V-Day, Whitney, and Other Random Stuff

I haven’t gotten a chance to watch The Walking Dead yet, but I plan on doing so soon and posting my heartfelt and warm fuzzy feelings about it. So in the meantime, I’ll just spew some random things circulating around my head on this lovely Valentine’s Day.

  • I understand a lot of people’s dislike for Valentine’s Day. I’ve been there. I never got anything for any of my girlfriends on Valentine’s Day. When they complained, I always responded with, “Every day should be Valentine’s Day.” I’d buy them flowers on other, random days, rather than the one occasion on which I was forced to do so. I hated buying cards – I mean, seriously, I kinda still do, because for the price of a card I could buy a whole freaking book – and all that stuff. I’ve heard the arguments about it being a fake Hallmark holiday designed to drum up sales of whatever. I get it. Now that I’m married, though, my animosity towards the holiday has mellowed. I understand it now. Let’s face it, February is the long dark tea-time of the year. After New Years’ Day, there is no real promise of relief from the dull grey of winter anytime soon. Groundhog Day. Martin Luther King Day. Nothing really joyous about either of them. One is a stupid holiday where a fat rodent tells us that we are going to have 6 more weeks of winter, and because of the fact that winter ends every year on March 21, six weeks later, it’s not like that’s a fucking revelation. The other holiday is more serious, a chance to look back on centuries of prejudice and inhumanity and the triumph of the Civil Rights Movement, tinged by the sadness that a man who played such a large role as the face of a movement was gunned down. Neither one of them are exactly prime celebratory gift-giving holidays. So, Valentine’s Day gives us a chance to stop, say I love you to our significant other – or sit in the dark listening to the Cure while cutting yourself and crying out in bitter loneliness, whichever you prefer – and buy something. It’s a break from the everyday humdrum of the closing days of winter. I accept that now.
  • That said, I do not actually want to receive flowers or balloons at work. I love you sweetie, oh so very much, but I am thankful this year that you gave me a card at home and left it at that.
  • So, Whitney Houston. I’ve been seeing a lot of posts on Twitter and Facebook and wherever from people mourning the loss of such talent. OK. Yes, she could sing, very well. To paraphrase the Joker (Nicholson edition), she had a tremendous singing voice. I grew up during her heyday. I didn’t actively listen to her music, but it was impossible to avoid. From what I understand, a lot of people have found memories of dancing in their rooms with their friends singing along to her. That’s cool. That was also a long time ago. Sadly, what I will remember most about Whitney are two things: “Crack is whack!” and her interview with Oprah where she painstakingly described how she smoked rock cocaine. That’s it. Just like I’ll remember Michael Jackson for the sad decline of his career, I will remember Whitney the exact same way. She could sing like nobody I ever heard. Too bad she stopped doing that in favor of smoking coke-laced pot. As tragic as her death is, I think it’s equally tragic that, from a musical standpoint, she died a decade ago.
  • I’ve been thinking about a book trailer for The Curse of Troius. I never was going to do one, because I couldn’t think of a way of doing a serious one without feeling like a melodramatic and pretentious asshat. I’m not saying that people who make them are, it’s just that I am supremely uncomfortable marketing myself in a serious manner. So instead, I’m thinking of doing a mash-up of Rejected Book Trailer Ideas. It’ll make fun of me and my work, and maybe a few other things. I need to assemble a cast for a few scenes, put together a rough script, and shoot this thing. Afterwards, I’ll have to figure out how to bleep out the inevitable cursewords. Yes, this is going to be so much more work than doing a regular book trailer, but making fun of myself and my work is enjoyable to me. Go figure.
  • I’ve decided that, for my upcoming 40th birthday, I am going to give myself a six-pack. Yes, I mean in the ab sense. I’m going to try for it anyway, because why the hell not. If I fail, then I will console myself with a twelve-pack of JK’s Scrumpy, simply the finest cider I’ve ever had. So, either way, win-win.
  • To be honest, I’ll probably get the 12-pack of cider regardless of the success or failure. IT’LL GET YOU DRUNK!
  • As a Redskins fan, reading about the likely quarterback pickup they are going to make is nearly enough to make me hurl my wallet (see below). No, I don’t mean Peyton, because I think that’s highly unlikely. No, I mean Kyle Orton. Let that sink in, Redskins fans. Kyle. Orton. We have turned into the 2008 Chicago Bears as we struggle to choose between Sexy Rexy and Neckbeard. It’s enough to make you weep.
  • “Hurling the wallet” is a phrase that refers to a deliberate but irrational action taken to prevent an anger-fueled aneurism. It originated when a Delaware resident and Redskins fan was playing against the computer-driven Cowboys in a game of Madden and lost in the last minute due to a ludicrous and arbitrary series of computer-simulated randomness. Said Redskins fan’s first instinct was to hurl the controller across the room, but since the console did not belong to him, he carefully set it down, pulled his wallet from his back pocket, and threw it as hard as he could across the house, followed by five minutes of picking up the contents of said wallet that were scattered all over the floor. The phrase is used thusly: “Mike went to punch the wall, but instead hurled the wallet by slapping his hand forcefully onto the counter, leaving him afterwards running the swollen and stinging appendage under cold water.”

