Pussycat Dolls x Morse Code
Hi!
I flaked on a taping of The Masked Singer last week. I’d registered to be in the studio audience during a caffeinated moment of “Why Am I Sitting On My Ass When I Should Be LIVING MY DREAMS?!?” My dream, of course, is to be in the same room as Nicole Scherzinger, which was one of my 2020 resolutions before the pandemic made it impossible. “But it’s 2023 now,” I thought to myself. “Anything is possible. You’re in between jobs, so why not take advantage of your flexible schedule? Even if you have a bad time, it’ll be a good stooooryyyy….”
So I booked the seat, and then I didn’t go. Things at rest stay at rest, and I couldn’t be bothered to leave the Valley just to watch Chasten Buttigieg sing “Rock Your Body” dressed as a fax machine or whatever. I’ve been in studio audiences a few times (very cool of me, huge brag, holding for your applause), and I usually forget until I’m there that the novelty-to-discomfort ratio is 1:1 at best. Yes, it was sublime to watch Drew Barrymore interview RuPaul or Kelly Clarkson sing “Seven Nation Army” live. But the standing and the waiting and the clapping and the more waiting and the being treated like tourist cattle scum…
Skipping The Masked Singer felt like an educated decision based on past experience, but is that just me making an excuse to be a low-energy homebody flop? Is it a mistake to skip out on a new experience so I can spend more time in my room looking at my phone? And then there’s the Nicole of it all – is it still important to me to track her down, or is that a goal from a past life that doesn’t resonate anymore? When I ask back-to-back questions like this, does it feel like I’m ripping off Carrie Bradshaw? Does Carrie Bradshaw have a monopoly on posing questions, or can I be rhetorical and inquisitive, too?
Maybe I should trust the Universe to put me in a room with Ms. PCD down the line – perhaps we’ll both run the LA Half Marathon in 2028 or see Tár 2 at the Grove on the same night. In the meantime, I’m focusing on another old goal of mine: mastering Morse Code. I taught myself the alphabet a few years ago and refresh myself on it from time to time, but I’ve never gotten it down pat. I don’t know exactly when/why/how I’ll need this skill, but if I ever do, I don’t want to choke. I don’t want to half-know Morse Code – when is that going to be useful?
To test my skills, I will now attempt to translate “When I Grow Up” by the Pussycat Dolls into dots and dashes. Here goes nothing!
Hi again. Okay, so you can probably tell without any knowledge of Morse Code that I did not eat that up. After bailing on the pre-verse, I transcribed my monotone stuttering into a code translator and got this:
Boys call y# sexy and you dok cnre what they s# see every time yŠn uxrn arounĘ they screnming a your ntamt
I’m upset with myself. Even worse than my coding is my LACK OF CHARISMA IN THAT VIDEO. It’s like a doctor sedated me and then had me take an eye exam. Am I reciting Pussycat Dolls lyrics or The Waste Land? Did you even watch it to the end? Oh, you did? Because you’re obsessed with me? Well, I let you down. Loosen up those buttons, David!!!
I’m going to work on my Morse Code/sex appeal and circle back. Watch this space. Or should I say, . - - . - - - . - . . . . . / - . . . . . . . . . / . . . . - - . . - - . - . .