a terrible name for a tropical storm and looking for screwed-up 17 year old boy who needs mrs. robinson
part one: the sopping wet part
*first, okay. sorry louisiana, i know you hate your tropical storm, but if you send her up here, i will grab you by the creole scruffs of your sodding red necks and kick you back to that louis XIV from whence you came. harrumph.*
new york [and poor dear flood in north carolina] is clouded and cloaked in the sideshow that is tropical storm Isadore. which, for the record, i think is a terrible name for a tropical storm. why? isadore [or isidor] is a deriviative of Isis, the egyptian goddess who traditionally is pictured with horns on her head and is known for being all around very stubborn indeed. isadores and isidores, like isabellas, tend to be temperamental and unpredictable, possibly inbred royalty, historically known for making tragically stupid errors in judgement. and plotting to kill their husbands. see: isabella of france, 1292-1358. and of course, which geek here could forget the tragedy of isildor, leader of the race of men in middleearth? i mean, but for his profoundly greedy ambitious lunacy, we wouldn’t be trying to fight the powers of the evil sauron with a few midget people and some trees*. isadore, clearly, is a disasterous naming choice just waiting to happen.
this whole system of naming the storms is flawed. remember floyd? floyd is the guy at the deli who’s got all gold teeth and calls you ‘baby’. floyd couldn’t rub his two brain cells together if he tried. consequently, floyd was the storm that couldn’t even decide where in hell it wanted to land. “florida!” they yelled, and floridiots ran for cover. “new york!” they bellowed, and new yorkers knocked back an extra scotch-on-the-rocks and called their brokers. “north carolina!” they screeched – and by then, of course, north carolinians were like, “duh!” or more like, “glug glug glug.” floyd was an idiot.
and now, we have isadore, blowing all her french displaced-royalty fury over the peaked rooftops and old world charm of n’awlins. silly temperamental blue-bloods. never to be trusted.
so, bon courage nouveau orléans. shut the blinds, have a stiff cocktail, and laissez les bon temps … roulez.
*yes, yes. i know. i’m a huge dork. go to mordor, you non-believers.
part two: the juicy part.
yes, yes. saw that film igby goes down a few weeks ago. and let me say, other than the depressing nature of the film, what i really took away from that experience can be summed up in the following mock personal ad:
Wanted: 17-19 year old boy, tortured-soul type, for romantic yet doomed relationship. must be from weathly, screwed-up family, preferably upper east/west side; needs constant mothering and will adore me for the stability and comfort i provide. in turn, you must worship the ground i walk on, write bad poetry about me, consider me your muse and your hero all in one. upon inevitable breakup, where i tell you it’s just not working, you’re too young and tortured, you must have sobbing conniption fit at my door. ALSO: it will greatly aid your application if you look distinctly like this fine young man or, if you are in fact kieran culkin himself*.
see? won’t that be great?
*c’mon, kieran. i know you live in new york. with your mommy. come over some night, hmm?**
** hey! it’s legal! he’s nineteen.