Lloyd Dobler Effect

I must confess, I love John Cusack. I’m not stalkeriffic or anything, just enamored. He’s tall, intelligent, quirky and has hands that can palm a basketball with no effort. I am mature enough to know that he is not the personification of Lloyd Dobler, which is okay with me because I would prefer Martin Q. Blank from Grosse Pointe Blank, or better yet Rob Gordon from High Fidelity.

I recently saw the Inside the Actors Studio episode with John and decided that I wanted to hang out with him. You know, maybe catch a Cub’s game. There are a few people with whom I’d like to hang: Heidi Klum, Tori Amos, and John Cusask. I understand that it probably won’t happen, but a girl’s gotta have dreams.

So I started thinking, how many people are obsessed with John Cusask? Well, apparently there are many. In fact, one woman went far enough to be stalkeriffic. That’s above and beyond, in my mind. On the opposite end of the spectrum is the band, Lloyd Dobler Effect. They’re out of DC and are pretty good. Unfortunately, they seem to skip Indiana on their tours, so sad. I think their style is certainly worthy of a show at Birdy’s in Bloomington or the Music Mill in Indianapolis. It’s good stuff.

Pax tecum

A funny thing happened on the way home today. I stepped onto the bus and entered church. It wasn’t just any old, non-denominational church. It was hard-core “you can’t be alive and not love Jesus” church.

It started before I was picked up at North and Alabama and was in full-swing by 10th and College. There was shouting, name calling, accusations, judgement, belittling, and an occasional “Amen”. It was a religious shout-fest between three completely unrelated individuals, two innocent, one pugnacious.

It was uncomfortable for the two women involved and even more so for the 20 others sequestered by the bus walls. In the few months I have been riding the bus, I have never witnessed such a mass exodus (no pun intended). People requested a stop, sometimes several blocks before their normal locations, and wasted no time pushing through the doors.

 I now understand the religious unrest in the Middle East a bit more. Yet the bus argument did not involve multiple religions, just multiple interpretations of the same religion. It was disconcerting and painful.

All I can say is peace be with you.

This weather ain’t right.

What is this crazy weather…torrential downpours, tornadoes in winter, 80 mph straight-line winds? What will be next, dogs living with cats?

Typically, I am a early to bed, early to rise kind of girl. With the crazy weather we’ve been having in the loverly state of Indiana, I’m either waking up at 4:30 AM to the crashing and clapping sounds of thunder or going to bed late due to said thunder and tornado sirens.

As a born and bred Hoosier (please don’t ask, no one knows!), I have become accustomed to the air-raid style siren at random times, day or night. It’s like every child’s See ‘n Say came equipped with the phrase “the warning siren goes whhhhiiiiirrrrrrrr”. Whatever happened to “the cow goes moo”? Instead, I find myself frantically herding cats into the basement, collecting the “just in case” essentials, and staring at the television while my favorite weatherman, Kevin Gregory, describes the storm’s path in detail. And I wait.

As I write this, I am still waiting. I’ve released the cats from their basement hell (their words, not mine) and I can still hear the rain and an occasional rumble of thunder. For the most part, the storm has passed.

There will be others.

A Monday by any other name

It’s Monday, the single most hated word in the English language. So, my question is, does Monday sound any better in other languages? Let’s find out…

Spanish – Lunes
German – Mon tag
Italian – Lunedì
French – Lundi
Dutch – Maandag
Portuguese – Segunda-feira
Russian – В понедельник
Norwegian – Mandag

Albeit a random sampling, I can already surmise that a Monday by any other name, or language, is just as bad. A Monday is a Monday is a Monday.

Perdí mi voz.

At least once per year, I lose my voice. How it happens is anyone’s guess.

 Am I sick? No.
Have I been yelling? No.
Have I been talking too much? No.

Whatever the cause, I woke up this morning and it was gone. I mean, I don’t even sound like Peter Brady going through puberty or Phoebe Buffay with her sexy voice. It’s more or less air and an occasional squeak.

It’s going to be a long weekend.