Awfully great

Today the results were announced from one of my favorite annual contests, the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest, where there is no such thing as too bad, too cliche, too much. The contest rewards the author who can pen the most awful first sentence of a fictional novel, and is named for the great Victorian novelist who wrote the immortal first line "It was a dark and stormy night."

This year's winner came from Jim Guigli of Carmichael, California. He wrote:

"Detective Bart Lasiter was in his office studying the light from his one small window falling on his super burrito when the door swung open to reveal a woman whose body said you've had your last burrito for a while, whose face said angels did exist, and whose eyes said she could make you dig your own grave and lick the shovel clean."

Awesome. Check out their website for past winners, words from the World's Worst Poet (not J.J. Redick, apparently), and the marvelous game "Dickens or Bulwer?" To misquote Spinal Tap, there's such a fine line between literature and crap.

On tragedy

(What I wrote last year about 7/7.)

It has been a year since the London bombings, and what I think of when I think of that day, are these lines of T.S. Eliot's:

Unreal City,
Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,
A crowd flowed over London bridge, so many,
I had not thought death had undone so many.

The strangeness of that day did not begin when I tried to get on the Tube that morning at King's Cross; not when I saw the crowds streaming out of the station or when I walked to Russell Square and saw the gates of the station closed; not when I boarded at Holborn and the train stopped just before my exit, not when we were told there was a massive power surge and the whole system was shutting down, not when I got to my desk and turned on the computer and read along as an electric failure became the end of 52 lives.

The strangeness of that day came in the afternoon, after the facts became clearer, and the words that just 5 years ago would have rang so obscure - suicide bomber, Al Qaeda, terrorist - were digested. The strangeness was getting home with no cars, no buses, no trains, and seeing the people, the hundreds of millions of Londoners who had made it into the city that morning and now had no choice but to walk out. There was little fear in this crowd, and all frustration at the situation was diffused by how out of the ordinary it all was. There was a benevolence to it all, a sense of camaraderie, of luck and gratitude that we had chosen that certain route, forgotten our keys, decided to walk rather than wait in the bus queue, done whatever we did to make it. Later the fear would creep back in, but that afternoon, we were the survivors, so many millions of us, and all peripatetic, all casting slowly homewards. I had not thought death had undone so many.

It was the closest I'd ever been to tragedy, quite literally - the entrance to King's Cross tube station, the location of the greatest carnage, is less than 100 yards from the flat we had then lived in less than a week. Tavistock Square, where the bus (as enduring a London icon as Big Ben and the weather) blew up, was less than a ten-minute walk from our home. We saw the signs begging for information on missing loved ones, smelled the dying flowers at the makeshift memorial garden at Kings Cross, felt the shrapnel marks that remained on the giant blue doors of the British Medical Association in Tavistock Square for months afterwards. Hell, for the people of Kenly, NC, Kaitlin and I were their sole link to the sad event.

And yet, for all the closeness, we were still at a remove. I did not know anyone killed or hurt, or know anyone who knew anyone. I did not see any of the bleeding victims escaping the infernal tube stations. I changed my habits - began walking to work, became aware of bookbags on trains, considered emergency exits I'd never noticed before - but continued to live and work in the city that was then my assumed home. It was scary for awhile, but we all got on with things. Death had undone us, but not outdone us.

Anniversaries of tragedies are strange days, with such conflicting washes of emotions. Today we commemorate the victims, who took no paths of glory but were simply commuters, plucked from the multitudes for martyrdom. I think of those who perpetuated the acts and pity their hate. Mostly I think of London, and how she remains unbowed; how reports say that as many people rode the Tube today as on any other day; how the Unreal City continues to pulse and thrive and survive and defy, as she has always done, as her people continue to do, undone but not outdone.

Reelect Al, already

My boyfriend Al Gore comments on his new Hollywood life after making a movie, as reported by US Weekly:

"I'm in a feud with Lindsay Lohan... She knows what she did."

