Yes. I stated the obvious. It was cheap and typical and I went for it like a rat with cheese. Eeesh.
My sister told me about it, I think she even scarred me for life by sending me an image or two...but the word is out.
Young, Daniel Radcliffe has decided to do everything he can to rattle the box that media and fans would like to keep him in as Harry Potter. I can appreciate that. But I don't want to see his naughty bits. At Hogwarts or anywhere else. I have no problem with nudity and creative artistic expression...so why is this a little disturbing for me?
If you are not a little queasy and you're so inclined, you can view the Today snippet. With another Potter flick set to film this summer, I'm wondering a bit about the timing.
At the very least, I hope it's a good play.
How it works: Write an entry of any length or style using five assigned words. Bold the five words. Tag your post with 5wordchallenge and any other tags you wish to add.
The words: indefinitely, outsmart, phantom, towel, alienated
Chloe wondered how she could outsmart time. The challenge would lie in trying to mark where one rests in a measurement of something that goes on indefinitely. Had she alienated herself from the others in showing no regard for how they would fare against the phantom of doubt and the limitation of their fatigued limbs? Long after they had thrown in the towel, would they curse her for being jubilant in her solitary triumph? She wondered aloud which was the bigger adversary, time or her own need for validation.
Thanks Red Pen.
Audio: What's your favorite hidden track or song from an album?
Submitted by Kristine.
That's a tie for me. Up first:
Jilly from Philly. Jill Scott. Her energy reminds me of one of my dearest friends, Lisane. You almost feel like you can't look her directly in the eye because she shines so bright.
The thing I don't like about hidden tracks is the wait for it to play. (Yes, I am that impatient) I hate that they're buried, especially when you're in the car and you're skimming to say....track 44. Sure, I realize all those other tracks are data tracks od a few seconds but still...GIMMIE DAT!
My first favorite hidden track was Jill's brilliant remix of Love Rain with another amazing spirit, Mos Def. You'll have to endure that pregnant pause between it and Try, the song that leads in. But in my opinion, it is WELL worth it. Just listening to it makes me miss the Northeast. They nothing of this type of heady, sharp vibe down in the South. I get in trouble, but I'm sorry...it's true. Jill represents everything I miss about Philly. Her and the Roots.
So there you have it. Takes a minute to get to their respective wholesome goodness...but it's worth it if you are so inclined...
It was overcast. The mornings always seemed to start that way when we were together. No matter if it was here or there. Most people love to wake up to birds chirping and a brilliant sun bursting through the slates of venetian blinds, but not us. We loved the romantic melancholy of cloudy skies. I suppose in retrospect it matched the stormy waters that quietly raged within us both.
I had lay awake for at least an hour, but with no clock in the room, I couldn't be sure. At some point in the night I had peeled out of the t-shirt he gave me to sleep in. At some point, I was overcome by my heat and his. Just thinking about it seemed to raise my temperature again and I kicked his thick comforter away from my skin. I focused on the sound of his measured breathing. His snores ceased which meant his eye were soon to open. I used to love those moments, stolen, quiet and exclusively mine to study the curve of his full lips, the slender bridge of his nose, a stark contrast of African and generations of other races he had yet to chronologically map for me. I would marvel at the size of him, how much space he took, laying diagonally on a queen sized bed that seemed like a twin in comparison to his height and broadness.
Almost as if he could sense me studying him, he turned on his side, away from our window and toward the wall. I would have felt the slow creep of pout had he not slid sleeping fingers along my thigh, under my knee, raising my leg and pulling it over his hip like a breathing blanket with a pulse. It was really too warm, but I never minded. Whatever he wanted. However he wanted. His back faced me, but I knew his eyes were gradually opening to let in our cloudy morning light.
"My back hurts." He mumbled groggily.
I tried to hear what he said, but I was a giddy teenager all over again. Throbbing with the excitement of being desired, pulsing with the wonder of where that warm sliding hand would eventually wander. I could hear my heartbeat in my ears. He embarrassed me in the most innocent of ways. Nudity never felt so good.
"Where?"
I used my hands to find the point of his pain, and eased away the knot in the small of his back as the knot within me tightened. Sexual tension, a ticking clock that would nag at me, reminding me there was a flight over twenty minutes away that held a seat for me. I was to return to a place that felt less and less like home...and not even 24 hours after I arrived. Another impromptu flight, a careless expenditure I tossed aside because my grandfather was dying and I was in desperate need of waking up with this man to convince me that I was not going to perish along with him.
"We have to get up soon, or I'm gonna miss my flight."
He sighed in agreement, but neither of us moved. So many silent conversations, between my mind and his. He could care less about that flight time. Catch the next one his hand suggested. I relented by pushing deeply into that ache along his spine. He was angry. With me because I was so far away from him. With himself because he felt an emptiness without me. With his past for preventing him for saying all the things he wanted. With his future for issuing another opportunity for him to push his dreams even further way.
