Category Archives: YouTube

OMG!

The Back­street Boys have a new song! Why did nobody tell me this until I was lis­ten­ing to the Top 40 radio sta­tion in my car?!?

Yes, I AM totally seri­ous about being excited. I am unashamed about my love for the Back­street Boys, Brit­ney Spears, and Kelly Clark­son. I will have you know that I can rec­og­nize a song penned by Kevin Richard­son (the older, dark-haired one, and a Broad­way actor in his own right) before the first melodic “Ye-ah,” thank you very much– doesn’t mat­ter if it’s Celine Dion or some­one else I’d never oth­er­wise lis­ten to singing it. And I once heard LIONEL RICHIE sing a KR-penned song. Bliss, I tell you. Pure bliss.

Come on. You’ve watched Amer­i­can Idol, or real­ity TV, or eaten squirt cheese or whipped cream straight from the can at least once in your life, right? And you LIKED it. Admit it. I bet you’ve even acknowl­edged the awe­some­ness of Cool Whip right out of the freezer, straight, on a spoon. Oh, wait, maybe that one’s just me.

I will admit “Boys” is per­haps not the best name for them any­more (check out Howie’s reced­ing hair­line in the video, which has les­bian vam­pires, and spinny dance moves, and NO KEVIN RICHARDSON AAAAAH HE WAS MY FAVORITE, what does he MEAN he wants to have a fam­ily and life???) but still– there’s melody, and a dance beat, and MAN, this brings me back to vir­gin daiquiris at the Bahama Beach Club in Saugus.

Ye-ah.

Oh, hunh, what?

Why yes, that was me singing at the top of my lungs this morn­ing in my car.

Why yes, that was “You Are the Sun” by Lionel Richie.

What, you love that song too?

And any­thing else by Lionel Richie?

Well then– bop along at your lap­top with me. Because you … you are the sun, you are the rain …

Imagine if we had walked…

Thanks to my friend L. for clu­ing me in to the You Tube Chan­nel that is How It Should Have Ended. Because really, Lord of the Rings? Great movie– epic, even, to use an overused Inter­netism, but, well, after about the fifth end­ing at the end of Return of the King I was all “Get it Over With, Peter Jack­son.” For­tu­nately, these guys fig­ured it out.

(Why yes, I am a nerd. Whyever do you ask?)

You make nice to them all and assure them you’re fine and you’re great…

You get to the point with the depres­sion where there’s a lift, almost a lurch in your stom­ach like when the air­plane you’re fly­ing in stut­ters off of the ground, and then, there, you feel like you’re more than no longer Earth­bound but no longer sub­ter­ranean any­more– you feel like Daedalus, flap­ping toward cruis­ing alti­tude, myth­i­cal and there­fore invin­ci­ble again, espe­cially since you built the wings from painstak­ing scratch– or at least able to keep your eyes on the hori­zon and not just on the ground.

Except you’re not in a plane, that sleek steel and land­ing gear there to pro­tect you from the thin air, or you’ve for­got­ten not to fly too close to the sun, or maybe your wing mus­cles are just out of shape and you stut­ter back to the ground and you return hard and fast toward the Earth, arms and legs and wings flail­ing as you try to brace yourself.

It’s not the fall that kills you. It might be the crash, the shock of it enough to make every­thing black. It might be the dis­ap­point­ment after you roll over from hit­ting the ground a lit­tle bit hard, and look­ing up to see just how far away the sky really still is, because the thought of hav­ing lifted off and not made it once is enough to make you think I’m sick of falling, stay­ing here is just easier.

I had a good job inter­view, the man­ager is going to call my ref­er­ences, and we’ll see what we’ll see. But a good pro­duc­tive week and a half was fol­lowed by yesterday’s sad­ness and feel­ings of bro­ken pin­ions and fatigued flight mus­cles in light of my best friend’s upcom­ing wed­ding this week­end and all the plan­ning and prep I haven’t been able to help her with despite the fact that I promised. But we’ll go to the wed­ding, despite my urge to ostrich my head again and admit my wings are just ves­tiges of an Ideal I’m not going to reach. And I’ll call the ther­a­pists whose names my shrink gave me this morn­ing, when she told me she was proud of me for the lit­tle I’ve done, and uttered her pro­fes­sional opin­ion that things could be worse and that I’d work through this.

The YouTube clip isn’t a non-sequitur, it’s just my other favorite band (viva Cake for­ever and ever) and while this isn’t my favorite song of theirs, it’s a “nice” encap­su­la­tion of the depres­sive mindset.

I’m feel­ing a bit like Icarus now. I’ll get over it. You, my dears, though– you’re gor­geous in your (metaphor­i­cal) evening gown(s).

Feed Me Bubbe

I wanted to use the Yid­dish term Bubbe yes­ter­day– when I googled it, this was the num­ber one page-ranked result– an actual guy’s Bubbe, giv­ing lessons in kosher cui­sine on You Tube. (Teh You Tubes for you younger kids.) I haven’t watched it all the way through, but it just kills me in all the best ways to know this lady has a You Tube Channel.