Currently, as we speak, Secret Service men are tapping my cellphone and hacking my Gmail account because I’ve been flagged as a potential fan-amaniac of one, Barack Obama. This is partially because I Googled “Barack Obama’s Dayton motorcade” to see if he might drive by my house, and partially because my boyfriend has an affinity for political uprising non-fiction and does a lot of internet ordering. I’m hopeful I’ll be flagged as a nut job and when I’m brought in for questioning I’ll get a free bumper sticker or at least get my photo taken in one of Henry Kissinger’s famous interrogation rooms.
I had been debating if it would be possible to enroll at U.D. and be elected class President within the next hour and half so that I could share the suite and/or a soft pretzel with with Prez. I vetoed the idea when I realized I didn’t have anything to wear and decided maybe I’d just have to scalp a ticket and pretend to be famous political figure stopping by to discuss the U.S. position in Syria. I’ve watched like a million SNL presidential debate skits, so I’m pretty confident in my ability to sound identical to both Hilary Clinton AND Al Gore. At least I have a way better shot at that than I do pretending I know anything about basketball.
I’m pretty bound and determined to hang out with Barack and/or get him to wave in my general direction. In my humble and incredibly right opinion, Obama’s like the Marvin Gaye of the presidential world (without the beanie). And in no way is that a race thing, or even a homosexual joke, but instead, an analogy for his smooth talking, soul singing, handsome faced ways that stole my political and literal heart in ’08. Of course, like anyone who listens to NPR (or at least reads Yahoo news), I feel incredibly blasé about his lackluster foreign policy and his all talk and no walk social reforms. But when push comes to shove, it’s not so different from my feelings about the weird, slutty skirt this girl I know always wears when we go out. It’s kinda crampin my style, but it gets the job done. She’s not naked after all. And neither is America. Whatever that means…
In the end, whether I get to meet the old Commander-in-Chief or not, I’m terribly excited and very much in love with the idea that our little recession ridden town is going to be graced by, shall we say, the George Clooney of politics. (JFK swooners, feel free to disagree, but I maintain he’s more of a Richard Gere)
You know that song about the grandma that’s riding white horses in pink pajamas around a mountain? I’ve been singing my own version of the diddy as I plot out potential celebratory parade routes and take occasional peaks out the window so I can be ready when he comes a over for a tall cold one and a moving round of karaoke.
Obama’s coming round the mountain, here he coooooomes,
He’ll be wearing pink pajamas when he cooooomes,
Oh we’ll all all come out to meet him, oh all we’ll all come out to meet him, oh we’ll all come out to meet him when he coooooomes!
I’m going to let you know up front that only a third of this is true and even that part I wouldn’t put money on because studies show that 46.3% of memories are flawed. Although they also say that 35% of statistics are made up. In conclusion, don’t be surprised if I ever become rich and famous and it comes out that I am not actually friends with Kim Kardashian, I don’t really drive a horse and buggy to save on gas and I never really ran away to join the circus (though I did attempt a cartwheel once, soooo…)
Onto what is on everyone’s mind.
I’m beginning to wonder about our relationship.
My mom and dad bought me a subscription for Christmas, shortly after a breakup with my cable provider. After rating just 141 movies on a five-star rating system, Netflix has decided that I am most interested in “violent comedies” and movies starring Gerard Butler. Now I don’t entirely disagree. Gerard is one hunky piece of man meat when he stabs that guy with a spork in Law Abiding Citizen but I just really feel like that is an overly specific evaluation for a movie renting website. I already feel as though I am continually being categorized through a million outlets like Facebook, Twitter and AA; I think it’s almost unfair that my video supplier has determined the right to place judgment on me too.
Point in case…Case in point: I gave “When Harry Met Sally” a much deserved five star rating and Netflix accused me of enjoying “sappy, love stories”. Anyone who knows me knows that is complete bullshit. Or at least that I would never let anyone label me that way without a fight. If someone told me they liked “Harry and Sally” I would have quickly determined they thoroughly enjoyed “quick wit and hilarious banter”, but Netflix doesn’t let you decide your reasoning for liking a film. Oh and that’s not all. Not only is Netflix being unbelievably selfish choosing it’s own classification system to suit it’s needs, it is also predetermining what sort of films I should have seen. I gave “The Labyrinth” a 7-year-old reminiscent 3-star rating, but only because Netflix asked. I didn’t search out the film and rate it as a favorite. Now Netflix thinks I have a dark side and a fetish for cult children’s films and has begun suggesting movies such as “The Nightmare Before Christmas”, “The Dark Crystal” and “Saw III”.
And then there’s the “Recently Watched” thing it does when it’s mad at me. Hanging my previously viewed films out with the dirty laundry. I could have gone my whole life without anyone knowing that I had watched not one, but two Amanda Bynes movies. I don’t spend my days telling everyone about Netflix’s embarrassing moments. Like when it got stuck on the buffering screen and I had to restart my PS3. Or when it drunkenly recommended I watch The Majestic and I wasted 152 minutes of life. So why does it have to show everyone my mistakes? I’m only human. I wish there was a “Look How Smart and Cool (and pretty) I am Category” that went right on top instead. Of course, lets be honest, that’s what your queue is for. I fill mine with all sorts of documentaries so I look well rounded and throw in a few cult films that make people say “I LOVE that movie!” It’s a good pick me up after it’s been revealed that I watched “Swamp People” and “Toddlers in Tiaras”. At least Netflix can’t tell anyone how many cookies I ate simultaneously.
If this type of behavior doesn’t change soon, I’m breaking up with my Netflix account and going back to Blockbuster where they only judge you through late fees and make you feel uncomfortable with their sad “we’re bankrupt” looks when you only get one movie. There just isn’t room for that kind of harsh, critical judgment in my life. After all, we just met. And how well can you REALLY know someone through the internet?