You know how mood rings were all popular in the ’80s? And mood shirts, those stupid shirts that changed color according to your body heat and stuff? I think they had mood pants and stuff, too.
I read this book once, a kids sci-fi type book, where all the clothing of the futuristic characters consisted of sleek mood jumpsuits and stuff, except they actually did tell your mood — not just pink or blue for hot or cold, but had actual sensors that told whether you were angry or happy or jealous or lying. And the jumpsuits were government mandated, and there was a pretty heavy black-market trade of fake jumpsuits or something. I forget the whole storyline.
I was just thinking today that it would be awesome if you could have an ipod or a Zune or something that could arrange your playlists or stream music to you automatically depending on your mood. Because sometimes I’m in a mood, and I don’t know exactly what I want to listen to until I hear it.
I know I want to listen to something . . . something that’s a little bit angry, but not bitchy-blamey-whiny angry. More like strong, assertive. And I know that I want to listen to something a little romantic, but not like, “Oh, I will climb mountains and do anything and give up my soul,” hopeless romantic. More like humorous, solid, confident. And I want something with a strong beat. And I want something catchy.
But then again, maybe I just want some Soul Asylum. They always make me happy.
So as I was driving Little A to school this morning, I was listening to 106.1, which is KISS fm here in the Sound. It usually has okay music, a mix of pop and alternative and stuff. The morning talk show was on, a woman and a couple guys speaking. The woman had one of those slightly annoying voices — not nasal or anything, just speaking a little too forcefully and a little too loud and a little too fast, speaking over everyone else and constantly interrupting.
Anyway, they were discussing the new People magazine cover. Apparently an image was released online that a bunch of people thought was the real thing, with Robert Pattinson as People‘s Sexiest Man of the Year. Okay, so no big deal, what the eff ever, right?
But no, apparently, that online image was *gasp* false! And People had actually named Johnny Depp the Sexiest Man of the Year. Now up to this point, I’m kind of just listening with half an ear, not really paying attention. It’s all just chatter-chatter-chatter, useless white noise in the background.
Then this conversation happens, and a couple sentences in, I start really paying attention because I’m a little shocked and a little appalled and a little offended.
“You’re not pleased about this? You don’t like Johnny Depp?”
“No, Johnny Depp doesn’t really do it for me. He’s so odd, so different. Like, he lives in France and he thinks he’s from France but he’s not from France.”
“And he plays chess with old men in the street.”
“Yeah, what’s that all about? What about those poor old men, being mobbed by screaming Johnny Depp fans?”
“Have you ever read Dante’s Inferno? No? I bet Johnny Depp’s read it, like, 6 times.” *laughter*
“And he probably sits at these outdoor, like cafes or things and drinks these drinks that we’ve never even heard of.”
The image they were conjuring, with the tone of their voice and their mocking laughter was this pretentious guy who thinks he’s better than everyone else. I try and make it a point not to judge celebrities (or really, anyone) myself; I don’t know them, I can’t even begin to understand their lives or walk in their shoes.
But celebrities like Johnny Depp or Daniel Day Lewis, who do their best to keep their private lives private and stay out of the public eye — I think there is something to be admired there. And I could never see how intelligence or the pursuit of knowledge is pretentious.
I would rather talk to someone who has read Dante’s Inferno 100 times than someone who spent their college years listening to KISS fm and chugging beers.
I really do not like this ever growing trend of diarrhea-of-the mouth talk radio. Whatever happened to, “And for the rest of the story . . . “?