"Wastin' away again in margaritaville. Lookin' for my lost shaker of salt." That tune has been playing over and over and over and over in my head for two days. Forget analyzing sleep. Now I want to be a part of a think tank that analyzes that incredibly annoying phenomenon. I haven't had a single margarita in, well, forever. Maybe it's because I heard "Kokomo" on the radio this weekend and it talks about the Florida Keys and that's where Mr. Buffet hangs out. "Kokomo" was also a question on the pop culture quiz; you had to name all eighty-five places sung in that song. It was really only about six. Here's a random insight into my mind . . . whenever I exaggerate numerically, it always involves an eight of some sort. Don't know why, but my kids will confirm it. All eight hundred and sixty-three of them.
Tonight, as Tyler was leaving, he said something about the boom being really loud today. I whirled around in my chair and yelled, "What? What are you talking about?" For the last week, precisely at 4:00 (or anywhere from 4:00-4:15) our whole house shakes for what I've been assuming is no good reason. It lasts for several seconds. Then Tyler explained that they blow something up every day around that time at the construction site behind the pool. I was SO relieved. My mind was running wild with possible scenarios. That's a total lie. I probably had one-eighth of an idea and at this moment I can't even make anything up. But I'll try. Aliens pulsating our home to extract the humor cells from my brain (because, really, have you ever seen a hilariously funny alien?)? Or some underground gas line that's preparing to blow us to kingdom come? I asked Ron today if he felt it. He was out walking Zooey and he didn't notice anything. Sometimes I wonder if he's really connected to this planet. Anyway, I can sleep well tonight knowing that my funniness is not in jeopardy of being stolen. I know, I know. You're relieved, too.
Monday, July 30, 2007
Sunday, July 29, 2007
A Little Bit of This, A Little Bit of That
Well, I've finally figured out how I got so smart. It's in my genes. Ok, not really. Not even remotely. Mainly because I'm adopted. I'm not saying that my birth parents weren't smart. They may have been stud geniuses. I'm getting completely sidetracked. On Saturday, Ron, Tyler and I went to my mom and dad's in Raymore to a family reunion. It really wasn't even our family. It was, kind of, in that fourth-cousin-twice-removed sort of way. It was my dad's father's sister's family. I sat here and thought about that last sentence for a full 30 seconds and I'm still not sure I'm right. Anyway, it was the Jennings side. The only reason my folks were invited (and consequently, the Martins) is that Foxwood Springs (where my mom and dad live) had the proper facility. Which was a big room with tables and chairs. And food. Now, back to the smart part. One of dad's cousins (I'm not really sure what the relationship it, but let's just keep it simple) was one of four women who programmed the ENIAC computer back in the 40's. Basically the first computer ever made. And she was a woman. In the 40's. There was a huge argument about whether or not she was the first woman on the cover of TIME magazine AND the Wall Street Journal. She says no to both, but everyone else in the room swore she was. Anyway. She hung out with John Nash (aka The Beautiful Mind guy) and is strictly brilliant. Her son is now part of a think tank somewhere. I want to be a part of a think tank that figures out why sleeping is necessary. Think (!) about it. You just lie there, inert, for six-eight hours a night. Weird. Anyway, that side of the family is impossibly intelligent and my side is impossibly funny. I'm glad I'm on my side.
Today at the local Village Inn, where there's no better breakfast in the world, Ron was looking at the estate sale section of the paper. He asked me I wanted him to go by himself. I drew back in horror and said that him going by himself to an estate sale would be like cheating on me. To which he replied, "No. It'd be cheating if I said I was going to Home Depot and I went to an estate sale instead." Hmmm. Guess he's got a point. So we BOTH went to two estate sales; one was really a glorified (and I use the term loosely) garage sale and the other was pretty uninspired. Except for the Harry Truman letter and photograph. The letter was about some Liberty Memorial re-dedication and was on sale for $295. The picture had a pricetag of $450. Pretty outrageous. BUT, in addition to having HST in the shot, there was also Pat Boone. I passed on both.
Last night, Ron and I watched "Been Rich All My Life." Absolutely priceless. It's about these five former Harlem showgirls who are still dancing. And they're all in their mid to late EIGHTIES! Simply amazing. All totally beautiful teenagers when they started and still feisty, with lovely legs. They're called the Silver Belles and in their prime they danced at the Cotton Club and the Apollo (and lots of other places). The oldest, Bertye, was 96 when the documentary was made, but had only stopped dancing the year before. She was a spitfire and cute as a button. On the marquee at one of the clubs they were referred to as "copper colored girls." Totally worth renting. Has some mild language, but it just kind of loses its punch when it comes out of a octogenarian's mouth.
Tomorrow's Monday . . . just another manic Monday.
Today at the local Village Inn, where there's no better breakfast in the world, Ron was looking at the estate sale section of the paper. He asked me I wanted him to go by himself. I drew back in horror and said that him going by himself to an estate sale would be like cheating on me. To which he replied, "No. It'd be cheating if I said I was going to Home Depot and I went to an estate sale instead." Hmmm. Guess he's got a point. So we BOTH went to two estate sales; one was really a glorified (and I use the term loosely) garage sale and the other was pretty uninspired. Except for the Harry Truman letter and photograph. The letter was about some Liberty Memorial re-dedication and was on sale for $295. The picture had a pricetag of $450. Pretty outrageous. BUT, in addition to having HST in the shot, there was also Pat Boone. I passed on both.
Last night, Ron and I watched "Been Rich All My Life." Absolutely priceless. It's about these five former Harlem showgirls who are still dancing. And they're all in their mid to late EIGHTIES! Simply amazing. All totally beautiful teenagers when they started and still feisty, with lovely legs. They're called the Silver Belles and in their prime they danced at the Cotton Club and the Apollo (and lots of other places). The oldest, Bertye, was 96 when the documentary was made, but had only stopped dancing the year before. She was a spitfire and cute as a button. On the marquee at one of the clubs they were referred to as "copper colored girls." Totally worth renting. Has some mild language, but it just kind of loses its punch when it comes out of a octogenarian's mouth.
Tomorrow's Monday . . . just another manic Monday.
Friday, July 27, 2007
No Shame
Is anyone old enough to remember that they used to show cartoons before the feature films? Well, they did. Looney Toons, mostly, I think. Porky Pig, Daffy Duck, Elmer Fudd. The classics. Ron and I went to the movies the other afternoon. He'd gotten free passes for tickets, popcorn and drinks. We figured we saved $30, at least. I remember going to the show for less than three bucks. Nowadays three bucks may get you a box of Milk Duds. Anyway, instead of cartoons, we're now bedeviled with "Behind the Scenes" featurettes of upcoming movies. And repeated requests to silence our cell phones. I'll bet half the teens in any given audience are still texting like mad during the whole movie. Oh, and we're also a captive audience for commercials. Is nothing sacred? We go to the theater (pronounced thee ah ta) for an out-of-the-ordinary film experience. We all can rent movies and sit at home in Barcalounger or LazeeBoy in our underwear or pjs and watch movies. When we go to the theater (pronounced thee ah ta) we don't want to see ads for Viagra or be told to have a happy period (I seriously want to draw and quarter whoever dreamed up that tagline - a happy period? The only happy period is the one at the end of a sentence that ends with the word 'chocolate.' See? That period's delirious!)
So, tonight, Ron's running into Hen House to get a pound of ground round to top our CostCo giant pizza (half of which ended up in Zooey's stomach - she's been banished to the basement) and I'm sitting in the car, taking in the lovely Merriam scenery when I happen to notice that the parking lot stripes are quite a bright white. Wait! There's writing on those lines. What is it? "Life comes at you fast?" Well, now I've seen everything. Advertising on the parking lot stripes. I'm not even kidding you. Nationwide is not only on your side, it's on every side. As Ron got back into the car we had a "Can you believe this?" conversation with the guy parked next to us. All three of us were shaking our heads in disbelief. Ron almost backed the Prius into an old lady . . . who was looking at the parking lot lines.
