Watch This Space For A Massive Rationalization

I've sat on this a couple of days, desperately searching for the silver bullet of logic to make what I'm about to write not appear to be a complete reversal of previously published thoughts. I'm willing to believe a great many things about myself, but no matter how much sugar I sprinkle on this turd of a rationalization, it still tastes of, you know.

Someone who looks an awful lot like I do, and who has the password to this blogger account, wrote a scathing piece about why she could give a fig that poor, sad, Amy Winehouse made the leap into the inevitable, and how we should shut up about how it's a tragedy.

And then Whitney Houston goes and dies. And that writer feels, well, something. She casts around desperately for a reason that has more substance than sheer nostalgia and that can somehow justify her emotion at Houston's death when she nearly cheered at Winehouse's because, at least, we would get to stop hearing about the latter's antics.

Here's the pathetic result of that casting about:

Whitney Houston was truly singular. Much as it was cool to stop liking her after her airplay exceeded one's tolerance, I came back to Whitney in the 90s. Part nostalgia, part realization that, though Greatest Love of All is seriously sappy, no one else could have done it. One of the things that reality talent competitions have taught me (other than the fact that a lot more of you are getting pregnant in high school than I approve of, and more of you really need to consider college) is that there is an ocean of difference between talent and Talent. While discussing the X-Factor with my father this year, I noted that it was unfair to ask any of the participants to sing a song by Whitney Houston or Mariah Carey because, while they could likely get the notes out, their versions would only highlight how short they fall of the original. Whitney Houston's Talent was effortless and it's why I gave her first grudging respect and then true admiration once the 7th grade dance memories faded.

I don't know why she couldn't keep it together. I don't know how anyone in her position wakes up one day and decides crack is a good idea. I do know that she didn't then go out and cut an album whose title track was "Crack Is Dope!" (Unlike our previous dead drug addict whose claim to fame was that she had a hit with a song about how the people who wanted her to stop doing drugs and get help were lames.) We had to watch Whitney Hosuton's Talent evaporate.

So news of her death did make me sad. She had a once in a generation voice and she totally effed it up. So I guess I was sad and angry. I don't want Houston to get lumped into the sad sack remembrances we reserve for the merely talented who bump themselves off due to drugs. I don't want retrospectives to put her photo after Winehouse's in the annals of people who recently died and also did music. I want her to remain in a class of her own (and I don't think it's unfair to say that Jennifer Hudson couldn't hold a candle to Houston - she can't, that's the point, no one can).

I'm not going to go so far as to say that Houston's death was a tragedy - I still like to reserve that for truly serious things - but it was a death worthy of reflection. We knew Houston before she knew drugs and we knew what she was capable of. That she gave it up along the way, yeah, that makes me sad, and I don't mind if that makes me a hypocrite.

Dear God, Why?

As we rattled up the Garden State Parkway from the beach Sunday evening, something distracting occurred (and it wasn't our attempt to validate stereotypes regarding the owners of white pickup trucks and priuses by checking out the traffic beside us). I hit one of my radio presets, 101.9 and was greeted by a playlist consisting of No Doubt, TLC, and John Mellencamp, as well as informative listener call-ins describing how much women love chocolate. This was unusual as I rely on 101.9 for a steady diet of STP and Soundgarden, making me feel oh-so-high-schooly. Since there is literally no other radio station in the tri-state area that plays Soundgarden (dear 104.3, the very words "Get the Led Out" and "Out of the Led and into the Pink" give me palpitations requiring immediate mental health intervention), this was quite distressing. Still, I held out hope that this was a special Sunday Night Suckathon of Top-40 hits from a 1997 BC sorority house.

Then I listened more closely, specifically to the station identification. The numbers were right, but the call sign wasn't. I was no longer listening to 101.9WRXP. I was listening to 101.9WEMP which played, please don't be scared, adult contemporary. [Insert stream of expletives]

Because what the radio landscape needs, second to more Top 40, is more adult contemporary.

Sure, the old-timer in me did have to occasionally change the channel when some young whippersnapper hard rock band came on the station (or when they played Nirvana), but on the whole, I was mightily satisfied with my Temple of the Dog and Jane's Addiction fixes. In fact, if pressed, I would have said 101.9WRXP was my favorite radio station.

