if my life had a sound track...

i have an extensive music collection. cd's, tapes, 8-tracks (i can only listen to these in my dad's broke-down hippie van-come-mega-tackle-box), records (can't really play these anywhere, as i don't have a player, nor trust anyone else to not scratch them as i use theirs -- i guess i just have them to look at...). some are well-known albums by various bands or solo artists, though most of them bear the phrase "on tour" or "best of". everything from the classics (motzart, bach, etc.) to classic rock (stones, zeppelin, beatles, monkeys) to subsect cult favorites (velvit underground, meat-loaf, etc).

but, as my best friend, and fellow blogger, says, the best kind of music is usually the kind with no words. and the best, and easiest, place to find these are movie sound tracks. most of my albums are movie soundtracks. as you know, sound tracks can have all instrumental, all artist hits, or a mixture of the two. i like the third choice.

has anyone asked you, "if your life was a movie, who would you want to play you?" well, the right actors are all well and good, major faces are important. but even moreso are the ones behind the scenes. writers, directors, and producers, for example (for me: the writers from "pirates of the carribbean," tim burtion/jim henson jointed for director and producer). but, perhaps the most taken-for-granted job is the one who writes the score, and choses the songs. the wrong notes, an improperly-placed/edited song, could completely destroy a scene, or sometimes, an entire film! the real question shouldn't be "who would play you?", but "who would organize your sound track?"

personally, i would chose danny elfman, but should he ever become unavailable to assist in scoring the life of a small-town bumpkin, i could get a start on my list of songs.

first, i've always liked, and identified, with the song livin' la vida loca. it's all about how a guy can't resist the crazy, odd quirks of this chick, most of which activities i quite enjoy -- especially the part about having a new addiction for every day and night (i have an incredibly addictive personality, though my interests vary too much to stay addicted for long. i'm sure i give all my friends and family whiplash sometimes). should there ever be a romance scene in my life-film, i want this playing in the background. or perhaps i could be seranaded in a karaoke bar... anyway, i'm not here to write the film, just roughly set up the score...

i've also got this great image in my head going, should the world ever fall to a post-apocolyptic industrial wasteland, and a resistance army is set up to fight against an unjust unified-world-order. as i fight for freedom in the great field battle, cannons, guns, and bombs uprooting trees, scattering mud clots onto the heads of the opressed, genetically-altered soldiors of the opposing side, all of us dirty and defeated in the end. now, take out the sounds of explosions, cries of agony, and, in its place, let the ABBA song fernando play. a great song, of the sour effects war has on the body and soul, set to such a very jaunty little tune, as sung by the true disco queens. think about it: death, distruction, and carnage assaulting the viewer's eyes, as hurdy-gurdy-hippie-disco-dance music plays with their ears. the juxtaposition is beautiful.

other than the music, the film may need capes, mad scientists, dashing and/or disgusting pirates, and definately werewolves. and a magical sock monkey.

but that's a rant for another time. 'till then, i'm livin' la vida loca, whether the song is playing or not... come on post-apocolyptic industrial wasteland....

wardrobe rules: why does it even matter?

if you, the reader, has ever wondered, what does this franki17kaye91 look like? well, i guess i look a bit like i sound in my writing. i've been told that i have only three emotions: surly, stoic, and the recently-added hystarical with giggles and snorts (more on that bit in future rants...). i hit my growing peak in fifth grade, plateauing at a solid 5' .5''. i'm a tad pale, with curly, pouffy brown hair, green eyes, and a smatter of freckles. i'm just a tad overweight (which, in this conformity-obsessed world of conventional beauty, what girl isn't, except the anorexics and bullimics?) with a bum that's not so much like a "back porch swing" and more like a "mad wrecking ball with a vendetta against the whole of humanity, no reguard for any and all who get in the way."

i'm pretty plain, if you wanna know the truth.

but my natural looks aren't the important part here. it's my wardrobe.

everyone i know is well-aquainted with my obsession with bandanas, black lipstick, and bright-flipperin'-green combat boots. everything else in between is too odd and extensive to fit into any category. it's sort of punk-goth-hippie-checkerhead-countrygirl-urbanchick-coorperatfiend-comfortslob-bikerdenim-trekkiegeek with a splash of human thrown in there.

they come mostly from second-hand stores, and passed down from older family memebers, or discovered in the bottom of some box in the basement, and, maybe once or twice a year, i actually get the money to shop at a first-hand store (too poor for even wal-mart... that's kinda sad...). i make do with what i got, i mix, match, alter, and, sometimes, completely distory, which actually fixes them half the time. some of the outfits i got going could even rival those of Lady Ga-Ga.

but, getting to the point of my document, while most people don't know what they're gonna be getting from me, i have my own goon squad to take me down and shove a ticket down my throat for allowing myself to walk the high school halls in my outlandish garb.

