents based on Play-Doh, Blueberry Muffin Jellybeans (they smell just like muffins. It's crazy), cannabis flowers and even dirt. I can't really imagine anyone wanting to smell like dirt, but then again I can't really figure out how electricity works or what John Mayer and Jessica Simpson could possibly ever talk about, so obviously, I don't have all the answers.

John Krasinski -- What's got two thumbs and a serious crush on Krasinski? This girl. You really can't blame me. He's just so sweet.





















The way The Boyfriend makes me laugh -- Like water bubbling up from a fountain. It's kinda absurd and kinda perfect.

A late dinner with The Best Friend at the Town Tavern -- wandering around the neighborhood, cold Peronis, good music and a great waiter named Seth. All the makings of a good night.

You say asshole, I say sister.

(In reference to a girl's MySpace picture)

Sparky: She looks too fat for that hat!
Jaime: How do you look too fat for a hat?!
Sparky: She does! Her body was too big and her hat was too small. She looked like the Michelin Man, Jemmy. A tanner version of the Michelin Man...and uglier. She's got to be easy.
Jaime: She is!
Sparky: She probably puts out after 38 seconds.
Jaime: She puts out when someone bags her groceries.
Sparky: And she works at (insert name of well-known grocery chain)!
Sparky: Why didn't you warn me that you were looking at her MySpace? Now it's going to haunt me. I'll be eating my ice-cream cone and I'll think of her and....It's like an incentive to lose weight!

Dear Beyonce -- No. Stop it. Love: Jaime

Grievance #1:

You completely ripped off Des'ree's Kissing You from Baz Luhrmann's Romeo + Juliet and laid your prosaic lyrics and vocals on top ("You are my doctor, counselor, provider, professor, my everything" -- Are you looking for a boyfriend or a life coach? Who wrote these lyrics -- a lovesick eighth grader?). Not only did you cover the song in a way that makes the deaf plead for mercy, but you had the flat-out gall to steal the track. Big hair, backside and bank account doesn't make you exempt from following copyright law, Miss B.

Grievance #2: You coupled aforementioned stolen track with an insipid rehash of Herb Ritts' smoldering video for Chris Isaak's Wicked Game?! My God, woman -- you're like a Mongol raping and pillaging her way through pop culture.


You lolling around on a beach in black-and-white? Not even marginally interesting. Chris Isaak and Helena Christensen, however?

Well, a couple of years ago -- it inspired me to write the following:

Wicked Game by Chris Isaak.

First thing that pops into that pop-culture-sugar-caffeine-booze-and-sex addled firecracker you call a brain is what? Helena Christensen rolling around on a beach half-naked with Chris Isaak. Right? Right.

Do you even stop to think about the song or the words or what they mean? Fuck no! What are you? Old? Impotent? Asexual?! Helena Christensen is half naked! With Chris Isaak! On a beach! In black and white! It was sexy, it was steamy and it hypnotized you to believe, "Hey! I could have smoldering sex like that too!" Hate to break it to you, but no-one could have sex that hot. Doing so would cause a global heatwave which would incinerate us all.

Anyway....

I managed to tear myself away from the visuals and actually sat down and paid attention to the song. Am I old, impotent or asexual? What are you, kidding?! I'm me. Anyway, you know what I discovered? Isaak wrote an amazing song. It's got this real sensual, languorous vibe to it. Slow and seductive. Like sonic foreplay. So, this got me thinking. Sex -- it's all rhythmic, right? I'm not talking the 'rhythm method' (which, by the way, is complete bullshit, so before doing construction, make sure you wear a hard-hat, fellas). I'm talking about a natural groove which you sort of fall into. The way two bodies move in perfect syncopation to feel every last touch and taste. Music creates motion; motion creates emotion and emotion creates a scream so loud, the neighbors down the street complain.

Can you imagine tapping into this rhythm? Transferring it over to big, fat bass strings? There's something real primal about the bass. The way its urgency kinda grabs you and resonates deep within the belly of your beast. It's a pretty incredible thing. Tapping into it might just unlock the mysteries of the universe....or create one helluva great track.