Now it's gone. Gone gone gone. And I have no defensible reason to shell out money for satellite radio as I just don't spend hours a day in the car. Devoted partner makes fun of the fact that I can listen to 1010WINS's 22 minute coverage for more than an hour, but now there seems to be no other choice. Much like when MTV stopped playing videos and VH1 only played adult contemporary ones, and I just stopped watching videos altogether, I fear that this marks the end of my brief FM radio experiment.

I Touched Harry Potter

The last time I went to a Broadway opening, I must admit was a tragedy. The show was, without reservation, excremental. It didn't take long for the wide-eyed child who delighted in A Chorus Line and Into the Woods to become a teenager and adult who would rather watch Papillon on TV than go see a Broadway musical. It is our uniquely American art form, but it ain't my cup of tea. This is probably sad for my father who delights in the American musical. Whether sheer nostalgia or a true love, or most likely a combination of both, I am the child of a musical lover. And I do feel bad stomping on his enthusiasm every time he asks if I would like to go see such-and-such a show with him.

Every now and again, though, I've relented. I even dragged devoted partner to the crapstorm that was Dracula: The Musical.

So it was with trepidation that I agreed to accompany my father to opening night of How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying - a capital-M musical. It didn't help that none of my evening dresses fit. Ok, one fit. The one I wore. The one I originally wore to my brother's Bar Mitzvah and the only reason it fit me then was that I had spent the month prior suffering from a wasting disease that clipped 20 pounds off my frame and left me as naturally pale as most goths spend lifetimes trying to achieve.

My father looked dashing as ever in his tux and, this being one of his all-time favorite musicals, he was hyped up. I was cautiously pessimistic.

The show was fine. Listen, my expectations were way low. After all, normal humans do not communicate through song and since musicals are in English whereas most opera is in a language I don't understand, it's hard to ignore the overwhelming artifice. This show, however, was immediately saved by truly excellent set design. I know that sounds ridiculous, but the set, in its heavily Mad Men-ish, self-consciously retro get up set the stage, literally, for a production that I felt wasn't about to take itself too seriously. It was a period piece that didn't try to demonstrate rampant relevancy and also knew that it was a throwback. I felt winked and nodded at.

For a musical, there wasn't a lot of oversinging. As someone who can carry a tune myself, one of my biggest objections to musicals (and, frankly to the cast of Glee) is that the vocals are always always overstylized. I doubt seriously that any of the singers actually sounds like that. And since the result of their musical-theatre-voices is so deeply cloying, I have difficulty listening. Yes, this cast sounded like it was singing in a musical, but just a normal amount. And the book is funny. I laughed a couple of times. John Laroquette helped this since I find his deadpan amusing.

But I didn't catch myself, at any point, finding god simply so I could pray for the end of the show. And from me, that's a mark of distinct praise for the production. My father's client was very funny and this helped when I saw her later being able to honestly convey congratulations.

It was the after, though, that was just silly. The party, held at the Plaza, was so big as to be patently ridiculous. The production had something like 20 distinct producers, and there had to be over 1000 people at this party. When it comes to celebrity, I am the product of the massively jaded New Yorker scene that judges celebrities to be neighbors to the point of downright ignoring them wherever possible. Truth be told, there are only a handful of celebrities whose presence would deeply enthuse me: Tom Jones, Joan Collins, to name two (though I realized at the show that I would like to meet Sian Phillips, who played both Livia in I, Claudius and the Reverend Mother in Dune and who was married to Peter O'Toole, and who is generally awesome). So I guess my taste in celebrities is quirky. After all, a story I love to tell is being halfway through a conversation on the street with a very handsome man before I realized it was JFK Jr.

But I had promised my knitting group I was going to meet Daniel Radcliffe, so meet him I did (apologies to the many many many little girls who didn't get to, I think mine was one of the last hands this poor guy shook). Sadly, my heart was far more aflutter when I met Umberto Eco (Umberto, call me).

Later, at home, I remarked to devoted partner that the whole idea of the opening night party was yet another example of the self-indulgence of the performing set. I mean, when you finish a project at work, how often is there a huge catered affair to commemorate it? Yes, putting on a show is an endeavor, but it's also a job, and the idea that every successful job needs a party is, well, silly.