So, what's next? Billboards on the highway pavement? Don't tell anyone I said that. Because, if you do, it will happen.
So, tonight, Ron's running into Hen House to get a pound of ground round to top our CostCo giant pizza (half of which ended up in Zooey's stomach - she's been banished to the basement) and I'm sitting in the car, taking in the lovely Merriam scenery when I happen to notice that the parking lot stripes are quite a bright white. Wait! There's writing on those lines. What is it? "Life comes at you fast?" Well, now I've seen everything. Advertising on the parking lot stripes. I'm not even kidding you. Nationwide is not only on your side, it's on every side. As Ron got back into the car we had a "Can you believe this?" conversation with the guy parked next to us. All three of us were shaking our heads in disbelief. Ron almost backed the Prius into an old lady . . . who was looking at the parking lot lines.
So, what's next? Billboards on the highway pavement? Don't tell anyone I said that. Because, if you do, it will happen.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
An Iota of Redemption
After suffering the recent and oh-so-painful humiliation of discovering that my pop culture prowess has lost its prow (ouch) you can imagine my joy when I tuned into Jeopardy this afternoon to see that it was Teen Week. I actually said to Ron, "Oh, goody. We'll know most of the answers." Alas. More agony of defeat was imminent, I just didn't know it yet. Yes, we knew a majority of the answers. I got all of the Presidential Library questions right. I did not know that Grover Cleveland had a secret operation to remove part of his jaw because of cancer. Seriously, show of hands - how many people knew that? Well, the freshman from St. Louis Park, Minnesota knew it. And a whole bunch more. But the girl in the middle that we didn't like knew it all. That's why we didn't like her. She, however, did not know that another word for a throng of people that's also a type of infatuation was "crush." I did know that answer. She lost $4,000 on that one (a daily double). And she blew the Final Jeopardy question. The answer was "What is a panda" and she answered, "What is a black panda." Too much information, Meryl. It cost her some money, but she still won.
I'll watch again tomorrow, of course, hoping to boost my ego and beat Ron to the punch. The thing about Jeopardy is that a lot of the times they give huge clues to the answer. Like last week there was a question about the philosopher whose theories included the idea that all diseases were not divine (or something like that; don't quote me). "Who is Hippocrates." The big clue: diseases. If you look at the key words (and dates) a lot of times you'll be able to figure it out.
Our sweet friends, Tom and Leah, came over tonight. They brought their beautiful babies, Wyatt and Cassidy, with them. We spent the evening on the porch, laughing, solving the worlds problems and giving Tyler advice about his upcoming departure to college. It was one of those evenings that ended up with Ron and I doing the dishes and reflecting, again, that life doesn't get any better than this. Word.
I'll watch again tomorrow, of course, hoping to boost my ego and beat Ron to the punch. The thing about Jeopardy is that a lot of the times they give huge clues to the answer. Like last week there was a question about the philosopher whose theories included the idea that all diseases were not divine (or something like that; don't quote me). "Who is Hippocrates." The big clue: diseases. If you look at the key words (and dates) a lot of times you'll be able to figure it out.
Our sweet friends, Tom and Leah, came over tonight. They brought their beautiful babies, Wyatt and Cassidy, with them. We spent the evening on the porch, laughing, solving the worlds problems and giving Tyler advice about his upcoming departure to college. It was one of those evenings that ended up with Ron and I doing the dishes and reflecting, again, that life doesn't get any better than this. Word.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Running into Tammy Faye
So sad to hear about Tammy Faye Bakker's death. I heard someone today say she walked a fine line between being an icon and a caricature. Yep, that's how I'd have to describe her. Her larger-than-life personality made it almost impossible not to be drawn to her.
First there was the make-up. Estee Lauder, Maybelline and the folks who make clown make-up were all able to retire early thanks to her liberal use of the stuff. Seriously, one of the funniest t-shirts ever had two black smears on it, a slash of red and two spots of peach. It said "I ran into Tammy Faye at the mall." I'm sure old Tammy Faye even had a chuckle over that one.
Second, her unwavering passion for Jesus. She was one tough lady. She endured the PTL scandal and her husband's infidelity. Two husbands in jail. Tough times with her kids. Cancer. But she never missed an opportunity to keep sharing the gospel message and how much her faith had sustained her. I saw a clip of her from Larry King Live (taped the day before she died) and she was still praising God. And she looked really, really bad. Kate says she weighed 65 pounds. Really tragic.
Third, her phoenix-like ability to keep rising from the ashes. And her gutsiness for appearing on "The Surreal Life." And making friends with legendary porn star, Ron Jeremy. I never watched that show (yes, I'm surprised, too), but she probably encouraged a lot of people to re-examine their opinion of Christianity by moving more towards center and being transparent about the challenges she's faced.
Now I'll never get a chance to see her in person. I had heard (from my mom) that she was building a home in Loch Lloyd and the folks at my parent's retirement community were all excited because they wanted to have her be a guest on their little closed circuit tv station. Turns out she had already moved to KC and I missed I don't know how many opportunities to have a chat with her. But, there's always heaven. I'm putting her on my list of people I'm going to go visit. Who else is on my list? The Holy Trinity (I hope I don't have to make three separate appointments), the Apostle Paul, Moses, Harry Truman, my grandmother Spainhower. With my luck, they'll be part of those five people I WON'T meet in heaven. But if they're not there, chances are pretty good that I won't be there either.
First there was the make-up. Estee Lauder, Maybelline and the folks who make clown make-up were all able to retire early thanks to her liberal use of the stuff. Seriously, one of the funniest t-shirts ever had two black smears on it, a slash of red and two spots of peach. It said "I ran into Tammy Faye at the mall." I'm sure old Tammy Faye even had a chuckle over that one.
Second, her unwavering passion for Jesus. She was one tough lady. She endured the PTL scandal and her husband's infidelity. Two husbands in jail. Tough times with her kids. Cancer. But she never missed an opportunity to keep sharing the gospel message and how much her faith had sustained her. I saw a clip of her from Larry King Live (taped the day before she died) and she was still praising God. And she looked really, really bad. Kate says she weighed 65 pounds. Really tragic.
Third, her phoenix-like ability to keep rising from the ashes. And her gutsiness for appearing on "The Surreal Life." And making friends with legendary porn star, Ron Jeremy. I never watched that show (yes, I'm surprised, too), but she probably encouraged a lot of people to re-examine their opinion of Christianity by moving more towards center and being transparent about the challenges she's faced.
Now I'll never get a chance to see her in person. I had heard (from my mom) that she was building a home in Loch Lloyd and the folks at my parent's retirement community were all excited because they wanted to have her be a guest on their little closed circuit tv station. Turns out she had already moved to KC and I missed I don't know how many opportunities to have a chat with her. But, there's always heaven. I'm putting her on my list of people I'm going to go visit. Who else is on my list? The Holy Trinity (I hope I don't have to make three separate appointments), the Apostle Paul, Moses, Harry Truman, my grandmother Spainhower. With my luck, they'll be part of those five people I WON'T meet in heaven. But if they're not there, chances are pretty good that I won't be there either.
Saturday, July 21, 2007
Shamed Into Action
That's right, no song title. Ever again. I have been mercilessly shamed into admitting that I'm a dolt when it comes to music. I just finished watching VH1's World Pop Culture matches and I think I was able to identify one song in the whole series. It was "Hips Don't Lie" by Shakira and that's only because we saw it 836 thousand times while we were in Italy (don't you know I love working that phrase "while we were in Italy" into conversation. It's so, you know, European). If that funny host guy had sung the songs maybe I'd have fared better. No, probably not. I'm painfully underexposed to rap and hip hop music, which doesn't upset me all that much. I'd rather be underexposed to that sort of thing than something really important, like oxygen. Or chocolate.
