I Totally Need to Learn More About Music (or I need to re-think my conversations with friends)

It occurred to me last night while out with friends that I have good taste in music. I just don't hear a lot of it or remember much of it.

For instance, I liked a song that was playing. I didn't tell anyone about it. I was too busy looking good, saying funny things, and being all around awesome. But, deep down, I told myself that I liked the song that was playing.

And, as conversations go, we were having a good one. We were (of course) talking about Jeremy Irons (because who isn't these days?) and somehow the topic derailed to the movie he was in where he played creepy twin gynecologists (because . . . yeah, I can't explain this one, either).

Aaany-who, none of us could remember the name of the film, which was especially odd for me because I am totally the person you want on your Trivial Pursuit team. I remember all the movies and co-stars and directors and even the years in which they were made. It's kind of strange.

While the direction of the conversation changed, one of my friends used new-fangled technology called a phone and "googled" to find the name of the film. I had mentally moved on completely, focusing back onto the song that was playing, while others kept talking.

She said (out of NO-where, might I add), "it's Dead Ringers,"and laid her phone on the table.

I replied, much to everyone's laughter at the table, "Oh! Is that the name of this band?"

So, yeah . . . I don't know a ton about music. Oops.

In my defense, I grew up with an eclectic choice of music in my life. My Dad listened to BIG D 103 and I grew up on what I call "do-wop-shooby-doo."

Because I'm 90% certain there is a song where that is the main chorus.

It was also what I call a "Beatles/Beach Boys childhood." And that's actually pretty great. To this day, I like the Supremes (anything Motown actually), the Mamas and the Papas (Cass Eliot had the world's most beautiful voice), and yes - the Beatles.

Patsy Cline. Lesley Gore. The Monkees. Chubby Checker. These are all the people that come to mind.

In high school, I listened to Bob Dylan and the Doors, and I think this made Dad extremely happy.

My Mom, on the other hand, listened to WMAS 94.7, which I believe proudly declared themselves "soft rock."

Dan Fogelberg. Crystal Gayle. Taylor Dayne.

Taylor Dayne's actually not that bad, and "Black Velvet," a song about Elvis by Alannah Myles, is actually pretty good. They played that one over and over, I tell ya'. 

But, in the end, I grew up with a mixed bag of music to listen to in the 1980s and they didn't really involve Duran Duran, the Bangles, or anyone or anything you would ever associate to with the 1980s. It wasn't until the 90s when I had even heard of Duran Duran when they did their "comeback" album. "Where did they come back from?," I wondered. "Was England mean to them?" 

I did know about Madonna in the late 80s, so it wasn't a total loss. (I mean - come on!! I'm gay. OF COURSE, I knew about Madonna in the late 80s. And Dad totally bought me Like A Prayer for my birthday. It was all pretty great.)

Otherwise, it's been a crash course in music that other people know and care about. And that's ok. Thanks to Pandora, I get plugged into some of the current tunes out there. Amazon also does a good job at keeping me informed of the latest hits. I even have been able to introduce new music to Drake and Delilah, my friends in DC who know and own way too music. In a dictator-led country, they would be the first to be spied on. I am pretty sure their music tastes aren't subversive to governments, but it just seems pretty excessive, right? When you have external memory drives and the biggest gig iPhone, and STILL FILL THEM UP, it's pretty evident that the secret police will be on their way to your house. 

I really have no place to judge people on the amount of music, but I actually judged someone last night on their music taste. She-who-shall-not-be named (Suzanne) was swaying back and forth (in her chair, might I add) to a Coldplay song. I looked over at her and she immediately asked if she should be swaying to this song. I proudly said, "No, you shouldn't. Who do you think you are, Gwyneth? OK, Apple, go back to your Coldplay." 

I am pretty sure I am going to Hell for that comment. 

By the end of the night, at a respectable 11 p.m., I got onto the subway and waited for the G train, which stands for the "God help me" train. (If you have ever lived in NYC, you will know what I mean.)

Usually, the train is filled with degenerates at this hour and you hope for the best that everyone smells like they have showered today, because the whole train and platform and people are pretty grimy. 

I suddenly heard this awkward looking woman singing "Ave Maria" while playing on a really big violin, which some musicians may correct me and say it was a bass. But it was a really big violin. (I think.) 