Happy Valentine’s Day. Kiss someone you love. Smooch a mirror if you have to.

About Alan Edwards

Former cancer caregiver. Husband of the most magical and amazing person who ever lived.

Posted on February 14, 2012, in Kerfluffle and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink. 11 Comments.

  1. I thought the same phrase when Whitney’s death hit Twitter.

    Crack is whack, indeed.

    Thanks for mentioning that, so I don’t feel like an insensitive jerkhole on my own.

    Also, I love the rejected trailer mash-up idea.

  2. The trailer idea sounds teh awesome. I’d volunteer to be in the cast if I didn’t live 2,000 miles away. ;D

    Sad to say, I don’t find Whitney’s death all that tragic. Surprising? Sure. But not tragic. Yes, I’m an asshole.

    Happy [re-emptive 40th birthday. You don’t look a day over 30, dude.

    • Excellent! My policy of making sure that all of my pictures available online are of me 29 or younger is paying off!

      No, you aren’t an asshole. It’s not tragic for most of us. Her family and friends? Sure. We’re neither.

      And I may just have to incorporate an idea I’ve had. You may be 2,000 miles away, but a brief video file could be emailed…hmmm. A video of you looking literary and professional and saying, “You know, you’d be better off buying Blood Skies. Besides, it already has its sequel actually available” and holding up the books or something similar would fit right in.

  3. I need to stop reading your posts while drinking coffee. Laughing so hard that hot coffee squirts out the ol’ schnozz is not so great.

  4. You’re missing the True Meaning of Groundhog Day. It’s like this; Back in 1887 (or whenever), Phil was poking around minding his own business. Some random farmers are grumpy about the cold and happen across Phil. Being a superstitious lot, the farmers think to themselves that a “nature” creature must know something about the weather. So, they’re like “Hey, Phil, when’s this winter gonna end?”

    Phil looks up, surprised. He’s thinking “why would I know anything about the weather?” But being a bit of a wise (ass), he humors the poor farmers by saying “well, I can see my shadow, so that must mean more winter, like six weeks or so.”

    To his eternal surprise, the ignorant farmers totally believed him. And now, it’s this tradition, but Phil gets free housing out of the deal.

    So, you see, it’s a holiday that celebrates bullshitting, really in any facet of life, but mainly bullshitting at work. Phil understands the working man’s pain.

    • Wow, you are so right. It’s a complete celebration and embracing of the concept of hanging on in a job, doing the least amount of work possible, and telling people stuff they already knew. That’s…that’s BRILLIANT!

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