Vegetable Car

image via *karo*

She drives a vegetable car
Diesel, Mercedes, green, two-door
I barely know who you are
Lisa Loeb glasses
I'd sure like you ask you to stay

~Vegetable Car

Joshua Radin makes me smile. He's the perfect complement to William Fitzsimmons and his divorce ballads. Because Josh is optimistic and upbeat and seemingly unscathed as he navigates the whole heart-on-sleeve, brain-preoccupied adventure of encountering the opposite sex. Even his break-up songs are lovely and nontraumatizing. He confirms my suspicions that men do, in fact, think about girls. On more than just a Tarzan level. I know you're not as simple and clueless as you pretend to be.

Oh, and he likes girls with glasses. As all the great ones do.

Joshua Radin and William Fitzsimmons. Together. I want to go to there.

(William is the common denominator between most of my favorite artists. That man tours like nobody's business.)

Aside: I've been in a remarkably good mood this week. And I've decided to remain this way. A late-night bus conversation/iPod party with Grace yesterday reaffirmed that I'm weary of matching my moods to those of my melancholy friends. Sorry if your lives suck*, folks, but I can't commiserate anymore.

*Your lives don't suck. So smile, won't ya?

He's Still Sad. I Still Love Him.

William Fitzsimmons is still breaking my heart in the most gorgeous manner possible.

How does his ex not return? I would run. So fast. In his direction.

He wrote a sequel to "Afterall." Called "After Afterall." If my heart is ever shattered into a million little pieces, I only hope I'll be half as eloquent in articulating the experience. Not that I aspire to heartache, but I'm not paralyzed by the fear of its possibility either. 

P.S. I still think "Free Fallin'" is one of the saddest songs ever. Especially its acoustic versions. Like this one. Or John Mayer's. 

God, I'm Lonely

Art at the Steam Whistle Brewery

Sometimes I listen to my iPod on shuffle instead of, A, creating playlists of awesomeness, or, B, making a real decision as to what I feel like hearing. It's a great way to discover never-listened-to tracks on half-loved albums. But sometimes the random order will mess with my mood. I'll be bopping down the street to a fun little rock tune when all of a sudden-- WHAM! --William Fitzsimmons breaks my heart with his soulful lament: "Oh, God, my bed is empty."

I dedicate this photo to him.

A little Willie Fitz sadness for your evening. Divorce ballads are the saddest of them all.

I would like to give that man a hug.

YouTube Tuesday: Puppets and TV Boyfriends

Remember when Coldplay first burst on the scene with a video of Chris Martin walking along a beach in the rain, singing about a color? Yeah. Well, now he's a puppet. And puppets make me happy.

Not that there's anything wrong with singing in the rain. You know how I feel about Gene Kelly.

And over in new-artist-of-the-month corner, meet Caitlin Crosby. She is cool for two very important reasons:

1. She went on tour with this guy. Anyone who's shared a merchandise table with William Fitzsimmons is a friend of mine.

2. She used to date Zachary Levi. I heart Chuck. And apparently they're still friends, as he costars in her video of adorableness. So does Jesse Spencer (oh, how you House fans must be salivating). And Robert Hoffman (Step Up 2: The Streets). And Ryan Hansen (Veronica Mars). It's a TV party within a YouTube party.

Oh, and I want her hair. I guess that's a third reason. Sort of. I'm becoming one of those girls who plays with her hair way too much. I'm not flirting with you. Promise. I'm just distracted by this straggly mess on my head. It's time for a stylist's intervention. And bangs. Maybe.

Blinded By the Light

I went to the optometrist today. It had been exactly two years since my last appointment (I remember explaining to the glasses lady that I needed the new specs for a film premiere. Yes, I measure time by film-festival adventures. And Brad Pitt arrives in town tomorrow....) and I was eager to update my glasses with something new. The recent tragedy that was sitting on my frames was never quite the crisis it could have been knowing that I had an upcoming appointment with the eye folks.

I find eye exams stressful. I want to get it right. I'm suddenly in high school again, desperate to get a perfect mark on a pop quiz. I will read that bottom line. I will. And when I'm given two lenses to compare ("Which is clearer, 1 or 2?"), I get nervous. What if I make the wrong decision? The options have such slight variations. Maybe I don't think there's a difference when there really is.

And every year, I'm convinced I'm significantly more blind than the previous visit.

There was no change. Whatsoever. I have the eyes of 23-year-old Nadine.

