Kat's Showtune Rules

Welcome to the first (and perhaps only) installment of Kat's Showtune Rules.

1. "Get Me To The Church On Time" and "With A Little Bit Of Luck" should not be sung without a Cockney accent. Bryn Terfel, I'm talking to you. Pull out the stopper/Let's have a whopper sounds really lame coming from an overly-dictioned operatic style baritone. It's like that Simpson's episode where they play "In A Gadda Da Vida" on the church organ.

2. Speaking of My Fair Lady, whoever sold "(Wouldn't It Be) Loverly" to some hotel chain should be shot. If I hear that chorus of idiots singing "All I want is a room somewhere/with a wetbar and wireless internet access" again, I'll be forced to lob hand grenades at the closest franchisee of said hotel chain.

3. As I gleefully announced at Rex's place, it is finally possible to get "They Call The Wind Maria" from iTunes. Why is the fire "Joe", anyway? Does that make sense? "Joe" is a friendly guy's name--the guy who will fix your tire. Fire is not that friendly.

4. Starlight Express may be the stupidest musical ever. But I would pay money to see the full version of Elephant!.

5. Repeat after me--"Colm Wilkinson can do no wrong"

Astral Weeks

may be the best album ever recorded.

BSG FREAKOUT CONTINUES

The TWOP boards are down.

Just when I need to totally work through my issues.

Kill The Rednecks, But Buy My Record First

Bill Hobbs, NiT guest-blogger extraordinaire has brought an interesting news article to light. The Tennessean tells us that the Dixie Chicks are shopping their newest single to .... country music stations.

Convenient, seeing as how Miss Natalie said a few weeks ago that

"And I guess I was ignorant to the fact that the stereotypes behind country music were true — and it was disappointing. … So I'm pretty much done," she said. "They've shown their true colors. I like lots of country music, but as far as the industry and everything that happened ... I couldn't want to be farther away from that."

Fantastic. Allow me to translate:

"You all are stupid rednecks who wouldn't know your butt from a breadbasket--but don't worry. I'll still take your money. But you'll be too dumb to notice."

Maines further tells us that the new album was "total therapy." I gots news for ya, Nat. I don't pay to have people exorcise their demons on my dime. I pay to be entertained. I'm glad you feel better, but I won't be buying the new album. Coincidentally, the album is being released on my birthday. You all know what you don't have to buy me.

Oh, and ironically, I'd kinda forgotten about the whole Bush/Texas/London/Naked EW thing until they reminded me. They reminded me now. To sell a new record. I guess some of the cynics are right--this was about making money.

BSG Final Thoughts

Are over at All Along The Watchtower.

This One's For Pam

Hat Tip: Right Justified

Fun Friday Facts

-->My Mom is 66 years old today. I would say something about getting her kicks at age 66, but if you know my mom, you'd know that "kicks" are just not her style. I owe her a longer post in her honour and that will be coming sometime. But right now I'm swamped with a sick husband, a downed tree, a broken frog and seven freelance jobs.

--> The frog in my profile is the one that broke. I actually cried about it, which makes me wonder if I'm 36 or 3 or 6. Who cries over a broken ceramic frog? Besides me, that is.

--> I have renamed my white dog. He is no longer "Quinn". He is now "The WindChicken", because he spent all day yesterday under my desk.

--> If you have dogs who are afraid of the high winds, it's probably not the best idea to collect windchimes.

--> By the way, I do collect windchimes. And my birthday is May 23rd. Hint.

--> At my house we call Food Lion "The Kitty Cat Store." My poor husband.

--> I did not go to the blogger meet up last night, even though I desperately wanted to. But see above for some of the reasons. The other reason is that I didn't think there was enough liquour in all the free world to help others overcome the pain of hearing my singing.

-->Weren't the Olympics on the air for 2 weeks? Couldn't they have made more brand new "My Name Is Earl" and "The Office" episodes?

-->I may be the only one who thinks that the bill to outlaw sex toys in Nashville was cooked up by the local news media so that they could talk about "sex toys" and show "sex toys" on the evening news. Way to go, Channel 2, for the closeups of vibrator boxes! That's what I wanted to see during the final minutes of Invasion.

--> I hate that actress who played Zoe Bartlett and now plays the psycho pregger chick on Invasion.

Sorry, Harry, But I Need More Sleep For This

Connie Lane is working determinedly to find all the goodies over at JKR's website.

There are several new easter eggs for the Harry Potter fandom to find, and believe me that I want very badly to see them. But I am just not in the frame of mind where I can do that whole mental-Twister thing that the site requires. Over in the thread at Connie's people are talking about how to suss the information. Just reading it makes my head hurt. Then again, I had two storm-crazed dogs who kept me up all night.

Either way, it's times like this that I am so thankful for Mugglenet's ongoing archive of JKR's site goodies.

The Thomas Kinkade Slot Machine

Les Jones points to the latest coverage of the ongoing Kinkade debacle. I'm fascinated by the whole thing, because for awhile I had a front-row seat.

One of the first things I did when I started my old job was to help my boss draft a proposal to Kinkade's licensing group. I spent nearly a week knee-deep in Kinkade when he was at the height of his glory. And I swear I never saw so many greedy people who thought they could make a fast buck. I talked to a few of the gallery owners when researching our proposal, and they all seemed to be of the "more money than sense" variety of folks. Honestly, people are not going to buy paintings from a gallery in a mall on a regular basis. Sure, there was a pretty big market for TK's work. But a Thomas Kinkade La-Z-Boy? Really?

Surprisingly, they've all lost their bankroll and are blaming Kinkade. One fellow lost several million dollars. Who puts all their many millions of dollars into cookie-cutter galleries for mediocre art? Pardon if I don't feel the least bit sorry.

We did get the license, but in the end never manufactured the product. That's probably a good thing, when you consider what's happened to everyone else.

On the bright side, if you are still hankering for some expensive Kinkade artwork, I think they're still selling from the DNA collection. Wouldn't you just love to have some of the "artist's hair and blood" mixed in with your painting?

Open Note To Several Bloggers

I was going to send each of you either a comment or a private email, but there are about a dozen, so I'm doing this the easy way.

Many of you have changed your template/added a bunch of ads/added HaloScan comments/added all kinds of linky toys in the sidebar.

In most cases I can't even get your page to load fully so that I can send you an email or make a comment. I don't even get to read what's there--and I want to read your stuff.

Thanks,

K

Sister Christian

I can no longer hear "Sister Christian" without thinking of that crazed coke dealer in Boogie Nights.

I remember when I first heard it in High School. It was one of those dozen or two songs that I wasn't sure if I should listen to. I kind of thought it might be one of those "come on, girl, sleep with me already!" tunes. My boyfriend had taken great pleasure in playing "Only The Good Die Young" on the tape deck of his truck. It was his not-so-subtle way of telling me I should quit with the whole prissy-virgin thing and give him what he wanted. Not only did it not work, it led me to resent Billy Joel for years.

After I broke up with him I heard "Paradise (By The Dashboard Light)" for the first time and felt vindicated. Years later I still think of him whenever I hear "Unanswered Prayers".

Pretty much any popular song from '83-'88 reminds me of someone I went to high school with, dated or worked alongside. "Sister Christian" used to remind me of Chad Colbert and Bill Hayes playing air guitar. Now all I see is that crazy fat guy in his bathrobe fiddling with the stereo knobs and freaking out the two porn guys. Clearly the movies are far more interesting than High School.

Me, Big Orange Michael & Harry Potter

So I was ticked off after reading Kleinheider's thing, and decided to take my anger out on the poor recumbant exercise bike in the next room.

Twenty minutes later I come back to an email that says "you might like this". And what do you know....I might!!! So might many of you. (And P.S.-->How FRABJOUS is that picture?!?!)

You're just like me! You scored 42 cynicism, 59 gullibility, and 71 heart!

We tend to have an intensely strong connection with one or two characters who remind us most of ourselves, as we are or wish we were. As long as our favorite characters and ships come out of this okay, we have our happy ending. There is a very dark and dry sense of humour at play in how we frame our opinions. You are probably trying to convince yourself that one of the Weasley twins will die, and only one will live, not because you want it to happen, but so you'll be prepared if it does—you identify more strongly with any given Weasley than with Harry. You probably want Snape to be good based on canon evidence, and very likely won't cry if Harry dies. This doesn't mean you don't care about him, just that you have a good handle on what to expect, and won't be surprised by whatever happens, because you've examined all possible outcomes.

My test tracked 3 variables How you compared to other people your age and gender: You scored higher than 15% on cynicism You scored higher than 46% on gullibility You scored higher than 84% on heart

Link: The Predict the Last Potter Book Test written by beyond_pale on Ok Cupid, home of the 32-Type Dating Test

AC and The Jews

Kleinheider wants to know if Israel had advanced knowledge about the Towers' destruction.

I get that A.C. is not one of the pro-Israel nuts (such as me), but really?

There was an in depth piece in the Sunday Herald by Neal Mackay on 02 November, 2003.

It was debated to death at that point. The original story, thin on evidence, has become part of the anti-Jew lexicon of hate, alongside the Pakistani News Service's claim that 4000 Jews did not show up for work on 9/11.

I doubt there's more to say about it now except this:

Why resurrect the question except to sully Israeli-American relations? Or to further sully the reputations of the Jews?

Come to think of it, those Jews have never fully answered the Blood Libel either.

Should I Or Shouldn't I?

I have a can of Black Cherry Vanilla Coke in the fridge.

Part of me is curious, part of me is slightly repulsed. So, should I taste it or not?

My Abortion Story

Their mother died in a fire, so the older sister could no longer afford to pay for the younger sister's school. So she wired the train fare and had the 14 year old girl come west to help on the farm. They had been born 9 years apart and had little in common.

One of the things they had in common was the older sister's husband. Whether he raped the girl or joined in consensual sex with her is one of those lost details. Although I suspect it may have been a little bit of both. Young girls who have no place else to go are often well aware of the cost of keeping a roof over their head. Especially when they are young girls who have been sickly their entire lives.