But I had a nice date with my dad, who still looked dashing as we sat on the stairs at Grand Central waiting for my train. It may have been 20 years since the first time he took me to an opening, but we were both wearing essentially the same thing, and I was just as pleased to be his date.

Like Finding Kryptonite

If you were a child of the 80s If you were a child of the 80s exactly like me, two things were true: 1. CandyLand probably did exist and your crap parents just weren't telling you where it was and 2. You pretty much anticipated this kind of underground camaraderie to occur with frequency (NB: I realize this is a film made in the 90s, but taking place in the early 80s)



Now that I'm a grown-up, I understand that these youthful fantasies were arrived at after less than logical argument, but the little girl inside of me still hopes.

And, in fact, one frequently does encounter boisterousness on the subway, but the person singing out loud is either a) soliciting things or b) crazy. C'est la vie. Sometimes you want to shake your ass, but embarrassment prevents you. Also, if you're anything like me, the ass-shaking in question isn't exactly fly girl-ready.

Well, the other day, devoted partner showed me a video. Easily the best video I've seen since Oh, Son, Your Missus is a Nutter (worth watching, but there are bad words and adult humor if you're in on of those offices where people notice such things)



The song was so good, it made me spontaneously break into dance. So good that I gladly paid my 99 cents for the privilege of having it on my iToy. So good that I listened to it on the way to the station, walking from my car to the platform, and thirdly while on the train. It's the kind of song you can not help but tap your feet to.

Apropos of an earlier post this week, I am ready to declare a winner in the World Series of Poor Breeding that is the New Haven line. It's not gayporn guy, muddy feet on seat girl, nosepicker, doucheoncellphoneblabbingaboutderivatives, Fran Drescher soundalikes talking about how tacky cousin Morty's Bar Mitzvah was. No. All of those able contenders have apparently been left bloodied on the field of battle by

Excessive Foot Tapping.

I swear to effin jeebus, the overly tanned J Crew dad sitting behind me actually tapped me on the shoulder to tell me my foot tapping was bothering him. I stopped, obviously, but not before marveling at what does and does not pass for appropriate behavior. It also gave me powerful ammunition for the next time someone does something that bothers me: my foot tapping might well drive cellphonedouche out of his skull.

But that's not important. What's important is that I've won something. You might think it's not that special, but knowing that my, and only my, behavior was so detestable that it merited intervention is special to me. After documenting the truly tasteless behavior of everyone else, it's nice to know that it was I all along.

So rather than give a lengthy victory speech, I thought I would let the song that started this whole mess speak for me.

Fellow commuters, this one's for you (if your office is unfriendly to the f-bomb, please watch this at home - but WATCH IT, IT'S AWESOME):

Wednesday Nopropos

Yeah, you got me. I have the spring fever and my brain can only contemplate warm things. Ergo, I shaft you, my readers with short snippets of things running through my brain. Now with links!

Issue #1: Listen to this. yes, I know it is a video, but it's the music that is important. I would like to find about 100 other songs like it. It is happy-making music. Also, I like sampling and the 80s.

Issue #2: Watch this. In the words of Liz Lemon, "I want to go to there." But seriously, how can you not want to hang out here? Something you might not know about us, but we name our rays. It all started in the Bahamas when we went fishing with a local who then cooks what you caught. He throws the inedible bits into the water and stingrays come to eat it, and then you can play with the stingrays. We decided they needed names: Ray Charles, Billy Ray Cyrus, Man Ray, Stevie Ray Vaughn. Etc.

Issue #3: Can I recomplain about Cablevision? It keeps shows that are no longer on the air on my DVR recording schedule, but fails to record shows that I have asked it to that are actually on. I'm sure this has something to do with the inexplicable rule that should you not want to record one episode of a series you have set to record, Cablevision decides you will never again record any episodes of that series. Honestly, monkeys on tricycles could make a better DVR system. You people suck. Hard.