She was not stylishly dressed, wore glasses, and she was overweight, and yet she had all the strangers around me - including myself - stopped in our tracks. The song was beautiful. She was beautiful. 

The train across the platform came and she stopped, and she began a new song when it left the station. It was a beautiful end to the evening and, coincidentally, was also one of my Grandma's favorite songs.

Maybe I know a little about music if I was able to catch all of that.  

In the meantime, I have totally decided to patent, and intellectual property and LEGAL WORD everything around the name Dead Ringers. Because that's totally the name of my new band. I won't know what kind of music we are playing, but I will probably like it. 

Reese Witherspoon is a Brunette??? (the world is over, people)

I'm sorry. I have an issue with you, Reese Witherspoon, and the recent problem I saw in the news.

I can handle the whole "you-got-arrested" thing.

I can even understand when I heard that you asked the arresting officer, "Do you know my name?" I have to admit that I would probably do that, too. If I looked as cute as you and somehow managed to become pretty wealthy as well as landing myself a shiny Oscar, I would walk up to total strangers every single day and scream my name and hand out copies of the latest Entertainment Weekly with my face on it. (My mother would probably join me in said activity.)

You name dropped. You got arrested. It happens. I can get over these facts.

I can NOT, however, get over the fact that you now have brown hair.

I have brown hair. Brown hair is great.

But on you? It's bad. SO BAD.

You were in a movie called Legally Blonde, for crying out loud. Which is hilarious now for two reasons: 1) You were arrested - therein needing legal assistance and 2) you weren't blonde!

But, the most troubling thing is: you just don't look good as a brunette.

I'm sorry! I'm saying this with all the support and love of your toughest girlfriend. Well . . . maybe not your toughest. You were arrested and all, and I have no idea the kinds of "ladies" that are in the Georgia prison system.

But, I am saying this with the sincerest form of love. I have always thought that you were beautiful.

You were down right, cute-as-a-button. Other people can have their Sandra Bullocks. Their Julia Roberts. I'd list other romantic comedy actresses who also won Oscars, but I think this is where the club ends: with you three. (And no, I'm not including people like Diane Keaton because let's face it - no one is like Diane Keaton and no one ever will be. Unless I can get that cloning thing started up again and we will be starting with her. This reminds me: expect a whole blog someday on Diane Keaton. Or a national holiday where we all have to dress up like her. It will be awwwww-some!!!)

I digress. The fact is: I like you. A lot. I watched the film Water for Elephants because I really, really liked the book and - sure, why not! - because of you. Robert Pattinson made me want to scratch out my eyes and ears because bad actors shouldn't be in movies, but I hung in there and watched the movie because of you!

You just seem so nice. And upbeat. And I like that. I want to hang out with that kind of person.

You make unwatchable films: watchable. And yes, I am sadly talking about Legally Blonde 2. And Vanity Fair. And How Do You Know?

And How do I know? Because I watched them all - because of you!

Having said all of this: you can get arrested 100 more times and I will still go see another blah movie like This Means War (as long as you get that adorable Tom Hardy and Chris Pine back).

I will still think of you as a good person, to be honest. I really think in the echelons of the Lindsay Lohans out there in Hollywood, you are probably the Mother Teresa of the acting community.

So, I think the lesson really is this: go back to blonde. It's your calling. It's your destiny. It's also: your best look. And looking best is well . . . best. Right?

If you need any tips: I did a whole blog on my beauty secrets - and well, I think you will really appreciate how I manage to make myself look good. (http://iamsogayblog.blogspot.com/2013/03/my-beauty-regimen-dont-laugh.html)

But, I'm also a natural brunette. And lets just say it. It sure ain't easy bein' me.

Today is the First Day of Summer (and why, yes, I am wearing shorts in April ...)

The first day of summer was today.

Not really. It's Tuesday, April 9th. And I'm told (according to my friends at Google) that the first day of Summer will not be until Friday, June 21st. But, that can't be right.

I wore shorts today. Awesome, navy garment-dyed chino shorts that I roll up so they are just a little bit shorter. Why make them shorter? So glad you asked! Well, I'm not a basketball player, nor basketball player height and I feel all men who are 5'8'' should realize that and stop buying or producing shorts that go below their knees. Shorts are called (oddly enough) "shorts." So, they should be short, right?

