Today was the deadline to try out to become a host on Mythbusters. I had planned on submitting an application and videotape of myself attempting to prove or deny an urban legend, but I ran out of time.
It was going to be great, I tells ya’. I was going to talk about backwards masking in music, and if it were possible to put in a message that was audible forwards as well as backwards. I would test if the English language, with its’ infinite phonetics and pronunciations, would hold up under what happens to audio when it’s reversed (and I outta know). I was going to go to MMI, and record a bunch of things, and make it look real professional-like, and the people at Discovery Channel in San Francisco would call me and immediately request that I take the next flight to California to become the new host.
But the guy that was supposed to give me the contact information to the MMI instructors I needed to call failed to respond to me after a week of pleading. So it fell through and I’m pissed off and bitter. So to Lucas, if you ever read this, I hate you and you’ve ruined my chances to become a cable television personality. If it takes me until I’m a hundred years old, I will kill you.
But enough of that, because I’m behind it and it’s over. It’s a big week here at the Olson/Kasuboski household. Celia is putting the finishing touches on a bed sheet that will be hung at the wedding reception of her friend Cassie. Apparently, this sheet was requested to be made to hang over pictures of dead soldiers at the VFW where the reception will be held. I could get into how awful it is to drape a painted sheet over monuments to people who threw themselves onto grenades to keep us from having to learn German, but I’ll save it. This sheet may seem like a trivial detail in amongst all the things we have to do to prepare for this wedding, but if you can believe it, this sheet almost broke us up on a number of occasions, and still may.
We’ve had to move furniture to accommodate it. We’ve accidentally painted a giant pink “D” on the walls of our rented apartment. The house was torn up because of it for weeks on end, causing my OCD to kick into high gear and be none too fun to be around. Paint, lace and plastic jewels everywhere. I’m unhappy, Celia’s unhappy, the cats want to walk on it and can’t, so they’re unhappy. As I type, it lays splayed in the living room, looking cold and unapproachable. It will leave the house on Friday. Enough about the sheet.
So back to this wedding. Celia is in it, and I will be a spectator. The plan was to be cordial and polite at the wedding, and then get completely shitfaced and embarrassing at the reception. (Celia’s idea and exact words, I swear.) Apart from the fact that I don’t drink, and I’ve never been “shitfaced”, we hear the news that there will be no alcohol at the reception! Have you ever heard anything so ridiculous in your life? Have you ever been to a wedding reception where everyone wasn’t making a whiskey sour-induced fool of themselves? Sure, I’ve got alcoholics in my family, but reception-drunk-ness is a staple of ALL family weddings. It’s just the principle of the thing. True, hardly anyone there will be over 21 (I’m 22), but I’m still gunna stick to my guns on this one.
On Friday, the day before this wedding, I get to spend the day with my Dad. This shouldn’t be a big deal, but you’ve got to understand that I’ve talked to my Dad for a total of about 4 minutes a year for the last 11 years. He thought I would be interested in what was going on at the Bird and Game Farm that he runs back home in Larsen. Apparently, a camera crew is coming to tape an outdoor television show there, and for some unknown reason he knew that I was in school for stuff like that. So he invited me to stand in the freezing cold Wisconsin forest, in February, for 8 hours while people pointed guns and cameras at birds; and shot, killed, dismembered and gutted them. I said yes, but only because my Dad has never invited me to anything. For an anti-gun, anti-redneck, anti-cold weather, anti-killing stuff vegetarian, this should be hell on earth. And it might be, but I’m still going to do it because I’m a good son and I’m not invited to the wedding rehearsal.
Right now I’m reading “Stupid White Men”, by Michael Moore. I’m listening to “For Young Electric Pop”, by Polysics. I watched “Bowling For Columbine” a couple of weeks ago, and for the first time in my life I cried watching a movie.
Have a good day, spuds.