She then put drops in my eyes. I already have large pupils. If I'm super-tired and my eyes a little red, it's easy for me to look like an abuser of questionable substances. But really, I'm just big-pupilled. But apparently they're not dilated enough for her to look into. So she stung my eyes with her evil eye drops and told me to return in 15 minutes.

Slowly the world got foggy. I could no longer read. Lights bothered me.

She took a picture of the inside of my eyeballs (very cool, but cost an additional $16. I'm a sucker for anything that's supposed to help in medical diagnoses) and sent me on my way. So while my eyes were ridiculously healthy and impressive, I was walking around with doctor-inflicted beer goggles on.

I tried to shop before heading home. But I couldn't read the price tags without taking off my glasses. And I couldn't see where I was going without putting them back on. And I felt too zoned out to actually care about fashion. So I went home.

These magical drops last for two hours. Two hours. I don't have two hours to sacrifice to such nonsense. And so, because I couldn't focus well enough to write, I decided to go for a walk/jog.

Have you ever tried to jog with your eyes closed? Not so much fun. But even the overcast sky was too bright for me. I was in awkward squint mode the entire time.

Aside: Don't put the nano on shuffle when pretending to get in shape. Because first the Newsies soundtrack will make you want to knock stuff over and cause a ruckus, and then William Fitzsimmons will make you want to curl up on your bed and cry over your parents' divorce. And my parents aren't divorced. Fitzsimmons' parents are blind. Maybe I was bonding with them subconsciously.

Eventually I just cranked up the Hairspray, let Zac Efron convince me that I can't stop the beat, and pounded the pavement until my eyes slowly adjusted to life on this planet.

Post-exercise, I made my most successful batch of sweet-potato fries ever (with cinnamon!) and sat here, at my computer, attempting to be a copy writer. But my head. It hurt. Like it was being squeezed between the arms of a pair of glasses that don't have to be replaced after all.

Maybe I'll buy some tortoise-shell frames anyway. And embrace my inner Tina Fey/Lisa Loeb/Buddy Holly. Because I want to be a smart funny writer. Or quirky heartthrob musician.

Queen of Wishful Thinking

Oh, William. He covered "King of Wishful Thinking" on Wednesday and it's been in my head ever since. The above video isn't from the concert at El Mocambo, but it's pretty much what went down.

The original video of the song is here. It's cheese in video form. Just to warn you.

I am the queen of wishful thinking. Which is dangerous. Because, as Beth Moore so eloquently puts it, "A rebellious child of God prefers pleasant illusions over truth."

I'm pretty good at thinking. I do it a lot. Although I've recently discovered that thinking does not necessarily equal processing. I can think about something without digging very deep. It's more like a daydreaming mode that I hang out in. Which is probably the worst place to keep my head. Because I end up, to borrow a lyric from Bebo, "no farther forward, just farther along."

So the plan is to move forward. To stop this wishful thinking and go have my adventure. Not that I'm going to stop thinking. Just the pointless, wistful nothingness. Dreams are still important. But not when they hold me hostage.

Things I have thought today:

• Why does my brain like to confuse Morgentaler and Kevorkian? I do know the difference. Perhaps it's because their surnames each have four syllables? Or there's the death thing....
  
• Spiritual farting is annoying. So stop it.
• I should start a washroom franchise. For those walking around downtown in need of facilities.
• I should sleep more.
• How does one become a shoe addict? Can I take a class?
• I'm higher maintenance than I like to believe. But lower than I was. I'm probably medium maintenance.
• Why do people respond to graffiti on bathroom doors? And ladies, you don't have to draw me a picture of fecal matter. I know what it looks like. No wonder guys are so confused by girls. We want roses and we draw poop.
• My piano needs a name. Because he's my boyfriend as of late. We spend plenty of quality time together late a night.
• Can someone be stalked by a country?
• I need to get in shape. For real this time. Maybe. No, stop that. For real. Discussion over.

It Happened Last Night: The Encore

It Happened Last Night: William Fitzsimmons

william: acoustic guitar, electric guitar, slide guitar, melodica, banjo, mandolin, vocals, programming, production, arguably inappropriate lyrical self-disclosure

http://www.myspace.com/williamfitzsimmons

William is the last guy at the campfire. That's how I describe him. After everyone has had their fun, played their little ditties and headed off to their tents, he's still strumming away as the embers fade, baring just a little too much of his soul beneath the midnight sky to the sleepy few remaining.