Just in the same way I didn't get the Eggo waffles slogan until the mid-'90s...

...today, for the first time, I paid attention to the lyrics in the last verse of The Sugarhill Gang's "Rapper's Delight." Brilliant:

Have you ever went over a friend's house to eat and the food just ain't no good /
I mean the macaroni's soggy the peas are mushed and the chicken tastes like wood /
So you try to play it off like you think you can by sayin' that you're full /
And then your friend says momma he's just being polite he ain't finished uh uh that's bull /
So your heart starts pumpin' and you think of a lie and you say that you already ate /
And your friend says man there's plenty of food so you pile some more on your plate /
While the stinky food's steamin' your mind starts to dreamin' of the moment that it's time to leave /
And then you look at your plate and your chicken's slowly rottin' into something that looks like cheese /
Oh so you say that's it I got to leave this place I don't care what these people think /
I'm just sittin' here makin myself nauseous with this ugly food that stinks /
So you bust out the door while it's still closed still sick from the food you ate /
And then you run to the store for quick relief from a bottle of Kaopectate /
And then you call your friend two weeks later to see how he has been /
And he says I understand about the food baby bubbah but we're still friends

I don' t even have anything to say, this is so phenomenal. How have I not heard this before? I'd be way more into hip hop these days if Snoop would only rap about some rotting chicken.

(Though I must admit that, naturally, I have a certain ownership of popular music today, which of course includes hip hop and its enormous influence. Husband and I were celebrating my birthday last week at a nice restaurant with a live jazz trio, and a four-top of older people were singing along to the standards the group was performing, including a touching husband-wife duet. My husband pointed out that in 35 years or so, that will be us: I will sing, "Got me lookin' so crazy right now / Your love's got me lookin' so crazy right now," while husband will reply, "Young hova / Ya'll know when the flow is loco / Young b and the r-o-c uh oh.")

An heir and a spare

Good news from Denmark: Crown Princess Mary is pregnant with her second child. I'm not one to pay a whole lot of attention to royal activities, but I am a huge fan of Tasmanian-born Mary and her Crown Prince, Frederik, who met at a bar in Sydney during the Olympics in 2000.

Their story really is the stuff of fairy tales -- handsome young prince and stunning Tasmanian meet at a delightfully non-royal location (pub) and fall in love. Stunning Tasmanian marries her prince wearing one of the most gorgeous dresses I've ever seen, featuring 100-year-old lace and "calasleeves," and carrying a bouquet of roses, peonies and -- in a poignant homage to her homeland -- snow gum and Australian eucalyptus. (I modeled my own bridal bouquet after hers.)

All this princely magic really is every little girl's dream, and I therefore offer sincere congratulations to the hot young royals. Keep the dream alive, kids.

'Sup with all the gaiety?

I have a fancy little tracking device in this here blog that lets me see how many people visit the site, where they're from and how they got here. It is a fascinating tool, as I now know that I have readers from Lisbon to Delhi, from Queensland to Kent, Ohio. I do feel a little creepy monitoring the site like this, but it's totally fascinating to imagine someone in Alberta, Canada, reading this crap.

The best part of my stint as Big Brother: reviewing what search strings people enter into Google or Blogger that lead them to Sympathetic Weather. It seems you are very interested in which people -- real or fictional -- may or may not be gay. Recent searches:

-"Shawn Brady" gay
-patrick pentland gay
-"the soup" joel mchale gay

Then there was the search for "Steve Irwin baby elephant," which, though not overtly gay, is kinda gay.

And so...today's screencap of last night's Lost -- which I hope to make a recurring feature on the 'Weather -- is also kinda gay. Enjoy:

Memory girl

Today I'm experiencing a bit of Warren Zanes nostalgia. Not for the days when we worked together, but rather for the days before we worked together, before I knew him and I was simply a fan of his brilliant and beautiful Memory Girls. (Which is not to say that working with him was an unpleasant experience; to the contrary, he is smart and interesting and funny and nearly everything one needs in a co-worker. Well, what most people need: I was spoiled with an exceptionally phenomenal office-mate for several years. But anyway.)

Memory Girls reminds me of a very distinct time in my life, a time when lyrics like... "Maybe we can / remember all the things we planned when we began / And when the words come / let's clear the strip and let 'em land while we still can" ...described perfectly every crappy and joyous thing that I was feeling. And every lover of music worth his or her salt knows that emotional connection, and the way in which it can elevate already excellent tuneage to a much more rarefied place. I also feel this way about Sloan's Pretty Together, Wilco's Yankee Hotel Foxtrot and Tori Amos' Little Earthquakes (among many others).

Maybe it's the changing seasons, maybe it's the chill in the air, maybe it's my impending 32nd birthday, but today I'm just feeling...wistful. Yearny. Full of memories for a time just a few short years ago that was somehow simpler. Which is ridiculous, because I am still very young and, really, not much has changed. And life is good. But still.

I have a copy of Warren's newest CD, People That I'm Wrong For, but I haven't spent as much time with it as I should. Thus, my assignment tonight is to give that another listen or two before Wednesday's powerhouse 9:00 p.m. hour of TV watching (Lost; The Biggest Loser).