This is why I think I'm so woefully behind the curve when it comes to "modern" music: Most Saturday nights Ron and I listen to NPR's "Retro Cocktail Hour," which is really a misnomer since it's on for two hours. It serves up music "that's shaken, not stirred." It's wicked stuff. Lots of horns, bongo drums and xylophones. And once in a while some swanky organ music. Total swanky and a little slinky, too. I picture a brunette with a sleeveless black hip hugging dress, lots of black eyeliner and blue eyeshadow and ratted, teased and backcombed hair. Black hose and stilettos. Oh, and frosted pink lipstick. Sucking on a Winston and knocking back vodka gimlets like there's no tomorrow. Ah, those were the days . . . I could sure hold my liquor back then. Oh, wait. That was Kool-Aid I was holding. Silly me.
Tonight they played the theme song from Charlie's Angels by Henry Mancini and his orchestra, and I was instantly back in high school watching Farrah Fawcett toss that tawny mane of hers and flashing that neon white smile. You know she was only on that show for one season. Sure got a lot of mileage out of it. The fact that this song was on the Retro show . . . doesn't do much for my ego. Anyway, another one of the songs they played was "Lady In a Car with Glasses and a Gun." Not even kidding. It's Lawrence Welk music served with a martini instead of a glass of warm milk. You should check it out. Saturday nights, NPR from 7-9. After that they have an hour of songs from Broadway musicals, which sends me over the moon. I sing like I'm good at it and Ron wisely keeps his thoughts to himself. I think tonight it's music from West Side Story. We had "One Hand, One Heart" sung at our wedding. But without the voice double's thick Puerto Rican accent.
If you'd told me twenty-six years ago that Ron and I would be listening to cocktail music on public radio on Saturday nights I would have said you had me confused with my parents. I would have predicted that we'd be doing something much more romantic, you know, something that makes your heart race. Hmmmm. Gotta run. What? Oh, you thought . . . no, I think I hear "Maria." Hee hee. Fooled you! For real.
This is why I think I'm so woefully behind the curve when it comes to "modern" music: Most Saturday nights Ron and I listen to NPR's "Retro Cocktail Hour," which is really a misnomer since it's on for two hours. It serves up music "that's shaken, not stirred." It's wicked stuff. Lots of horns, bongo drums and xylophones. And once in a while some swanky organ music. Total swanky and a little slinky, too. I picture a brunette with a sleeveless black hip hugging dress, lots of black eyeliner and blue eyeshadow and ratted, teased and backcombed hair. Black hose and stilettos. Oh, and frosted pink lipstick. Sucking on a Winston and knocking back vodka gimlets like there's no tomorrow. Ah, those were the days . . . I could sure hold my liquor back then. Oh, wait. That was Kool-Aid I was holding. Silly me.
Tonight they played the theme song from Charlie's Angels by Henry Mancini and his orchestra, and I was instantly back in high school watching Farrah Fawcett toss that tawny mane of hers and flashing that neon white smile. You know she was only on that show for one season. Sure got a lot of mileage out of it. The fact that this song was on the Retro show . . . doesn't do much for my ego. Anyway, another one of the songs they played was "Lady In a Car with Glasses and a Gun." Not even kidding. It's Lawrence Welk music served with a martini instead of a glass of warm milk. You should check it out. Saturday nights, NPR from 7-9. After that they have an hour of songs from Broadway musicals, which sends me over the moon. I sing like I'm good at it and Ron wisely keeps his thoughts to himself. I think tonight it's music from West Side Story. We had "One Hand, One Heart" sung at our wedding. But without the voice double's thick Puerto Rican accent.
If you'd told me twenty-six years ago that Ron and I would be listening to cocktail music on public radio on Saturday nights I would have said you had me confused with my parents. I would have predicted that we'd be doing something much more romantic, you know, something that makes your heart race. Hmmmm. Gotta run. What? Oh, you thought . . . no, I think I hear "Maria." Hee hee. Fooled you! For real.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Little Lies
(Fleetwood Mac, 1987)
If I'm lyin', I'm dyin'. Occasionally (really, only occasionally) I get a won't-be-denied jones for Krispy Kreme chocolate iced cream filled donuts. Tonight was such a night. So, I hopped in the roadster and sped on up the street to the local KK joint. Not another car in line, not another car in the lot, but I'm still told "I weel be right weeth you." So, I'm perusing the menu and I just had to laugh. In keeping with the ever increasing health agenda we Americans like to talk about (but, seriously, is anyone really doing anything constructive about it?) . . . Krispy Kreme has a new multi-grain cake donut. Cross my heart, hope to die of a sugar induced coma. But wait. There's more. In what I would almost deem a form of cholesterol heresy, they also have a whole wheat glazed donut. I'm sure both Mr. Krispy and Mr. Kreme are doing 360's in their graves, or urns or whatever.
Come on. If you're going to Krispy Kreme, you're not really concerned about if it's whole grain or multigrain or unigrain. You want the sugar high and you want it NOW. And thanks, but no thanks - I don't need the guilt trip. When I want to take a ride on the food sin wagon I don't want some health donut trying to climb on board. Noooooo. I want my siiiiiiinnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn.
It's like Kentucky Fried Chicken becoming KFC. Like taking "Fried" out of the name suddenly makes it healthy for you. Or all those sickly sweet cereals that have replaced "Sugar" with "Honey." These clever ad people (sorry, Morghan) think they can pull one over on us by changing the packaging and doctoring a name. To be honest, I think it could say "Full of harmful chemicals that will make your brain rot and your butt as big as Wyoming" and we'd still buy it.
So Krispy Kreme can tell me little lies that make me think that if I eat a whole grain glazed donut I can whoop it up on the sin wagon AND be good to my heart. What's fun about that?
If I'm lyin', I'm dyin'. Occasionally (really, only occasionally) I get a won't-be-denied jones for Krispy Kreme chocolate iced cream filled donuts. Tonight was such a night. So, I hopped in the roadster and sped on up the street to the local KK joint. Not another car in line, not another car in the lot, but I'm still told "I weel be right weeth you." So, I'm perusing the menu and I just had to laugh. In keeping with the ever increasing health agenda we Americans like to talk about (but, seriously, is anyone really doing anything constructive about it?) . . . Krispy Kreme has a new multi-grain cake donut. Cross my heart, hope to die of a sugar induced coma. But wait. There's more. In what I would almost deem a form of cholesterol heresy, they also have a whole wheat glazed donut. I'm sure both Mr. Krispy and Mr. Kreme are doing 360's in their graves, or urns or whatever.
Come on. If you're going to Krispy Kreme, you're not really concerned about if it's whole grain or multigrain or unigrain. You want the sugar high and you want it NOW. And thanks, but no thanks - I don't need the guilt trip. When I want to take a ride on the food sin wagon I don't want some health donut trying to climb on board. Noooooo. I want my siiiiiiinnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn.
It's like Kentucky Fried Chicken becoming KFC. Like taking "Fried" out of the name suddenly makes it healthy for you. Or all those sickly sweet cereals that have replaced "Sugar" with "Honey." These clever ad people (sorry, Morghan) think they can pull one over on us by changing the packaging and doctoring a name. To be honest, I think it could say "Full of harmful chemicals that will make your brain rot and your butt as big as Wyoming" and we'd still buy it.
So Krispy Kreme can tell me little lies that make me think that if I eat a whole grain glazed donut I can whoop it up on the sin wagon AND be good to my heart. What's fun about that?
Saturday, July 14, 2007
Magic Man
(Heart, 1976)
Today Ron and I joined the thousands of people flocking to the theaters to see the new Harry Potter movie, "Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix." It was, quite simply, fabulous. Lots of bells and whistles, fancy wandwork and the divulging of just a little bit more of what makes Harry Potter such a provocative figure.
I've been a fan of Harry Potter since he was just a wee tyke. I've read all the books, seen all the movies. I've never taken seriously the accusations that JK Rowling is a wiccan and that these books are somehow a plot to lead our children down the wicked, wicked path of witchcraft. She may, in fact, be a wiccan, but if there's a subversive plot on Rowling's part I think it was how to become a billionaire overnight. Plot well executed, if you ask me.
