No Comparison

When I watch American Idol and listen to the judges’ criticisms, it makes me laugh. Sometimes I agree with what they say, sometimes what they say makes no sense, because while the product placement is clearly for Coca-Cola, you can easily tell one judge in particular is not swigging only Coke products. And you can tell [she] might do this habitually, because [she] is very seldom lucid. … Paula rarely speaks coherently. She only knows enough and has her wits about her enough to say the contestant looks fantastic when s/he sang horribly. 

A lot of times, the contestants just don’t sound all that great. I mean, this season, the contestants seem fine. Of course I’m rooting for my Mormon “friends,” David Archuleta and Brooke White. I’m also cheering with reservation for my “cousin,” Ramiele Malubay. She’s gotta step it up. This is the first season I’ve watched from the very beginning. I sat and jeered and laughed during the pre-Hollywood episodes, like a good lemming audience member, until the top ten, when we can get down to business. 

Sometimes the contestants do really well with the songs they choose. Sometimes I’m really impressed and sometimes they really know what they’re doing. Sometimes, they really, really don’t and I end up wishing I had papercuts between my fingers instead. Why do I watch this kind of television? Why, when I listen to these people who they let on television “sing,” blood wants to squeeze from my ears and drip from the lobes? Why do I subject myself to this? How sadistic am I?

And, why do I have Justin Timberlake, Britney Spears, ‘N Sync, Christina Aguilera, that wretched Fergie song, Jordin Sparks’s “Tattoo” (I have yet to analyze that song, and just you wait, it will be fun.) on my mp3 player? This is probably my guiltiest pleasure, even moreso than mini-powdered donuts. I take great pleasure in exceptionally crappy music! Woo! 

But then, then. I went to the annual Easter Concert up in Inwood this evening. Every single musical number made me want to cry. The subject matter, of course, is sacred. But let me attest that not a whole lot in this world is better than pure sound. Inspired sound. The low rumbling of the deep registers of the organ. Fingers producing vibrato on the strings of a cello. The utterly delicious phrasing and blending of the SATBs in the choir. The soaring clarity of that angelic soprano singing from Handel’s Messiah. And those gospel numbers at the end? Praise be.

And then, the roaring applause at the end of the concert. Because my heart was about to burst. All that wonderful pop junk I listen to starved my soul and all but frayed my auditory nerves. But tonight all was healed. I appreciated the performers who put their entire bodies into creating phenomenal sound. Such talent and passion and high regard what they were singing about. I don’t know if I enjoyed a concert like that in a long, long time. Tonight was beautiful and humbling and lovely. Tonight I rejoiced.

I walked out of that chapel with a smile in my heart and some Spring in my step. 

“No, Mama. He was my dog. I’ll do it.”

 I hate the last twenty minutes of Old Yeller. I’ve seen that movie at least five times, and maybe I think the last twenty minutes won’t make me cry. Maybe I think the main character will stop reminding me of an adolescent Jimmy Stuart, with his sincerity I don’t want to believe but do anyway. Then they expect that little pup to take Yeller’s place all of a sudden? “He’s part Old Yeller, but he ain’t Old Yeller.” But Travis warms up to him. That li’l pup smothers him with kisses, and he becomes “the best doggone dog in the West.”

I also do not like the orange-tan leather pants Pa wears when he has that man-to-man with Travis. And the little brother, Arliss, annoys me.

The Journey of Natty Gann is about to come on. Another movie I watched repeatedly growing up. Is that John Cusack, or is that John Cusack? That Natty, what a toughie. I wanted to be her friend. “You calling my dad dumb?” “You calling my dad a commie?” And who didn’t want to pack a kerchief of basic necessities and jump on a train out of this depression-laden town? We could do that now with this recession.

If you want to get anything done today, stay away from the Hallmark channel.

Come to http://mayiwrite.livejournal.com/ and see my banner. It’s part of organizing the photos in my scrapbook: learning very basic CSS. Because, my dream is to organize stuff here and jump onto my own domain. Thing is, I’d have to pay for webhosting, but if I ran ads on my website, and if traffic were heavy enough, the hosting would pay for itself, and I’d feel a little more free to do whatever I wanted. Do some domain mapping, so I could be mayiwrite.com. No handle, just me.  Just a thought. Just a dream. 

LiveJournal is my Old Yeller. But if I could find a suitable replacement, I would. Working on it.

Project

I’ve been trying to organize the pics in my scrapbook. Don’t go there: it’s a mess.
I should have started tagging from the beginning.
Now, it’s taking forever.
By the time it’s done, I should feel a lot better.

I went to the temple this evening. It’s an incredible place. I was worried about getting “Toxic” out of my head because I really wanted to be reverent, but everything worked out just fine. 

Two more hours, and I will have been awake for twenty-four hours. I’m not doing this on purpose. As soon as I’m done dillydallying here, I’m going to sleep. I won’t be long.