Issue #4: Bearing in mind that I am not a fan of sushi, where should we take the Frenchies' parents for dinner while they're here? We've thus far posited: Tabla (a non-French food fave of ours), Hill Country (they do not have brisket in France), and Grimaldi's (yes I know it's not the best pizza, but it's a good take out-of-towners place). I'm also thinking maybe a good burger. Or Ippudo for ramen. Think on that, and while you're at it, will there be any nice upscale bar that would have seats on a Saturday night for after dinner drinkies? You know we never go out, we're practically useless.

The weather forecast says it will get cooler tomorrow, and perhaps my brain will start working again. Please accept my warm-weather apologies in the meantime.

Fair Warning - A Multimedia Extravaganza

My parents would not let me have a walkman as a kid. Their argument was that by owning one, I would turn into a mindless zombie who walked down the street paying no attention to anything save the music thereby making myself vulnerable to muggers, rapists, and oncoming traffic. As a result, I was never really a walkman person. Sure I finally bought myself one, and later a discman, and later still an iPod, but I never got in the habit of wearing it around. Part of the problem has always been the earphones: the puppy ones of our youth fell off the top of my head, and the buds of today fall out of my ears, making me look like I have some kind of repetitive disorder as I shove them back into my aural canals while walking.

I know when to admit defeat. You win, commuter d-bags, and I lose. You do not seem to wilt beneath my death stare, and I am unwilling to fight each of you individually, so I have fished my half-broken really old (like 2005) iPod out of its grave and loaded it with a playlist I like to call Commute 1, to imply that there might be additional Commute playlists down the road.
But lest you think I am going down without a fight, let this be your fair warning. You see, I have stocked this playlist with a dizzing array of feel-good Yelena nostalgia tracks which means I know at least 95% of all lyrics. You'll never know if your particular inane cellphone conversation will be the one that pushes me over the edge and forces me to sing along with my iPod, but know it's coming. If you refuse to understand the difference between your office/living room and a commuter train, then I too must claim ignorance of the differences between my kitchen/bathroom (the locations of my fierce rock n roll concerts) and a commuter train. Where you babble on about what's for dinner, how nice it was to see your cousin, and how last weekend was, I shall serenade you with tales of love lost, social commentary, and the occasional instructional treatise on the proper ways to make with the intercourse. I like to think that, in the end, everyone wins. You continue to have your conversations with zero regard for the disinterest of those around you, and I get to have a sort of "Take Back The Night" approach to commuting.

So, I now give you an annotated version of playlist Commute 1 and, since it's Friday, I have attached links for your listening pleasure. Please feel free to turn up the volume really high if you are surrounded by people who annoy you like it's their job - I know I will! And please, additionally, feel free to mock this superwonderful list that is a pretty accurate sampling of the rest of the contents of my iPod - I am unashamed.

Rock and Roll Ain't Noise Pollution - AC/DC - An important tract by a band whose radio airplay should not be limited to merely three songs. Pretty much every song by AC/DC makes me want to take my t-shirt off.

Janie's Got A Gun - Aerosmith - I can see how some might question this selection when I have, at my disposal, the entire Aerosmith catalog from which to choose, but this particular song made the cut due to the high note. You know the one Steven Tyler hits towards the end of, "they say when Janie was arrested they found him underneath a train" on the word "train?" Yeah, well I can hit that note. Not always well, and not all the time, but when I get it right, it can nearly break glass.

Ain't No Other Man - Christina Aguilera - For all of you who claim I am not down with the kids today and their music, you are absolutely correct. Yet I may have a soft spot for Christina Aguilera, and this particular song calls to mind R&B from my teenage years, most notably the excellent collaboration between Salt N Pepa and En Vogue on "Whatta Man."

Love Shack - B-52s - Few other songs in creation have the potential to encourage other people to get up and dance. I argue that, given the right circumstances, one could turn one's train car into a mobile party simply through the application of this song. It is my hope to prove this hypothesis (or put together some bizarre performance art troupe that terrorizes commuters by assembling in train cars to dance to Love Shack).

Born To Be My Baby - Bon Jovi - I think this was the selected Bon Jovi track because too many American Idol contestants have murdered the a-list songs. Also this is catchy with no bizarre b-section.