Oh Al, I thought my affection for you could grow no more.

Quick, what rhymes with DWI?

Ahhh, J.J. He's an easy man to hate when he's good. He's even easier to hate when he's bad.

Redick arrested on DWI charges

Considering I have a friend who personally shared a bowl with J.J. at a traffic light somewhere in Durham, I can't say I'm too terribly surprised at this turn of events.

As long as we're thinking of J.J. - something we try to avoid at all costs, unless we're remembering that time Tyler Hansbrough unleashed a can of whoop-ass on his senior night, or that time he never won a national championship, or that time he cried in his last game, or that time he picked his nose on national TV ... all right, the kid had his moments - why don't we take a moment and revisit his poetry?

Ah, that never fails to warm the cockles of my cold, Dook-hatin' heart.

Billy Preston, now in outta space

Sad news today about the death of "fifth Beatle" Billy Preston. Billy should be remembered for his fantastic talent at organ and piano playing and his great songwriting skills, but he'll always be best known as one of the only outside musicians invited into the Beatles' fold. George asked Billy to play on "Let It Be" as relationships between the Beatles became particularly hostile; Billy's presence made the Beatles act on their best behavior and his musicianship was a welcome spark on songs like "Get Back" and "Let It Be" (see Billy playing with the boys here). He jammed along with the Beatles at the famous rooftop concert and was a great friend to them all in their later careers.

Billy was more than a footnote in the history of the Beatles, though. He wrote some truly great funk songs ("Nothing from Nothing" and "Will It Go 'Round in Circles" being the most famous) and performed some awesome covers (he does a really soulful version of Paul's "Blackbird") and wrote some amazing songs for other people (Joe Cocker's "You Are So Beautiful"). He was a troubled guy throughout his life, but he still sounded great singing and playing "With You I'm Born Again" with Vonzell on American Idol last season.

He and and his killer 'fro will be missed.

Mawwiage

Apparently 20 years ago a woman was more likely to be killed by a terrorist than marry after the age of 40. I can't say from personal experience if this felt true, because 20 years ago I was more concerned with Baby Food Bananas and Pookie the blankie than my potential future spinsterdom. But I can say that reading Newsweek's revisiting of this statement and the issue of women and marriage in general brings a modicum of relief to my ever-aging, still beauless heart.

Marriage is a popular topic in the twentysomething life. Lots of us are in the middle of trying it; the rest of us are freaked out by it, and will continue to be so until we meet someone to go googly-eyed over or until societal and biological pressure drives us to desperation. You can guess which camp I'm firmly in. I really can't imagine being married right now. I'm much too independent, or selfish; same thing, really. But that doesn't mean I don't ever want to give it a go. Just not this decade.

The new Newsweek article has lots of encouraging trends for gals like me. For example, 25 is the median marriage age for women, but for women with graduate degrees it's 29. Relationships are becoming more egalitarian as women earn similar paychecks with men. (There's still a way to go on that one, but that's a subject for another feminist rant.) Around 90% of baby boomers were or are married. So spinsterdom is unlikely, but I might start stockpiling cats just in case.

Thank God things are changing for the better. Thank God I'm not living in Jane Austen's time. I would be quite in trouble if what Lydia says in Pride and Prejudice were still true:

"Jane will be quite an old maid soon, I declare. She is almost three and twenty!"

I'm living the American dream

Oh my God, I can’t believe you did this to yourself again, Jillian. Every year, it’s the same thing. You say you’re not going to get involved with this tripe. You say you’ve got a million better things to do with your Tuesday and Wednesday nights, like putting your DVDs in alphabetical order and washing your hair... again. But then you catch some of those dreadful auditions and a couple of really awesome ones too– remember Paris doing “Take Five”? mind blowing!– and then you’re rooting for someone, and then you’re hooked! Again!

