So, let’s see… first entry. Well I’m Reina, 20 years old, sophomore at Binghamton University. I’m an English major because it’s the only thing I’ve ever pictured myself being since the first time I heard about college, (which may or may not have been on Saved by the Bell: The College Years). Numbers and facts fly in and out of my head but words always seemed to stay in there.

What else… I also happen to be slightly obsessed with cats. I prefer cats to humans 9 times out of 10. I also meow intermittently in conversation, and occasionally… mysteriously… find myself looking up cute cat pictures on the internet. Considering the array of awkward, disenchanting relationships I have had so far with men, (something I fully intend to touch on in later self-deprecating blogs), I completely expect myself to end up living alone, at the age of 30 with a million felines. When children come knocking on my door, I plan on answering with a cat atop my head, and whiskers painted on my face. I also, may or may not have recently ordered a t shirt from a website called Crazy Cat Lady Society. I mean….

Anyway, besides my reveling in words and meows, I also really enjoy uncomfortable experiences, naps and cold leftovers. I also secretly, not so secretly anymore, enjoy a show called Dance War and due to the fact Team Bruno won, I am sitting here distracted and distressed.

I can’t believe I just admitted to loving Dance War.

Please forgive me. I know the Grammy’s were a week ago. I posted this blog to my myspace account so I am posting it here also. Enjoy!

So in case you didn’t know, the 2008 Grammy Awards were last Sunday, and they were amazing! Usually, I don’t get excited for award shows because I think that they’re unfair at times, but I was really excited for this years Grammy’s. I thought the majority of the nominations were deserved and that there were some extremely competitive categories. I was really interested in the Album of the Year, Record of the Year, Song of the Year, Best Female Pop Vocal, Best New Artist and Best Rap/Sung Collaboration categories. Most of the categories had some of the years best selling artists like Kanye West, Amy Winehouse, Beyonce and Rihanna battling each other. I was also excited for the performances. I really wanted to see Kanye, Alicia Keys and most importantly, Amy Winehouse. For a complete list of the nominees and winners go here:

This years performances were AMAZING! I thought Alicia Keys performances (yes, that’s plural) were the best. She opened the night with a screen duet with Frank Sinatra and performed “No One” later in the night. Kanye West was also great; he by far had the best stage! He performed “Stronger” with Daft Punk and a heart-felt “Hey Mama” in dedication to his late mother. Amy Winehouse. WOW! She looked soooo skinny, but good. It is great to see her sober. Her performance was great, and what made it even better was the fact that you could tell that she was enjoying performing, something she hasn’t enjoyed in a long time. Rihanna, Beyonce, Tina Turner, Foo Fighters and others also performed.

Amy Winehouse took home everything except for the kitchen sink. She won everything she was nominated for except for Album of the Year, which went to Herbie Hancock. I know, right? What the hell? I think everyone assumed that Kanye or Amy Winehouse would get the award. Even Kanye thought so. My theory is that Kanye and Amy split the majority of the votes, allowing Herbie Hancock to slip by them. The same thing happened to Kanye and Mariah Carey in 2006. UGH! Don’t get me started with that. Kanye is now 0-3 in the Album of the Year category. Other notable winners are Rihanna, Carrie Underwood, Maroon 5, Alicia Keys and Lupe Fiasco. I <3 Lupe!

And what is this backlash that these older, successful musicians have for some of this year’s Grammy’s winner. Natalie Cole, Janet Jackson and Keith Richards criticizing the Grammy’s for awarding Amy Winehouse five awards because it seems as if they are “awarding her drug usage.” First, isn’t Keith Richard’s name synonymous with drug addict? Second, at the height of her grammy-winning career, wasn’t Natalie Cole addicted to crack cocaine and heroin? Weren’t you the one who refused to leave a burning building during one of your highs? Didn’t your son almost drown while you were on one of your drug binges? Third, Janet Jackson…wait, I can’t say anything about her. I mean, she is Janet Jackson of course. Nevertheless, the former two have no room to criticize Amy for what is, an undoubtedly, one of the best albums released this decade.

