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9:31 p.m. : 2002-07-06 : Annie Get Your Donovan

How much do I love the jangling under-bite goodness of Donovan�s �Sunshine Superman�? Gobs and gobs of love for it. I have procured a copy of Mr. Leitch�s Greatest Hits and am currently enjoying the ever-loving heck out of it. One of the highlights of this particular Greatest Hits Album is that our lovely Donovan has written notes for each song (recently�his email address is in the liner notes! Go Mail �EEEM!) and they are durned liquid silvah, I tells ya, LIQUID SILVAH! And delightfully disjointed! On �Sunshine Superman,� for example: �As soon as the harpsichord hit the �riff� of my guitar, I knew this was a new sound in a new age of pop music. It�s a love song for Linda. It�s a prophecy we were destined. Yeah! It�s a pop art tribute to superheroes and modern painters and blissed-out space-cats from the inner dimension. Wow! It�s cool. It�s clear. It�s concise. And the new artist Beck has been influenced and uses harpsichord on his new album of 1999.� And Donny was singing �What�s my name, now?� well before Beyonc� even had one to say. It�s too bad his hot eyeliner wearing son of the same name couldn�t have sprung from the loins of Mrs. Leitch with a touch more of Dad�s musical chutzpah, wacky lyric style, and laid back funky 70�s delivery, instead of being such a meow meow Nancy boy with his band, er, Nancy Boy. Though �Deep Sleep Hotel� is a bit toe tapping and catchy. And at least he had the decency to get swallowed by The Blob. And his girlfriend (wife?) Kirsty Hume is scrumptiously precious in that ice cream-colored (as Cintra Wilson would put it) mute-animatronic way. But she doesn�t hold doors for people. She practically let it slam in my niece�s then fourteen-year-old face when we happed upon them at a Woodstock, NY sandwich shop. Maybe she saw Jessica�s potential to be a model and subconsciously tried to sabotage her chances with a door to the nose. Little does she know Jessica will do way more interesting and important things because she�s Smart and Funny. Anyway, I think my next pet will have to be named Donovan, if that�s ok with Kristin.

And I really am mad about saffron (quite rightly) and would like to get my mouth on some. I�ve loved and gastronomically coveted it ever since one day in kindergarten when Shiva brought for the class her mother�s amazing Iranian rice all yellah and delicious, lousy with saffron. LOUSY WITH IT! And I have fond memories of Shiva. Her gold bracelets that were actually fused on intrigued me. I think I annoyed the shit out of her because I always wanted to hang around her and she pushed me down a couple times. I suppose in kindergarten we�re still working out that righteous rage impulse. I had an Annie birthday party in second grade and on the invitations scrawled, �come as your favorite orphan.� Shiva came as Annie and I was livid. I was supposed to be the only Annie. Foot stomping ensued and finally we all got sugar high and settled in to watch Al the magician make goldfish out of paper. Many mild traumas of my life are Annie-related. When I was about seven or eight local-girl-made-good Allison Smith, the second Broadway Annie (Andrea McArdle was the first) and of Kate and Allie fame was making an appearance at the Sealfon�s department store. Against my sister and mom�s better judgement, I insisted on wearing my red Annie dress, white socks, patent leather mary janes, orange Annie Wig�. I even had on a locket and fake freckles applied with Mom�s brow liner. GREAT. We got there a little early so that I could partake of Sealfon�s sumptuous penny candy first. Well, the moment I stepped out of the car all of these little girls ran to me yelling, �Annie! ANNIE! ANNIE!� I literally said, �Get me out of here!� And ran to the bathroom where, because I was embarrassed, cursed my sister and my mother while I rubbed the freckles off with paper towel until I was raw. I removed the wig as well. Normally, even now, I would flee the scene altogether if I embarrassed myself so severely, but it�s a testament to how much I loved Annie that I walked out there, tear streaked, to sniff around this Allison Smith. Part intrigued, part wanting to be her, part �who does she think she is?� And there she stood, on a pedestal used in Real Life to hem pants, singing her little Broadway heart out to �Maybe,� my all-time favorite Annie song, to warpy shitty piano music on a shitty little tape player/recorder like the one I would later use in high school French class to complete my AP oral final requirements. I went home and sang all day, I think, to make myself feel Fitter, Happier, More Productive.