But really, is this show really complete tripe? I mean, sure, it’s schmaltzy and emotionally manipulative and sometimes cruel, but it’s also fun! And musical! And funny, particularly when Paula’s in a particularly deep in her drug-induced loopiness. And sometimes, it’s even sweet. (See: Elliott Yamin’s entire storyline this season.) It keeps me in step with the taste of millions of my fellow Americans. And it imbues communities with civic pride. Let’s face it. For better or worse, Raleigh has never rallied together like it did (and does) around Clay Aiken.

There! I feel much better about my continual enjoyment of this little show. Now, for the finale. Kat versus Taylor. Shrieky beauty pageant queen versus John Belushi doing Joe Cocker. I’ve liked Taylor (or “Gray,” as I unimaginatively call him) from early on, because dude, Joe Cocker is awesome. I’m not obscenely smitten with him as I have been with some contestants past (George! Bo!) But I do think he has a unique voice and great showmanship. And I haaaaaaate Kat. Hate. Not quite Diana DeGarmo/Scott Savol levels of hate, but very, very close. And Gray totally proved himself better than Kat last night. So he’d better pull through.

Now onto the show. These little duets with contestants and quasi-famous people always amuse me. Some of them are pretty cool - Vonzell with Billy Preston was awesome, even if no one but me knew who he was, and how happy did Bo Bice look when he got to sing with Skynyrd? However the duets so far tonight are just bizarre. They clearly hired Meatloaf just so someone in the room could look more doped up than Paula. And I really dislike Mary J. Blige. As Randy would say, dude, she’s pitchy. And she’s ignoring my beloved Elliott, who is a much better singer than she is. Boo showboating divas!

I hate these little music montages they make all the old contestants sing with the really bright themes like “songs with woman in the title.” They always manage to pick the absolute cheesiest songs ever. “Man, I Feel Like A Woman”? Wow, it took some poor AI intern about 2.2 seconds to suggest that one. Blah.

What the JEEBUS is going on with Raleigh’s Own Clay Aiken’s hair?!

I think, from a certain angle, Taylor Hicks looks a smidgen like Cary Grant. And now I really know I’ve been watching this show for too long. The next 8 months will be good for me.

Hang on a sec. The crappy guest singers are ending! It’s Burt Bacharach... and Dionne Warwick! LOVE her! And oh my God, they’re going to do “That’s What Friends Are For”! That song will always remind me of 5th grade girl scout camp. We were out in the woods in a tent during one of those awful North Carolina summer storms, and to keep ourselves unafraid and entertained, we sang “That’s What Friends Are For” and ate Hershey bars that were supposed to be saved to make s'mores. That’s one of the best awful songs ever! I would expect nothing less from my Idol.

Prince!! Holy crap! You are WAY too cool for this show. Ummm.. Ok. And he’s not even dueting with Taylor and Katherine? Whatever, Your Purpleness.

Getting near results time at last. It’s sort of nice not to feel too emotionally involved with these contestants. Last year I was freaking out, praying for my Bo to pull it out. Man, I loved me some Bo. Although I must admit, Carrie has a lovely voice. She could outsing Kat McPhee any day of the freaking week.

Well, of course they’re singing “Time of my Life.” The crack AI intern staff has been hard at work again, picking out the Most Obvious Duet in History to have our finalists sing. It was “Up Where We Belong” last year (too bad, since Taylor's so Cocker-esque). Next year I’m calling Peter Cetera and Cher’s timeless joining of forces, “After All.” Then it’s “Muskrat Love” and then the world will implode.

Results time... agony and ecstasy... I notice they’re not even saying how close the votes were. Like remember when it was Clay and Ruben and they kept saying the difference was about one-one-millionth of an iota of a percent? There's none of that this year. So Taylor’s won by about 54 billion. Aaaaaaand...

I’m right. Gray wins. Hasselhoff cries. And I feel... strangely uninvolved. Maybe next year, I really won’t watch.

Right.