There was a doctor in town who would treat anyone regardless of their ability to pay. They may have asked her to abort the children (there would be three) but she would have refused. She was the daughter of Armenian refugees and took her faith in God and her hippocratic oath very seriously. She was also, as luck would have it, infertile. When the first boy was born on Christmas Eve, the doctor took him home with her to raise as her own. She named him Robert.

Two years later the young girl found herself in the same predicament--this time it was made worse by the fact that she had tuberculosis. She struggled through her illness to give birth to another boy, this time on Halloween. Again the eccentric Armenian doctor took the baby home with her, to grow up along side his brother. She named him David.

Robert is my uncle. David is my father. The two Graces are the women who were both strong enough to make it possible for me to be here. Grace Heal made the choice to carry her babies to term. Grace Beshgetoor Boyer Green made the choice to take the responsibility for the children whose lives she helped bring into the world.

Were it not for the two Graces there would not be my father who has helped literally hundreds of thousands of people through his work with the law and his charity.

Whenever I think of abortion my models are the two Graces. My story wouldn't be sufficient without either one of them. It's tempting to only remember the younger Grace who didn't abort the child. But I think it is as important to remember the other Grace--the one who used her gifts of medicine and opportunity to nuture the children whose birth she encouraged.

I'm trying to not worry so much about the law, but to instead model myself after Grace.

Someplace Else

After some good times with Sims 2 and Civ III I'm back to my alltime favourite game, and expanding Lady Dierdre's Green Gaian faction across the face of Alpha Centauri.

A few days ago I found a great website for desktops that expand the mood of the game outward. It's fun because I sort of feel like I'm actually in space, on that other world.



If you like rendered spacescapes and moonscapes, check out Moodflow. Makes a nice change from Bondi Lines.

Dinner For Five Guys

Tim and I were watching Dinner For Five tonight. The guests were Frank Darabont, Harry Shearer, Fred Willard and Alan Cumming. (No sir, I will not buy any face cream with that brand name, clever though it may be.)

About twenty minutes into the show it hit me. The hidden chip on my shoulder that I think is (no pun intended) the elephant in the room with me and Hollywood. What it is that bugs me more than anything, and why I am having a hard time believing in the Tolerance Brigade and Mr. Clooney's bravery.

I'm a fat girl. I'm a smart girl, a pretty girl, a clever girl and a funny girl. But I'm also girthy. The brave movies, the forward movies, the tolerant movies--you can sup with others of another race. You can triumph over Communism. You can even have sex with another guy. Just whatever you do--don't fall in love with, don't show in any way, don't even acknowledge the existence of the fat chicks. This is the state of what I consume, and probably why I consume less. No one looks like me.

Is this why I am brought to tears by a soap commercial, and why I had a lump in my throat for all of Sara Ramirez' scenes in Grey's Anatomy? Probably. There is a glimmer of hope in those viewings that just doesn't exist in any of the Hollywood product I've seen.

I gobble up Dinner For Five like candy corn. I can't get enough of the anecdotes, the cross-chatter and the sense of fun. But tonight's show drove home the truth. Frank (not skinny) Darabont can hold the table in rapt attention. He has ripping tales as a writer and they all seemed to respect his mind and his humour. But I'm betting Shonda Rhimes will never be at that table. When the women are there, they are tiny little Neve Campbell ("What's it like to dance?!"), petite Christina Ricci or emaciated Rosanna Arquette. Rosanna had a lot to say about the lack of roles for older women. Rosanna, honey, let's talk. If you're fat you're older your whole life.

Is it a coincidence that box office takes are shrinking as America gets steadily larger? Probably, but I'm beginning to doubt it. If George Clooney wants to convince me that he's outside the mainstream, his next onscreen love interest could be at least a size 12.

Hello Dolly

Dolly Parton's nominated song can be downloaded free on iTunes today.

Randoms

--Does anyone know where my camera battery charger is? I seriously need it because I want to take stupid pictures of my feet and my desk and my Christmas lights.

--Why do I keep watching Cool Runnings. Is it because I love John Candy? Is it because I'm inspired by them carrying the sled across the finish line in the final race? I think maybe it's because the slow-clap-building-to-a-loud-fast-clap has made me cry since I first saw it in Brubaker.

--I realise that even though I was indifferent to the Oscars this year, I miss having an Oscar party. I liked getting fancy cheese and cakes and drinks and enjoying the bit of luxury and fun. Really, though, as I said in the comments somewhere else (here? Connie Lane's? I can't remember) the whole ambience was ruined when they moved the awards up a month. They are now too close to February to really have that same party atmosphere. Maybe next year I'll have a party regardless. I'm in the mood for a party.

--I changed my blog picture. It now features my fiberglass frog statue--Salmon Croak-ette. I call him that because he's a frog but he looks flirtatious. My brain is scary.

--My gas bill was under $200. I guess keeping the heat at 68 degrees will save you money. Of course, no one has seen my sock bill....

--Today my dog (Quinn) came to get me at my desk. He made me go upstairs. He then stood by the front door, urging me to open it. Turns out he now recognises the mailman, and expects me to go directly outside to get the mail. Thanks, Netflix.

--It's Monday. I didn't sleep very much last night. I think that is evidenced by the fact that I got precious little done today. Except blogging. I did do that. Whee. Like that's a task.

--Sorry, Michael, I don't think I'm as excited about Dr. Who as I should be. I am going to miss BSG too much.

I'm On A Free Ride

The mountain is high, the valley is low

Some chick has put her foot in the mud puddle. (Or maybe it's a guy named Shannon. There are a few of those. But I bet they all hate their mothers.)

So what did Shannon say? That the childless are getting a free ride on the back of society's parents. Sure, fine, okay. It's not like I've had this argument before, or anything.

My favourite part, though, was this:
In our atomized society, children do not provide a boost in status, networking or security that offsets their very real cost.

Clearly Shannon is not a member of a Southern Baptist Church.

Oscar Upset

Right about now, my brother should be enjoying a CD or DVD because he picked the winning picture in his Oscar pool. Except he must feel like an idiot for picking Brokeback as the winner for Best Original Screenplay. Honey, Annie Proulx might have something to say about the "original" thing. She wrote the source material, which is why BBM won Best Adapted screeplay.

Hindsight being blessed with 20/20 and this being (technically) Monday Morning, I'm set to do a wee bit of quarterbacking.

Crash won. Proving yet again that Hollywood's love affair with itself outranks all other dalliances it has. Gay shepherds are quaint in that same way as crazy farm wives and paralyzed Irish poets. They're interesting to sit next to at parties but haven't we all had racial tensions with our gardeners, our butlers, our poolboys and maids? Haven't our chauffers had close calls in gridlock?

Yes, I'm being undeservedly snide. Fully 90% of the Academy voters are probably those guys who do the "Don't Steal Movies" commercials where they talk about living on $8,000 a year by curing plywood for backlot scenes. You know, the paint-splattered Everymen who are the lifeblood of the industry. Until they get their own show on TLC redecorating dorm rooms in Davidson, North Carolina or they move back to Terre Haute to teach shop and build the sets for the Junior Class production of The Music Man.

Oh well. Congratulations, Tommy, on picking the winner. Now you can put your Lesbian Flannel away until next year.

In other news, I am officially old. I used to never miss an Oscar(R) ceremony. When I had my first kidney stone I was more distraught about missing the Oscars than the $3000 hospital bill. But last night I didn't care. Not only that, I spent a good chunk of the evening at church, where Tim and I lowered the mean age of the participants by a good deal. Yes, while the rest of the world was watching sparkly people, I was sitting in Fellowship Hall amongst the aged, analysing five-point Calvinism. I suppose I was predestined to be there, but still. Part of me feels as though I skipped right over the "I shall wear purple" phase and landed headfirst into a purse filled with kleenex and peppermints.

The Boo Pen

She picked her way through the bones. Stagnant puddles of decay with their heavy sweet smell. The landscape was familiar to her from a decade's worth of travelling. Faces were the same. Names hadn't changed. But everything was different a bit. As though everyone had overnight purchased a new wardrobe. And taken Ritalin. They are the same, but maybe not quite.

Yep, one of the books I had on hold was Crazy Patsy's latest Scarpetta mystery.

I'm 222 pages in and the biggest mystery so far is who is ghost-writing this book? Not that I mind, because after the whole FBI Lesbian Agent Church Shootout incident, her writing got more unhinged. The books went from cool crime yarns to the literary equivalent of therapeutic finger painting on a locked mental ward. But good or bad you knew, with each loving description of Lucy's can-do sexy genius, each elaborate Italian recipe and every cursing screed of Marino's that this was Patsy's world and you're just reading about it.

I maintain that Blow Fly was the last book that Cornball wrote herself. It was horrible. Just sick and slimy with awfulness. Neither Predator nor Trace has that painful "pass the Lithium" vibe. Neither, however, do they give you the sense that the person writing the books knows the characters with the same familial sense as their creator. It's okay for the most part, because the new books are passably entertaining mysteries that don't leave the reader feeling both nauseous and $25.00 poorer. But I do confess that I really miss the real Scarpetta, the real Marino, the real Lucy. And Bennett could have stayed dead.

The story I hope to read someday is the story behind Patricia Cornwell Enterprises--the entity who has been copywriting the Scarpetta books since Trace. I'm sure there's a drama involving a publisher who needs to keep the franchise going, a writer who has gone twice round the bend, and some poor Virginia grad student who needs the money. That's the story I want to read. Maybe I shoud write it myself. Or find a poor grad student in Virginia.

Spoiler-Laden Update

WHAT!?!? You have got to be kidding me. I thought we had too many disjointed characters floating around the cesspool of this story but

No. Seriously. You Did Not Just Do That, Ghost Writer Person!

Fully one-third of the characters introduced in this book turn out to be...wait for it... it's novel...never been done before...

yep.

They are the multiple personalities of one character. What worked so beautifully TEN YEARS AGO for Margaret Atwood in Alias Grace is ridiculous and facile here. My head hurts. This is so very wrong. I now can't decide if Putnam actually sanctioned a ghost-writer or if Patricia Cornwell+Psychotropic Medication yields the dross I've just read.

