The news that "100 Things To Do Before you Die," author Dave Freeman has, well, died, confirms my absolute worst fear:
DYING AN IRONIC DEATH.
My adult onset terror surrounding all things chronic and ironic started in the days leading up to age 30.
Here's the pre-birthday posthumous script I wrote in my head:
FRIEND #1: Hey, did you hear about Liz?
FRIEND #2: Yah, I'm sorry I missed her birthday party. The big 3-0! I can't believe she survived her 20's!
FRIEND #1: No, dude. She didn't. She was hit by the crosstown M79 bus the night before turning 30. Pretty sad.
FRIEND #2: Wow, That's terrible. But hey, she would have appreciated the irony, right?
There are darker scenes suited for even more joyous occasions, but I'm afraid to write them. And yes, gentle ironist, I realize the irony of, I Ironia, fearing irony.
I'm almost afraid to mention this phobia, lest I add another layer of irony to the ironic death that could be lurking around the next corner. But compulsion trumps superstition and so I begrudgingly press PUBLISH POST.
There are just some lines that are so brilliant, so obvious, so completely on the nose that a writer can spend the better part of a day trying to figure how she didn't think to write it first. This she has done just that.
How could I not have thought to marry two popical (that's topical and popular culture, better late than never) references? It's like that category on Jeopardy:
The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants + Pantsuit = Genius.
I'm Greek. I had a Yia Yia. How did I miss it? I hate myself.
Make no mistake: I've never had a single ounce of affection for Hillary Clinton. Not one cc. But during the non-stop pantsuit comedy roast primary season, I jumped to HRC's fashion defense(see this blog, July 6th, until I can figure out how to link), not because I liked her, but because:
1. I like pantsuits a lot
2. Yves Saint Laurent had just gone to the big garment district in the sky
3. It was the feminist thing to do
But with that one line- HOW DID I NOT THINK OF IT?- justice was served.
Today, August 27, 2008 marks the day I became a fan of Hillary. Or at least her speech writer.
Theme songs. Politicians should do without a soundtrack. "You're Still the One," was a decidedly inappropriate song for Ted Kennedy, following his speech at the Democratic convention. Last night left me longing for the good old days of the Clinton dynasty and Fleetwood Mac.
Get the Obama kids out of the picture. Sure, they're cute. Yah, they remind us of the future. Definitely, they add an element of spontaneity to a highly staged event. But it's creepy. Let's learn from the Mary Kates, the Jon Benets, the Patti Davis' nee Reagans.
The high price of "Gasolina". Let us all pray to a Gdashd that we don't believe in that music super star, Daddy Yankee's endorsement of John Mccain will respectively cripple Reggaeton record sales and the Republican bid for the presidency.
Okay. We can all agree Obama's dreamy. Sure. We have a major crush. Yes, we collectively want to wear his Varsity Letter jacket. Indeed, we've had visions of making breakfast for us both, clad in nothing but his boxer briefs and an apron.
This Vice Presidential nomination notification by text message thing is a little too Junior High even for me, the perpetual 13 year old.
The report released today that Julia Child was somehow involved in a WWII international spy ring is by far the most refreshing, most inspired news item since the I don't know what. A secret agent who made her own mayonnaisse? Feminists, take notice: this stands as the definition of the modern woman.
It seems so obvious now. Of course, the ultimate domestic had a dark foreign side. Are there secret codes embedded in her recipe for the perfect flaky pie crust? Let the confectionary conspiracy theories commence!
I've taken so many pills, I probably shouldn't donate blood. Mosquitos would be better off steering clear, unless of course they're insomniacs too.
Xanax. I still toss and turn, I just don't worry about it. Ambien. Works like a 3 hour charm. Trazadone has a cinderblock-on-my-face effect and I run into walls like I'm Karen Black the next morning. Melatonin makes me dream in a nightmarish technicolor.
Now I'm on Lunesta. So far so good. Apparently, there is a side effect of male breast enlargement, so I'm hoping for the miracle of miracles: