Wish I was an English muffin...

Remember this?

IT'S HAPPENING, PEOPLE.

Joie is going to see Wicked in Los Angeles on Thursday, May 22nd.

...Excitement cannot be put into type.  Except by saying, "OMFGZ I'M SO EXCITEEEEEDDDDD!!!11!1ONEONE!!!111!"

Courtesy o' my pal/brother from another mother Brian (the one that married my best friend, not the one I date).  And really, courtesy of a Mister Ludwig van Beethoven:

Coffee is a fairly regular event for me; I'm not necessarily a cup-a-day gal, but at least a cup every other day, and especially on Mondays/Wednesdays/Fridays, my early days.  So when, on Thursday, I ran out of coffee for the first time ever, I knew we had a potentially dangerous situation on our hands.  However, I'm an idiot and forgot to get to the store, and so Friday morning came along with my 9:00am Spanish class, and I went uncaffeinated and unprepared to discuss anything in Spanish.  The initial "conversation" with my profesora that we start every class with went woefully bad; I hate being the student that answers every questions with "uh" or "yes" or "what?"  So Friday night a trip to the grocery store was more than necessary.

Usually my grandmother buys me coffee, and I love what she gets me, so I grabbed a bag of that.  (I know a great deal about drinking coffee--pour it in a cup, bring cup to mouth, sip carefully, still manage to burn inside of mouth, swallow, repeat--but I know nothing about coffee.)  I think I did notice something about "AMERICA'S FAVORITE WHOLE BEAN COFFEE OMGZ YAY!" on the bag (probably minus the "omgz yay"), but I just thought these were silly marketing terms: of course the coffee is made from whole beans, I thought, and happily purchased my coffee.

This morning I woke up at a not-so-early 11 in the morning (hey, I did go to bed at 3, okay?) and decided that nothing would be better than a Saturday morning-ish cup of coffee.  I start to open the bag, again notice the words "WHOLE BEAN" plastered all over the bag--geez, they are really pushing that issue, eh?--and notice, "Well, this feels lumpy."  And then I open the bag and notice AMERICA'S FAVORITE.... whole beans.  You know.  As in beans, that are whole, and not ground.  Oops...

So I did what any self-respecting college student caffeine junkie would do:  I put some beans in a ziploc bag, grabbed a hammer (note that I did not miss an opportunity to say out loud, "Stop!  It's hammer time,"), and went outside in all my morning fug to bang the shit out of some coffee beans, and to hell with whoever sees me doing this (which ultimately included all passing traffic on Highway 119 and one of my male neighbors).

This process yielded a not-so-fine-but-possibly-workable coffee crumble, which I have tossed in the coffee maker and am about to enjoy taste experience.

I have like, 3 minutes to type this before I have to get ready and run to class, but I couldn't resist expressing my disgust over this one.

I just went to movietickets.com to check out movie times for tonight, and I noticed that what apparently is the biggest movie out right now is something I haven't even heard of.  I clicked on it to read a synopsis, and above the synopsis I see:

"Prefer to listen to the synopsis instead?  Just click on the "LISTEN" button and begin listening!"

...What.  The.  Hell.  Are people really incapable of reading ONE paragraph to learn more about the movie?  I could go on this rant for awhile, but I'll stop there.

Who says people don't read anymore?  Oh, wait...

If I have a writing assignment in Spanish, I like to put it into Babel Fish just to check to make sure the gist of it is clear (I know online translators are a bit ridiculous, but it's better than nothing).  Here's what happened to one of my sentences because of one wrong letter:

"Nevertheless, my passion and my love always the music composition was AIDS, something I have made all my life."

...Híjole.

My senior recital... was basically everything I hoped it would be.  I can't even begin to describe it thoroughly or accurately.  I went to my early classes, but skipped wind ensemble to go in pursuit of more pedal-appropriate shoes (the ones I had, though adorable, were a slight distraction to me given that they're about 4 inches tall and can make tricky pedaling a bigger challenge).  I was expecting this trip to be a bit of a waste of time (although I recognized the important therapeutic benefits of going shoe shopping to calm oneself) when, after just 15 minutes at the shopping center, I walk into Belk, find the absolute perfect pair of shoes:  black, strappy, cute, short and not-pointy heel, and OH BTW ON SALE FOR $20.  They had two sizes left:  6 and 7 1/2; my size 8-8 1/2 feet slid in comfortably and though the heel bordered on the edge of the shoe, all was well in Toe Land and Comfortville.   A SERENDIPITOUS SHOE EXPERIENCE, INDEED.

Okay, that part I can begin to describe thoroughly and accurately.  What I can't describe is what it's like wondering if when you get out on stage, you'll forget how to play the piano altogether; what it's like standing slightly off-stage, listening to more and more people file in (we had 90 programs and apparently ran out); what it's like as the stage manager calls up to the whoever and gives the order to cut the house lights; what it's like to walk out onto a brightly lit stage with the most gorgeous piano you've ever laid eyes on while all of your college friends and a surprising number of your high school ones are clapping and waiting for you to play it.  I can't describe well sitting down and the tremendous force of will it takes to make yourself just start (a problem vocalists or instrumentalists may not generally have, as they're just sort of shoved out of the airplane by their accompanist), or that truly magical feeling when you overcome your nerves, remember how much you love the music, and manage to start enjoying the experience.  Dare I say it?  I had a BLAST.  Performance anxiety Joie, the girl whose lack of formal piano education up till college has given her some sort of inferiority complex, loved giving a piano half-recital. 

And now, what I really can't describe:  sitting backstage and listening to your amazingly talented peers play 30 minutes of music you composed.  That's all I can say, because it was an experience to which words just don't do justice.  There are few times in my entire life that I've been so happy.  And may I just say, the second bow thing?  Pretty much the coolest perk of a recital ever.  "Look at me and clap!  Continue clapping so that you may look at me again!"  Magic, baby!

I had to get all that out.  I'm so thankful for this amazing, once in a lifetime opportunity.  I spent literally four years waiting for that day to come, and never thought it would get here.  Now that it's over, I'm a mixture of sad and relieved... but I don't think I could've hoped for a better overall experience.

I am Joie's Raging Inability to Sleep.  (And Joie, apparently, is still reading or at least thinking about reading Fight Club.)

For the past several weeks, I've been mostly unable to go back to sleep if I'm woken up after about 8 in the morning.  (Okay, I realize lots of people need to be up before that time--I do, too, some days--but I'm a college student, and damn it all, I reserve my right to sleep until 3 in the afternoon whenever I feel like it.)  It's... exceptionally annoying.  But as soon as I wake up inadvertently or am woken up by someone/thing, my head starts going, making a list of what needs to be done, and any hope of remaining blissfully asleep is gone.

Apparently in the days leading up to my recital, this time has been pushed back to 5 in the freaking morning.  No less, on a Sunday.  I give you the big DOUBLE-YOU TEE EFF, brain.  Brian (...a surprising juxtaposition of two words only a letter swap apart [holy shit I know how to use "juxtaposition" at 5 in the morning?!]) called me after returning home from his very late gig, and as soon as I got off the phone my brain started thinking, "You're really not comfortable enough with that Beethoven sonata yet.  You should practice." 

Ok, Brain, I thought back, we'll practice today.  A lot. 
"We should probably go through it, I dunno, a lot of times in a row," nagged Brain. 
Yes, I agree.  We'll get right on that today and do it every day until my recital, Brain.  I proceeded to go back to sleep.
"...Joie?" pestered Brain.  "I think Brian called you before this last time and you said something really stupid out of sleepiness.  I can't remember what it was.  What was it?"
~ a call to Brian to confirm I in fact, did not answer the first time he called and did not say anything stupid related to the dream I was having about Coda, Heather's new baby bunny ~
There, Brain.  Nothing said.  No bunnies mentioned.  Good-night.
"You have to wear a dress and heels today."
Irrelevant information, Brain.  Good-night.
"...You still have to name those three movements of the flute and marimba piece, you know.  I wonder if anyone's at the practice rooms now?"
...Okay, I'm up.

This is the part where I assure you I'm not insane.  But I think it was Nick who noted his affinity for my I-woke-up-ridiculously-early-and-can't-go-back-to-sleep-posts, and this one goes out to him.

Off I go to the music building.  At 5:25.  In the morning.  On a Sunday.

