i never will forget jeanette mcdonald

I have a kindred spirit in Rufus Wainwright. It's genuine. Any man that will stop and interview with the New York Times because of a "fashion emergency" and runs to an antique store to pick up a brooch to go with a black t-shirt is obviously cut from the same cloth as me.

He's writing an opera. Good God.

I was watching the dvd of his performance of Judy Garland songs in London and it's probably the most magical thing I've seen in a while. A flash of olive satin and brown sequins and a touch of rouge, he epitomizes Judy to an unbelievable perfection. And Martha! I'm so impressed by that family. Kate McGarrigle, Loudon Wainwright III.

The Baynham's, as a whole are talented in their own right. My grandfather is really great at being sarcastic. He is also a good voice of reason. My grandmother is the sweetest woman anyone would ever hope to meet and she has damn fine taste in clothes. And everyone knows my mom and dad. Mom is a patient force, a community maker, personal stylist, grammar nazi (in the best way). Dad is a poet in every sense of the word. He eats like a poet, sleeps like a poet, and speaks like a poet.

I suppose we are all just as wonderful as the Wainwrights, just perhaps not as musical. I mean, Tex sings. But only to bluegrass. A dog of distinguished taste.

sad

Alain Robbe-Grillet died today. He wrote one of my favorite books, Les Gommes. He said once: “The art of the novel, however, has fallen into such a state of stagnation - a lassitude acknowledged and discussed by the whole of critical opinion - that it is hard to imagine such an art can survive for long without some radical change. To many, the solution seems simple enough: such a change being impossible, the art of the novel is dying.”

I agree. My own mother, an english teacher, reads in one or two sittings those awful "chick-lit" novels that all have the same plot, just a different location. Is the reason why we aren't creating great novels because we aren't reading great works? I wonder how high the sales of trashy magazines are to the sales of great works of literature. The New York Times Bestseller list is something that formerly was a highly respected litmus test of literary standards. And I'm sure many people still do vest a lot of value in topping the list, but at what cost? It seems that the books that top the list are all books on weight loss, or the failings of our government. Nothing that stirs the soul, nothing that inspires change in humanity.

I'm going to go read Love in the Time of Cholera.

danger is my middle name.

So on a whim, I changed my middle name on facebook to "Danger." I don't know, I suppose I was feeling feisty or something and felt the need to express it to the rest of the world. I feel as though this weekend I sufficiently lived up to my new moniker. Friday night the Sigma Nu pledges had an auction and the only way any of us were going to be able to handle it was with copious amounts of liquid courage. I was more than happy to go support my friends as they left their dignities behind for the good of the fraternity, but really, there's only so much pelvic thrusting by an overweight freshman that a girl can take.

But I digress. There was minimal drama, which is good. Friends got closer, friends got closure, and I danced like a crazy monkey. And I got free hash-browns. Life is good.

catapulting towards adulthood.

it blows. nothing more, nothing less. i'm not confident in my ability to survive outside of the warm fuzzy womb of presbyterian college. we are all a bunch of children in an over-priced under-staffed daycare.

i'm sad to leave my friends. i was talking to my andrew last night about how ridiculous we all are. a huge fantastic and wonderful dysfunctional family. the thing is, we all are hypersensitive. we want to be loved, appreciated, laughed with, bragged about, but if we get slighted in any way by someone in our group, you can go to hell and never come back again as far we're concerned. but we don't really actively care about the other people in our group. it's not mean-spirited, we're all just flaky. to a fault.

we're all a bunch of silly shits.

god bless us.