He slid his hand behind his hip and found my fingers. He locked ours together and pulled me closer. The war was beginning. Push me, pull me. I could feel the wall rising and his efforts to tear it down with the same hands that gathered the bricks. Soft morning lips kissed my fingers. I wondered how such a simple gesture could be more intimate than the clawing embrace we used to tear into each other the night before. I couldn't see his eyes, but I blushed from the sentiment found in his bringing my hand to his chest, so I could curl my fingers in the hair there.
He would flutter back into a fitful sleep, his hand wrapped in mine, mine wrapped in him. I wondered if flights could run like trains. There would be no leaving him. Not that I ever wanted to.
Later, we rode to the airport in uneasy silence. I kept my face to the window so he wouldn't feel the additional tug of the sadness pregnant in my eyes. He kept his eyes on the road, his thoughts safely buried beneath a stone-faced expression. safe from the penetration of my intuition.
"Do you think you could see yourself living here?"
His voice startled me. I was busy about trying to read his mind. I turned my face to his and nodded. In retrospect, like a child. His eyes twinkled in that way they always did when he was distracted by my innocence.
"You don't even know anything about this town. Why do you think you could live here?"
"Because you're here."
I suppose my naivete has always made it easy for me to say the things time and wounds teach you to keep to yourself. But I don't regret that wide-eyed honesty. He knew it was as true as anything when I said it. I do too. There is a sweetness in that innocence that hurts me now...but I would never change it. Moments like that are too rare in our lives. Open, blind, free love. No fear to bind it. Not sure I'll ever know that sort of innocence again. But I'm glad in that moment I did.
His eyes soaked up that moment. He said nothing. I suppose he knew better than to believe in the blind utopia that I did. But he let me dream a little while longer.
His kiss before I left his truck held all the fear I knew nothing of. I understand now, the lines around his eyes, and that pained wrinkle at the corners. A wince time would teach me, over time. But as days turn to months and months to years...the sweetness of that morning will remain with me for a lifetime. That...and a love for an overcast daybreak sky.
Who was your first celebrity crush?
Submitted by Glory.
This is just effing embarrassing.
When I reviewed this question this morning, my answer sprung immediately (and quite uncomfortably) to mind. I wasn't ready to divulge that...so I called my mother to see if I liked her answer any better. The conversation was priceless.
Me: Mom...who was my first celebrity crush, you recall?
Mom: *thinks*...begins humming a New Edition song.
Me: *remembers when New Edition came out, remembers I was in about seventh grade* Ronnie DeVoe? Nah...he was the first big one...but I had one pre-puberty. I know he wasn't the first.
Mom: oh they came out that late? That's right. *thinks again* What about the Reading Rainbow guy?
Me: *has painful images of Geordi LaForge and erupts in laughter* LAVAR BURTON? I NEVER HAD A CRUSH ON HIM!!!! Good GAWD! Reading Rainbow didn't come on until the other two were pre-school age Mom. I was already 12 or so by then. *Mom and I pee our pants laughing for nearly five minutes*
Mom: How in the hell do you expect me to remember this stuff? Oh wait...wait...no, I remember. Who was that guy? Blonde hair, you met him at the car show when you were eight? The guy from the Dukes of Hazzard?
Me: *sighs* Dammit. I knew it. *bangs head on desk* You sure it wasn't anyone else? Anyone?
Mom: Oh no baby. You were ALL over him. Him and Buck Rogers. But I think you liked Buck Rogers style more than anything else.
(*disclaimer* I was EIGHT. Get off my back. I had limited television access)
Photo courtesy of the NNDB site.
So...Steve and I watched the Oscars last night, resting on our respective couches, phones stuck to our heads with me trying to ignore the constant spoilers of his television airing about 5 seconds in advance of mine.
The Oscars are one award show I try not to miss. For all the reasons I hate the others, I seem to love the Oscars. I love the cheezy award show presentation, the campy and completely awful schtick associated with opening and closing the show, I even love to critique the outfits. I don't watch gleefully. I watch with a sarcastic smirk on my face for the most part, uttering comments like:
"Cue the music..please."
"Did ______ get dressed in a closet?"
"Who came up with this ridiculous number?"
This is where Steve comes in very handy, because we feed off each other's acerbic nature, only to laugh at the sheer evil that is us. Some random thoughts exchanged between the two of us (if you didn't watch, alot of this will be hugely dull).
(Regarding the mens suits)
Me: Did every man that is NOT an actor rent his tuxedo/suit from Men's Warehouse
(Regarding those weird ass folks behind the screen creating images from movies using their shadows)
Me: that's kinda cool
Steve: I don't know...this looks like some bizarre kama sutra shit to me...
Me: *howls laughing* Oh look, they made a gun! (watches what appears to be a bullet fly across shadowed screen)
Steve: I don't even WANNA know what they used for that bullet.
(Regarding Al Gore)
Steve: Is it just my television, or has Al picked up even more weight?
Me: (answering IM simultaneously) *snickers*
Steve: what?
Me: Someone asked me why Al Gore wasn't running for office again. I said because he couldn't fit in the oval office. I'm absolutely ashamed of myself.