Then there’s Aretha bitching about Beyonce calling Tina Turner the queen. Seriously, conceited much Aretha? I only have one thing to say to Aretha: can you move like Tina Turner?

For a complete list of the nominees and winners, go here:
http://www.grammy.com/GRAMMY_Awards/

 

SPICE UP YOUR LIFE!

That is right. Those are the

words I was ever so loudly

singing at the top of my lungs

last night at the opening act of

Spice Girls Reunion Tour.

Ummm. HOLLA!

Seriously. AH. Seriously.

It was super amazing.

A little annoyed that they

didn’t arrive on stage until

an hour and ten minutes after

their start time, but they for sure

made up for it. From getting an

upgrade in our seating assignment.

Oh yeahh. . .we were SUPPOSED

to be in section 126-but were bumped

up to section 19. Living the lime life

baby. Score. Than, their stunning

costume changes, sexy numbers,

and amazing stage presence, it was

hard not to be in complete awe.

Mel B. (Scary Spice) RAWKED the

show. She was having a ball out

there. And why wouldn’t she be?

Posh looked frozen in time.

But she was out there shaking her

groove thang and seemed to be

really enjoying herself.

Despite the rumors of her being

tired of performing. Mmmm. . .

I was also a little disappointment

after Mrs. Beckham announced that

her husband wasn’t at the show. Before

that, I liked to at least imagine his lucious

body was in my proximity.

The rest of the gang impressed me.

For being out of the job for so long,

I must say…they still got it going on!

I couldn’t contain my excitement.

I jumped back to 7th grade-and

got SPICEYYYY! Now, I am pondering

at the thought of becoming a Spice Girl.

Because why on earth wouldn’t I WANNA BE

a Spice Girl? They’ve got girl

power, yo. I’m thinking of going by

Glam Spice. But I dunno?

Methinks it might be stepping on

Posh’s toes a little. Eh. . .

If so. I could always settle for

Saucy Spice. Plus. I like the

double S’s.

So until next time, this is

Saucy Spice performing to

you live from her bedroom.

If anyone wants to start a band with me called “Make for Daddy”, please let me know. I’ve decided that this is the kick in the pants that the music industry needs. We can play any kind of music you’d like. You can write the songs and play all the instruments and sing–all I ask is that I get all the credit, money and groupies. Actually, forget the other stuff and just give me the groupies with problems. Okay? Cool.

Yesterday I was riding the subway to school  and listening to music, as per usual on days when I should be reading for class. A band named Os Mutantes came on. They were a standout member of the 1960s psychedelic Brazilian Tropicalia movement, so naturally they’re brought up whenever I’m talking to any uber hipster about music. The combination of obscurity, age, drug use and, oohh, foreignness is enough to make someone jump out of their V-neck.

So I was listening to this band and started scanning the subway car for people who would be impressed by my sweet-as-pie music tastes. Homeless man who is smelling up half the fucking car? No. Homeless woman who doesn’t smell but is drinking Coqui at 9:00? Decidedly, no. Guy who is selling body oils and, presumably, wet* who kind of looks like my Intellectual Heritage professor? Possibly.

“But,” I thought, “I bet that my IH prof would probably like Os Mutantes!”– an idea so sultry and pleasurable that I spent the next ten minutes playing my favorite song by them on repeat and imagining a situation in which I would become his favorite student by way of bonding over music. This is how it went: I would walk into the classroom and sit down as I always do. Then he would take attendance, and start giving us notes on The Republic.

When the note taking had been going on four to seven minutes, my professor would look up with a twinkle in his eye and say, “It’s too damn boring in here!” Everyone would stare at him in silent puzzlement as he walked outside and returned with two speakers and a subwoofer.

“Does anyone have an mp3 player?” he’d ask. Silence.

He’d raise his eyebrow suspiciously, then I’d raise my hand. “I think I do, Doctor D____***!”

Then I’d  put on Minha Menina and sit down meekly. Dr. D____ would continue with the notes until the song kicked in. Then he’d raise his eyebrow again, this time out of sheer intrigue, and comment that “Well, this song is pretty good! What’s your name, guy?”