Tyler grew up on these books and he hasn't been lured into casting spells or summoning spirits. Well, there was that one incident when I caught him trying to order of eye of newt, a pint of lizard's blood and a voodoo starter kit on the internet . . .
I think the Potter books can be educational from the standpoint that there IS evil in this world and we would be wise to be wise to it. We live in a fallen world. There are bad people and there are, conversely, very good people whose eyes are on the Prize and who refuse to be lured into the snare. Harry, being just an ordinary boy (except for the fact that he can do crazy things with a wand), has made choices all along the way that are honorable and draw others to the good side. If people are willing to look past the superficial supernatural aspects of the books, and subsequently the movies, I think they'd find some pretty redeeming messages.
And, on a completely unrelated note . . . Our gas bill (for the Prius AND the beater, aka the Plymouth Neon) this month was $26.03. Al Gore loves me. (Did you read, by the way, that Gore's 24-year-old son was caught with some weed and prescription meds that weren't his? The report I read happened to mention that he was driving a Prius when he was pulled over, so his dad can't be all that mad . . . )
Today Ron and I joined the thousands of people flocking to the theaters to see the new Harry Potter movie, "Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix." It was, quite simply, fabulous. Lots of bells and whistles, fancy wandwork and the divulging of just a little bit more of what makes Harry Potter such a provocative figure.
I've been a fan of Harry Potter since he was just a wee tyke. I've read all the books, seen all the movies. I've never taken seriously the accusations that JK Rowling is a wiccan and that these books are somehow a plot to lead our children down the wicked, wicked path of witchcraft. She may, in fact, be a wiccan, but if there's a subversive plot on Rowling's part I think it was how to become a billionaire overnight. Plot well executed, if you ask me.
Tyler grew up on these books and he hasn't been lured into casting spells or summoning spirits. Well, there was that one incident when I caught him trying to order of eye of newt, a pint of lizard's blood and a voodoo starter kit on the internet . . .
I think the Potter books can be educational from the standpoint that there IS evil in this world and we would be wise to be wise to it. We live in a fallen world. There are bad people and there are, conversely, very good people whose eyes are on the Prize and who refuse to be lured into the snare. Harry, being just an ordinary boy (except for the fact that he can do crazy things with a wand), has made choices all along the way that are honorable and draw others to the good side. If people are willing to look past the superficial supernatural aspects of the books, and subsequently the movies, I think they'd find some pretty redeeming messages.
And, on a completely unrelated note . . . Our gas bill (for the Prius AND the beater, aka the Plymouth Neon) this month was $26.03. Al Gore loves me. (Did you read, by the way, that Gore's 24-year-old son was caught with some weed and prescription meds that weren't his? The report I read happened to mention that he was driving a Prius when he was pulled over, so his dad can't be all that mad . . . )
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Down Under
(Men at Work, 1982)
For some reason, which is completely beyond my comprehension, my husband and son tend not to believe me when I make certain statements. It could be that I'm constantly bragging that I got a BS in BS in college. Or maybe it's because I make stuff up all the time. But only when it doesn't count. The other night counted.
Ty's working at the Merriam pool, excuse me, the Merriam Aquatic Center, this summer as a slide boy. Because he's tired of grubby little kids climbing over his legs every day, he's decided that he needs to become a lifeguard. Mainly because in an 8-hour shift they have four hours off. Simply brilliant. Anyway, he, Ron and I were sitting on the screened-in porch acting like millionaires, sipping mint juleps in our red hunt jackets and jodhpurs (see, I'm making this up), when he began telling us the requirements of the lifeguard test. He was naming the different strokes and how to do them. He thought the breast stroke was when you push your arms from the front to the side and kick like a frog. I corrected him, saying that you push down with your hands in a prayer position. Then he mentioned something about "freestyle." I said, "You mean the Australian Crawl?" Both he and Ron looked at me like I had worms coming out my eyes. "What's that?" Ron sneered. They both took great pains to poke fun at my intelligence and insinuated that I was making it up. I calmly took off my cute granny glasses, placed my Henry VIII book on the chaise and went inside. Once the door was closed behind me, I made a beeline to Tyler's computer, where I googled "Australian crawl." Ha! Double Ha! I was so completely and totally right I wanted to cuss. I nonchalantly went back out to the porch and said, "I'm right." I also informed them that the Australian Crawl, or Front Crawl, is the most universally used stroke in freestyle competition, but that freestyle itself is not a swimming stroke. Tyler says "all the people" at the pool call if freestyling. I said I'd be happy to come up and school them if he'd like. He, of course, would not like.
Make no mistake. I am a smart woman. And I am not making that up.
For some reason, which is completely beyond my comprehension, my husband and son tend not to believe me when I make certain statements. It could be that I'm constantly bragging that I got a BS in BS in college. Or maybe it's because I make stuff up all the time. But only when it doesn't count. The other night counted.
Ty's working at the Merriam pool, excuse me, the Merriam Aquatic Center, this summer as a slide boy. Because he's tired of grubby little kids climbing over his legs every day, he's decided that he needs to become a lifeguard. Mainly because in an 8-hour shift they have four hours off. Simply brilliant. Anyway, he, Ron and I were sitting on the screened-in porch acting like millionaires, sipping mint juleps in our red hunt jackets and jodhpurs (see, I'm making this up), when he began telling us the requirements of the lifeguard test. He was naming the different strokes and how to do them. He thought the breast stroke was when you push your arms from the front to the side and kick like a frog. I corrected him, saying that you push down with your hands in a prayer position. Then he mentioned something about "freestyle." I said, "You mean the Australian Crawl?" Both he and Ron looked at me like I had worms coming out my eyes. "What's that?" Ron sneered. They both took great pains to poke fun at my intelligence and insinuated that I was making it up. I calmly took off my cute granny glasses, placed my Henry VIII book on the chaise and went inside. Once the door was closed behind me, I made a beeline to Tyler's computer, where I googled "Australian crawl." Ha! Double Ha! I was so completely and totally right I wanted to cuss. I nonchalantly went back out to the porch and said, "I'm right." I also informed them that the Australian Crawl, or Front Crawl, is the most universally used stroke in freestyle competition, but that freestyle itself is not a swimming stroke. Tyler says "all the people" at the pool call if freestyling. I said I'd be happy to come up and school them if he'd like. He, of course, would not like.
Make no mistake. I am a smart woman. And I am not making that up.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
War
(Edwin Starr, 1969)
The other night my dad was voicing his amazement at the way Keith Olberman ripped into George Bush on his MSNBC program "Countdown." I'm not why he was being ripped, but let's face it, GW gives everyone plenty of opportunity. Before I go any further let me state that while I don't necessarily admire the manner in which the President has performed during his tenure in the White House, I highly respect the office and think that anyone faced with the state of the world as we know it would have a tough time. However . . .
Ron and I watched "Countdown" tonight and I was reminded, again, why I shy away from the news. It's so dang frustrating, depressing, enraging . . . Call me Pollyanna or an ostrich with my head in the sand. The problems are SO overwhelming and ridiculously complicated. There are many things that I think this country desperately needs to survive another millennium. For example: an insurance overhaul, a fair immigration policy, the abolishment (or at least a HUGE reduction/revamping) of the welfare system - I could go on for days. We also need to learn how to be nice to each other. I'm not talking about tolerance. I'm saying the Golden Rule. As cliche as it sounds, do what Jesus would do. Working towards that would help solve the other problems and we could all join in unison, "I'd Like to Teach the World To Sing." Some of you might debunk my call for the return to morality (or the song) as the answer. But . . . it would create a clearer picture of right and wrong and better choices would be made. There are way too many shades of gray in our world's palette.