On the bright side, if you're on the hold list at the library for this one, it'll be on its way to you shortly.

Let's Play A Fun Game!

Pros: Jason is back from the North Pole or wherever he goes every year and is blogging again.

Cons: Jason's comments aren't working.

So, this is one of those fun games I like to call "match my comment to a random Jason post.

Comment:

Funny, that's also happening to my butt.

Comment:

Eyes, schmeyes. You just want the fancy toys. Nice try with the whole "blame Giles" thing, though.

Comment:

If you're so worried about your eyes, you shouldn't be fooling around with pliers and wires.

Comment:

I love mine, but the subwoofer makes the dogs crazy. It is a handy place to keep my Bible at the ready for the theological debate posts also.

Comment:

He has to say crap like that. He's a motivational speaker. It's , like, how he puts food on the table. I'd be more impressed if some crabby divorced dental hygenist cooked that up.

Comment:

Tea is SO not a snack, Mumfred. And I love how you whine about not having sugar in your "snack" while everything else on your list is like pure sugar. But thanks for not letting me be the one to kill yet another meme. I am the Memeocide champion of 2005.

Hermitage Branch Library Violates Patrons' Privacy Rights

(Tell Me I'm Making A Big Deal Out Of Nothing...)

As we've discussed, I'm a library junkie.

Last night we made our trip to little mecca to pick up our stack of holds. Something was different. I started to ask for them politely at the desk and then saw the three front shelves in the lobby no longer held new releases.

They held the requested books. Which library patrons can now pick up themselves. All you have to do is look for your name on a slip of paper, wrapped around your book, DVD or CD.

The problem is, as I see it, is that so can anyone else. Any person who enters the library can browse the stack of holds, see your full name and what you've requested.

This brings up two issues.

1. Privacy. Maybe I don't want people to know that I've requested a book on making my own beer. (Relax, Mom. I haven't really. It's just an example.)

2. Theft of popular holds. You know the new Stephen King book still has hundreds of people waiting for it. What's to stop some unscrupulous bastard from seeing a fresh copy, taking off the name slip and appropriating the book for himself? The "hold" person not only loses that copy, they lose their place in line for a new copy because the "hold" under their name was filled when the library received the book--not when the patron actually checks out the book.

Yeah, it's probably nothing. But I think if we're gonna be upset about the Patriot Act giving the Feds access to library records, maybe I can be a little upset about the library staff giving any dork on the street access to my library holds.

Avert Your Eyes Or Get Suspended

Nice.

They're suspending students for viewing a MySpace page. What's next? Do we suspend kids who read Mein Kampf or The Little Red Book?

It's not your father's America.

"I Hope Brokeback Doesn't Win"

This is yet another one of those posts inspired by something written by someone else. I respect Connie Lane very much. For my money there are few who have as deep and intuitive understanding and appreciation of cinema.

She's pretty riled by folks rooting against Brokeback.

There seems to be an implicit assumption that if it does win, it will simply be because of the issue - a mere gesture on behalf of the Academy at legitimizing the homosexual lifestyle.

She appears to be pulling for Brokeback, which is fine by me. Not having seen the movie I can't speak fully to its merits or demerits. She has seen it, and explains why she believes it deserves recognition. She goes into further detail about other "controversial" films and their corresponding AMPAS attention. You really should click through and read it, if you have time.

While this is all well and good and fine and dandy...it's what she says at the end that gets me.

Although, I have to say that I'm quite sad that so few people seem to have seen any of the nominated films and that there is a staggeringly low interest in what happens Sunday night. 2005 was a great year for films, and each of the Best Picture nominees is worth a look, no matter what side of their issues you're on.

2005 was a great year. For films. See, that's the thing. We have films and we have movies. There are some years that--my hand to heaven--I swear I feel like Hollywood is conducting some sort of Freshman Seminar. The Seminar part wouldn't be so bad if I didn't also keenly feel the Freshman angle. The being-talked-down-to business that is so excruciating. It seems like whenever filmmakers undertake any issue, whether it's Ang Lee's homosexual cowpokes or Mel Gibson's violently bleeding Jesus, they approach it as though they have a beacon of knowledge to bring the rest of us ignorant monkeys. There is an implicit sense of the audience not being able to fully grasp a situation until Kindly Mr. Celluloid shows us. None of us get how hard unrequited love is until we watch Ennis and the other guy wrestle with it. None of us grasp the suffering of Jesus until Mel paints oozing scabs on an actor. There's a fundamental lack of respect for the audience that unites these pictures, in my opinion. It boils down to this.

Films are created for the filmmakers. Movies are created for the audience.

I don't go in much for films anymore. I've had my life with its ups and downs. I continue to meet interesting people and have full and varied experiences. Thanks to the internet and global connectivity I can have a conversation with the actual people at the heart of any issue. If I want to know about the gay life I can ask an actual gay person. I don't have to pay ten dollars to see a bunch of straight people pantomime the struggles of fake gay people. There are too many lenses there, refracting the light of actual human experience. Not that that's always bad, because you can learn from fiction. But in Film they don't want to let you learn through experience. They want to lecture, to preach.

Movies are different. Movies are where you can go to escape from life and be entertained. Really good movies can also have a lesson, but it doesn't hit you over the head--and the lesson isn't the primary point of the work. I may be able to talk to Catholics and gay people over the internet, but I'll never get the visceral thrill of seeing an elf slide a shield down castle steps. That's the stuff you get in a good movie.

Frankly, I don't care who walks away the victor on Sunday night. As far as I'm concerned, I know who lost already. All of us who crave good escapist entertainment.

A Long Way To Say Three Words Redux

He was a dirt poor seminary student who worked various jobs, none of which paid a lot. She was a farmer's daughter with her bachelor's degree in education. She had planned to teach, of course, but their newlywed enthusiasm was a bit more fruitful than they reckoned. Instead of having a classroom full of kids she had a strange, quiet and serious little girl. The three of them had little more than each other, as they shuffled from crowded apartments in the second stories of old homes along the borders of coal mining country. He had an internship at a small Baptist church in the mountains. Their views meshed nicely with his and he was comfortable preaching that hard line of iron doctrine. People in hard country sometimes crave a hard God. They yearn for a sovreign who can conquer their demons of rock and ore. Since he found the Lord at 16 he was the convert who is, as they say, outpacing the zealots. He gave them absolute Jesus and worked nights at the Charmin plant to support his timid wife and earnest daughter. He joked that it was a "crappy" job. Not much of a joke, because it actually was.

Then comes a hot August night. I imagine they are cramped and bored. There is nothing to do and no money to go anywhere. He comes home half exhausted from making toilet paper, tense from nursing their rattletrap car across the mountain. It is all he can do to climb up the rickety outside steps to their tiny home. Once inside he peels the sweat-soaked layers from his body. Not yet 28 he is already giving out. His skin is pasty, and the hastily grabbed meals of starch and grease are thickening his middle. He thinks to himself that if this is the "life more abundantly" promised to him then he might just be missing the point of it all. But he does have a wife, and he goes to her in the darkness. Careful not to wake their embarrassingly tangible proof of lovemaking he reaches for the one pure amusement left to him. For a few minutes they forget the overdue light bill, the almost bare cupboards and the world at war outside.

It is August, 1967.



*******
She comes to him with fear in her eyes, eyes sunken into her pallid face. She has had a bad case of fall allergies, rapidly followed by a case of flu. She doesn't know how to tell him that her flu won't be going away until spring. He says nothing to her at first. He knows he should be happy but there is a part of him that is absolutely scared to death. Their heads are barely above water and now it seems they might drown. Together they tell her mother. She berates them for careless fools and curses her daughter's ignorant stupidity.

It is November, 1967.



************
The roads are icy and there are mountains everywhere. But they make it to the hospital in time. She is in labour for a day and a half. He spends that time wondering which way the lottery will spin. He has one girl already. He doesn't need another one, but he knows a girl would be easier than a boy. He's not quite sure that being a man is a good thing. He knows it's not an easy thing. And he doesn't know how he will pay for the birth of this child no matter what its gender. She spends the time in a haze of pain, hoping for a boy. Boys are not common in her family. Her mother had one who died, and since then they have seemed to be the elusive brass ring. Perhaps if she has a boy she will be redeemed. Perhaps that hard mountain God will smile on her at last.

It is March 2, 1968


The baby is born, and he is a boy. God is good in many ways. The boy grows up. He learns good lessons and bad ones. He learns how to be a good man and he learns how to laugh. Along the way he meets his own girl, the one God planned for him, the one who drives him nuts and keeps him sane. The one who writes strange rambling blog posts 38 years later to say


Happy Birthday, Honey

Girl Just Won't SHUT UP!

Ah, to be busy in springtime! In an effort to have more to write about besides, you know, my actual writing I'm now peppering the blogosphere with my musings.

To find out what I'd do if I ran TiVo, check out the post at All Along the Watchtower.

To find out everything about where I live and what I think about the town that hasn't kicked me out yet, you can follow my semi-regular contributions to Nasville's Metroblog. Where I have become, well, a semi-regular contributor. Assuming, of course, that Chris Wage, Busy Mom and Jackson Miller don't eat me alive.

When The Author Starts By Apologising...

You know the book is going to be at least mildly interesting.

Nashville's own Todd A made the offer of free review copies of his book to any blogger who'd like to review it. As I had been curious to read it, was lacking for reading material and was broke this was a serendipitous offer. So I played ball and sent the email. Poor guy. I don't think he imagined that the lady who has a C.S. Lewis quote on her blog and started the Bible Meme was quite the audience for this book. And in truth, he's probably mostly right.

Being Good is probably best described as a bit of Joyce, a bit of Phillip Roth and a bit of Nick Hornby, all blended together and frosted with a light cream of Penthouse Forum. In short, if Bridget Jones had been actually written by a guy in his late twenties, thinking like many guys in their late twenties, it would be this book. Chick Lit dances around the nitty-gritty of sex, prefering to gush over the foreforeplay of "he glanced at me" and "does he or doesn't he want to take me to my mother's tea dance?" The acquisitive heroines of these girl books sublimate their sexuality in the quest for trendy scarves, bags and shoes.