To which I’d say, “Greg, sir!”

Then he’d ask, “Hey you must be pretty smart! What’d you get on your SATs?” And casually I’d rattle off my distinguished scores.

“Now it looks to me that you work out, is that correct?”

And I’d reply, “Why, yes sir, but I try not to make a big deal out of it,” all while Os Mutantes is playing in the background and folded up notes are landing on my desk–each with a different phone number.

At this point the train arrived at Temple and I was forced to focus on holding my breath as I passed the homeless dude. The excitement of the fantasy wore off quickly and I was left with the very certain truth that I am a whimsical fruitcake.

*a.k.a angel dust**

** a.k.a. PCP

***Name omitted because this story is goddamn horrendous.

By the way,  I was reading post below about the Mika show and totally fell for the part about free tickets for bloggers. The jealousy was blinding.

I Believe. . .

-That this week is going to be fabulous.

I Believe. . . 

-That staying organized keeps me sane.

I Believe. . . 

-In sticking to my New Years Resolution.

I Believe. . . 

-That fake eye lashes make me extra sexy.

I Believe. . . 

-In finding bargains that look like I’ve dropped

a thousand bucks.

I Believe. . . 

-That Nick is the father of Sam on October Road.

I Believe. . . 

-That my friend Kara *really* does

look like Jessica Alba.

I Believe. . .

-That there is no other city like New York City.

I Believe. . . 

-That Valentines Day is special. Even if most

people think it’s a stupid holiday.

 What do you believe in this week. . .?

 

Last night my heart

was on full blast. I seriously

think someone might have

seen it thumping at full speed

through my charcoaled color dress.

No. I’m not even kidding you.

If you’re wondering why, let me try

to explain to you just about the

most amazing experience of my

very exciting life.

I got the chance to attend

part of Fashion Week in

New York City.

OH MY GOSH!

Sorry. Writing it down and seeing

the words still seem so

surreal to me.

I was asked through a previous

internship, and accepted

with opened-arms. Granted,

it took a little wheelin’ and dealin’

to schmooze my way into the

whole thing. I arrived at

The Prince George Ballroom

around 6:30. My show started at 7, and

my body couldn’t stop freaking out.

I checked in, and anxiously waited

with a bunch of other young men and women.

I didn’t know their stories. Why were they

there, who sent them, and honestly,

I didn’t even care. I only cared that

I was actually at a real life

fashion show. Oh. I was seeing

Sari Gueron. (For all of those

fashion fans out there.) So. I’m standing

around, taking everything in, and

before my very eyes, Julianne Moore

and husband in tow come walking

through the doors. AH! I wanted

to jump at them. Act like an adoring fan.

But apparently, according to everyone

else’s reactions, that’s just not what

you do. No one even batted an eye.

I however was batting both of

my eyes. Next thing I know, in my

blink-fest, Maggie Gyllenhaaul strolls in.

Now I’m totally freaking out. Sister of

adorable actor Jake. Still. No one seems

to notice or care. I am at arm’s length

away from them and listening

in on their conversation, of course.

By the way. Maggie goes by Mags.

We finally get to go in and find

our seats. I have a brilliant seat

right up front. Again. People are

walking around talking and hugging

and all that jazz. Little ole’me though

continues to sit in silence and

scan the room of high-end

fashionistas. At about 7:30, the show

actually began. Lights dimmed, music

blaring, and everyone in their proper

seating assignments.

(Except for me. Who was politely

asked if I could move in one so

some fancy lady could sit next to

a dear friend. I couldn’t refuse.)

Models strutted their stuff one

by one. It was glorious. I don’t think

I stopped smiling the entire time, or even

took a breath for that matter.

Julianne and Maggie were also grinning

at the gorgeous couture. (They were sitting

diagonally across from me. I couldn’t

help but stalk out their expressions.)

The show lasted a total of maybe twenty

minutes. Everyone claps at the end-and everyone

gets up and escorts themselves out.

As I walked out with the crowd, I kept

rewinding the stunning designs in my

mind. I seriously thought I was

going to SHRIEK! right there in

front of everyone to hear.

