Had my picture taken today, horrible as usual. This kinda makes me wonder... why aren't we satisfied with ourselves?
Ever played 'Anywhere But Here'? Or 'Anything But This'? Someone once asked me what I wanted to be, y'know... if I weren't myself. The obvious answer is "Rambutan tree"- any fool can see that. But she glared menacingly, so I entertained her with images of cerulean green eyes, long raven hair, six-feet of 36-24-30 in heels and living in a three-storey Beverly Hills mansion with a dashing young gentleman and his purebred Golden Retriever. Now that I think about it, I realize that I was actually a FHM centrefold living in a 'Lifestyles' feature. Oh... did I mention my 6-figure income as CIO of a high-profile data network company? Hellllooo--- Fortune cover story. Anyway, my aforementioned friend had the good graces to blink twice before launching into a uber-vision/version of herself.
"MR LELY, I DESIRE YOU WOULD USE ALL YOUR SKILL TO PAINT YOUR PICTURE TRULY LIKE ME, AND NOT FLATTER ME AT ALL; BUT REMARK ALL THESE ROUGHNESS, PIMPLES, WARTS, AND EVERYTHING AS YOU SEE ME; OTHERWISE I WILL NEVER PAY A FARTHING FOR IT."
~Cromwell on having his portrait painted, in Horace Walpole, Anecdotes of Painting.
I love the quote above... how many people can say that their completely satisfied with themselves. Oh sure, I tell people I wouldn't change a thing about myself while checking out my accursed nose in the privacy of my room. I truly admire people who are confident in their own skins- knowing that they are capable and loved just as they are.
I'm a realist, while I don't expect to be picture perfect, it would be good to have pictures where I don't seem like I'm smirking at the establishment. Now with modern technology, one can 'touch-up' their photographs. Maybe a little concealing here or some smoothening out there... just a little, to look good. I guess I am guilty of such- well, it was a free service. Not that there is anything wrong with wanting to look your best and being pretty but somehow, I'd like to look at my pictures and see the same thing I see in the mirror.
I constantly check myself when chatting up people in a formal social event. "Am I talking too much? Is this an appropriate topic of conversation? What the hell is he talking about?" Of course, not to mention the ever-distracting "Do I have something between my teeth? Is my hair on straight? Why is he staring at my chest? Myhosehasarunmyhosehasarun- *-* does my pantyline show?" I guess it's time to stop it, huh?
Looking at my life so far, it's safe to say that I've been blessed with a relatively normal childhood and excellent friends. I have friends that come to my house and don't bat an eye at me in my ratty houseclothes and unshaven legs. My Mom's been pretty cool about how I dress and how I refuse to have my hair cut sometimes. (I'm guessing she'll shave it all off when she can't stand it ) Why do I worry about how I portray myself to public when the people that really counts in my life loves me for who I am? I'm comfortable, confident and totally cool- who cares what I look like?
Like Garfield, I suppose I should say "I gotta be me!" Or James Brown, the classic success story of pauper to 'Godfather of Soul'--- I FEEL GOOD!!
Saturday, May 08, 2004
Thursday, May 06, 2004
A segment of “Grace, Get A Life”; proudly brought to you by Grac's Coffee High. This comes with a nerd alert; batteries not included.
Music In My Head
My entire life is musically scored. When I walk, my tempo depends solely on th’ song in my head an’ th’ type of percussions. Big band jazz seems to be a big favorite- I love to swing. Following closely is my ‘don’t-mess-with-me’ heavy metal / bass & drums. Placid days will vary from traditional Irish jigs to new age Enya. Glorious angst invokes anything from Morrisette-like heart screaming to tear-inducing Groban. Joseph Arthur, M-R-A-Z! Good Charlotte. The genius that is White Stripes. I LOVE guitars; classical mellowness, upbeat acoustic, distorted twanging, feedback squealing… I love it all.
I totally get the top-40s buzz now. I used to despise being 'trendy'- pop culture is sooo conformist, I couldn't stand it. But now, I bob my head to Maroon 5 and "Hey Ya!". Tap my foot to Black Eyed Peas... lip-sync with heartrending, pointless Coldplay. Cringe an shudder when I realize I can sing Britney, Hillary and boyband songs. Eurgh. Am such the trendy little conformist, its sickening.
When I get insane or tired, there’s th’ nursery rhymes and monotonous humming. I’d hum tunelessly and repetitively. When I’m peppy, chipper or just unnaturally high, I’d whistle. It doesn’t matter what. Th’ Nutcracker suite is a big hit with me. Precision whistling, I call it. But nothing is as difficult as Grande Valse Brilliante. Th’ running notes itself will do you in. Chopin’s Nocturne No. 9 on rainy days, a baroque canon for days that don’t seem to end, Shostakovich or Bartok for those stilted, weird days when everything seems to go wrong. Am learning Flight Of The Bumblebee... now, that's tough t'whistle to.