Slav O Se, the protagonist of Being Good wastes no time on frippery. He's a man, he wants and has sex. Of course, there are sex acts he can't abide, and he'll plainly tell you so. In place of endless shoe shopping you'll find the vivid descriptions of fun sex, messy sex, gross sex, good sex and bad sex. It's interesting to contrast O Se's objectification of women against the ways his job objectifies him. Those parallel themes rule the book and slide under the well-lubricated pages. At a bit over a hundred pages, it's a breezy read. ( The book also includes the short story "Tim's Funeral". )

No, I'm not the target audience for this book, but I will and do read just about anything. Part of the joy of that policy is discovering how other people look at the world. I'm quite sure I don't care for Slav O Se's worldview, but I enjoyed reading about it. The book is well-written, funny and intriguing--a male version of Sex and The City. You can order your copies from Amazon, Barnes & Noble and iUniverse.

Will The Christians Save Liberty?

His eyes shift to the sides, checking to make sure everyone who might matter is out of earshot. I have to lean in to hear him.

"You know," he whispers urgently--like he has to get it out to cleanse himself--"I think I might be a libertarian." The look on his face betrays a sense of wonder, as though he's found himself going down a road he thought was still under construction.

I keep finding myself on the receiving end of these political party dime-bag deals. For my brothers and sisters in Christ who need to say it out loud to someone, who need to come out of the political closet, I'm the mother-confessor. In our circles I've been the one to proclaim libertarianism most often, (and this fact should surprise no one). Ten years ago it was a crackpot idea. Libertarianism was the party of dopers and diddlers and dilletantes. What sane churchgoing person wants to align himself with the toothless crankhead who refuses to pay his taxes?

But there are those of us who do not care to be condemned to repeat the mistakes of history. We've read about the bloody struggle for religious freedom and we remember the lions in the Colisseum, the Inquisition, the martyrdom of the Anabaptists. We're Christians. Two thousand years of our own religious history gives testament to the need for seperation of church and state. And we are starting to realise that the only way to have freedom of religion is to take back the roles of the Church by relegating the State to its most limited form.

Tony Campolo says, and I believe rightly, that Jesus transcends politics. You might say that I would agree with this wholeheartedly.

If Jesus transcends politics, do Christians have any business participating in the political process? Phil Wilson asks the question that tips the rest of the dominoes. My answer, and the answer of most of the believing libertarians I've met is "yes". More and more, however, it seems that our participation in Caeser's realm is that role of demanding liberty from tyranny. Most of us are electing to exert pressure from the outside to shrink the government, even though that act is somewhat like sitting on a sponge. It's soggy, uncomfortable and leaves you with an embarrassingly wet rump. In the end the sponge is still pretty waterlogged and you look mighty foolish. But if you don't want the sponge to grow large enough to suck the life blood out of you, it's best to keep trying.

But what of the dopers, diddlers and dilletantes who are growing pot and having sex with who-knows-who? That's not very Christian, now is it? No it isn't. I happen to think that perhaps it's best to lead by example, to let Christ live in you and to let others see Christ through you. I'd rather that be how we change the world, because laws do not grant salvation. Anyone will tell you that any system of legislated morality is a knife-edge that cuts both ways. Today Christian morality may be running the show. But what happens when the other guy takes hold of the wheel? In the past it hasn't been good.

If the whispered conversations I have in the balcony of my church and in restaurants from Hermitage to Franklin are any indication, the Religious Right will cease to be important in the next decade. Neither right nor left, the libertarians are the new voice for taking back the country.

The Bible Tells Me(me) So...

As promised, I have decided to use today to start a Bible Meme. Although since as the Good Book itself says, there is nothing new under the sun, I imagine there is already one floating around out there somewhere. Oh well. This is mine. For the record, I'm referencing the Christian Protestant (sans Apocrypha) Bible, but feel free to do otherwise.

1. Who is your favourite Biblical personage, other than Jesus?

For me that would have to be Peter. I appreciate the fact that he's headstrong, stubborn, loyal, faithful and full of self-doubt--all at the same time. Let's just say I relate to him.

2. What is your favourite book of the Old Testament?

Probably Exodus. There's so much humanity in that book. I also constantly learn from the way Moses and the Israelites react to the provisions of God.

3. What is your least favourite book of the Old Testament?

That'd have to be 2 Kings. As a child I was struck by the gruesomeness of the cannabilism. As an adult I get frustrated by the litany of kings and their failures.

4. What is your favourite non- gospel book of the New Testament?

This is hard for me, because each of the books has real significance to me. I'd have to say that it's probably a tie between Hebrews and 1 Peter. Both strongly emphasise faith and grace in the real world.

5. What is your life verse?

1 Peter 1:6-8

In this you greatly rejoice, though now for a little while you may have suffered grief in all kinds of trials.

These have come so that your faith--of greater worth than gold, which perishes even though refined by fire--may be proved genuine and may result in praise, glory and honor when Jesus Christ is revealed.

Though you have not seen him, you love him; and even though you do not see him now, you believe in him and are filled with an inexpressible and glorious joy.

6. Tag 5 people who might want to play

John C.; Malia; Big Orange Michael; TV On The Fritz; Lacy

Of course anyone else who wants to join in, feel free!

Paging Kat

This is my lucky Monday. I've been tagged by Sarcastro. (Frankly, it surprises me, because he doesn't usually go in for the Meme thing.) Is there anything better than being tagged when you want to blog but don't have anything really cheery that you want to write about? Okay, so there are probably a thousand things that are better, but why quibble?

The best part of this one is that I've already answered the first question in detail.

So...on to the juiciest, happiest meme I've had in a long time.

1. Name 5 of your favourite books

Check it out here..

2. What was the last book you bought?

The Exile by Allan Folsom.
It's the best "light read" I've had in a long time. It's suspensful and fast-paced, but still dense and intelligent. It's also on my kitchen counter, waiting patiently to be read by Tim.

3. What was the last book you read?
Just finished re-reading The Winds Of War. I need to buy a new copy of this book, hopefully one printed on better paper. The edition I have now is one of those that leaves black smudge-marks on your thumbs when you hold it open. I feel like I've been arrested.

4. Name 5 books that have particular meaning for you.

I'm not gonna say "The Bible" because that's just a cop-out. Yes, the Bible does have particular meaning for me, but honestly. I get so tired of everyone always saying "the Bible". I think I will start a Bible Meme later, though. You know what...yeah. I'll do my own Bible meme tomorrow. Anyway...

Mere Christianity
Hah. I probably should have just gone with "The Bible". In all seriousness, I love this book because it presents such an eloquent and intellectual defense of the faith. There are different types of Christian, and so much of the paraliterature of the Church of the twentieth century was written for and directed by the emotional side of the faith. In this book Lewis turns Bertrand Russell topsy-turvy. I'd actually recommend reading both books back to back for a good formation of the central intellectual argument regarding Christianity.

A Girl Of The Limberlost
When you grow up in Indiana you are pretty much convinced that nothing interesting happens there aside from car races and basketball. This book is a must-read for any little girl who grew up there. It celebrates the beauty of an Indiana that has mostly disappeared. It's also one of the best stories ever put to paper. I try to read it once a year, but I'm in the sad position of not knowing where my copy has ended up.

Tom Jones
I waded through so many of those sprawling depressive epics that try to suss the nature of love through the lens of despair that I actually wanted, several times, to wash out my brain. When I found Tom Jones I was thrilled to find a book that examined the same themes so worn by the Russians, but with a decidedly Celtic joviality.

Anno Dracula
I'm not one for the whole "Vampire Chic" that became so popular with Anne Rice. On the whole I think vampire literature (aside from Bram Stoker's original) is goofy, self-important and sexually infantile. I don't know how or where I found this book, but I read it because it featured Sherlock Holmes. It's one of the most inventive and well-researched pieces of populist fiction I've ever read. Why does it have particular meaning for me? I don't know, other than it provided some much needed entertainment during one of the most dull periods of my life. And any book that features Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes, Jack the Ripper, Bram Stoker, Dracula and Queen Victoria all coexisting happily is always going to be in some "favourites" list of mine.

The Complete Sherlock Holmes
This is a cheat, because it's me including 4 books and 56 short stories as "one". But if the Conan Doyle estate can do it, so can I. I came to Holmes late--I read A Study In Scarlet when I was 14--and was enthralled by the language as much as anything. I admit, though, that I fell a bit in love with Holmes. He was such a jerk, but he had all the physical attributes I find attractive and he was smart as a whip. Come on. You know I'm not the only woman to fall in love with Holmes. Honestly. Stop rolling your eyes.

But the glory day was when I first read The Greek Interpreter. That's the first time we hear of Mycroft, his brother. Myrcoft Holmes is smarter, fatter and older. He solves mysteries from his comfy chair in the Diogenes club while Sherlock does the legwork. In short--Mycroft Holmes is my idealised fictional self. Yes I know he's a fat old man. No, I have no idea what that says about my psychology. I just know that when I started programming in BASIC at 16 and had to have a cool "hacker name" just like all the other 2600 geeks, I chose Mycropht. (Also in partial tribute to Heinlein's The Moon Is A Harsh Mistress) Hence my blogname and all the other stuff just floating out in the ether for the last 20 years with that sig. So, yeah, the Holmes canon are significant to me.

Three books you are dying to read but haven't yet.

Harry Potter Book 7

Angels by Marian Keyes
I'm kind of saving it for a rainy day.


I honestly can't think of a third one, but I'll take recommendations. I'm kind of in a book lull at the moment.

Who's Next?

Lee; Connie Lane; Kerry Woo, Amy, Muffy

Ugh

Here's a little hint.

If you're already slightly blue about the passage of time, the cloudy Monday and your bad hair day--DO NOT LOOK THROUGH OLD PHOTO ALBUMS.

Where'd You Get That Idea?