Olberman says that of the 18 benchmarks the Iraqi government should have reached by now, NONE of them has been accomplished. We've been there how many years? Spent how many billions of dollars? Cost how many thousands of lives? If the Iraqis haven't managed to cross one thing off their "to do" list by now, I don't think it's going to happen. We could occupy Iraq until the apocalypse (which could be SO much sooner than we think) and I'm not sure much progress would be made. (My mom used to make "to do" lists for us when we were kids and we couldn't do anything else until everything was done. The last thing on every list was "Be nice to your mother." Now there's a concept.)
Because I've just spent the better part of my summer reading 950+ pages about HST I now consider myself an expert in foreign affairs. Never mind it's the foreign affairs of over fifty years ago. There are many, many details that we, the average Joe and Jane, don't know, and quite frankly, would be scared witless if we did know. Who knows? The armed forces may be on the verge of making some startling new discovery. Like they found a weapon of mass destruction and it turned out to be Lindsay Lohan's personal credo.
War, unfortunately, has been practiced since the beginning of the world. They almost always are fought in the name of freedom. But I'm wondering if Iraq is ready to be free. They've been in such chaos for so long that it may be impossible to ever fully grasp that concept. I once heard a story about circus elephants that died in a fire, even after their trainers had unchained them so they could move to safety. They were so used to being tethered that they couldn't act to save their lives. Maybe if the trainers had stayed with them to guide them they might have lived, but, as a result, the trainers might have died. I think we're the trainers. And we still can't get the elephants to take one step.
The other night my dad was voicing his amazement at the way Keith Olberman ripped into George Bush on his MSNBC program "Countdown." I'm not why he was being ripped, but let's face it, GW gives everyone plenty of opportunity. Before I go any further let me state that while I don't necessarily admire the manner in which the President has performed during his tenure in the White House, I highly respect the office and think that anyone faced with the state of the world as we know it would have a tough time. However . . .
Ron and I watched "Countdown" tonight and I was reminded, again, why I shy away from the news. It's so dang frustrating, depressing, enraging . . . Call me Pollyanna or an ostrich with my head in the sand. The problems are SO overwhelming and ridiculously complicated. There are many things that I think this country desperately needs to survive another millennium. For example: an insurance overhaul, a fair immigration policy, the abolishment (or at least a HUGE reduction/revamping) of the welfare system - I could go on for days. We also need to learn how to be nice to each other. I'm not talking about tolerance. I'm saying the Golden Rule. As cliche as it sounds, do what Jesus would do. Working towards that would help solve the other problems and we could all join in unison, "I'd Like to Teach the World To Sing." Some of you might debunk my call for the return to morality (or the song) as the answer. But . . . it would create a clearer picture of right and wrong and better choices would be made. There are way too many shades of gray in our world's palette.
Olberman says that of the 18 benchmarks the Iraqi government should have reached by now, NONE of them has been accomplished. We've been there how many years? Spent how many billions of dollars? Cost how many thousands of lives? If the Iraqis haven't managed to cross one thing off their "to do" list by now, I don't think it's going to happen. We could occupy Iraq until the apocalypse (which could be SO much sooner than we think) and I'm not sure much progress would be made. (My mom used to make "to do" lists for us when we were kids and we couldn't do anything else until everything was done. The last thing on every list was "Be nice to your mother." Now there's a concept.)
Because I've just spent the better part of my summer reading 950+ pages about HST I now consider myself an expert in foreign affairs. Never mind it's the foreign affairs of over fifty years ago. There are many, many details that we, the average Joe and Jane, don't know, and quite frankly, would be scared witless if we did know. Who knows? The armed forces may be on the verge of making some startling new discovery. Like they found a weapon of mass destruction and it turned out to be Lindsay Lohan's personal credo.
War, unfortunately, has been practiced since the beginning of the world. They almost always are fought in the name of freedom. But I'm wondering if Iraq is ready to be free. They've been in such chaos for so long that it may be impossible to ever fully grasp that concept. I once heard a story about circus elephants that died in a fire, even after their trainers had unchained them so they could move to safety. They were so used to being tethered that they couldn't act to save their lives. Maybe if the trainers had stayed with them to guide them they might have lived, but, as a result, the trainers might have died. I think we're the trainers. And we still can't get the elephants to take one step.
Monday, July 9, 2007
You Give Love A Bad Name
(Bon Jovi, 1986)
I've had it, had it, had it. Using sexuality in commercials is certainly not a new idea. But when Dairy Queen enters into the sex game . . . I mean, come on. If you haven't seen it, here's the synopsis: A chocolate dipped waffle cone and and the familiar DQ curlicue dollop of ice cream are in a doctor's office. The doctor tells the couple there's no reason they can't have a healthy child. The waffle cone (the man) says, "You mean, I'm not . . .", to which the doctor replies, "No, you're not lactose intolerant." The waffle cone and the ice cream look at each other longingly and then bolt for the door. Apparently they can't wait to consummate their union. And then there's the ice cream (don't recall which brand - not a very effective ad, eh?) that's caught in the bedroom of an oh-so-innocent wife by the shocked and appalled husband. She's all like, "What can I do? It's ICE CREAM?" Exactly what message are these churners of yummy ice cream hoping to send? That eating this ice cream will be sexually satisfying? I'm all for a nice double dipped chocolate cone, but I can't say that I'd trade it for the old fashioned, say, romp in the hay. Wait. No, ok. I'm still in for the real thing. But check back with me in ten years.
Ron was looking at an ad for tires in some weekly circular over the weekend. There was a picture of a bikini-clad nymph thrown in between the radials and all-weather tires. Ron's now got his eye on some nice studded snow tires, but I'm guessing he'll change his mind when I tell him the girl's not part of the deal. A couple of years ago another tire company had these couples dancing cheek-to-cheek (both top and bottom) in wet clothes. I would bet money that the next time we're in Goodyear, Ron will try and put the moves on me. The whole Pavlovian thing.
Here's my deal: Let tires be tires. Let ice cream be ice cream. And let sex be sex. All in favor?
I've had it, had it, had it. Using sexuality in commercials is certainly not a new idea. But when Dairy Queen enters into the sex game . . . I mean, come on. If you haven't seen it, here's the synopsis: A chocolate dipped waffle cone and and the familiar DQ curlicue dollop of ice cream are in a doctor's office. The doctor tells the couple there's no reason they can't have a healthy child. The waffle cone (the man) says, "You mean, I'm not . . .", to which the doctor replies, "No, you're not lactose intolerant." The waffle cone and the ice cream look at each other longingly and then bolt for the door. Apparently they can't wait to consummate their union. And then there's the ice cream (don't recall which brand - not a very effective ad, eh?) that's caught in the bedroom of an oh-so-innocent wife by the shocked and appalled husband. She's all like, "What can I do? It's ICE CREAM?" Exactly what message are these churners of yummy ice cream hoping to send? That eating this ice cream will be sexually satisfying? I'm all for a nice double dipped chocolate cone, but I can't say that I'd trade it for the old fashioned, say, romp in the hay. Wait. No, ok. I'm still in for the real thing. But check back with me in ten years.
Ron was looking at an ad for tires in some weekly circular over the weekend. There was a picture of a bikini-clad nymph thrown in between the radials and all-weather tires. Ron's now got his eye on some nice studded snow tires, but I'm guessing he'll change his mind when I tell him the girl's not part of the deal. A couple of years ago another tire company had these couples dancing cheek-to-cheek (both top and bottom) in wet clothes. I would bet money that the next time we're in Goodyear, Ron will try and put the moves on me. The whole Pavlovian thing.
Here's my deal: Let tires be tires. Let ice cream be ice cream. And let sex be sex. All in favor?
Sunday, July 8, 2007
I'm Henry the VIII, I Am
(Herman's Hermits, 1965)
My latest foray into nonfiction is a book about the six wives of Henry VIII. It's somewhat tedious, but nonetheless a fascinating study of the women who found themselves attached (and in some cases detached, literally) to England's most famous male monarch.
