You have no idea how many entries I've started in the past two weeks, how many text documents I've opened, how many opening paragraphs I've typed and erased.

For no good reason, either.

(Sidenote: I say that because the first sentence here seems so ominous set off by itself like that, as though I'm about to tell you something very dramatic or important. Guess what? I'm not! I have almost nothing dramatic or important to say! Isn't that something?)

(Sidenote part two: For some reason, I have a compelling need to erase what I've written so far and replace it with: "Now, this is a story all about how my life got flip turned upside down ...," but I won't. My life is currently flipped right side up. Also, can you have a paragraph than consists only of parentheses, or are the parentheses dependent upon the sentences preceding them in a paragraph? And why do I have an obsession with parentheses and their varied uses?)

First, let's start with a story.

Last weekend (well, two weekends ago, if you count the one that just ended) my psuedo-brother-in-law Tim visited Austin. He came in town for the Austin Film Festival, and got to experience the joy that is Lucy and Brad's New(ish) Apartment With The Alcoholic Upstairs Neighbors Of Much Yelling and Boyz II Men Music. Much fun was had, especially on Friday night, when I took too many shots of Jack before going to the Driskoll hotel bar and shmoozefest that I left the bar without telling anyone, got in a cab parked outside on the street, and walked in the door at home to Brad looking at me quizzically and asking, "Um, honey? Where is your sister? Where is Tim?" to which I answered, "How am I supposed to know that?" before passing out. Note to self: do not take four shots of Jack on an empty stomach after not drinking for four months. Idiot. At least I didn't drive, y'all. But I did make the cab driver happy, he even told me that I was a beautiful person, and that was before I tipped him close to ten dollars. Drunk people don't wait for change.

But alas, that's not the story I set out to tell you. Here's the real story, and it happened way up in West Texas, back in my hometown LBK (that's Lubbock for all of you not in the know). While Tim was out of town, he asked a good friend to watch his house - get the mail, walk the perimeter, put the lime in the coconuts, that sort of thing. (By the way, I've just decided to protect the name of this good friend of Tim's, because he has no idea that I know this story, and therefore has no idea that I'm going to publish it on the internet. Just for fun, let's say that this friend's name rhymes with Cave. For fun.) So Cave is watching Tim's house, reading his diary, eating his food - everything you'd expect from a house-sitter. As a good house-sitter does, he stayed overnight each night, and took a shower using Tim's bath products each day.

Upon Tim's return, he asked Cave innocently (or so I imagine), "So, how'd it go?"

"Well, it was going really well until today, man."

"What happened today?"

"Well, today's the day I looked down at the bottle of shampoo I've been using in your shower for four days and realized that there was a puppy on it."

The idea of Cave bathing with dog shampoo has made me laugh out loud all week. I'm giggling right now, sitting at the corner table in the bookstore cafe, just thinking about it.

---

So, I have a confession to make. Have you ever heard of the site Meetup.com? (If not, the basic premise is that you can sign up to meet people based on your interests - books, plants, Ashlee Simpson's broken career, purple socks, three toed monkeys, etc. Let's say you love cooking with kiwis and sausage - there's more than likely a group on Meetup that meets on the third Tuesday of every month at a cafe near you to discuss gourmet kiwi recipes.) Well, because I am addicted to the internet, I know about all this stuff. Now, I am the kind of person who isn't very good at meeting new people. The idea of people meeting up to talk about their favorite variety of brown sugar kiwi keilbasa cakes makes me kind of nervous. At the same time, the idea that people meet up across the country to find simpatico friends is interesting, and I like interesting people. I should say: I like to watch interesting people.

What's my point? Well, my confession is this: I am currently spying on a Meetup group. That's right. When looking through the Meetup list few months ago, I found a group that sounded more interesting than all the others. I signed up for their email list without intending to ever actually attend. Tonight, while on my way to the coffee shop to write, I remembered that this group was scheduled to meet at a coffeeshop. That's when I decided to go to that particular coffee shop and spy on them - or, as I like to refer to it, "people watch".

Isn't that terrible? Does that make me some sort of closet freak? Yeah, I thought so.

Now that I've confessed, I've realized that the fact that I am spying on a group of well meaning but quirky people who are having a hard time with conversation isn't really that interesting. Moving on.

So, who saw LipSynchGate live this weekend? We did. Actually, to be honest - we almost did. When we watched Ashleeeeeeeee's first cringe-worthy performance of "Pee-suz, Pee-suz, Pee-suz of Muuuhhhhhh" on SNL, Brad kept telling us to watch her lips (which was difficult, since the camera came in for a close-up shot for all of one point five milliseconds, at which time Ashleieieieie did her best to cover her mouth with her hands.) When she came out the second time, we were... sitting on the porch. I looked over and saw Ashleoeoe dancing a jig, then my sister ran up to the door and yelled "You missed it!" I can't tell you how much I hate missing stuff. Frack.

So, we all know Ashlueioze blamed it on her band playing the wrong song at the end of the show, shrugging her shoulders as if to say, "Oops? My bad - but am I still more punk rock than my sister with my shiny black hair? Please?" That was wrong on so many levels. Not only did she blame the only people in her ensemble who have any actual talent and skill, she tried to act as though a pre-recorded track pumping her highly-tweaked vocals didn't just fill the airwaves as she practiced her best do-si-do.

On Sunday, her record label issued a statement blaming a computer glitch that should have played pre-recorded percussion rather than the Pieces of You vocals. Meaning: "Lip synch? Never!" Now, though, Ashlee says that her voice is tired from touring. Her father/record label/pr machine has concocted a story about her acid-reflux disease, but again blames her band for exposing her:

"When [the drummer] finished with 'Pieces,' he did not reset his Pro-Tools rig because he was so excited to be on Saturday Night Live," Joe Simpson explained.

"So, he walks back out to the drums, and he pushed the button without looking at what it was, and it was the same song he just played. He has ear monitors in, so he can't hear the audience. He can only hear what is in his ears. So, he was just playing his little heart out."

If I was that drummer, I'd take my precious little heart and Pro Tools rig and find a gig with a performer who actually, hmm, sings their little heart out.

To conclude, I'd like to take a minute, just sit right there - I'll tell you how I became the prince of a town called Bel Air.

Lucy loves you |