When I was a kid my mom subscribed to Good Housekeeping. I didn't realise until this evening how much the articles I read all those years ago influenced my thinking.

I was 9 years old when Jean Harris shot Dr. Herman Tarnower. Since the case involved money, drugs, sex and death it was natural fodder for a magazine. It seemed to me--very young at the time--as though that was all anyone ever thought about. Stories about the murder were in almost every issue. The issues that didn't feature Scarsdale Murder coverage carried letters to the editor about the Tarnower coverage in the previous month.

I was a little girl in a fairly homogeneous community. We were white middle-class midwesterners who went about our business. There was nothing like the Scarsdale murder in our boring town (at least not for a few years, anyway. More on the Osbornes another time.) My love for stories compelled me to cannibalize all the details as printed in the Ladies' Magazine.

Except that I was a little kid.

I came away with definite ideas about men, drugs, women and murder. In short, don't date anyone cruel, arrogant, dismissive or unfaithful. Don't take any drug unless you know what it is and what it is supposed to do. Don't get a fancy job (such as the headmistress of a school) because it can only lead to trouble. Sometimes there are people that flat out just need killin'.

I had learned all these things from the Good Housekeeping coverage of the Scarsdale case, and over the years forgotten where I had learned them. But I kept them in storage as part of my worldview. Some of them are good ideas, some of them are not such good ideas (like the "killing people"one, for instance). Which leads to my main question about myself.

I was allowed to read anything I wanted. I read so much that I think my parents were probably powerless to keep up with me. I read my first murder mystery (Agatha Christie's And Then There Were None) when I was 7. I've never given it much thought one way or the other. It's just what I do. I read.

But now I'm beginning to wonder. If I have a child of my own, will I let that child enjoy the same unfettered reading style that I had? I mean, is it really good for a ten year old girl to have such negative imprinting? It freaked me out today as I watched that HBO movie and realised that my lifelong insistance that I know everything about EVERY MEDICATION I TAKE stems from a few magazine articles I read as a child. It further freaked me out that I realised I had long ago made a negative mental correlation between having a career (as Jean Harris did) and being abused by a man (as Jean Harris was). Is this a good thing? I don't know. I know that everyone gets their ideas from somewhere, and I know that I was an unusual child. Heck. I'm still an unusual child.

I think I'm still Pro Information. I'm just pretty gobsmacked by what my kid mind did with adult information all those years ago.

Conversation In The Garage

Tim, examining the new bike he inherited from a friend: "Well, the components are mostly shot, but the frame is pretty decent. If I strip it down I could build up a pretty good single-speed."

Me: "For yourself?"

Tim: "Yeah...."

Me: "ooooh! What are we gonna name it?!?"

Tim: *Rolls Eyes at my insistance that every object in our lives have a nickname*

Me: "OH! I know! Since it's a single speed, how about 'Lance'"?

Tim: Silence.

It's tough being a biker married to a smart ass.

Outing People

The only person I believe should be outed is Tom Cruise, and only because he's so insufferable about everyone else. Once you start talking crap about people with a real disease it's time for some truth-tellin' from your bench.

For the record, I know who Aunt B. is. I know where she lives. I know where she works. We've met face to face on two occasions. We agree on almost nothing, but I do like her.

I have no idea what your problem is with her. I could venture a guess.

BUT YOU WILL NOT USE THE COMMENT SECTION OF MY BLOG FOR YOUR STRANGE AND SUDDEN DISCLOSURE OF HER PERSONAL INFORMATION.

Update:

Sarcastro, another mostly-anonymous Nashville Blogger has politely volunteered to pound you into oblivion. (See comments below.)

I've met him too. He could do it.

Battlestar Galactica: Looming Questions

Since the Olympics have devoured TV programming, Tim & I spent the last two evenings rewatching the BSG miniseries. It was interesting to revisit that bridge, with so much water having passed under it. It does raise some questions though.

1. What happened to Boxey?

Not that I mind, but he was front and center during the mini. He was also a BIG part of the original. I sort of miss the idea of having the Ship's Mascot be a little boy. I don't miss the robot dog, though. In general I think robot dogs are tiresome. With one exception.

You wanna know what's sad? The kid who played the original Boxey has grown up. The highlight of his life, according to his IMDb Bio is apparently that"He has tended bar at several LA clubs and has several tattoos." Child stars. What a parable of joy attained and subsequently dimmed.

2. Abortion. Really? Are we gonna go there for the rest of the series?

Someone, somewhere likened this new version of BSG to "West Wing in space". Maybe it was Big Orange Michael. I honestly can't remember. So far I've made my peace with it, even thought I'd like to see more well-done civilian stories. (But you can feel free to keep your Black Market Mob stuff to yourself.) Honestly, though, I don't think I want to see any more Earth-based controversies given the Pigs In Space treatment. Yes, the birth rate has to be a concern. The whole "start having babies" line of Roslin's turned into the impetus which swayed Adama's entire thinking about the war in the miniseries. Given the fact that the Dry-Erase Board Of Life is an everpresent part of the ship I cannot believe that prior to this moment the government hasn't incentivised childbirth. How dumbass IS this schoolteacherpresident? They've already dealt (badly) with the shadow economy of the black market. Now they're outlawing abortion. Take those lemons and make lemonade, you jerks. Pay people to have babies. It's an economic reality that they must be born for the species' survival. So follow through. I get that the abortion issue was all a Maguffin to make the Crazy Masturbator a serious political candidate. But they can stop now.

3. Are we still even looking for Earth?

There's a map. There's a genius but crazed scientist. There's a need for resources and land. Plus, there's the entire premise of a show behind the search. I get the feeling we've stopped looking for Earth, now that there's a map. Which seems bassackwards, if you ask me. It's like losing the desire for sex once you find the condom. Highly unlikely.

4. Speaking of sex...

Aren't there other men who are capable of having sex besides Apollo? Does he have to inseminate every woman in the fleet? Granted, perhaps he's making a play for Repopulation King, but it's still getting ridiculous.

5. Thirteen at dinner...

I'm frankly quite stupid at times. It just struck me during the re-view of the mini that there are 12 colonies AND 12 Cylon models. They are looking for the missing 13th colony (Earth), and awaiting the birth of the Miracle Baby. The thirteenth cylon. I see all kinds of interesting parallels to be drawn here.

6. Wouldn't this be a cool plot?

With the Resurrection Ship vaporised, that puts a lot of Cylon bodies offline. What happens when there are more downloadable Cylon consciousnesses than available wetware to house them? How about a Cylon plotline where we see multiple consciousnessess struggle for ascendency in the same body? That could be cool.

Snow Crash--Or How I Lied

I didn't mean to lie. I just didn't realise that I would have more to say. Not that it matters in the great scheme of things, because what I think about the operation of the major theatres of the world has really proven to not matter in the least. People still go to prison for years and have their homes seized because they choose to cultivate illegal plants. Yet we will hand the keys to our front doors--and by extension a vast majority of economic well-being--to just any guy with a company. I worked for an importer for several years, and wasn't a big fan of the idea of the Ports being managed by anyone outside the government. When I first heard about it the infrastructure of the ports from a man I worked with I was floored. I had just assumed that being ports of entry and all that the government was in charge. Hah! Naive girl.

Yes, I'm a libertarian. But that's the thing. There are things I think are the business of the government and things that I think are NOT the business of government. What you grow, what you smoke, who you sleep with and what you watch are not the government's business. Protecting the safety of the nation is. Face it. Ports have dual duty. Because we are a vastly more "butter" nation than "guns" right now, the ports are vastly more Butter in nature. That in no way alleviates them of their Guns responsibility. A port of entry is still a strategic asset. Contracts should be awarded solely to U.S. firms on that basis alone. Sure, these other fellows may run crackerjack operations.

I. Don't. Care.

Israel has a great army. I still wouldn't outsource our armed forces to the Israelis. Britain once had a great navy. I don't know anymore, because I don't follow the Navy. But I still wouldn't outsource our seafaring operations to them.

In Neal Stephenson's excellent Snow Crash he describes a near future where the U.S. is a loose confederation of corporate fiefdoms. Stuff like this port deal continues to convince me that Stephenson's world is frighteningly prescient. Everything will one day be a business, we'll cease to have any pride in ourselves or our workmanship, and the only voice individuals will have is inside a computer-networked Metaverse.

Yeah. Like that'd ever happen.

Just HOW Out Of Touch Is The Postal Service?

I received in the mail not one but TWO full-color flyers advertising the ease of buying stamps online.

Some things to note:

--Two? Why need I two useless ads?

--Although touting the ease of buying stamps, neither flyer actually bore a stamp. Ironic?

--The ad featured the timely comic strip Cathy. Lest you fear that our grande dame has entirely sold out, worry not! She still has her famous "anxiety sweat droplets", viewable in Panel Two.


I anxiously await the 5 circulars that will come next month, no doubt featuring a pantsless Ziggy.

New Flavours Of Pinko Commie Goodness

It is to my everlasting shame that I engage in the occasional missionary-eating. That's right. I buy Ben & Jerry's. Yes, I know they are flannel-clad communists bent on destroying our way of life, Sarcastro.. Yes, Hubby, I realise they burnt Bush in effigy. But I have decided that if I continue to purchase their product I will yet woo them to the glories of capitalism while at the same time enjoying delicious frozen treats. Hence the "missionary-eating." *** For those who didn't grow up in Campus Crusade/Youth-For-Christ culture, "missionary dating" refers to the act of a Christian dating a non-Christian. The rationale is that the Christian will convert their beloved (usually hot) non-believer amour. The reality is that the Christian usually ends up either pregnant or getting the non-Christian pregnant. Depending on the gender of the parties involved.***

I have decided that although it is extremely unlikely for me to turn Commie after a few pints of B&J, I still do wince at funding El Revolucion. Mildly. But not a lot.

As for the new flavours for 2006, I'm excited about some, less than thrilled about others. Beer Ice Cream? No thank you. Vanilla Ice Cream with Turtles and caramel swirl? Sign me up, Che.