And there are th’ musicals. Phantom is HUGE with me. I can sing th’ entire musical in my head an’ do th’ character voices as well. I get weird stares when I yellin’ “… down once more to the dungeon of my dark despair, down we plunge to the prison of my mind…” I love that song. Other old favorites- Les Miserables: especially “…but you will live ‘Ponine, dear god above…”. It’s pretty effective when you start emoting that song with th’ proper ‘whygawdwhy’ hand gestures and singing it at th’ top of your voice. Gets you all worked up and properly angsty. Miss Saigon: A point of irritation here for me. Why does my mom yell at me when I start belting out “The heat is on in Saigon th’ girls are hotter than hell… // …we should get drunk an’ get laid, since the end is so near” but never bites into my bro when he does the same? Even when he yodels th’ Engineer’s whore-mongering songs, he doesn’t get into trouble. It’s not fair, I tell you. Ooh, oh- I totally loved that BtVS musical: Once More With Feeling! I can sing th' whole thing too! Disney cartoons don’t count as musicals, but I know ‘em all anyway. All time favorite Disney bit: “I’ve a girl back home who’s none like any other.” “Yeah, the only girl who’d love him is his mother”. Know where that came from?
Speaking of maternal fondness, my God-fearing charismatic mom said that when I was born she prayed to TPTB to put, quote: a new song in my heart every morning, unquote. *snarkles* Bet she didn’t know that I woke up with “Yankee Doodle” today. Or “She Hates Me” yesterday (I swear I could hear that G.C/Em.A.D opening riff like it came from the radio).
Parting words: “Stuck a feather in his cap and called it Macaroni”. Whut in great googly moogly is Mr Doodle calling Macaroni? Th’ town? Feather? Cap? Strangely enough, ‘Yankee Doodle’ snapped me into instant wakefulness. You should try it.
Music In My Head
My entire life is musically scored. When I walk, my tempo depends solely on th’ song in my head an’ th’ type of percussions. Big band jazz seems to be a big favorite- I love to swing. Following closely is my ‘don’t-mess-with-me’ heavy metal / bass & drums. Placid days will vary from traditional Irish jigs to new age Enya. Glorious angst invokes anything from Morrisette-like heart screaming to tear-inducing Groban. Joseph Arthur, M-R-A-Z! Good Charlotte. The genius that is White Stripes. I LOVE guitars; classical mellowness, upbeat acoustic, distorted twanging, feedback squealing… I love it all.
I totally get the top-40s buzz now. I used to despise being 'trendy'- pop culture is sooo conformist, I couldn't stand it. But now, I bob my head to Maroon 5 and "Hey Ya!". Tap my foot to Black Eyed Peas... lip-sync with heartrending, pointless Coldplay. Cringe an shudder when I realize I can sing Britney, Hillary and boyband songs. Eurgh. Am such the trendy little conformist, its sickening.
When I get insane or tired, there’s th’ nursery rhymes and monotonous humming. I’d hum tunelessly and repetitively. When I’m peppy, chipper or just unnaturally high, I’d whistle. It doesn’t matter what. Th’ Nutcracker suite is a big hit with me. Precision whistling, I call it. But nothing is as difficult as Grande Valse Brilliante. Th’ running notes itself will do you in. Chopin’s Nocturne No. 9 on rainy days, a baroque canon for days that don’t seem to end, Shostakovich or Bartok for those stilted, weird days when everything seems to go wrong. Am learning Flight Of The Bumblebee... now, that's tough t'whistle to.
And there are th’ musicals. Phantom is HUGE with me. I can sing th’ entire musical in my head an’ do th’ character voices as well. I get weird stares when I yellin’ “… down once more to the dungeon of my dark despair, down we plunge to the prison of my mind…” I love that song. Other old favorites- Les Miserables: especially “…but you will live ‘Ponine, dear god above…”. It’s pretty effective when you start emoting that song with th’ proper ‘whygawdwhy’ hand gestures and singing it at th’ top of your voice. Gets you all worked up and properly angsty. Miss Saigon: A point of irritation here for me. Why does my mom yell at me when I start belting out “The heat is on in Saigon
Speaking of maternal fondness, my God-fearing charismatic mom said that when I was born she prayed to TPTB to put, quote: a new song in my heart every morning, unquote. *snarkles* Bet she didn’t know that I woke up with “Yankee Doodle” today. Or “She Hates Me” yesterday (I swear I could hear that G.C/Em.A.D opening riff like it came from the radio).
Parting words: “Stuck a feather in his cap and called it Macaroni”. Whut in great googly moogly is Mr Doodle calling Macaroni? Th’ town? Feather? Cap? Strangely enough, ‘Yankee Doodle’ snapped me into instant wakefulness. You should try it.
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