I've just finished reading about Katherine of Aragon, Henry's first wife, and have just begun my study on Anne Boleyn. Actually, the first sentence kind of tells the whole story . . . "The story of Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn began with passion and ended with a bloody death." Since the whole plot was kind of spoiled, I was sorely tempted to just skip ahead to Jane Seymour (not to be confused with Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman), but decided I shouldn't sell Anne so short. I'm glad I didn't. On the very next page came a startling revelation. Apparently, among her detractors was a Catholic critic who said she was the "author of all the mischief that was befalling the realm." Now that's my kind of woman. One who can stir up the pot and make all the bad stuff come to the surface. Now, in truth, I doubt the (first) lady to lose her head over the king was capable of disturbing all the peace in Britannia. That would be like blaming our president for all the trouble in the US of A. Hmmmmm. Not gonna go there, not gonna do it. But if I were him, I'd be wearing one of those big plastic collar things around his neck. Chop, chop.
Henry's myriad wives were the result of one thing - the unrelenting pressure to provide an heir to the throne. Many sons were born, but none survived to ascend to the throne (except maybe the bastard one and that was never gonna happen). In the end, Henry left only two legitimate heirs, Mary (from Katherine of Aragon) and Elizabeth (from Anne Boleyn). And we all know that Mary lost her head (at Elizabeth's behest; it took three chops of the axe to sever her head and I heard a nasty rumor that her mouth was still moving once her head finally rolled - reportedly her lips were moving in prayer) and Elizabeth ruled for 45 years. (I'd like to say that I knew how long EI's reign was, but I had to google it - now I know it, but probably won't remember it.) So there, Henry. Doesn't necessarily require a pair of you-know-whats to be a brilliant leader.
As a history major, my love for English history came late in my college career. In fact, had I not changed my major to history in the middle of my junior year (again, wouldn't recommend it) I probably wouldn't have ever learned that Richard III was the guy with the hump on his back or that Elizabeth I wore that awful white stuff on her face to conceal scars caused by some sort of pox (actually, I think I may have learned that in a movie). Anyway . . . England has a rich (literally - all the jewels, come on!) and spellbinding history. I would highly recommend the Masterpiece Theater piece on Elizabeth I (the one with Anne-Marie Duff). The music alone is absolutely wonderful. Duff gives an excellent portrayal of this once-reluctant queen, better, I think, than Helen Mirren's performance. And Cate Blanchet, well she was just plain creepy and chalk-boardy.
Other great period movies about England in the mid-centuries:
The Lion in Winter, about Henry II and Eleanor of Aquitane (Katharine Hepburn is, as always, superb)
A Man for All Seasons, about Sir Thomas More and his refusal to support Henry VIII in his attempt to have his marriage to Katherine of Aragon annulled so he can marry Anne Boleyn
Anne of a Thousand Days, about Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn
Other English movies I'd watch over and over again:
Pride & Prejudice (the A&E version with Colin Firth, NOT the one with Kiera "I Have Equine Teeth" Knightly)
Sense & Sensibility
Emma
Mrs. Brown (about Queen Victoria)
Remains of the Day
Vera Drake (FABULOUS movie about a woman who . . . you have to see it)
Happy viewing!
My latest foray into nonfiction is a book about the six wives of Henry VIII. It's somewhat tedious, but nonetheless a fascinating study of the women who found themselves attached (and in some cases detached, literally) to England's most famous male monarch.
I've just finished reading about Katherine of Aragon, Henry's first wife, and have just begun my study on Anne Boleyn. Actually, the first sentence kind of tells the whole story . . . "The story of Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn began with passion and ended with a bloody death." Since the whole plot was kind of spoiled, I was sorely tempted to just skip ahead to Jane Seymour (not to be confused with Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman), but decided I shouldn't sell Anne so short. I'm glad I didn't. On the very next page came a startling revelation. Apparently, among her detractors was a Catholic critic who said she was the "author of all the mischief that was befalling the realm." Now that's my kind of woman. One who can stir up the pot and make all the bad stuff come to the surface. Now, in truth, I doubt the (first) lady to lose her head over the king was capable of disturbing all the peace in Britannia. That would be like blaming our president for all the trouble in the US of A. Hmmmmm. Not gonna go there, not gonna do it. But if I were him, I'd be wearing one of those big plastic collar things around his neck. Chop, chop.
Henry's myriad wives were the result of one thing - the unrelenting pressure to provide an heir to the throne. Many sons were born, but none survived to ascend to the throne (except maybe the bastard one and that was never gonna happen). In the end, Henry left only two legitimate heirs, Mary (from Katherine of Aragon) and Elizabeth (from Anne Boleyn). And we all know that Mary lost her head (at Elizabeth's behest; it took three chops of the axe to sever her head and I heard a nasty rumor that her mouth was still moving once her head finally rolled - reportedly her lips were moving in prayer) and Elizabeth ruled for 45 years. (I'd like to say that I knew how long EI's reign was, but I had to google it - now I know it, but probably won't remember it.) So there, Henry. Doesn't necessarily require a pair of you-know-whats to be a brilliant leader.
As a history major, my love for English history came late in my college career. In fact, had I not changed my major to history in the middle of my junior year (again, wouldn't recommend it) I probably wouldn't have ever learned that Richard III was the guy with the hump on his back or that Elizabeth I wore that awful white stuff on her face to conceal scars caused by some sort of pox (actually, I think I may have learned that in a movie). Anyway . . . England has a rich (literally - all the jewels, come on!) and spellbinding history. I would highly recommend the Masterpiece Theater piece on Elizabeth I (the one with Anne-Marie Duff). The music alone is absolutely wonderful. Duff gives an excellent portrayal of this once-reluctant queen, better, I think, than Helen Mirren's performance. And Cate Blanchet, well she was just plain creepy and chalk-boardy.
Other great period movies about England in the mid-centuries:
The Lion in Winter, about Henry II and Eleanor of Aquitane (Katharine Hepburn is, as always, superb)
A Man for All Seasons, about Sir Thomas More and his refusal to support Henry VIII in his attempt to have his marriage to Katherine of Aragon annulled so he can marry Anne Boleyn
Anne of a Thousand Days, about Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn
Other English movies I'd watch over and over again:
Pride & Prejudice (the A&E version with Colin Firth, NOT the one with Kiera "I Have Equine Teeth" Knightly)
Sense & Sensibility
Emma
Mrs. Brown (about Queen Victoria)
Remains of the Day
Vera Drake (FABULOUS movie about a woman who . . . you have to see it)
Happy viewing!
Friday, July 6, 2007
Blinded by the Light
(Manfred Mann, 1977)
Tonight in the car this song came on and Tyler was like "Did he just say 'wrapped up like a douche'?" I said I thought it was "wrapped up like a deuce," although I admitted I had no idea what that meant any more than I know what "wrapped up like a douche" could mean, unless it was something covered in plastic, which is how douches are packaged. I braced myself in case Tyler asked how I would know such a thing, but he wisely kept any thoughts about that to himself.
As the discussion went on, I said, "Have no fear, I'll look it up on the internet." Which I have now done. The correct phrase is "Revved up like a deuce, another runner in the night." I'm guessing it's referring to a deuce coupe, a type of souped up hotrod, also the subject of a Beach Boys song, appropriately titled, "Little Deuce Coupe."
Ok, so as I'm writing this post, I flip back to the Wikipedia site where I got the Manfred Mann reference (also little known fact: Bruce Springsteen first wrote and recorded this song on his debut album, but it flopped) and read a little further and this is what it said:
The chorus of the song features the commonly misunderstood lyric, "Blinded by the light, cut loose like a deuce, another runner in the night." ("Deuce" refers to a '32 Ford Deuce Coupe.) Many listeners hear the word "douche" in place of "deuce." Manfred Mann's Earth Band changed this line slightly to "revved up like a deuce" (often misquoted as "wrapped up like a douche") and repeated it much more frequently in their version than Springsteen did in the original; they also omitted parts of the verses and rearranged the order of the remaining lyrics.