Holding Out For A Hero - Bonnie Tyler - Please, like this even needs an explanation. No one ever wants to go to karaoke with me, but this is most certainly the song I would like to sing. I couldn't find a good version of the video, so I give you the scene from its inclusion in that most significant entry into the Pantheon of American Cinema, Footloose. You may fast-forward to about 1:45 if you have no soul and do not wish to watch the lead up.

Gonna Make You Sweat - C&C Music Factory - I'm at a dance, I think it might be someone's Bar Mitzvah. This song is certainly playing and, given that you probably haven't heard it in at least a decade, it is well worth remembering just how good of a dance track this is. Not so good for my singing along since, well, there aren't really a lot of words, but I'm sure I can come up with something equally annoying.

Lovefool - The Cardigans - This is an experimental entry. Yes, I really like the song, but I don't know if it has the same power the others do. Perhaps it's more suited to a morning than an evening. I will keep you posted.

Crossroads - Cream - Lest you assume I can only enjoy the music of my youth, I give you the music of other people's youth. I briefly sang with some guys (albeit only in the rehearsal studio) after college, and they wanted me to sing this. As Paula Abdul would say, I made it my own and, to this day have a soft spot for it.

Jolene - Dolly Parton - It's not just that I'd like people to think I have diverse and interesting tastes, it's that, sometimes, I do. Say what you will about country music, and I have said my fair share of unflattering things, Dolly Parton friggin' rocks. This song, completely misunderstood by the two American Idol contestants (yeah, I watch the show religiously even as it never fails to piss me off) who could not even approach the proper level of anguish necessary to pull it off, is unfarkingcredible. Also, I am seriously considering tracking down this lilac pantsuit and wearing it every day. EVERY DAY.

Blem Blem - Edesio - This one needs an explanation, but it has a sister track later on, and the explanation for them both belongs with her.

Suspicious Minds - Elvis Presley - Again, icons need no defense. Everyone loves Elvis and I'm sure everyone will love hearing me sing along with him.

More Than Words - Extreme - Much like I think the HBO series "Rome" was created with me in mind, I believe that Monster Ballads was compiled for my enjoyment. To not acknowledge that would be to spit upon the grand gesture. I think a lot of people who didn't come of age as 80s became 90s might not understand the true greatness of this ballad. So think of me as an ExtremeEvangelist. Also, you gotta love that they both have way better hair than I do.

Praise You - Fatboy Slim - Trippy, jumpy, feel-goody, but, with repetition, highly annoying. This might be one of the list that needs to be back-to-back-to-back played before is achieves the desired results.

Sweet Little Lies - Fleetwood Mac - I am going to try to ignore that, while looking for this video, I had to wade through many a video of a remake by a teenybopper I've never heard of, because it is important to acknowledge the crazy awesomeness and awesome craziness of Stevie Nicks. Even thinking about her makes me want to wear spiderweb tights and a peasant skirt.


Jesus He Knows Me - Genesis - I don't want to start sounding like Patrick Bateman, but I think Phil Collins needs a lot more credit. This song is unbelievable. It is so due for a good remake (but I can't think of any group capable of this level of intelligence). Twinned with Land of Confusion and I think history might look back at the work of Genesis as the seminal socio-political commentary of the 1980s. I know there's been a lot of joking on this list, but I might try to claim that Genesis was our generation's Bob Dylan. Also this song is really catchy and saying Jesus repeatedly in a confined space is always comedic.

Can't Help Falling In Love - Lick The Tins - Been in my head all week so I had to add it. Fortunately for you, after watching the end of Some Kind of Wonderful to find out when the song came in, I almost lost my breakfast and decided I would not inflict that on anyone else. Let it not be claimed that my nostalgia is not discerning. For those keeping score: Extreme - still awesome; Some Kind of Wonderful - horrifying to behold.


Cherish - Madonna - Arguably, Madonna's sexiest video. I yearn for that hairdo. YEARN! To the point where I'm considering calling my hairdresser right now and asking for it. Seriously. Do you think there's a product on the market that makes your hair look wet like that all day? Cause I'm guessing it doesn't look good at all when dry. Yeah, Madonna was super sexy in this. It was during the Like A Prayer years when she still could sport a bit of muffin top (albeit, thin person's muffin top, but now I don't think you could get her skin to move like that over pants), before the crazy set in. It's my favorite Madonna. I have to stop watching the video - every frame gets me closer to a personal hair don't.