Steve: that was evil Cherrie. I'll make a concservative out of you yet, you're nearly there.
Me: Shut up Steve.
(Regarding Helen Mirren)
Steve: She looks absolutely fetching, doesn't she? Her dress, her hair, she truly is a stunning woman.
Me: Steve, are you absolutely sure you're straight?
Steve: Shut up Cherrie.
Me: You said, "fetching."
(Regarding every acceptance speech)
Both: CUE THE MUSIC *we both start randomly humming*
(Random)
Steve: can you check Enterprise online to see if they have a pickup truck available for rental tomorrow?
Me: are you *bleepin* kidding me? You've got a computer right there, can't you at least wait til commercial?
Steve: *laughs* I was just askin..I mean it IS getting a bit slow, isn't it?
Me: *opens web browse while cursing him under her breath*
(Regarding Will Smith & his son)
Me: Trust me, that kid is going to be an obnoxious, hateful adult. I can see it already.
Steve: what? He's comfortable on stage, he's a confident child, there's nothing wrong with that.
Me: Did you see that look he just gave Abigail Breslin?
Steve: Stop.
Me: And what's with Will's hair? Funny...he seems to be operating on his own bell curve. He started off odd, gangly and cute in a weird way, then he got sexy and action hero like...now he seems to be going back to his Fresh Prince origins.
Steve: I just keep noticing his ears.
(Regarding the Dreamgirls song sequence with Beyonce and Jennifer Hudson)
Steve: let the singoff begin...
Me: watch as Beyonce and Jennifer battle to see who can outlast the other on wild, emotional, unending notes.
Steve: why does every black musical performance always come equipped with a choir?
Me: I think I would have just preferred Jennifer sing that she's not going.
Steve: *snores*
(Regarding Clint Eastwood)
Me: was that the Dirty Harry theme? *as Clint walks out to present the Oscar to Ennio Morricone*
Steve: no, The Good The Bad and the Ugly.
Me: I was just getting ready to say that.
Steve: No, you weren't.
Me: *watching Clint Eastwood*...I think Clint just lost his train of thought...
Steve: Shut up. Actually...wait, I think he did...
(Regarding Pan's Labyrinth)
Me: How does Pan's NOT win best foreign FILM???
Steve: Did you see any of the other foreign films?
Me: Of course not.
Steve: Then be quiet.
Me: We're going to rent them all, watch and demand a recount!
Me: *gasp* Pan's doesn't get best Original Score???
Steve: Easy Cherrie, easy.
Me: That soundtrack is stellar, I listen to it all the time.
Steve: That's because you're depressing and weird, Cherrie.
Me: Shut up, Steve.
So much more was said...but I have to wrap it up here, because I realize some stuff just isn't as funny to the people outside the conversation. Out of curiousity though...I'd love to know what you loved (and hated) about Oscar night. If you're game - weigh in.
Show us a picture of where you used to be.
Always in my mom's kitchen - sitting in the same seat in the corner - taking it all in. Back in chilly Philly. I don't miss my town (at least not today)...but I am missing my brother, who's eyes tell more stories then his mouth ever will. Something we have in common.
*insert sigh here*
...and Mecca misses the snow...
...when you catch your left foot on the excess fabric of the right leg while walking to the kitchen to get your cup of coffee.
Yes, I fell. No, I didn't hurt myself. But I realize that I really just cannot defend myself against the assessment that I am clumsy. Thank God for strong, healthy bones. And thank God I'm not Samuel Jackson in Unbreakable.
"They called me Mr. Glass."
Every time I take a spill, I think of that line. And yes, I have probably fallen a lot more then I should be admitting in this space. Ironically, alcohol never has a thing to do with it.
(PS...if you never saw Unbreakable, and you want to - don't watch the clip, it's the spoiler of all spoilers)
In an aggressive attempt to drive forward and forget the cruel February/Mercury hex that stole my "esteemed" piece on "change"...I take a stab at the most recent 5wordchallenge.
My friend Pinot Noir graciously offered assistance.
Vida wondered why they called the raucous rattling of cicadas a song. She searched for evidence of them from her usual spot on the veranda. There was nothing melodic about their noise. Compared to the soothing sound of traffic and the staccato beats from the hole in the wall bar beneath her apartment on Girard avenue, these bugs were bordering on being downright obnoxious.
She took a long draw on her last cigarette of the evening, watching the miniature plume of smoke drift toward the open sky. It was her last attempt at polluting this quiet rural space, so haughty in its naiveté and airy righteousness. Her lips curled into a rueful smile. Tomorrow, she would return home to her urban jungle and the remains of an intentionally destructive existence in a weak attempt to fix what she assumed was far beyond any reasonable repair. It would take a lot more than sobriety to cure what ailed her; her fairy foster mother had just worked her last miracle.
Just posted.
Something I spent most of the morning writing. I accidently posted it to the wrong group. Went to the group page, to delete it. I now realize, deleting it there, deletes it from my blog.
Big post, with no draft. Gone.
I'm going to cry very heavily now.