Lyrically, Wicked Game is real simple and real honest. It starts off with, "The world was on fire/No one could save me but you." We've all been in the throes of lust. You say you haven't, you're either lying or....yeah, you're just a dirty liar. It's a fire that nothing can extinguish. You can take a dozen cold showers and picture Margaret Thatcher naked on a cold day as much as you want, but sooner or last -- the sparks are gonna ignite again. It's human nature. Don't even try to deny it.
The next line of the song, however, is what gets me. Hits me like a first kiss and a vicious left hook -- "It's strange what desire will make foolish people do." Forget fools -- it's strange what desire will make anyone do. Logic goes on hiatus and you can justify pretty much anything -- spending your entire paycheck on pink roses, getting their name tattooed somewhere a judge could see it or getting piss drunk, standing outside her home and serenading her with a personalized version of AC/DC's You Shook Me All Night Long. Desire makes you crazy...but being crazy isn't always a bad thing. Sometimes, it helps remind you that you're alive and that's a pretty incredible feeling.

All that being said, Miss Knowles --

I'm glad that Sony BMG slapped your ass with an injunction. I'm glad the track was pulled from your album and the video was pulled from rotation, but above all -- I really hope Des'ree covers one of your songs and sings the hell out of it. Just like Tina Turner did for CCR's Proud Mary and Aretha did for Otis Redding's Respect. Oh and in case there's any sort of confusion, I'm not comparing you to CCR or Redding. They're talented, you see.

And because I don't want to leave that nasty rehashed taste in your mouth, here's a sweet little pop gem courtesy of Gwen Stefani and Akon. I dig this track because it sounds like Stefani's finally going back to her No Doubt roots.

Live every week like it's shark week.

Today:

Free Spiderman 3 premiere tickets at the new IMAX at Pointe Orlando (Thank you J-School for finally returning on my investment). Earth, Wind and Fire, Augustana and Barry White. A sky white-washed with smoke and heat. Undeclared mini-marathon with The Best Friend. Craving frosty mango margaritas and making tentative plans for Cinco de Mayo ("You call this culture? Guacamole and a ghetto blaster in the middle of a desert?!" +10 to anyone who gets the reference). Lunch and summer optimism with Pepe. Books, books, books. A serious jones for lazy afternoons at the pool listening to G. Love and Sublime. Cleaning the bathroom in pink underwear while listening/dancing to Big Bad Voodoo Daddy. Strawberry sweet tea (Iced tea + frozen strawberries + lemon juice + ice + Magic Bullet = ♥) and finally, a fan.

Today was beautiful.

The rest of the week is laid out like a deck of cards and I think I might just have a winning hand.

Tuesday -- Gainesville with Paps to pick up Sparky. Move on up and move on out. Long drives + good mixes. Fresh, crunchy salads and birthday cake bakin.'

Wednesday -- Dan flies into town! Airport reunion scene. Long-lost kisses and Lost and lots and lots of kissing.

Thursday -- Graduation. The whole family. Black robe, black and white dress, black heels, gold tassel and a funny black hat. Spiderman 3 premiere at Pointe Orlando. Holding hands and watching movies.

Friday -- Dinner with the Crew. Paper tablecloths + perverse Picassos. Celebrating D's new job and Jerry/Kelly/My graduation with Sparkletinis. Looking over my right shoulder and seeing the boyfriend there. It's not a dream. It's not a dream.

Saturday -- Cinco de Mayo: cervezas, margaritas y mas besos.

Show me a woman who's not jealous of another woman, and I'll show you a man.

(Discussing the drinks-from-strangers-in-bars policy now that we're both no longer single)

Dan: If some frat guy bought you a drink, I'd be upset.
Jaime: Why? I get a free drink. I don't have to go home with him.
Dan: Well, how would you feel if some girl bought me a drink?
Jaime: I'd make a necklace out of the bitch's teeth.
Dan (laughing): That's sweet.

Happy anniversary, baby. I love you.