The other Annie trauma was when the girl, Aimee ("i" dotted with a heart on the Trapper Keeper of my mind's eye), whose mother did a ton of work at the summer stock theater and knew the director Very Well got the part for reasons political. Cuz I�ll tell ya, she couldn�t sing worth a bowl �a Five Dollar Bob�s Mock Cooter Stew. And then when I sang a couple (gasp!) Les Mizzzzz songs in the Superfuzz Bigmuff Apprentice Show a couple girls from the company asked why I hadn�t auditioned for Annie. I told them I had and they shook their heads at each other. I was fourteen and it was my last chance to play it�before I grew too large and my boobies started to be worthy of more than a training bra. So I never got to play Annie. Hence I undergo years and years of psychotherapy to break me of the habit of sitting around swilling beer all day, still in that same Annie dress, now torn and grease-smudged and smelly. Take me to the Wailing Wall. I really was an awful ham back then, making and handing out �tickets� from one of Dad�s empty cigar boxes, for my lunchtime recess �shows� where I would regale teachers and students with Annie songs on days I was wearing my �orphan� dress�too bad we couldn�t keep a little bit of that childish confidence that people and the world kind of beat out of you over the years.* Although I find that female singers who always lived in a sheltered bubble filled with Childish Confidence tend to be tedious sots, half-lidded ignorantly blissful eyes mimicking Buddha, starting every interview with �I started singing and dancing and playing piano and speaking five languages and doing Important Charity Work at one and a half years old, blah blah� and their talent never ever lives up to their high opinion of themselves. Actually, it happens with the mens too. Kristin and I were talking about Oasis today. She kind of eeep�d when I said, �I hate Oasis� after catching a glimpse of their deadpan mugs sur la couverture of the fabulous Q Magazine cover�they wasted a WHOLE beautiful 148-page special issue on those Brothers Pout (and yes yes, lots of people love them, lots of people I like love them, please don�t be insulted�I gave you a link to get the magazine if you wannit). So I corrected myself, �I don�t hate the music. I think it�s good. Those freaking brothers are just so MEAN. I wish I could be so MEAN and not care at all. I mean, do they have friends? I guess they have each other. And they certainly have their eyebrows.�

*Here's that unabashed confidence I'm talking about:

Anyway, interesting that Allison Smith has gone on to have a relatively successful television career and Andrea McArdle has a pretty good Broadway career too, and will be in Annie (!) Get Your Gun starting later this month. Aileen Quinn, star of the movie Annie with which I was madly in love, made three more so-so movies in the 80�s and let it die there. I wonder why.

I also bought cdr�s, cd labels and cd liner note printer-outers today. I figure I�m ready to start putting some songs on cd�s to send to a couple humans who might like to let some of the music stuffs into their ear passages.

I found this on Sigyn�s site and unbeknownst to her, her taking and posting of many tests makes her an enabler for my time, um, management (cough�wasting) problem:

Which Kiss are You?

Which Kiss Are You?

Word of the Day for Saturday July 6, 2002:

ribald RIB-uld; RY-bawld, adjective:

Characterized by, or given to, vulgar humor; coarse.

noun: A ribald person; a lewd fellow.

Barrymore delights you with his own delight in his silly, ribald jokes (most of which are unprintable here). --Ben Brantley, "A Dazzler of a Drunk, Full of Gab and Grief," [1]New York Times, March 26, 1997

His sense of humor is sharp and ribald; he never passes up an opportunity to insert a salty story. --Frederick Luciani, "No Jail Could Hold Him," [2]New York Times, October 25, 1998

Audacious ribald: your laughter will finish in hideous boredom before morning. --Bernard Shaw, [3]Man and Superman

Ribald derives from Old French ribaud, from riber, "to be wanton," from Old High German riban, "to be amorous" (originally, "to rub").

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