I kept my composure, surprisingly.

Got out onto the streets

of Manhattan and pinched myself to

make sure I wasn’t dreaming.

After I felt the squeeze, I yelped

in my highest school-girl pitch and

danced Jennifer Beals style from Flashdance.

Ya’know. The whole Maniac scene. Minus the

cute black leotard.

Twenty minutes might not seem like

a long time to most people. But those twenty

minutes will live with me for the

rest of my life. My very first, and hopefully

not last, Fashion Week appearance.

Nothing short of amazing.

AMEN!

I had some pretty rough news broken to me a few nights ago. My roommate, Rachel, is moving out next month, to pursue domestic bliss with her longtime boyfriend, Joe. I would totally be happy for Rachel, pats on the back, pop the champagne, et al, but she’s leaving me alone with a paradoxal nightmare known as the other roommate.

We’ll call the Other Roommate “Dennys,” because waiting tables there is her inevitable future. Now, that may sound harsh, but this girl epitomizes all I tried to escape from when leaving my hometown of MiddleHick, South Florida when I came to college.

She’s willfully ignorant, dates a homeless, jobless, car-less, 28-year-old, Ghetto thug, father of two, pretty much moved him in here, and I’m on the authority that this is the semester, in all of her freshman glory, that she plans to leave UCF for good. Color me surprised.

And for those of you blessedly spared individuals who think Florida isn’t really the South, I’ve got bad news for you. Miami is just one city.

Now, you may be wondering, possibly aloud and with your finger quizzically resting on your chin, “Shannon, how did you come to live with such a person?” Well, I’ll tell you. The Landlord rents out the rooms individually.

Dennys actually replaced a great story named Kim, who looked just like Velma from Scooby Doo, and was so religious that I’d wake up every morning to a different verse from Revelations scrawled in red dry erase marker onto the mirror in the living room. Ah, memories.

So, aside from Ghetto Thug, who scares the hell out of me even when I come home and find him mopping, and the fact that it really is not okay that he lives here, there are various issues with Dennys. I’ll list some from this week to give you, fine reader, an idea.

- suspicious 2am hammering. when asked to cease, replied, “I’m almost done.” Continued for an hour.

 - Continual pot smoking indoors. When approached, said she wasn’t smoking, that the beans had caught on fire. I’ve since requested that beans only be lit on fire outside from now on.

- The tendency to try to fix the plumbing when other people are in the shower. When one complains, she replies, “That doesn’t happen when I’m in the shower.”   “Well, Dennys, that’s because I don’t flush the toilet fourteen times while you’re in there, but perhaps I’ll start.”

I actually don’t have the strength to continue. Trust me, she’s loud, inconsiderate, and generally unacceptable as a human. Anyway, so Rachel tells me she’s out of here come March. This is disasterous.  She then says, “I’ll make sure you get the rest of the cable/internet bill before I go,” which, of course, I trust her to do.

(The bill is in my name because I moved in first. I pay at the beginning of the month, and they supplement me. They are a few months behind, so I wrote down their totals - three months for Dennys, two for Rachel - and put them on the fridge since we’re all home at erratic hours.)

Rachel, uncomfortable, mentioned that I should take a look at the note. And I did.

To summarize, under the amounts due, Dennys had put a dollar value on every time she cleaned the kitchen and deducted it from the $130 she owed me under the title “Maid service.” She, by rule of her math skills, now only owed me $75. (I should mention that I haven’t used the kitchen for more than a standing space since I got back from winter break, due to the fact that I’m never home.)

I have now lost my temper, and she knows it. After a confrontation about the note and the absurdity of it, I’ve been paid, and the landlord now knows about our live-in Felon. Oh yeah, Ghetto Thug has a criminal record. Actually, I think Dennys does too, but hers doesn’t count because she was under 18.

I have to get a list of things taken care of before Rachel leaves at the beginning of March. I can’t be alone with her. Someone might get hurt. Or deep fried.

So a couple weeks ago my blogging VIP status got me free tickets to the Mika concert at the Electric Factory.