Springsteen, in his 2005 VH1 Storytellers appearance, lightheartedly made the assertion that the sole reason that Manfred Mann's version of the song went to number one is that the altered lyric is actually "revved up like a deuce". Bruce said, "The original lyric is 'cut loose like a deuce" referring to a two seat hot-rod, a little deuce coupe. Manfred Mann changed the lyric to 'revved up like a douche', which is a feminine hygienic procedure....so, they're different" It should be noted, however, that Manfred Mann's website lists the lyric as "deuce" rather than "douche". It was once rumored that Chris Thompson's New Zealand accent may be responsible for swapping deuce for douche; however, this cannot be correct as "deuce" said with a New Zealand accent is pronounced something similar to "juice".
I think it's a sign of real intelligence (or some idiot savant condition) that I was able to come up with that little explanation BEFORE I read the Wikipedia stuff. Anyway, the rest of the song is complete jibberish, if you ask me, but it has a nice beat, now I know all the words to the chorus and I could dance to it. I'd give it an 85 on American Bandstand's "Rate A Record."
Tonight in the car this song came on and Tyler was like "Did he just say 'wrapped up like a douche'?" I said I thought it was "wrapped up like a deuce," although I admitted I had no idea what that meant any more than I know what "wrapped up like a douche" could mean, unless it was something covered in plastic, which is how douches are packaged. I braced myself in case Tyler asked how I would know such a thing, but he wisely kept any thoughts about that to himself.
As the discussion went on, I said, "Have no fear, I'll look it up on the internet." Which I have now done. The correct phrase is "Revved up like a deuce, another runner in the night." I'm guessing it's referring to a deuce coupe, a type of souped up hotrod, also the subject of a Beach Boys song, appropriately titled, "Little Deuce Coupe."
Ok, so as I'm writing this post, I flip back to the Wikipedia site where I got the Manfred Mann reference (also little known fact: Bruce Springsteen first wrote and recorded this song on his debut album, but it flopped) and read a little further and this is what it said:
The chorus of the song features the commonly misunderstood lyric, "Blinded by the light, cut loose like a deuce, another runner in the night." ("Deuce" refers to a '32 Ford Deuce Coupe.) Many listeners hear the word "douche" in place of "deuce." Manfred Mann's Earth Band changed this line slightly to "revved up like a deuce" (often misquoted as "wrapped up like a douche") and repeated it much more frequently in their version than Springsteen did in the original; they also omitted parts of the verses and rearranged the order of the remaining lyrics.
Springsteen, in his 2005 VH1 Storytellers appearance, lightheartedly made the assertion that the sole reason that Manfred Mann's version of the song went to number one is that the altered lyric is actually "revved up like a deuce". Bruce said, "The original lyric is 'cut loose like a deuce" referring to a two seat hot-rod, a little deuce coupe. Manfred Mann changed the lyric to 'revved up like a douche', which is a feminine hygienic procedure....so, they're different" It should be noted, however, that Manfred Mann's website lists the lyric as "deuce" rather than "douche". It was once rumored that Chris Thompson's New Zealand accent may be responsible for swapping deuce for douche; however, this cannot be correct as "deuce" said with a New Zealand accent is pronounced something similar to "juice".
I think it's a sign of real intelligence (or some idiot savant condition) that I was able to come up with that little explanation BEFORE I read the Wikipedia stuff. Anyway, the rest of the song is complete jibberish, if you ask me, but it has a nice beat, now I know all the words to the chorus and I could dance to it. I'd give it an 85 on American Bandstand's "Rate A Record."
Tuesday, July 3, 2007
Hot Mama
(Trace Adkins, 2003)
The summer of 1980 had record setting hotness. It was so stupidly hot that I'd rather eat a hundred pounds of wild boar entrails than live through that summer again.
It was the summer my dad ran for Governor of Missouri. I had bribed/cajoled one of my sorority sisters to spend the summer traveling with me as I campaigned all across the state. I chose Kathi for two reasons. First, she was a Republican and I thought it would be funny for her to have to say Democratic things. Second, she was waaaaaaaay smarter than me. (She went on to law school and is now a judge in St. Louis.) I figured I could let her do the heavy lifting when it came to actually being articulate about campaign issues and I'd just smile and be cute. Worked pretty well.
I don't know how many miles we traveled, but it was probably enough to reach to the moon and back. Every day had the same itinerary. Go to 180 itty bitty towns. Make an appearance at the newspaper and radio station. Hand out literature in the town square. Eat lunch at a mom-and-pop diner and have the roast beef blue plate special. Visit the local nursing home and sing "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot" and "Amazing Grace." Drink lots of Pepsi and smoke lots of cigarettes (never in public, of course). Check in at the cheapest hotel possible (we stayed in one that had - and I'm dead serious - a pay phone in the room. And that was one of the classier joints.)
The worst day ever was the Fourth of July. It had to be 105+ degrees in the shade. We were in St. Louis so Ron was able to hold my hand and wipe by brow (and listen to me complain endlessly about how hot it was). We campaigned in Forest Park and some guy yelled at Ron, saying that about the only thing politicians were good at was lining their pockets with money. Ron still talks about it. It really annoyed him. I also rode in two parades, took three showers and still felt like a wilted lettuce leaf at the end of the day. I was one hot mama that day. Ok, so I was only hot. Now I'd be a tepid mama.
The summer of 1980 had record setting hotness. It was so stupidly hot that I'd rather eat a hundred pounds of wild boar entrails than live through that summer again.
It was the summer my dad ran for Governor of Missouri. I had bribed/cajoled one of my sorority sisters to spend the summer traveling with me as I campaigned all across the state. I chose Kathi for two reasons. First, she was a Republican and I thought it would be funny for her to have to say Democratic things. Second, she was waaaaaaaay smarter than me. (She went on to law school and is now a judge in St. Louis.) I figured I could let her do the heavy lifting when it came to actually being articulate about campaign issues and I'd just smile and be cute. Worked pretty well.
I don't know how many miles we traveled, but it was probably enough to reach to the moon and back. Every day had the same itinerary. Go to 180 itty bitty towns. Make an appearance at the newspaper and radio station. Hand out literature in the town square. Eat lunch at a mom-and-pop diner and have the roast beef blue plate special. Visit the local nursing home and sing "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot" and "Amazing Grace." Drink lots of Pepsi and smoke lots of cigarettes (never in public, of course). Check in at the cheapest hotel possible (we stayed in one that had - and I'm dead serious - a pay phone in the room. And that was one of the classier joints.)
The worst day ever was the Fourth of July. It had to be 105+ degrees in the shade. We were in St. Louis so Ron was able to hold my hand and wipe by brow (and listen to me complain endlessly about how hot it was). We campaigned in Forest Park and some guy yelled at Ron, saying that about the only thing politicians were good at was lining their pockets with money. Ron still talks about it. It really annoyed him. I also rode in two parades, took three showers and still felt like a wilted lettuce leaf at the end of the day. I was one hot mama that day. Ok, so I was only hot. Now I'd be a tepid mama.
Mrs. Brown, You've Got A Lovely Daughter
(Herman's Hermits, 1965)
This Mrs. Brown didn't have a daughter, lovely or otherwise. She was one of my sociology professors in college. Nobody called her Dr. Brown. We called her Mama Brown. And not because she was the motherly type. It was because she was married to Papa Brown, the head of the sociology department. Of all my college professors, she was clearly the most unhinged. She was about five feet tall and four and a half feet wide. She had closely cropped gray hair and wore house dresses to class. You know, those kind your grandma wore: cotton, short sleeved, snap fronts and two huge pockets on either side. Every single day. Rain or shine. Sleet or snow. She also wore house slippers. With no hose. Are you beginning to get the picture? Quite pretty, eh?
Since I was a sociology major the first three years of college I saw a lot of Mama Brown. Her lectures were amazing. And not in the "Ohmigosh that's totally insanely interesting and I can't wait to use this knowledge in the real world" sense. This is what her lectures were like:
Imaginefourdaysofmoisturewhereyouwantitthemost.IntroducingnewKYBrandLiquibeads.Thefirstandonlyvaginalmoisturizerthat'sadiscreetandgentleinsert.Oneliquibeadsinsertdissolveswithinminutes,thengentlyreleasestolastuptofourdays.Useitregularlyandyouwon'teventhinkaboutbeingdry.