Edited to Add:  Ah, and if you didn't figure it out, I passed my piano jury.  Much drama was involved, including my almost failing it after the first piece I played--a Bach prelude and fugue, bless the man--but after agreeing to drop that piece and recovering pretty well considering how upset I was, they passed me!  I'm glad to be rid of it, honestly.

Edit #2:  The only thing more annoying than waking up at 5 in the morning with an urge to practice is going to the music building at 5:30 in the morning and discovering one's security card apparently won't let you in that early.  And that Captain McResponsible on the University Police has decided that maybe he'll go ahead and do his job this time and lock every door in the building.  A grrr on everyone!!!

Have I talked about Randy Newman?  Yes, no, maybe?  Well, if not, it's time, my friends (four commas in one sentence?!).  (And then four punctuation marks?!)  (Edit:  Um, aka 3 commas.  I'm a freakin' music major, shut up.)

I love Randy Newman.  Not like.  Love.  I would tell Randy Newman I am in love with him, it's that serious.  I realize lots of people enjoy making fun o' the Newman--yes, yes, I understand, he has a silly voice--but his songs!  His orchestration!  His amazing talent!

Now here's why I suck:  I honestly only have one Randy Newman album, and oh dear... it's a "Best Of," which of course makes me a giant poseur.  It won't stop me from raving about him!  Based on everything I've heard, I think Randy Newman is one of my favorite songwriters of all time.  (A brief High Fidelity moment:   My Top 3 Songwriters:  Ben Folds, Randy Newman, Paul Simon.  In no order.)  I'm pretty positive I'm one of about maybe 14 people in their early twenties who enjoy Randy Newman, and I think that's a shame.  I bring to you two songs I can't stop listening to, "Marie," and one whose premise is just amazing and whose execution is equally so, "Sail Away."  (Furthermore, I freaking love the orchestration in the opening of Sail Away; nerd that I am, I plan on breaking it down soon and figuring out how to replicate that sound.)

(Also, I'm still the idiot who doesn't understand how to format stuff so you see more than that silly sound icon.)  sdede2, I dunno where you are, but I miss you and expect a comment from you expressing your thoughts on Randy Newman!

Don't you dare act up on me in the next two weeks.  I realize, Body, that you have been especially gracious (especially after this past summer's bout with mono) in remaining well while every other person I knew, even the normally healthy boyfriend, fell victim to some bug or another during the winter months.  I realize how exceptionally kind it was of you to give me this winter off--you refused to succumb to any 72-, 48-, or even 24-hour cold.  But Body, you must understand that the next two weeks are going to be some of the most important in my life thus far.  You need to know that whatever you want to throw at me after April 17th, I will accept, but before then, I cannot deal with any form of illness.  I'm telling you this in the hopes that you will speak to Tonsils, who are beginning to do that funny but disgusting thing they did when I had mono.  I realize how unlikely it is to get mono twice--although the recent pain in my abdomen isn't doing much to quell my fears--but if you could just have a word with Tonsils.  Warn them gently at first, but if they continue to act up, please assure them that I will not hesitate to find a doctor to tear those bad boys out (I hear the rule is having tonsillitis five times in a year = tonsillectomy; I've had it only three times, but I can swing something).  If they don't believe you, advise that they speak with Retinal Tears.  Those bitches never saw it coming.

Sincerely,
Joie, the more abstract counterpart to your physical existence

Often when I see something completely ridiculous, I think to myself, "What if this was the only thing people in the distant future had to judge the world of today by?  What would they think of us?"  Sometimes I take it further and wonder, "What if another alien species was judging the entire human race based on this single shred of evidence?  As this just happened, I've been inspired to start a new segment on my Vox entitled "Today from Tomorrow's Perspective."  (Or perhaps something snazzier than that when I'm feeling more creative.)

In these posts, I invite you to imagine what the society/species that would produce such a video/picture/etc. might be like.  Then I ask that you remember:  it's us.  We made this crap.  With our own bizarre hands.  Feel free to leave a comment with your thoughts.

Sometimes the subjects of these posts may be serious and even depressing.  Tonight, however, is not one of those times.  Tell me:  what would the society that produced this music video be like?

Edited to Add:  This video was discovered upon my being rickrolled.  I can't keep up with the Internet memes anymore.  I used to be so cool, in an Internet nerd sort of way.