Katylon 5

Rex L. Drugs tagged me for this. I love tagging. Except I've been afraid of this meme because of how dull it'll make me seme. Seem. Whatever.

What Were You Doing 10 Years Ago?

Working the 4:30-1:00am shift in Quality Control at a travel agency. This meant a lot of running the UNIX servers, handwriting backdated tickets to avoid the ARC penalty and other geekitude and law breaking. Not my favourite job, but certainly one of my best sources of personal anecdotes.

What Were You Doing 1 Year Ago?

Associate Brand Manager, Licensing and Catalog Coordinator. All fancy words that translate to "rolling a stone forever uphill while simultaneously earning just enough scratch to pay Charon's fee." I should also add that I was seriously contemplating quitting.

Five Snacks You Enjoy

1. Asparagus
2. Cadbury Eggs
3. Fresh Pineapple
4. Rolos
5. Red Vines

Five Songs To Which You Know All The Lyrics

1. The French Inhaler
("How you gonna make your way in the world/ When you weren't cut out for workin'?")

2. The Battle Hymn of The Republic
(seriously--best lyrics ever. "I've seen Him in the watchfires of a hund'red circling camps/ They have builded Him an altar in the eve'ning dews and damps")

3. Ya' Got Trouble
("Ragtime! Shameless Music! It'll grab your son--your daughter--in the arms of a jungle, animal instinct! Masstyria! Friends, the idle brain is the devil's playground....)

4. Desperadoes Under The Eaves
("And if California slides into the ocean/As the mystics and statistics say it will/ I predict this motel will be standing/ until I've paid my bill.")

5. Hallelujah
("And I'll stand before the Lord of Song/With nothing on my tongue/but "hallelujah!")


Five Things You Would Do If You Were A Millionaire
1. Pay off my house
2. Put in a pool
3. Provide for family members
4. Establish a foundation that would underwrite mothers who want to stay home to raise their children.
5. Diversify

Five Bad Habits
1. Procrastination
2. Cracking my knuckles
3. Worry
4. Leaving the bathroom fan on all night
5. Leaving the basement door open all night

Five Things You Like Doing
1. Writing
2. Reading
3. Knitting
4. Weight Training
5. Strategy Gaming

Five Things You Would Never Wear Again
1. My Wedding Dress
2. Size 8 Jeans
3. My NBC Bank "Casual Day" shirt. What is "casual" about a stiff collared button-down shirt? Nothing. And it makes me look not heterosexual.
4. My Bob & Tom t-shirt. (I won it in a dance contest. And it's fugly.)
5. Any underwire lace bra. The underwire always pops out and gouges my mammarian flesh. That hurts.

Five Favourite Toys

Okay, I have the feeling this is one of those "Sex and the City" type questions, but I'm much more dull than all that.

1. My all-in-one-Needle sizer/guage counter/project length ruler. A handier piece of metal has not yet been invented.
2. My iPod
3. My iMac
4. My TiVos
5. My stuffed monkey collection

So who are my 5 victims?
Roger Abramson, Sharon Cobb, Pink Kitty,Fried Apple Blurbs and Jason Y.

None of these people will ever do this, of course, thus fulfilling my long-standing tradition of being the Tag Dead-Head.

All I Have To Say On The Port Deal

Heath Ledger's Gay Dog

So there I am, laying on the couch and hating the stomach flu and the Olympics. Why does all the good television have to be replaced by people shusshing down ice--especially during the week when I could use some distraction? But, since all the good TV has given up the ghost for the duration, I TiVo'd some junk. (Like I need to see Predator 2...again.)

And there, eight minutes into The 50 Best Chick Flicks, is an EXACT carbon copy of my gay dog on Heath Ledger's lap. Of course, I know this is a coincidence. Heath's public appearance with my Gay Dog's twin has no bearing on either his sexuality or his future Oscar hopes. (Heath's, not my dog. Quinn's Oscar is firmly locked in place. No one acts sadder when they don't get a bite of cheese.)

But let me just say this...I have no idea if that was his dog, or a prop dog or the dog of his girlfriend. I do know it was an old interview, back from when he was doing press for 10 Things I Hate About You. I also know that any search for Heath Ledger in Google is now leading to more colourful results than in years past. When you add in the word "dog" it becomes a land of XXX badness. So I have no way of discovering the rest of the story behind Heath's American Eskimo companion.

It's driving me nuts.


When will the Olympics be over? I didn't have this kind of difficulty with episodes of My Name Is Earl.

If The Blue States Left The Union

I'm probably too far gone to post on politics, but I say that there's nothing quite like delirium to serve as a good foundation for political thought. Yesterday Glen and I went back and forth on the merits and demerits of our 16th president. Glen takes exception to being compared to Booth. I understand and apologise. However, I still take exception to the posthumous drawing and quartering of my second-favourite American leader.

In the course of that conversation, Glen announced that "if the Blue States left the Union he would throw a party."

Is this what has become of us in America? That we are so divided politically that we wouldn't mind if part of the country split off?!? Have we gone stark raving mad?

Look, I personally am not a "blue-stater". I tend to be very fiscally conservative and don't think the government needs to concern itself with any facet of private life, whether that is funding the arts or keeping Howard Stern off the air. I think the New York Times Sunday Magazine is largely a bunch of self-important nonsense and I'm more at home picking strawberries in a truck patch than acting fusty at a wine bar.

But I don't want anyone to leave America. This was supposed to be a melting pot. Later it became a stew or a salad or whatever the food metaphor for retaining one's individuality is. But it's still America. We are the land of dreams, the land of equality, the land of promise. Telling people they aren't welcome because of their politics or lifestyle is precisely the tyrannical style that the revisionists hate in Lincoln.

Aside from all this high-flown flag waving, let's look at the facts. The so-called "blue states" include much of our Northeastern Atlantic Border, the Port of New York, a good portion of our heavy industry, 80% of our continental Pacific Border, ports in California and Washington, a large part of our heavy timber industry, all of the ports along the Great Lakes and countless other assets. What kind of fools would we be to say "you drink Chai Latte, so we celebrate your defection from the U.S.!"

So no. I don't want the Blue States to leave the Union. And I'd be happy if they'd consider us poor Red-Staters with our farmland, fossil fuel mining and strategic placement an equal part of the country.

This Just In

Okay, I'm just finding out about it...thanks to my sister.

The Grey's Anatomy writers have a blog.

As soon as I get over my fear of updating my blogroll, they'll be on it. As will Roger Abramson.

With Malice Toward Glen Dean, Apparently

Glen Dean takes the occasion of President's Day to align himself with John Willkes Booth in calling Lincoln a tyrant. Booth's words upon shooting A. Lincoln, like a coward, in the back of the head were the Latin phrase "Sic Semper Tyrannis"--thus always to tyrants.

So, yeah, I think it's a dastardly thing to call Lincoln a tyrant.

I realise that I'm in the South now, and that people view Lincoln through a different spectrum down here. Be that as it may, the man was not a tyrant.


With Malice toward none, with charity for all, with firmness in the right, as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in, to bind up the nation's wounds.

I want it said of me by those who knew me best, that I always plucked a thistle and planted a flower where I thought a flower would grow.

This country, with its institutions, belongs to the people who inhabit it. Whenever they shall grow weary of the existing government, they can exercise their constitutional right of amending it, or exercise their revolutionary right to overthrow it.

Tyrants don't say such things, tyrants don't believe such things. Lincoln took an oath of office and fulfilled it to the best of his ability. His fulfillment of that oath cost him his life. As he feared it would.

I mourn'd--and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.

Back On The Chain Gang, Baby

Brittney asks my opinion on the chain restaurants' propensity to shut down.

Given the fact that right now all thought of food is making me, er, rather disquieted, I'm not sure I'm the best defender the Restaurant Beast has today.

But of course I'll try.

I've lived here 15 years this June. The restaurants I LOVED that have quit me include The Texana Grill, Cafe Lylla, 32nd Avenue, Rio Bravo and Red Hot & Blue Barbecue. Two were chains, two were not, one (Texana) I'm not sure about. I never liked or disliked them based on their ownership and never got the feeling that an Idaho Home Office was the only thing keeping them alive.

I do like some chain restaurants. I abhor others. I love many locally owned places, but think that others can take a flying leap into The Gulch. What are my current favourites in the Nashville environs?

1. The Mad Platter (L)
Great atmosphere, best food you can get. Haven't been there in a while because I'm not in the mood to take out a second mortgage.

2. Ellendale's (L)
Like the MP, it's got great food. Unlike the MP I can get out of there for less than a c-note. Plus, it's twenty minutes closer to my house. I love that place, and it's the best brunch in town.

3. Maggiano's (C)
This place is the GRUB. I've written about it at length. If I weren't sick as a dog right now I'd be begging for a takeaway box of their asparagus, which is drowned in butter and garlic. I could live on that stuff.

4. Demo's (?)
I mean, they're locally owned but there are about 5 of them now. Does that make them a chain? Doesn't matter. The food is delicious and two people can eat a full meal for $25.00. I also love that they don't have you pay at the table. Turns the tables faster and lets you seperate the relaxing dining from the drone of commerce. Best steak in town for under $15.00

5. Monell's (?)
Again, locally owned but monolithic. Still it's the best "meat-and-three" for 500 miles. And I'm including the (much overrated) Loveless Cafe in that.

6. Bistro 215 (?)
Have no idea who owns them. I do know their portabello sandwich is sublime. And they offer an artisan cheese plate. Sell me bunches of cheese and I'm yours.

7. Carabba's (C)
It's good Italian food with a bit of modernisation to make it more "American" while still tasting fabbooo.

8. McDonalds (C)
I'm so kidding right now. I can't even drive by that place without getting a major case of the trots. Sorry to be so graphic, but what happens to your digestive system once you hit 30? I seriously cannot eat here any more. At all. Okay, occasional PMS cravings will drive my to do something stupid, but as a general rule this isn't food, it's a custom.

9. Sitar (L) for Lunch, Taste of India (L) for Dinner
Both of these are uber-locally owned, as far as I can tell. They're the original curry-house dives (although Sitar has dressed herself up a bit lately.) The food is superb at both. Sitar's lunch buffett is better quality, which is offset by HIGH dinner prices. So we save $10 by doing ToI for dinner. Still good food.