(I literally opened up my Health magazine and started typing. Stuff sounds kind of interesting . . . )
Yes, she read for solid freaking hour (an hour and a half on Tuesdays and Thursdays). She never looked up, never broke stride, never changed her inflection. She would be extremely inconvenienced if we asked her to repeat something. I bgn wrtng wtht vwls. Glad to see I can still do it. Oh, and she'd suck on hard candy the whole time, too.
Papa Brown died right before my senior year and Mama went bonkers. She grew her hair long and started wearing jeans and t-shirts. She also started holding class at her home, but by then I had switched majors and didn't have that enriching experience. Mama Brown didn't last much longer at the school. I think her brandishing a Bowie knife during one of her home schooling sessions might have had something to do with it.
Ron and I got a card from her for our wedding. She signed it "Mama and Papa Brown." Doo-doo-doo-doo doo-doo-doo-doo.
This Mrs. Brown didn't have a daughter, lovely or otherwise. She was one of my sociology professors in college. Nobody called her Dr. Brown. We called her Mama Brown. And not because she was the motherly type. It was because she was married to Papa Brown, the head of the sociology department. Of all my college professors, she was clearly the most unhinged. She was about five feet tall and four and a half feet wide. She had closely cropped gray hair and wore house dresses to class. You know, those kind your grandma wore: cotton, short sleeved, snap fronts and two huge pockets on either side. Every single day. Rain or shine. Sleet or snow. She also wore house slippers. With no hose. Are you beginning to get the picture? Quite pretty, eh?
Since I was a sociology major the first three years of college I saw a lot of Mama Brown. Her lectures were amazing. And not in the "Ohmigosh that's totally insanely interesting and I can't wait to use this knowledge in the real world" sense. This is what her lectures were like:
Imaginefourdaysofmoisturewhereyouwantitthemost.IntroducingnewKYBrandLiquibeads.Thefirstandonlyvaginalmoisturizerthat'sadiscreetandgentleinsert.Oneliquibeadsinsertdissolveswithinminutes,thengentlyreleasestolastuptofourdays.Useitregularlyandyouwon'teventhinkaboutbeingdry.
(I literally opened up my Health magazine and started typing. Stuff sounds kind of interesting . . . )
Yes, she read for solid freaking hour (an hour and a half on Tuesdays and Thursdays). She never looked up, never broke stride, never changed her inflection. She would be extremely inconvenienced if we asked her to repeat something. I bgn wrtng wtht vwls. Glad to see I can still do it. Oh, and she'd suck on hard candy the whole time, too.
Papa Brown died right before my senior year and Mama went bonkers. She grew her hair long and started wearing jeans and t-shirts. She also started holding class at her home, but by then I had switched majors and didn't have that enriching experience. Mama Brown didn't last much longer at the school. I think her brandishing a Bowie knife during one of her home schooling sessions might have had something to do with it.
Ron and I got a card from her for our wedding. She signed it "Mama and Papa Brown." Doo-doo-doo-doo doo-doo-doo-doo.
Monday, July 2, 2007
I'm A Yankee Doodle Dandy
(James Cagney, 1942)
The fourth of July, it ain't what it used to be. When I was a kid it was the quintessential summer holiday. It was the picnic on Pill Hill, the area where all the doctors lived, complete with burgers, hot dogs, chips, deviled eggs, lemonade, hand-churned ice cream and watermelon so juicy there was a continuous red river running down your neck. After dinner there'd be fireworks in the back yard and then we'd all head out to the city park to hear a band concert and watch more fireworks. Could it be any more Norman Rockwellian? I don't think so.
I miss those crazy black tabs that turned into the head of Medusa when lit and left black circles all over the pavement. I miss doing extra chores to pad the fireworks fund. One summer my dad paid us a quarter an hour to paint the back of the house. You could get a TON of stuff for three bucks. I miss the smell of punks and the absolute terror that comes from lighting blackcats in your hand (our parents were pretty lax when it came to fireworks safety - really any kind of safety; when I was a toddler riding in the car I'd stand on the seat next to my dad and put my arm around him, no seat belt . . . ).
One summer when I was about 13 we all went over to Myrtle's house on the Fourth. Her name was Marilyn but my parents didn't want us calling her by her first name, as that was a serious breach of the respecting the elders rule, so we made up this silly nickname. This, by the way, is the same lady who, while driving us kids around in downtown Jefferson City, slammed on her brakes and yelled, "There's Squeaky!" the town's most famous prostitute. We all about broke our neck to get a good look at her. It was pretty dang funny. Anyway, she had two kids that were the same age as my brother and me and she worked for my dad. We'd known each other forever, and her parents, too, Grammy and PaPa. There was a whole herd of kids there and we were all horsing around. I had a sparkler and was waving it around, probably writing my name in the sky - right over the full box of highly combustible fireworks. Well, all of the sudden, the box started sputtering and hissing and before we knew it the fireworks were flying everywhere. PaPa, who was clear across the yard sitting in a lawn chair with a blanket wrapped around him jumped up, ran over and stomped out the fury. I was COMPLETELY mortified and locked myself in the bathroom and refused to come out. It took encouragement from Ricky Hempe (only the cutest boy on the whole block) to make me finally show my face again. We call Myrtle almost every year on the fourth and laugh, laugh, laugh. I still get a tiny bit embarrassed about the whole thing.
So, anybody got any odd jobs? I feel the need for some Roman candles, fountains and cherry bombs.
The fourth of July, it ain't what it used to be. When I was a kid it was the quintessential summer holiday. It was the picnic on Pill Hill, the area where all the doctors lived, complete with burgers, hot dogs, chips, deviled eggs, lemonade, hand-churned ice cream and watermelon so juicy there was a continuous red river running down your neck. After dinner there'd be fireworks in the back yard and then we'd all head out to the city park to hear a band concert and watch more fireworks. Could it be any more Norman Rockwellian? I don't think so.
I miss those crazy black tabs that turned into the head of Medusa when lit and left black circles all over the pavement. I miss doing extra chores to pad the fireworks fund. One summer my dad paid us a quarter an hour to paint the back of the house. You could get a TON of stuff for three bucks. I miss the smell of punks and the absolute terror that comes from lighting blackcats in your hand (our parents were pretty lax when it came to fireworks safety - really any kind of safety; when I was a toddler riding in the car I'd stand on the seat next to my dad and put my arm around him, no seat belt . . . ).
One summer when I was about 13 we all went over to Myrtle's house on the Fourth. Her name was Marilyn but my parents didn't want us calling her by her first name, as that was a serious breach of the respecting the elders rule, so we made up this silly nickname. This, by the way, is the same lady who, while driving us kids around in downtown Jefferson City, slammed on her brakes and yelled, "There's Squeaky!" the town's most famous prostitute. We all about broke our neck to get a good look at her. It was pretty dang funny. Anyway, she had two kids that were the same age as my brother and me and she worked for my dad. We'd known each other forever, and her parents, too, Grammy and PaPa. There was a whole herd of kids there and we were all horsing around. I had a sparkler and was waving it around, probably writing my name in the sky - right over the full box of highly combustible fireworks. Well, all of the sudden, the box started sputtering and hissing and before we knew it the fireworks were flying everywhere. PaPa, who was clear across the yard sitting in a lawn chair with a blanket wrapped around him jumped up, ran over and stomped out the fury. I was COMPLETELY mortified and locked myself in the bathroom and refused to come out. It took encouragement from Ricky Hempe (only the cutest boy on the whole block) to make me finally show my face again. We call Myrtle almost every year on the fourth and laugh, laugh, laugh. I still get a tiny bit embarrassed about the whole thing.
So, anybody got any odd jobs? I feel the need for some Roman candles, fountains and cherry bombs.
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