Beds Are Burning - Midnight Oil - This is another song where it is inexplicable to me that a remake hasn't been done. How easy would it be to make this the new anthem for environmentalism? Anyway, the song rocks. Even if you have no idea what they're saying when they talk all Australian and stuff. Come to think of it, I'm pleased our criminal neighbors to the extreme south are represented twice on this list. It shows my aversion to their ridiculous accents does not prejudice me against their creative endeavors.

Vamos A La Playa - Miranda - After college, devoted partner and I spent 10 weeks in Europe. And this song was on in every country EVERY DAY. By the time we got to Italy (about week 3-4), I had to own it. I found it in some non-major town (possibly Urbino) in the discount rack on a compilation called Paradiso Beach. On it was Blem Blem which also got a lot or airtime that summer. The entire album is filled with the kind of amazingly bad dance music you hate to love. I love it. I had never seen the video before this morning, but for anyone who has traveled in Europe (or for my European friends) this is an excellent example of how poorly our southern European friends dance. I do not dance, but I dance better than this.

Push It - Salt N Pepa - Fast-forward to :30. Ooh baby baby, this song has a high nostalgia rating and is also offensive. Because it is about having sex. Non procreative sex. Get up on this! It also allows me to rap. And I leave it to your imaginations how successful that can be.

A Girl Like You - Tom Jones

Lift Me Up - Tom Jones
Sexbomb - Tom Jones - Tom Jones gets three entries because Tom Jones deserves anything Tom Jones wants. I convinced my college roommate Eric that we should call our wildly popular radio show Tom Jones's Sock and we started every broadcast with a Tom Jones song. I am very very upset that I couldn't find the full version of Lift Me Up - which is an incredible song - so consider tracking down that album. Viva Tom Jones! P.S. I am not joking about this. I love Tom Jones.

Leather - Tori Amos - Nothing says dangerously unstable better than a pissed off girl in a handmade knitted sweater coat singing Tori Amos to herself in the seat next to you. While it is true, I don't give off the specific Tori Amos whiff of crazy, I can do a pretty good version of her on this song. And it's a creepy song. The refrain ends with the line, "hand me my leather."


Scenario - A Tribe Called Quest - When you think of vintage rap, think Yelena. I am almost as good on this one as I am on Mama Says Knock You Out. Fear my skillz.

Pride - U2 - I know U2 was gunning for voice of a generation and I up and gave it to Genesis, but this is to show there are no hard feelings. Also the high note in the chorus won't break glass, but it's in my sweet spot so it will definitely be loud! As a side note, I fear my hair looks way more like Bono's in this video than it does the Extreme guys.


Add It Up - Violent Femmes - I will never forgive Ethan Hawke and the Reality Bites people for their cover of this song. Ethan Hawke is a mama's boy wimp no matter how much grungy facial hair you give him and was wholly unbelievable as a tortured Generation X-er. Please see Dead Poets Society and Swing Kids if you have doubts (OKAY - it's been brought to my attention that it's the other mama's boy who is in Swing Kids; please replace Swing Kids with Before Sunrise, Ethan Hawke is still a pussy). The song however, is perfect for scaring commuters. It uses the f-word and talks about guns. And I've known all the words to this one since I was way too young to understand them.


Ces Soirees La - Yannick - Ok, this video is proof positive that we live in a post-racial society. This song comes to us from yet another vacation that saw us hearing the same thing on French radio once per hour. This song is so cringe worthy, I have learned all the words. In French. Don't believe me? I DARE YOU to call me on the phone and ask for it by name. But here's the thing. I never saw the album nor this video, so only hearing the rap, I assumed it was done by a white French guy. Because it sounds about as authentic vis a vis American rap tradition as Vanilla Ice (whose work was considered for inclusion briefly). But I love this song. And it is super annoying. And I know all the words. Which I think makes this a total winner because not only am I rapping, I'm rapping in a foreign language.

Bust A Move - Young MC - And let's end on a high note. Only the most cynical of squares could not want to dance to this. It is toe-tapping at its best. In fact, turn it up, dance at your desk - it's Friday!