why should it matter what i wear? black lipstick is no different from red or pink lipstick. black is just a color. fishnets don't make me a hooker, nor do they make me a lesbien-pirate, or whatever else. bandanas are not hats. hats can be easily taken off, and offered to others, for which lice-alert the reason they're not allowed in schools. no one actually takes off a bandana -- they use them to cover things up -- like my pouffy curls that do nothing but fuzz if i so much as say the word "moisture." and, really, a few spikes never hurt anybody. well... okay, i'm sure a few have, but that's beside the point.

my family is afraid -- have always been afraid, since i started dressing this way at seven -- that my outfits will get me teased and put down. well, they do. but, as a non-conformist, that's a high compliment. an even higher compliment when i take a risk, and the human gentry offer actual compliments.

no one seems to understand my risk-taking, so they try to limit it, thereby stiffling my creative genius (yes. genius.), which turns me into a ceesy action-movie supervillian, spurned by the world, and bent on distruction of all who doubted me! mwahahahahahahahahaha! snort.

it should'nt matter. and, quite frankly, it doesn't. no matter the limits put on my creativity, i always find a loophole, and i grow, despite the pressure to stay under certain thumbs. i'm going to surpass my original programing, and they will all remain the pathetic little conformists they've taught themselves to be.

i win.

give the bus driver a break

a senior in high school without a job, and a gas tank that all too often has to go unfed, i have been riding the bus for thriteen years (kindergarten included). i am known on my bus as the "bus ghost" because, for all they know, i just live there and haunt it (not hard to imagine, i suppose, given my severe paleness, surly attitude, and the rarity that i ever speak...).

the only one who has stayed on nearly as long as i have is our driver. poor woman, she started her chauffer carreer with such eagerness. After six years, though, of being spat on (literally), having things thrown at her, such as pencils, rocks, and insults (bitch, whore, kunt, and dildo, among the least explicit), and angry parents threatening to take her down when she tries to fight back, well, obviously takes some of the fun out of the job.

i tell you, the kids she has to deal with are pure evil. everyone stands, then has the gall to be pissed off when a sudden stop makes them flip a seat or fall on their face in the isles. eight year olds issue language that would make a sailer blush. i've seen more fights at 60mph than i've seen small-town hicks with farmer tans.

they don't dare mess with me, of course (who would wanna call the wrath of the ghoul next door?), but i hate that they don't give our bus driver the same respect. it makes me mad. i mean, i get to leave at the end of the month, and never have to come back. she, however, has got to come back year after year after year after year, until she either retires (horror!), or she quits/gets fired (equal prospects, given the idiocy of her cargo).

so, i guess what i'm going to leave you with is this: if you take public transportation, give the driver a break. after all, it's not like you have to be around them all the time, like they need to be around people like you all day, every day. that's how they make their living. and it's a good thing they're so patient -- what if every driver gets the one jerk-wad that can't get off their back, then how would you get from class to soccer practice to wherever the heck else without them? you'd have to rely on your own self, dang it!

give the bus driver a break, people. they're a better brand of human than you jerk-wads out there.

odd lyrics that have vexed me for ages

when i was young, as children are, i heard lyrics that rarely made sense.

for instance, you know the movie "the lion king"? the song "hakkunah matata" has a lyric that says, "it's our problem-free philosophy," but when i was convinced they were singing, "it's a trouble-free colostomy". i never knew what all the adults were giggling at when i sung this song.

also, "pochahontis"(which is a terrible historical recollection -- leave it to disney... but that's another rant altogether... stay tuned!), where she sings, "paint with all the colors of the wind," i used to sing "paint with all the colors of the wig." i thought they were singing about clowns.

then, a tad older, my mother showed me "the sound of music" for the first time. the dad person sings a song called "eidelwise," which is a flower. but i didn't know that as a child. he was singing, "small and white," and "every morning you greet me." i thought an "eidelwise" was a brand of asprin. think about it.

also, from the same movie, the scene where the teenage girl was singing in the gazeebo with her boyfriend made me laugh like a madman. the lyric she sings to him, in all honesty, was, "i need someone older and wiser telling me what to do." that just struck me as the stoopidest sentance ever uttered by someone on television (telling you exactly how stoopid i thought it sounded). even at eight or ten years old, i was self-dependant enough to think needing, actually wanting someone to tell her what to do was crazy! i mean, i know now that it was a different time, where nazis ruled the eastern free world, and women were given little thought until it was necissary, and media and propriety had actually dictated that they did, indeed, need someone telling them what to do, as if their minds were too insufficient to think on thier own. but, at the time, i thought she must've been the biggest ditz airhead of all time, to think it was a romantic concept that someone, let alone an adolescent boy , order her around! what a moron!

but then, the guy sang back to her, "you need someone older and wiser telling you what to do." then i got mad. the jerk-wad! he's actually feeding her deluded, masogonistic fantasy of subordination and stoopidity! the hole-of-arse he was! it was then that i realized just how independant i saw myself, and that i, maybe, was a beginner feminist, which i am mostly proud of (despite the "woman jokes" that float around)

randomness. babble and the like.

