Oh hiiii....Where to begin? We as a nation have been through so much since last I blahgged; Super Bowl Sunday, Musical Monday, Super Tuesday, and now my favorite holiday, Ash Wednesday, when everyone wears that cute makeup. How depressed will I be when Thursday shows up tomorrow without an adjective or a theme? We'll have to come up with something.
Like most, I was glued to my television last night, following with baited breath these primary elections which will subsequently set in motion an exciting and critical race toward the big Decision of '08. Of course I'm referring to the Atlanta auditions for American Idol (or as I like to call it, "Broadway's Next Top Marketing Strategy"), (or as I like to call it, "America's Got Down Syndrome"). That shit is still crazy after all these years, and I'm a little into it this season. (Don't tell anyone.) Last night's final audition was accompanied by a sappy video piece. You always know by a sappy video piece about the kid with an incurable disease, for example, who dreams of fame and fortune that you're about to see either an incredible audition or the absolute worst. This way if it goes well, you can kvell and be happy that the poor kid finally got a break. And if he sucks, you can laugh and say, "Serves ya right! I hope they never find a cure!", and throw chicken wings at the TV. (I tend to root for the latter. That's mean, right?) This one told a triumphant story of the young rocker boy who lives in his car and wants nothing more than to be the next American Idol. Why do all aspiring young musicians live in their cars? I'm almost positive that most of them don't really need to do that. (Side note: I think when my career takes that inevitable leap into the music world and I record my demo and move into my car, I'm going to host formal dinner parties. How pissed will my guests be in the backseat?) Anyway, this kid's audition really wasn't that fantastic, but he gave Paula Abdul a boner and so he made it through to Hollywood. Mazel Tov. The final shot of his segment was of him driving away in his house, crying hysterically because "all his dreams had come true". I don't know about that, kid. I'd keep the engine running if I were you.
In other news: I might be moving onto the subway sooner than I thought, as my quest for a new apartment has not been successful. The last place I looked at was horribly discouraging. In addition to it being a complete garbage can, the previous tenant hadn't cleaned his things out yet, and there were cigarette butts and pizza boxes and syringes strewn across the floor, and a dead hooker in a suitcase in the corner. One of the four water-stained walls was seconds from caving in completely, and I'm sure I saw bullet holes in the front door. I thanked the owner through my tears, slapped the broker, spit on the ground and made my exit. To make things worse, the broker (who threw up when he saw the apartment himself) was true to his code and continued trying to sell it to me on our walk back to the train by saying things like, "It's a very good location", and "Isn't it great how the toilet is in the kitchen? You never find that anymore...", and, "..You don't want that fourth wall anyway. None of the newer apartments have more than two walls.." In turn, I had to politely humor him by matching his bullshit with things like, "It's actually a little far from work for me", and "You know..that dead hooker smell is always a real pain in the ass to get out..." (I hate dealing with brokers even more than I hate going to the gynecologist.) I'm seeing another place tonight. Pray for me, and in the meantime you may start addressing all of my fan mail to the N Train.