10. Anatolia (L)
Locally-owned as far as I can tell, and the best Turkish food you can get. Which is good, since House of Kebab betrayed me so greviously by selling to someone who undercut the quality.

11. Longhorn (C)
They're everywhere. They have call-ahead seating. They have good steak. They have fried cheesecake. It's good food in a relaxed atmosphere. It's also the last meal I had before getting stomach flu so I won't most likely be able to eat there for several months. Still, I used to love them.

Also, lest anyone start thinking that the Locals are your love which is here to stay, allow me to point out the prime example of why that isn't the case.

Faison's. And all of the carousel of opening/closing/opening "Faison's Family of Restaurants".

Sprite Is The World's Nastiest Beverage

Thursday morning my back hurt really bad. By Thursday night I couldn't move. I'd already put in a 70 hour week on a work project, so I assumed that I had just overdone it and would be fine after a couple of Aleve and a hot shower. I wasn't. By Friday I couldn't really move without help, but still tried to work and write. I didn't do either very well, plus I seemed to pass my funky disease onto Blogger.

Friday Night some friends asked us to go to dinner. Since we'd already cancelled on them once (last weekend when Tim was sick) I felt we should be sociable. Besides, they blow things up for a living. I make it a practice to not cross people who blow things up for a living. I was in pain the whole time, but managed to eat. I think almost passing out in their living room was a good sign that I needed to leave. So we left. The whole way home I was delirious. I kept thinking we were going to visit my family in Indiana, or that we were on a plane or that we were going to the hospital. I wish we had gone to the hospital. Instead, we just went home.

I proceeded to spend all night Friday complaining about how hot it was and making repeated trips to the bathroom. The food I ate did not remain inside my body for very long. Saturday was the church's dinner theatre, which I've missed every year for one reason or another. I was determined to not miss this year, but since I couldn't really make it from the bed to the bathroom (a distance of about 6.5 feet) I didn't think I should go sit at a table with a woman who had just given birth and two people who are very big on avoiding germs. I was a germ factory, a germ planet, a germ solar system. Thankfully my parents bought me a little DVD player and Tim bought me Grey's Anatomy Season 1 on DVD. I laid in bed and thanked God that at least I didn't have some kind of brain tumor. Or did I? I mean, I couldn't walk, had persistant nausea accompanied by diarrhea and vomiting, and blurred vision. I just knew I had a brain tumor when they hit the "blurred vision" part. Then I realised that my glasses were broken.

Today I've been able to make it up and down the stairs (with Tim's kind help). During my various periods of lucidity I've watched the Arrested Development Season Finale again, the Grey's Anatomy Superbowl Episode again and a goodsized chunk of Revenge of The Sith. Trust me. ROTS is no better when you are delirious and sick.

Why am I even writing about this? I have no idea. Probably because I have 1/2 a can of Sprite I have to finish before I can go to sleep.

Ground Control To Major Tom

Yeah, I hate that song.

But I'm trying to trouble shoot my blog. Hello, fair blog.

How are you today? Will you retain this post or will it fall down the memory hole?

Testing

It looks like every new post deletes the one before it. That's weird.

Blogger, What Have You Done?

Okay. My posts keep disappearing. Comments to posts keep disappearing. New comments can't be made on new posts.

What has happened to my little corner of the world?

Taking The Ferry To Gayhead--Or What Has Happened To The Girls?

Hey. Did you guys hear that Dick Cheney shot someone?

But that's not what I'm rambling about this morning. I've said all I have to say in some comment threads at NiT and TV on the Fritz.

The reason this post is not at AATW is because the guys that frequent there would probably run me out of the blog on a rail. They love the Girls. They think both mother and daughter are Teh R0x0r or whatever the kids call it these days.

But I want to know what happened to my beloved Gilmore Girls? The easy answer, of course, is "Daniel Palladino". Whenever he writes an episode I grit my teeth because I know it's going to be puerile and pointless. But I watch anyway. (Someone rang the bell so I felt that I had to).

I knew we were in trouble this week when he was not only the writer but also the director. Hmmm--somebody won himself a write-off on a Martha's Vineyard trip. Good for you, Danny Boy. So--get to the point, Kat. It's Friday.

1. Rory has become more spoiled than a tub of mayonnaise in the Sahara. She actually has people fighting to underwrite her (very expensive) Yale education. Poor girl. The stress of being caught in the middle of two wealthy groups who want to shower you with riches must be unbearable.

When she started yantering on about the jolly jaunt through Asia I so badly wanted to reach through the TV screen and stick Miss Thing back on the trash crew. The only thing--aside from the obvious--that stopped me was my pity for those poor convicts. They don't need her yenting them through their miserable lives. I think maybe we're supposed to feel sorry for Richie Rich since his mean daddy is making him fly to London to work. But I just have no sympathy. Oh my handsome young blond male friend. You know that dab penthouse you're living in, with the plasma screen and the pool table and the bathers who clean the royal whatsis? That kind of luxury comes with a price. Being yelled at in the beach house isn't the price. Hard Work is the price. So sorry that reality is catching up to you.

But Rory doesn't need to worry about Asia. I'm sure she'll have Daddy or Grandpa pay for that.

2. Lorelai is a Twit. I'm finding it very hard to sit through endless repetition of the cutesy dialogue when there are real conversations that should be happening--but aren't. I don't think Daniel Palladino can write for grownups. His previous gig was Family Guy. That show's humour comes from broad satire mixed with sophomoric scatology. Daniel does that kind of stuff very well. Witness the COMPLETELY BEYOND STUPID little monologue Lorelai excretes this week. She does what I can only assume is supposed to be a bizarre homage to Tarantino's sexualized verbal riffs. Three minutes (!) of nattering about pulling off, spermicetti, lighthouses and taking the ferry (fairy) to Gayhead. And she wonders why Luke would rather spend time with his 12 year old science geek daughter?

So, we get long jokey scenes perfumed with tastelessness and are supposed to feel sorry for her that Luke doesn't understand her feelings? Luke left his Kreskin kit at the Rennaissance Fair, Lorelai. How can you expect to spend a lifetime with a man when you won't tell him what's on your mind? And it's not like we fans want to see this handled like an adult relationship. We'd much rather hear more of DP's craaazzzeee comic stylings, as performed by Lauren Graham.

It strikes me more and more that The Girls are becoming like a warped vinyl 45 played at 331/3. They don't get anything done fast enough, and the dialogue hits those painful hills and valleys. If only I were satisfied by just watching hot women, everything would be okay.

Harry Potter Is The Devil If You Want Him To Be

Since I can't remember my TypeKey password I can't leave this comment on Mark Rose's blog. So I'm leaving it here. Besides, people come here from all over the world (whoopdedoo) to read about Harry Potter. In other words, if you want blog hits on purpose just write a post called "Harry Potter Book 7 Predictions" and people will hit your blog from all corners of the world.

I say that not to brag about the maybe 11 people who've come from afar, but to point out that Harry Potter is so universally popular that it will drive someone to read a stranger's blog in Tennessee just because they want to imagine what may happen next.

Yesterday, Dan The Baptist's daughter announced that Harry Potter was the devil. Today, Mark Rose reiterates and expands upon Dan's comment to me. Parents are the ones responsible for their children's upbringing and have a right to teach them whatever and however they choose.

Of course, I agree with this entirely. I'd be a crap libertarian if I didn't.

But here's the thing. I'm not a big fan of demonising anything in popular culture. When I was a kid it was Rock Music (boo-hiss). When my mom was a kid it was the internal combustion engine. Or playing cards--one or the other. I do understand the reasons behind decrying these types of things. It's not always the things themselves but the company they lead to or the corrupting influence they may have. And as Christians we do need to take that VERY seriously. But why start teaching that the thing is wrong, instead of explaining that why the situations or ideas behind the thing are the wrong/bad?

I'm of the opinion that this is a problem because it doesn't teach true discernment. It's a shorthand way of raising a young mind. Granted, you can't explain the nuances of evil to a three-year-old, but by the time they turn 7-8-9, children are capable of understand deeper significance than the stove-hot-don't-touch approach . I used to have a close relationship with some children who were brought up from cradle to voting age with this singular rearing tactic. Beer is evil, rock is evil, cards and PG-13 movies are evil. When these boys got out into the world and drank their first beer without going straight to hell they naturally began to doubt everything about the faith. Wouldn't you? If an essentially neutral but tangible object wasn't really evil, wouldn't you start to wonder if Jesus was really God? If our evils are (mostly) harmless doesn't it follow that our goods are mostly useless? If a child thinks that Harry Potter is The Devil and then reads the books to discover an innocuous children's story what are the chances that the 18- or 19- year old will think that Jesus is an innocuous children's story as well?

Funnily enough, both Mark and Dan admit to not having read Harry Potter. Which is their right as well as their loss. Even more funnily, Mark admits to reading the Chronicles of Narnia and Dan admits to reading watching The Wizard of Oz. So clearly the problem isn't with fantastical use of magic and wizardry in fiction. The problem with Harry Potter seems to be the fact that it is the backmasked rock music and playing cards of the Aughts.

*YAWN* (I Just Do This For Fun)

My gracious. Is every story in New York Magazine designed by the makers of Ambien? Because, honestly, this new piece on the Blogosphere takes six densely worded pages to say this:

It is almost impossible to get rich and/or famous by having a blog.

Well, thank you, cognescenti. I'm glad we have you (remotely) around to keep us informed of the latest news.

I never started blogging to get rich. I never started blogging to earn any money. By my count I'm up a couple hundred bucks at least, thanks to NiT. That's a good chunk more than I ever expected to get from this gig. I just figured it was slightly less insane that yelling at the tv all the time. Really. That's it. I like to write, and this is a way to write whatever I want on an immediate topic without having to craft a larger story scenario. It's a way for me to write about things I care about, what's on my mind that day. It's a way to be loosely a part of the world, to meet new and interesting people. I think back in the 1950s this sort of thing was called a 'hobby'.