It's no wonder, then, that "Flash" is such an inspired work of musical genius

Queen guitarist Brian May has co-written a book about the origins of the universe. Apparently Mr. May abandoned his doctoral studies in astronomy in the 1970s to sing about bicycles with Freddie Mercury, and is now picking up where he left off.

I find both endeavors to be noble pursuits: rocking out in one of the finest bands in history is at least as important as discovering the truths of our universe, if not more so. Brian agrees:

“I think there’s a sort of purity about both of them,” he said recently, according to The Guardian newspaper. “Because you can immerse yourself in thoughts of the universe, or in music, and you’re really abstracted. You’re a million miles away from all your worries and personal problems and the dust and smoke of where you are.”

All that, plus dude can still rock his 'fro:

Please, Locke, hang out in the sweat lodge more often

Because then maybe Lost viewers will get to see Boone's ghost again.

I realize the following observation is neither groundbreaking nor relevatory, but: Ian Somerhalder's eyes are a gorgeous sea of blue in which I would like to swim.

Putting aside last night's brilliant episode's more thought-provoking points, I now prefer to dwell on the purely superficial. Boone was never anything less than pulchritudinous, but he looks better now than he ever did when he was alive and hatch-hunting with Locke.

I am not generally in the habit of posting photos of hot men and then cooing at them like an adolescent, seeing as how I am married and do not wish to upset the unalterable reality that husband is indeed the most attractive man who has ever walked this earth. But really, that can't be his real eye color, can it? J.J. Abrams and Damon Lindelof clearly are fucking with us, right? Colored contacts? Special effects employed in the service of Locke's fantabulous hallucinogenic trip? Screw all the questions about Benjamin Linus and the Dharma Initiative: I demand an explanation for the cerulean windows to Boone's soul!

My favorite new character on television...

...is not Juliet, the muffin-burning Other on Lost. Or Deelishis from Flavor of Love 2. Or even that whore Willow from Days. It's Little Gay -- or, Li'l Gay, as the case may be -- who appears every so often in the palm of Joel McHale's hand on The Soup. He made his glorious entrance into my TV viewing consciousness a few weeks ago, popping up to say, "Hello, big world!" Gayest thing ever.

This week he appeared following the Most Fantastic News I've Heard In All Of 2006, wearing his little "Choose Life" t-shirt and mimicking the choreography from the "Wake Me Up Before You Go Go" video.

I imagine his tiny closet, filled with wee workout gear and teensy mesh shirts. I would like to sip from his diminutive martini glasses, which can hold nary 1/20th of a cosmopolitan. I strive to be invited to his parties, where he spins "Turn The Beat Around" non-stop until the sun rises on his small and stylish, but adequately debauched, condo. I would devise a plan to carry him in my pocket into the theatre, thereby gaining his free admission to the revival of Annie Get Your Gun.

Thanks, Joel McHale, for bringing Li'l Gay into my life. Nay, into all of our lives.

This is what happens with lawyers and grantwriters are bored on the job

My sister is enjoying a personal pan pizza for lunch today. She is apparently taking the adjective "personal" rather literally, as our important e-mail correspondence attests:

Sister: This pizza is personal - in fact, it's way too personal. It's starting to get fresh with me.

Me: If it knows what is good for it, that pizza will calm itself the fuck down and respect your privacy.

Sister: that pizza is getting all up in my grill. it needs to back off, and talk to the hand.

And so goes another productive workday in America.

Help me, Patrick Pentland, you're my only hope

I am compelled to point you in the direction of sloanmusic.com, where you will find 30 short films that document the recording of Sloan's newest masterpiece, Never Hear The End Of It.

Episode 16 is particularly brilliant. I kind of understand why 3PO is always so pissy; nobody ever asks him to sing on their album.

It has gotten out of hand

At my previous job, we all used to watch Days of Our Lives together during lunch. I've never been a huge soap opera person -- though I did enjoy Another World growing up -- but it only took about a week of lunchtime story-watching and I was hooked.

As I learned the histories of Salem's inhabitants and relished each predictable character development, I vowed that I would only ever watch Days within the confines of the office conference room. I would not, nor could I ever, stomach sitting through daytime drivel at night, when each day's episode is aired again on SOAPnet. I could never stoop to that level.

Then I stooped to that level. I left my last job and started a new one at a place that doesn't have TVs in its conference rooms (or a built-in cadre of ravenous Days fans). So I started catching the reruns on SOAPnet, but only when I had nothing better to do. I would never TiVo the show -- nope, just casually tuning in is enough for me.

But then I started to become disappointed when I'd miss a day here or there. It's not the most difficult story to follow, mind you, but I need to know all of the details because how else am I to know exactly how many times Mimi nearly told Shawn that he is the father of Belle's baby but then chickened out because she is an insecure Lockhart and is terrified of losing him? So I started TiVoing Days. And my husband really started to make fun of me.

That's OK, though, because I'm still not the type to read Soap Opera Digest or check online for plotline spoilers or cast information. Except I just spent 20 minutes reading about Days' writers' intentions of bringing back the DiMeras. And I am quite disappointed in the new actor portraying Shawn Brady, as though I should care about such things. (For me, Jason Cook is and shall always be Shawn Brady.) And yesterday I found myself at the grocery store checkout staring at the cover of the 'Digest. But I didn't pick it up, or purchase it.

Yet.