Am I the only one seeing this logic?

Anyways . . . back on track: I wore shorts today. And red flip flops. And it was awesome.

Why was it awesome?

Well, it was 80 degrees today. EIGHTY.

Since New York fell to the Ice Age (in what seemed like the real life version of that terrible Jake Gyllenhaal movie), I have been wearing pants - like you do. But, I don't love pants. I love shorts.

So, today was a good day.

Today was also a good day because I ordered some shoes online and they were delivered. I like getting my online purchases. It's a little added perk to the day.

Thirdly, today was a good day (thirdly is a word, right?) because I went to Trader Joe's. Around 6 p.m. And it wasn't crowded. And they finally had asparagus. Brace yourself. Life just got amazing.

I got apples for $.69 cents a piece. Brussel Sprouts for $2.99! The tomatoes were a little pricey, but hey - it's not in season yet. But, I was so excited because today (I declared it) was the first day of summer that I had to buy myself a tomato. Tomatoes are the poster child for Summer, in my humble opinion. Watermelon can be the Jan Brady of Summer, if you ask me.

It also was so warm out that I bought TULIPS. Beautiful, classic, tall, white tulips. Tulips that I had been wanting for a month. Lo and behold - today - on the first day of Summer of all days - Trader Joe's finally had tulips! Asparagus and tulips! This stuff was about to get real, people!

It was all too good to be true. I wanted to sit down and have a glass of wine to calm myself from all this excitement, but I had to get home and stock my fridge with all my amazing purchases.

The Let's Do This jug makes another cameo appearance.

Keep in mind: I had the shoes I bought online. They came today and, like a kid on Christmas, I just had to bring them home. So, the shoes were in my work bag. Okay - man bag. Okay - hand bag. You happy?

You get the point. I had the shoes with me.

I brought 2 reusable medium size tote bags with me to Trader Joe's because - yes - I love the Earth and I bring bags when I plan ahead.

There I was: walking down the bustling streets of Court Street in Brooklyn. A street that I usually love. It's only a few blocks to the subway. Not normally a bad walk, today was a bit tiring as there was juice and almond milk and some seafood among all the fresh produce, so the 2 bags were quite heavier than I intended.

I thought, "why didn't the cashier just give me a paper third bag?"

"Oh, yeah, because I have three and I can barely carry these as it is," I said to no one.

"A fourth probably wouldn't help us here, Greg," I said calmingly to myself. I'm good in a crisis like that.

Just as I got to the Bergen Street F subway entrance, I smiled with the knowledge that I would soon be able to put the bags down and give my "fantastic" muscles a nice reprieve. Or so I thought.

I knew I was in trouble when I heard the sweet sound of "no, Daddy. I can do it all by MYself."

Sweet voice. Harrowing words.

It must be said: I love children. Some would argue that I have the same mind as they do. I believe the Whitney Houston song where the children are our future. Teach them well.

Teach them to let the huffing and puffing 30-something walk down the stairs first. (That's right, I'm not giving you my age with my birthday just weeks away.)

But, no - these parents mostly taught their child to be independent and evidently rude, as I was not the only person waiting a decade to walk the simple two flights of stairs into the subway.

A train must have just left the station, as many people were exiting the subway stop, so there was no room to maneuver around the young tot and her enablers parents. So, with the army of people behind me, we all slowly walked down the steps. One slow step at a time.

Children are cute. They are not, however, the fastest walkers.

This is the one time and place where I am confident in saying that it is appropriate to pick your child up and walk them down the stairs. I'm an adult and even I can't do the subway stairs by myself. If I had the cash, I would simply pay a person full time to carry me up and down the subway steps. It would still end up being cheaper than a NYC cab these days!

More importantly, the subways are tough, kid. I cried on my first day in a NYC subway, lest we forget. And I imagine, she probably cried in one, too. So, let's remember those frightening times and keep our heads down and move quickly.

Her independence prevailed and I didn't. I did, however, make it into the subway station moments before a speedy F train came to relieve me of my fresh hell. So, in the end, it all worked out.

And it was a still a good day. I can't move my neck on the right side, probably from my right arm being dislodged from my shoulder. But my window is open tonight and I can feel a nice breeze. And my tall, elegant tulips sure do look pretty. Yes, today was a good day.