And Now A Word From Our Sponsor

We're a good bit of the way into 2006, so I decided it was time for a new corporate logo for my in-home company, C graf'iks.

Hey, what good is being a graphics/desktop publishing company if you can't come up with your own logo?

It's always fun to do after doing someone else's.

So anyway....






Here we go! Here's to a good year for 2006...

UPN Reads Our Blog...Kinda

Check out the full story over at All Along The Watchtower. Big Orange Michael scooped the UPN people. He's kinda cool that way.

Can Somebody Answer This?

What the heck is Long Tall Sally about, anyway?

Sad Sci-Fi News

Michael is talking about it over at All Along The Watchtower.

You Can't Fly, You Can't Fly, You Can't Fly!

One of my childhood terrors actually happened.

This is bad, because I've spent years comforting myself with the idea that these terrors were too weird--too out there--and just in my imagination. But no.

Somebody slipped on the conveyer belt at the load queue for Peter Pan's Flight at Disney World. He was pinned under one of the giant boats.

Questions Billy Joel Makes Me Ask

I've had BJ in the background for VD because I stole the idea from S&F. Although I don't think that's what he meant. Whatever.

Anyway, there are things I wonder about when I listen to Billy Joel.

Specifically:

--Who is "Captain Jack" really, and how will he get me high and get me by tonight? Tangentially, where exactly is my special island? Is that something I should see a doctor about?

--Weren't there worse things in VietNam, really, than not having soft soap? I mean, bullets shooting through your body might be a little harder to take. For me anyway.

--How on earth can anyone befriend a professional clown? I don't care if it's in the interest of world peace. Dude. He's a FRIGGING CLOWN!!!! Frankly, the Russians never scared me more than when I realised that they were churning out clowns.

--How did he land Christie Brinkley when he apparently has such abysmal taste in women? On the bright side, he likes 'em crazy. So there are plenty of chicks out there who could find a soul mate after all.

--Did anyone in the music industry of the 70s and 80s actually use the term 'Beau Brummel'? Somehow that seems highly unlikely. Then again, Warren did find a use for brucellosis. But that was in a song about (partially) a man who went crazy in Viet Nam. Probably from lack of good soap.

Logo Hell

One of the things people pay me money to do is to design logos.

I do this pretty well, most of the time, although I'm sure there are a few that are better left unmentioned.

The good thing about logo design is that you get a kick from seeing your work on packaging, letterhead and business cards. There are few things as satisfying as opening a magazine and seeing one of your logos in the ad. That's only happened to me twice, but both times it was a kick.

But there is a bad thing about logo design, and that is the fact that--like everything else in Marketing--everyone is an expert. The accountants are experts, the shipping department are experts. In a way I can't blame them. If you have spent more than 18 months in any capitalist society, it is impossible to be unaware of corporate branding and the logos that have permeated the ionosphere.

And that is the problem. When professionally designing a logo you should have three things in mind: brand identification, brand differentiation and simplicity. You have to envision the thing on tiny business cards and blown up on company t-shirts. Even if you are designing for a mom and pop company you have to imagine that you are designing for Coca-Cola. If it won't look good on a billion boxes or bottles, it's not a good logo. Period.

Here's where the problem comes in. All the non-design "experts" in other departments of the company think that the best logo should actually be nearly identical to other logos out there. Those are what they are comfortable seeing everyday. A new logo--a good logo, one that makes the company stand out--is not familiar and therefore is not what they want.

An art director I worked with actually submitted logo designs to product managers with current logos snuck alongside. They always picked the current logo, even if it's for a muffler shop, a troubled boys' home or a microbrewed ale.

So please, everyone out there. If you are ever in the position of needing a logo designed, please trust your designer with at least 65% of the creative process. It'll give you a far better brand build than having to explain to people that "no-we're not soft drink company, we're the law firm."

From Side To Side

I'd been at my desk all day, surrounded by computers flashing fish and stars and RGB colour palettes and ribbons of cards. I was interrupted for the basest of needs and went from reaching far through the world back into reaching self. The light is on in the bathroom and it isn't soft and Bondi blue but bare Edison yellow. I am scared for a moment because I see an old woman standing there with grey brittle hair and pale dry skin and crooked glasses and chapped lips and I think "who are you?"

I am not her, because I am still riding in fast cars past the corn that needs detassling and I am still laughing at television and eating frosting from the plastic can and shorting the cake. I am not her because I haven't had babies yet and I haven't gone to oxford to debate the origins of the bard and I haven't made love to a confused yet handsome priest in the vatican library.

I know she is catching me because she picks out my clothes and makes me say please and thank you and is bothered by violence on television and thinks that teenagers wear slutty t-shirts. Sometimes other people make the mistake of thinking she caught me because they call me her name without realising that I am called Kath or Kat and not Maam. I can't explain that she only lives in certain places like the bathroom mirror and my brain at 3:00 in the morning.

Fresh Meat, Nashville

I'm bad about maintaining my blogroll, because I don't like going into the Template and monkeying with the HTML. I'm drab that way. So if I've never added you and you want to be added, forgive me and let me know. I'll add you.

Anyway, I'm doing something I swore I'd never do (for a blog I don't directly participate in). I'm shilling for a stranger's blog.

I literally stumbled across it looking for something else, and was so dead impressed that I've spent 20 minutes there so far. In blogyears, that's a lifetime.

This guy is all about movies and music and has the whole thing wonderfully researched, fully linked and very well done through and through. His best feature is Musical Monday, which lists and links the tunes played in shows like Grey's Anatomy and Veronica Mars.

So, go check out Silly Pipe Dreams. It's fun.

Extreme Home Makeover Snark

I love this show on two levels. Obviously it's wonderful to see people get their dreams fulfilled in a weird way. But honestly, I love it just as much because it is so snarkable.

Last night was no exception.

--How cruel was it for them to fly those two able-bodied dancers to the poor lame woman's studio? She may have been "dancing in her heart", but I'd bet coin of the realm she was also a little bit jealous.

--Easy money says she got chosen because of her connection to Paul. Oh well. Pays to know somebody, I guess. Still, I admire the guy for running follow-spot during ballet. Follow-spot is tricky enough during a stage play. It'd be a bitch to run it for dance, especially the ballet he did it for. (If I recall correctly and he did it for The Firebird.

--Again with the themed rooms. Come on already. They're cute, but man. That bacteria bedspread on the microscope bed was much gross. Also, don't ever watch someone do a themed room about bicycle repair with my husband. The bicycle enthusiast and repairman. You'll get such choice observations as "they only need metric tools" and "those aren't Park tools."
Of course, Park Tool isn't a sponsor of the show, and Sears (makers of Fine Craftsman Tools) is. But just so you know, readers of my blog, if you want to get in the bike biz, buy Park Tools. It will make Tim feel better.

--Could they have been any prouder of building on a flat surface? They must have mentioned that there were ABSOLUTELY NO STAIRS about 500 times.

--The Zen room was cool, but as a person who has periods of limited mobility I can definitely say that Tom Cruise Lite built the "meditaton bench" too low. Even for transferring from a wheelchair. Still, I want the rock waterfall.

--If you're gonna get advice from The Mayo Clinic about homes for people with MS, I suggest you do that before you start building the house. Cause even after Dr. McNerdly told us all about high counters, she still got low counters.

--Okay, this is like, what? The fiftieth time they've had Weather Drama that sets The Team behind? If it's a two-hour show, you can bet there will be Weather Drama. I think it's about time they invest in a big tent to cover the worksite. Check with either a circus or an exterminator.

--I'm getting old, because I'm really bothered by the constant refrain of how people "deserve" their nice home, themed rooms, big-ass TVs and whatnot. Everyone's a Beautiful Person who really Deserves this. Since when does being a cute kid with a big smile and a sick mom or parents with mold in their house or a strange mother who rescues horses mean that you "deserve" a bedroom made to look like a recording studio?

It also bothers me that they don't say "Move That Bus, Please", and that in all of the shows they have never once even come close to Moving That Bus right over Ty Pennington.

TV OD (Spoilers for Grey's Anatomy)

Well, okay. Three of the four best hours of television in the last five years were on this weekend. The fourth best hour was last Sunday night, with a rebroadcast Thursday.

Movies may suck out loud, but man! Television is coming back around.

Arrested Development bowed out with two of it's best hours ever. In a series brimming with greatness, that's saying something. And just as I'd recovered from watching Michael and George Michael sailing into the sunset, along came Grey's Anatomy.


I'm still soaking it all in, with the climactic ballad Breathe [2 AM] on an infintity loop in the iTunes background. There are too many favourite parts to list, but I must say that the bookending shower scenes were what pushed me over the edge. The two-part episode opens with an erotic shower scene between Meredith, Christina, and Izzy. It's George's fantasy, it's the Three Graces, it's the abandon of risk-free sex. (I have a theory about the appeal of lesbian erotica for the heterosexual male. I think it's so popular because it portrays the sensuality of sex unhampered by the threat of pregnancy and thus mortality.)
And of course, the reality of the shower at the end. The same three women, this time in the form of a baptism, an absolution, an immolation. What begins as sex ends as death.

I have ultimate respect for the writers of both Grey's Anatomy and Arrested Development because they understand that in many ways television is the new epic medium.

The clincher I-bow-to-thee moments are in two tiny throw-away lines. At the opening of last week's episode when Meredith refused to get out of bed, she finishes her litany to Christina by saying that "her conditioner stopped working" and she thinks she has brittle bones. Both things seem like typical woman-having-a-bad-day complaints. Then at the close of two intense hours of television, McDreamy tells her he remembers the flowery smell of her hair. "Lavender. It smells like my conditioner."

The same conditioner that quit working on the day she quit being able to remember her last kiss with the guy. Yeah, it's sappy as heck, but it's beautiful writing nonetheless.

Jason and Erin need to get their TV back in working order for this show. Or pick up the Season 1 DVDs on Tuesday.

And of course the big thanks goes to Lacy for getting me hooked on the show in the first place.