i have recently learned that the longest word in the english language (barring that of "marry poppins") is "antidisestablismentarianism."

i quite enjoy black lipstick.

i wrote a song when i was little: "my friends are all invisible and no one knows they're here but me i know it sounds strange and it is but you really need to broaden your mind"

i am currently watching my friend create his blog, "the realm of nerdum" as we giggle incessantly. and snort, in my case.

huzzah.

re: a quick little something

yes. prom quite rightly sucked. mind you, i did stock up on my mask collection, by swiping the table decorations (dance tradition. can't go to a dance without swiping the table decorations. they just throw them away in the end anyway). people claimed to have liked my dress, as did i. it held ten times the color and none of the pouf of the common dress of the season. but, that didn't keep it from being too terribly boring. my date and i didn't really dance much (a fact for which we are both thankful), and the majority of the music played was a tad suckage (too modern, too poppy, i'm a classic rock chick myself, 60s, 70s, 80s in particular).

but afterprom. now that was a party. "western" themed, worlds more casual, and included indian casinos.

now, here comes into play some of my greatest fatal flaws (there are quite a few, but we'll only concentrate on the important ones for today...). i thought i'd go around, sample all the games, earn some chips to trade in for raffle tickets, which i could then drop into various buckets for any one of the high-tech door prizes, or just cash.

the actual commencement of my night: three hours playing roulette, two cups at my disposal, one entirely full of $50 chips, the other overflowing $20 chips, the $10 chips not even worth the extra cup; 87 raffle tickets earned, all of which were dropped into the bucket whose door prize appeald most to me (they were all things like tv's, iPods, dorm fridges, etc.). what i most desired from them all was a mere $100 bill. cash would have given me the most use at this juncture in my life. there were only about twenty other tickets in the bucket besides. the hours of gambling having hightened my statistic abilities, i figured that about a 4:1 chance of my success.

as the drawing occorred with all the many, many prizes, we were all entertained by a hypnotist.

well, they were entertained. i was one of the lucky few who got hypnotized. i don't remember much, but i do actually remember things. most everyone says they "don't remember anything," but that's usually a load of [banana split]. either that, or they're already very, very good at not thinking, anyway.

'course, that might just be my opinion.

the little i do remember: there was laughing. lots of laughing. i'm already so self-conscious of my snorty laugh that it'd be hard not to come to a little once you hear it. my natural instinct is to stop myself laughing immediately, as no one really needs to know my laugh sounds that way. but i couldn't stop, and something about the dropped tissue accross the gym floor was flippin' hillarious. then, the guy said, "sleep" and i was under again.

i also remember talking to someone in the audience, about what i don't know, being too furious to stay relaxed. but, once whatever the situation was was rectified, i was again relaxed into submission.

and i'm pretty sure there was an invisible car in there somewhere. not sure about the particulars, just that i woke up to find myself driving a car, thought it the most natural thing, and went back under.

i naturally wake up a million times in natural sleep, so, even if this is not the norm, as i suspect, i wasn't surprised at all.

i was also hardly surprised to find, after the immemorable fun, i had won one of the $100 bills they were raffling off. i took my money, and an amazingly delicious hamburger, and blew the joint. home by 4 am, i got the world's best sleep, only waking up a coulple times, and slept to noon.

good times.

just a quick little something

this is the last dance of my senior year. the prom. why am i not excited? no clue. i guess for someone with no *safe* dancing abilities, nor a *real* date, it's just another excuse for me to observe the local human population and record the data in my journal. my plans for tonight: two or three hours at the actual dance (themed "masquerade") doing much of nothing, expanding a great boredom bubble, untill i can duck out and sit in my car in front of the after-prom location, reading soulless untill the doors open. i hope to be home to be home before midnight, as i actually have church in the morning, and it usually takes me forever to wake up properly as it is.

so, if this is the way i feel about it, why even bother going? because the more i think about not going this year, the more i start to cringe at last year's prom experience. one hour into it, i started feeling the dastardly effects of a cold or the flu. two hours into it, i lost my voice, and the heavy base thumping over the speakers was making me dizzy. two and a half hours into it, i left. the moment i started my mama's car, i realized i'd broken her driver's side power window on the way there. so i drove home, sick, with the windo wide open, as an uncharacteristicly cold rain/snow combo pelted me at 55 mph. twenty minutes later, i arrived home to an empty house, and a list of chores to do before bed. so there i was, in my prom dress (a flowy cornflower blue number with a tight sparkelly bodice), washing dishes, sniffelling both with sick and with sadness. there were no pictures that year.

so, even if tonight, the entire thing turns out completely boring, or even if something spilled on my dress, it's still sure to be better than last year. as long as that sick night won't be my final memory of school functions, and how i left this tiny town. or, if something horrible happens, like some (w)itches decide to re-enact a "carrie" scene, or some jerk-wad makes a bet with his buddies that is sure to end horribly for me... well, i suppose you'll be hearing from me again soon.

time to go get ready. wish me luck.

oy.