HAH…

Cute. No, I bought them on Ticketmaster, where the transaction fee costs about just as much as the ticket. In all seriousness, I love concerts, and go to them all the time, and so when I heard that Mika was going to be in Philadelphia I snatched up tickets right away. I’d never seen him live before, and really like his album, whatever the hell it’s called… “Life in Cartoon Motion” ??

Anyway… it’s fun, upbeat, and for some reason every time I watch the music video to “Grace Kelly” I feel compelled to get up and shake my ass.

The CONCERT was amazing. I was hesitant at first because just about every teenage girl in the Philadelphia area was there, and they were all drunk as shit. I could tell that they were drunk as shit because one of my gay male friends was wearing a scarf overtop a slim-fitting tee and he still had girls going after him (maybe they confused him to be an urban hipster, I don’t know…). Aside from the drunk teens, the concert was awesome. Mika had a lot of fun onstage and was really getting into all the songs. I haven’t seen that much energy on stage since my last Killers concert (one of my favorites, I’ve seen them four times). AND, the Electric Factory was PACKED… it brought back pleasant Live 8 memories.

So, even though he’s moved onto other cities in his tour, at least check out the CD, and if he comes back around or if you’re like me and are screwed up enough to take mini-vacations abroad to see concerts, check him out.

Later,
Anthony

My mom, and while I love her

dearly, is someone that I will

never fully understand. She is

by far one of my biggest enemies,

and at the same time, my biggest

fan. Strange. Yes, I know. I’ve

never seen someone switch a mood

as fast as the woman. One second she

is loving on life, and the next, she

is flipping out for a reason that

only she ever knows. She is

basically a walking time bomb.

But I guess that’s just one of

the reasons I love her so.

Okay. Actually. I lied.

The whole mood changing

thing doesn’t really have

anything to do with my love

towards her. In fact, it only

makes loving her harder.

How sad is that? The two of

us have never seen eye to eye.

She said blue, I’d say green.

It is pretty much how our

relationship has always worked.

We have had plenty of screaming

fits, tears have been shed, and I’ve even

been known to throw a glass or two

of soda at the lovely lady. How

out-of-control does my family

sound right now? And the truth is,

my family is anything but 

out-of-control. We’re actually

pretty normal. Despite the random

craziness that lurks in every family.

It’s just when you throw Psycho

Mom into the equation. Yes. That’s when

the norm because radical.

Case in point:

I get home from class a little

over an hour ago. My dad is in

the kitchen putting some

dishes away. Mom is out and my

little sister is away in New York

for some school conference thing

for the weekend. My dad is in a

good mood, as usual. I begin to

make myself a salad and tell my dad

about my day. I ask him where mom is

and he tells me that he just talked to her

and she should be home any minute.

Sure enough, she walks in the door

moments after. However. The sweet,

“I’ll be home soon,” cherub face he

had just been talking to is now

“I hate life, everyone leave me alone,”

devil face. I kid you not. What possessed

the normally cheerful disposition of my

mama? Who knows. All I know is that

for a span of ten minutes, she wasn’t speaking

to either one of us, and “Just wanted to be

left alone.” Whatever you’re currently thinking

about my mom at this point, go ahead and

think it. It’s probably true. But whatever

it is that you’re thinking, she will never

admit to, or talk about. Grr.

And just for the record.

Right now. She is currently

sitting in the living room

with my dad, who she called back

down from upstairs after chasing him

away, so the two of them could

watch the movie she  rented from

Blockbuster together.

Yes. I know.

Ridiculous pretty much sums

her up in one word.

 

I Believe. . .

-That you can’t win unless you play.

I Believe. . . 

- That a card really is the best gift.

I Believe. . . 

-In fighting for what you want.

I Believe. . .

-That sleeping until noon is okay sometimes.

I Believe. . .

-That everything really does happen for a reason.

I Believe. . .

-That Bruno’s team will win on Dance Wars.

I Believe. . .

-In flirting my way into free drinhks at

the bar is still all right, even if I do have a boyfriend.

 What do you believe in this week. . .?